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A-'T^.t, LEKOX A NO





THE
EVENING MUSEUM:
COLLECTION OF DEEPLY INTERESTING
TALES AND LEGENDS.
TOGETHER WITH
SEVERAL AFFECTING NARRATIVES
AND
SURPRISING ADVENTURES,
UNDER THE FOLLOWING TITLES:
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER,
ADELINE, OR THE VICTIM,
MARY, MAID OF THE INN,
THE BLIND GIRL,
ORPHAN OF THE CASTLE,
CURATE'S DAUGHTER,
FATAL SCARF,
HtlSH FREEBOOTER,
HUMPHREY RYNA8T0N,
JAMES MACPHERSON, S
THE FLORIDA PIRATE, *
DR. FAUSTUS,
LOVER'S INSTRUCTOR,
BARON MUNCHAUSEN,
FREDERICK BARON TRENCK,
UNPORTUNATE STRANGER,
VALENTINE WRITER,
THE CABINET.
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY CHARLES GAyLORD.


THE NEW YORI
PUBLIC L!BRARY
776073 A
astor.'lenox and
TILDEN FOVWDATIOSie
R 1935 L


CONTENTS.
The Mysterious Stranger, or Sorrows of a Natural Daugh-
ter: being the affecting History of Catherine Mowbray, who,
while an Infant, was left at the door of her Aunt, the Countess
de la Clare, and her interesting adventures until the Discovery
of her Father.
Adeline, or the Victim or Seduction—an Affecting Tale. Trans-
lated from the French, by Sarah S. Wilkinson.
Mart, the Maid of the Inn; an affecting Narrative, detailing the
History of her youthful Days; the singular way she discovered
her Lover to be a Robber and Murderer. He is apprehended,
and committed for trial. The distress of Mary on being com-
pelled to give evidence against her Lover, through which he is
Convicted and Executed. Mary loses her reason—her forlorn and
destitute Wanderings, until Bhe is found Frozen to Death.
The Blind Girl, translated from the French of Madame De Genlis. '•
The Orphan of the Castle, a Gothic Tale. The surprising History
and Vicissitudes of Allen Fitz Robert, The Orphan Heir of the
Castle of Lindisfarne.
Belfont, and the Curate's Daughter; or the Triumph of Love
An orignal Tale.
The Fatal Scarf, or a Sister's Vengeance, a Legend of Cuth-Jonor,
by Madame Leinstein.
The Irish Freebooter, or Surprising Adventures of Capt. Redmond
O'Hanlau, a celebrated Robber, who for many years commanded a
Banditti, and laid a considerable part of the country under con-
tribution.
Life and Adventures of Humphrey Rynaston, who, after spend-
ing a splendid fortune, commenced Robber, and supported several
hundred of the Poor by his depredations oh the Rich.
Anecdotes of James Macpherson, the ancient Freebooter and
Musician.


contents.
Life and Death of Dr. Faustus.
The new Lover's Instructer, or the Whole art of Courtship, being
the Lover's Complete Library and Guide.
The Surprising Adventures of the Renowned Baron Munchau-
sen, containing his singular Travels, Miraculous Escapes, and
Wonderful Voyages and Campaigns. j
The Life, Adventures, and Uncommon Escapes of Frederick
Baron Trench, the Prussian, detailing his entrance into the.Prus-
sian army, Reception by the King. Wonderful Escapes from con-
finement, and Imprisonment in a Dungeon, loaded with sixty-
eight pounds of iron chain, with only bread and water for his sup-
port—the many years of suffering he passed in this horrid Cell—
his repeated attempts to escape, till at last he recovers his Liberty.
Written by himself.
Akden, the Unfortunate Stranger, who was tried for the Murder
of Miss Harriett Finch, but was acquitted through the interposition
of a Young Lady, whom he afterwards married.
The itew Quizzical Valentine Writer, being an excellent Collec-
tion of all the Humorous, Droll and Merry Valentines, ever pub-
lished.
The Cabinet, or Philosopher's Master-piece, containing a Free-
knowledge of future Events, Translated from a German Manu-
script, the only one in the World, found in the Cabinet of Bona-
parte, after the Battle of Leipsic.
4
The Florida Pirate, or an Account of a Cruise in the Schooner Es-
paranza, with a Sketch of the Life of her Commander.


THK
MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
On the death of King Stephen, Henry the Second sue-
ceeded to the throne of England, without opposition. He
ascended the throne in 1054, being then in the twenty-
third year of his age. He was the first of the race of
Plautagenets, and had been, for some time, duke of Nor-
mandy, which dutchy his mother, the late Empress Matilda,
had delivered up to him. Of course, the Norman nobility
ranked high in the favour of the king, and several of them
enjoyed the chief places of the English court. Among
the monarch's esteemed and confidential courtiers, was
Siward, Earl de la Clare, a native of Caen, where he had
a stately castle, from whence he derived his title.
Siward was haughty, vindictive, and licentious; and
one of those characters that never forget nor forgive an
injury. Yet no human being had a readier facility in con-
cealing his bad qualities, and assuming the appearance of
good ones. He married the lovely Geraldina, the daugh-
ter of an English baron, who had injured his fortune by
an unbounded hospitality and misplaced confidence. An
alliance with the carl was therefore desirable; and the
first proposal that was made hy the enamoured nobleman
for the hand of the interesting girl, was eagerly caught at.
Geraldina had no affection for Siward: happily for her,
she did not love another; she had no mother to appeal to;
and, awed by the stern mandate of her father, she was
led to the hymeneal altar with a reluctant heart; yet, in
justice to the fair lady, we must assert, that she strictly
determined to be chaste, dutiful, and complacent to her
wedded lord, and in all things consider his honour as her
own.
With such virtuous resolves, and a heart unalienated by
any other attachment, Geraldina, had she met with a fond,


4
THE MYSTERIOUS STBANUER.
adoring husband, might have been happy, and in time
have returned a mutual passion: alas! possession soon
cooled the transports of the earl; in'difference succeeded,
and he soon neglected the gentle countess; her many vir-
tues were not considered, and he severely censured him-
self on being misled from his own interest by female
charms; when it was equally as easy for him to have se-
lected a woman of splendid rank and fortune.
Soon after their inauspicious nuptials, Geraldina had
accompanied her lord to Normandy, with a retinue and
appearance suited to her noble station; but, on their re-
turn to England, he lessened the number of her attend-
ants., and fixed her residence at the ancient and romantic
Castle of Rockvale, near Monmouth, while he passed his
time at the court of his monarch, in all the pleasures and
refinements that remote age afforded. The countess mur-
mured not; but the Baron Mowbray, her father, heard of
it with the utmost indignation. He sought the earl, and
severely reprimanded him. "The obscurity," remarked
the baron, " to which you have condemned your wife, is
of a nature calculated to give rise to the envenomed
tongue of slander; it appears as a punishment for infide-
lity to your bed. In short, it has a vile look, and shall
be accounted for." "To-morrow, my Lord Mowbray,"
replied the earl, " I will give the desired explanation, and
have no doubt of finding myseW justified in your good opi.
nion; you are now too warm to listen to me." "Be it
so, my lord; but mind, utter no falsehoods against Geral-
dina, or, by this sword, I will exterminate thee from the
face of the earth." With this menace he left his enraged
son-in-law, and returned to his home, at Lambeth, anxi
ously wishing for the hour to arrive, in which De la Clare
had promised to meet him: that hour he was not to see!
The baron was a corpse before the next morning's dawn!
no symptoms of poison appeared, and his decease was at-
tributed to an apoplexy. The baron had a daughter some
years younger than Geraldina. The fair Christabelle
joined to features pleasingly serene the most delicate form.
Grief for the sudden loss of her parent had so reduced
her, that she seemed on the verge of a decline; and a
change of air and scene being recommended, she was
agreeably surprised by an invitation from the earl to


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
5
accompany him to Rockvale; she accepted the offer with
a grateful smile, and prepared for the journey.
Baron Mowbray died without a will, and the earl claim-
ed his effects, one moiety in right 'of his wife, and the
other in trust for her sister Christabelie, who chose him
for her guardian, under restrictions he pointed out, and
signed a deed accordingly. The countess heard of the
death of her father with the most poignant anguish. The
baron, reduced as he was in circumstances, had .suffered
no diminution in spirit: she was aware that the earl was
restrained within some bounds by the awe in which he held
Mowbray; now he was gone, she had every thing to fear
from the tyranny of her husband.
The countess was not apprised of the arrival of the earl
and her sister, till she beheld them at the gates of the cas-
tie, as she was walking in the court-vard, habited in the
deep sables of wo. Christabelie, alignting from her horse,
was soon clasped in the arms of her sister; Geraldina, dis-
engaging herself gently frqm the lovely girl, advanced to
meet the earl. He received her with formal politeness,
and they repaired to the oak parlour, where a neat colla-
tion was soon served up. The countess began to lament
the death of her father,- and inquire into particulars re-
specting it, when she was sternly addressed by the earl:
"Enough of thia theme, Geraldina! turn your thoughts
from the dead to the living; I hate to be surrounded by
gloomy faces."
In due time, Geraldina presented her lord with a male
heir, who was baptized Henry Oswald Bohun; the infant
was three months old, when the earl was called to Lon-
don on important business, and departed from the count-
ess with seeming affection; but, to the surprise of herself
and amiable sister, be insisted on the latter going with
him; and would listen to nothing contrary to his design.
She cherished the infant at her own breast, and found her.
self rewarded by his thriving healthy state. The mild.
ness of an autumnal evening, lured the countess to walk
with the child and his nurse; they proceeded far beyond
the precincts of the castle, till fatigued, they sealed them-
selves on a mound of earth, near the entrance of a fertile
valley. The sky became suddenly overcast, thunder roll,
ed heavily, and the rain fell in heavy drops. "Give me


0
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
the child !" said the countess, "I am swifter than you, and
will take shelter in the ruins of St. Anne's."
When Martha arrived at the porch, she neither beheld
the ccuntess nor the infant; she culled in vain on the for-
mer, and then, with a heavy heart, proceeded to the cas-
tle. Her noble mistress was not there; she alarmed the
domestics; they went different routes in search of the
countess, described her and the infant without gaining any
intelligence, and then returned dispirited to the castle.
Hugh, the aged warden, was the first that returned, re-
volving in his mind, whether it was proper or not to send
off an express to the earl. Agnes ran to meet the good
old man, and joyfully surprised him by exclaiming, "Our
lady and the infant are returned in safety." Her account
was briefly thus; the countess no sooner entered the porch,
than an audible groan met her car; she clasped her in-
fant to her bosom, and looked anxiously around: a trap-
door opened near her, and a man, clad in slight armour,
stepped on the pavement! she attempted to fly, conscious
that Agnes could not be far distant. With Herculean
strength, the man seized Geraldina and the child in his
arms, and bore them down a flight of stone steps, closing
the trap-door after him: yet the countess heard the foot-
steps of Agnes, and her voice calling on her beloved mis-
tress. The countess attempted to scream, but the ruffian
threatened her with instant death, if she raised her voice.
A long vaulted passage led to a spacious cavern that seem-
ed the retreat of a horde of banditti; three lamps hung
suspended from the roof, and the remains of a banquet
was still on the table. "Merciful heavens!" said the
eountess, " for what purpose am I brought hither? whom
have I offended? what!" "15ou are conveyed hither,"
said the man, interrupting her, "for no other cause than
having accidentally discovered the secret of our retreat,
and we have sworn death, or endless captivity, to those
who should thus endanger our safety."
Geraldina knelt, and exclaimed, "If ever thou hadst a
child on whom thy sdul doted, or a wife dear to thy heart,
think of the loss my wedded lord must sustain; steel not
thy breast against my petition for liberty; grant it, and I
swear by the holy faith I profess, not to betray you."
A tear moistened the robber's cheek; "I were indeed


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
7
once blest: I had a wife and smiling babes; O, torturing
memory! lady, I will not harm thee nor thy infant." "A
thousand blessings for thy compassion," said the countess,'
"my presence will ease the apprehensions of my domestics,
and I can easily account to them for my absence." "This
night," replied the man, "I cannot allow you to depart!
■tart not, lady, I will not retract my words that you are
safe. In pity to .thee and thine, I have broke the oath
administered by my captain: heaven will doubtless par-
don the breach, when murder must have been the result.
Habit, for these five years past, has inured me to scenes of
blood; yet some angel hovering round thee, inclined my
heart to mercy, and softened a breast which insult and op-
pression nad rendered rugged. 1 was not always thus;
I -'oined the banditti in hopes, by their aid, to crush my ty-
rannic foe; yet he has escaped me, but my soul pants for
the moment in which I may exclaim, Revenge! thou art
-mine!
"My companions are now scattered round the vicinity
of the ruins; an enterprise is on foot, and I must join my
captain. I was going when I interrupted thee; none of
us will return here till late to-morrow: depart from hence
early in the morn, when you will behold the light through
the crevices. Were you to go now, you would not reach
your home in safety, and the inconveniency of remaining
here one night is nothing to the danger I warn you of:
there is plenty of oil in the lamps, and for wines and pro-
vision, freely partake of what is on the table: in the re-
cesses round the vaults are beds, take your choice: lady,
farewell: remember the bandit, Walter, in your prayers.
Betray us not, or you will draw peril on yourself, and the
noble house to which you belong. I know you are the
wife of the proud Earl of Clare." Walter left her, and
much as she wished to depart, she resolved to adhere to
his advice, though dreading to remain in the vault: her in-
fant slept, and she laid him on'a lowly, but clean couch;
fatigue and hunger induced her to taste the .repast, and
drink some wine. Her spirits revived, and she sat rest-
ing on the words and conduct of the robber. She heard
footsteps slowly approaching: she trembled with agoniz-
ing fear, and concealed herself behind the hangings of
the bed where the infant slept. A slender youth, ituhand-


8
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
some apparel, disfigured with dirt and gore, presented
himself to view. His pallid face and faltering steps pro-
claimed him almost famished. He was more an object
of pity than dread. He beheld the viands on the table,
and rushed towards them: the effort was too much for
his weak state, and with a hollow groan he fell to the
ground.
What a scene for the countess! what accumulated wo!
she poured some wine down his throat, and chafed his
hands and temples with a strong liquor she found in one of
the bottles. The youth revived, and opening his eyes of
jet-like hue on the countess, exclaimed, "Geratdina sup-
porting me! holy saints, how is this? Are you too a cap-
tive in this horrid place?" "Speak!" said the countess,
"ease my suspense! that voice! those eyes !—surely it
cannot be—" "Christabelle," said the supposed youth.
What a meeting for the lovely sisters. Their curiosity
was mutual and ardent; but this was not a time for ex-
planation. Christabelle was most agreeably surprised at
hearing that it was possible for them to leave the vaults,
and as soon as she had appeased the cravings of hunger
and thirst, she consented to the advice of her sister, to re-
pose on a couch till the morning, to rest her weary limbs,
that she might be more able to walk to the castle. Ge-
raldina led her to the recess, and added to her amazement
by the sight of little Henry. Geraldina had no inclina-
tion to sleep; she sat at the foot of the pallet, and kept
an anxious watch; at length she observed the light to
glimmer through the chinks, and awoke Christabelle: they
wrapped themselves in some brown cloaks, belonging to
the banditti, and left the hated place. They raised the
trap with difficulty, for it was cased with marble to re.
semble the rest of the pavement. Geraldina suffered
much; she had the child to carry, and her sister to sup-
port, joined to her fears of being intercepted by any of
the banditti.
Happily they arrived safe within the gates. "Will
you," said Christabelle, "secrete me beneath your roof?
your lord must not know of my being here." "I will
shelter you," said the countess; "you may rely on the
fidelity of those I shall trust. But some circumstance*
relative to last night-—" "Mention them not," said Chris-


THE MYSTERIOUS SxnANGER.
9
tabelle, "for your sake, for mine, for your lord's sake, f
cannot explain them."
Agnes and Martha had run to meet and welcome their
mistress and the child, and informed her that all the other
domestics had left the castle to seek her. "I will reward
their care," said the countess. "Good Martha, assist me
to my chamber." "Am I," said Agnes, "to prepare a
room for this young knight?" "I have brought no young
knight with mo, my maiden; this is the lady Christabelle;
suspend your wonder till we have taken some rest; to
you two, and the old warden, I shall only confide the truth
of what has passed, and the secret of my sister's being
here. Be vigilant not to admit any 9tranger; I have rea-
son to fear some intrusion of a fatal nature."
"When thg countess awoke," continued Agnes, " she
gave us the account I have just told you, and has ordered
that the rest of the servants should be informed, that on
turning a wrong way from the ruins of St. Anne's, in af.
fright, through the storm, she lost her way, and remained
all night under the shelter of a spreading oak. Hugh
my lady trusts to your caution-and fidelity; she fears the
vengeance of Walter, when he discovers that she has
taken the supposed youth with her."
"Ah," said Hugh, "Providence directed the countess
there to save her sister's life. Poor lady Christabelle, in
man's apparel too: strange events are passing. The
other day, when the suit of old armour feJl down in the
hall, and was crushed to pieces, I thought it boded flo good
to this castle and its noble owners. Heaven defend us'
I have had strange dreams of late."
Christabelle had two deep wounds, one on the right
shoulder, and the other on the left arm; they had not
been dressed, and the fatigue of coming to the castle oc-
casioning a fever, she now languished in excess of pain.
The countess sent for the good monk Ethelred, abbot of
St. Bernard's, and, under the seal of secrecy, acquainted
him with the situation of her sister. He was shocked at
the situation in which she lay, but hoped by his skill in
surgery to restore her. She raved incessantly on the
earl, murder, and banditti, and many things incomprehen-
sible to her hearers. Heaven seemed to shed his benign


10
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
influence over the efforts of the monk; his patient reco-
vered rapidly, and regained her intellects.
The countess, hearing nothing of Walter or his asso-
ciates, began to recover her tranquillity. Six days had
elapsed since their escape, when the earl arrived, without
notice, at the castle. He returned the embrace of his
countess with reserve, and having kissed the child, inqui-
red, in an imperative tone, for Christabelle. "Has she
not not come to pour in your ear a tale of scandal, to as-
perse my character?—a tale most false, to screen herself
and her accursed paramour." "In that, my lord, you
wrong my sister; she has sought me with no such tidings;
she would not dare to utter a calumny against you to me."
"Can you answer for her daring ?" said he, and left the
room in anger. For the better security of Christabelle,
the countess and her confidential domestics had fitted up
for her an apartment in a long-disused turret; this caution
was propitious. The earl, having searched through the
habitable rooms of the castle, became convinced that the
fugitive had not sought shelter at Rockvale, and he left it
in three days, with strict orders, that an express should be
sent to him, if Christabelle made her appearance at the
castle, and to detain her till his arrival.
From Christabelle the countess now sought for an ex.
planation: out of tenderness to her sister, she entered
most unwillingly on the subject; but, being pressed close,
she thus began :—" On our leaving you, the peculiar at.
tentions the earl paid me, I at first regarded as a refined
fraternal affection, and I considered him in the sacred light
of a brother. On the third day after my journey with
him from Rockvale, I was presented at court to our gra.
cious monarch and the queen. I was received in a flat-
tering manner, and surrounded by the courtiers. Earl
Waltheof was ardent in my praise, and from that time
became a constant visiter at our castle. I loved the youth
with a delicate refined passion, and he almost idolized me.
But De la Clare behaved to him with repelling coldness,
though his alliance was honourable, for no one ranked
higher in the favour of his sovereign. He contrived to
convey a note to me, fraught with respectful passion. He
said, he had made proposals for rne to the earl, as my


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
11
guardian, but had received a positive denial, accompanied
by a hint that 1 had another suitor, who possessed my bro-
ther's favours. Wahheof petitioned me to grant him an
interview, ere I was lost to him for ever. It was wrong,
I must acknowledge, but I had no resolution to refuse him.
Waltheof was to land from a boat to the grounds behind
he house, which, you know, is bounded by the Thames.
The clock struck twelve as I descended the back slairs;
the light was extinguished in Siward's chamber, and I
'J-ought myself secure. I leaned on the low wall, the air
from the water revived me, for I had suffered rmicb tre-
pidation. I heard the paddling of oars—the boat stopped,
and the gallant Waltheof ascended the rude-formed steps,
and thanked me for my condescension. 1 murmured
something of the indelicacy of a clandestine meeting: he
used several arguments respecting Siward's cruelty, and
pft my scruples to flight. Our nocturnal meeliugs were
repeated; Waltheof urged me to flight, and not to trifle
away the present opportunity. He wished me to repair
to his aunt, who was abbess of the convent of Chepstow,
and secrete myself there till I came of age. Then, said
he, as the wife of Waltheof, who will dare to do aught
that can disturb thy peace? The sacred asylum you have
been in can then be avowed, and all idle conjectures that
may have arisen concerning your absence be done away
with. I consented, but had a foreboding heart. He was
to procure me a female companion: the next night I was
to go with them as far as Sheen, to remain there a few
days till the heat of the search after me should be over,
and then proceed to Chepstow. Waltheof made a signal,
and one of his attendants gave him a large bundle.
"It was a complete suit of male attire; my repugnance
to adopt it was great, but I could not avoid owning it was
best for me to travel thus disguised. At the time appointed
I put on my new dress, and descended to the garden; the
night was dark, the wind howled, not a star was to bo
seen; I could not have gone through the enterprise, but
for my disgust at Siward's conduct. Yes, my injured sis-
ter, your husband that very day justified the suspicions
Waltheof had entertained, and shocked my ears by an
avowal of his unnatural love. I answered with scorn and
reproaches, but his replies gave me to understand that his


12
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
heart was callous. I had only till the next day, he said,
to consider whether I would accept of his love, in the
pleasures of an elegant retirement, or pass the rest of
my days in a rigid seclusion, to which his power should
.doom me.
"I had first entered the side avenue of the garden,
when a confused sound of voices brfrst on my ears, fol-
lowed by the clashing of swords. I flew to the spot, just
as my beloved Waltheof was borne wounded to the boat,
by his servants; Siward following, loaded him with exe-
crations, and vowing to confine me where strictness of
discipline would restore me to a sense of feminine propri-
ety. To my surprise, he did not recognise me; but, sup-
posing I was a page of Waltheof's, he rudely pushed me
towards the boat, and bade me follow my detested master.
The men rowed with swiftness to Waltheof's house, which
was on the opposite shore; we landed without interrup-
tion. The earl's chaplain was skilled in surgery; he e s- .
amined the wound; it was mortal. I execrated his de-
stroyer; but it did not appear whether Siward's attack on
my lover was the effect of design, or an accidental disco-
very of his visits. I passed the night by his couch, mu.
iually lamenting the fatal event that would soon separate
us for ever, at least in this world: our farewell was wo-
fully interesting, and just at the return of day, I had the
airpuish of closing his eyes! The venerable chaplain led
tc.e to a room concealed by a sliding door. Alas! how 1
changed were my prospects; even hope had fled! The
next day Rothwald, the chaplain, reported to the royal
Kenry, the death of Waltheof and its cause; but Siward
had previously been there, and prejudiced the king, so
that he would not hear one word in justification of the
late sari, and issued a mandate to some officers of the
court, to search for me at his residence, that I might be
restored to my guardian; they did not discover my hiding,
place, and reported that I certainly was not at that house.
It was incumbent on me to quit it without delay, as it was
daily expected some one from the country would come and
claim possession.
"I will go, said I, to the dear neglected mistress of
Rockvale, and on her gentle bosom pour forth my sorrows,
and mingle my tears with hers. Rothwald procured me
*
s


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGEB.
IS
an elderly, sedate guide, who supposed me a youth who
had been dependent on the late Earl Waltheof; and in
consequence of his death returning to my friends. Tra-
velling on foot was a great fatigue to me, and I perceived
the end of my journey draw near with satisfaction. I dis-
charged my guide about ten miles from hence, making him
believe I had only to go to the next village: I proceeded
by myself as far as the entrance into Traf'alin wood, when
a hoarse voice called on me to stop. I rushed forward,
but in a few minutes a violent blow on my head levelled
me to the earth: I recovered my feet, and drawing forth
a dagger that I wore in my girdle, stabbed the»man in the
side who had thus assailed me, hoping to effect my escape,
but my rashness cost we dear.
"The man staggered a few paces, and reclining against
the stump of a tre-3, blew a shrill blast with his horn, and
was soon joined by three companions. To oppose them
was madness; yet did I raise my arm, and I received the
'wounds which now confine me. I fell to the earth. 'Kill
me,' said I, 'but do not deliver me to Siward.' 'Of which
Siward do you speak, hoy V said one of the men. 'Of
the Earl of Rockvale,' I replied; 'has he not sent you in
pursuit of me V A sullen ' No,' and an assurance that I
had fallen into the hands of banditti, appeared as a relief;
for there was no evil I dreaded equal to being replaced in
the power of Siward. The man I had wounded, (though
recovering from a faintness, caused by pain of the dagger
glancing against a nerve, he found to be but trivial to what
he expected,) and another, were strenuous for finishing
my existence; but one who seemed to have some autho.
rity over them, forbade it. 'He hates Siward,' said hej
•and that hatred prompts my friendship to the boy; bear
him to the cave.' 'We will obey you, Walter,' said the
men, ' but you must answer for the infringement of our
laws to our captain: what has a banditti to do with such
motives 1 such freaks as these will endanger the safety of
our community.' They carried me, by turns, on their
shoulders; the movement made my wounds bleed pro.
fuseiy, and I fainted just as we entered what I knew to be*
the ruins of St. Anne's. On my recovery, I found my.
self laid on straw, and in total darkness: I could not rise,
and I called in vain for aid: at length I heard a tramphng
B


14
THE MYSTERIOUS STBANGEB.
of feet, several persons passed the door of the place
where I lay, and the glare of their torches showed, to my
aching eyes, the confines of a narrow dungeon. I heard
a few sentences, and found by them that the captain had
doomed me to perish.
"The whole of them seemed to leave this dismal haunt.
My agonies beggared description; yet, strange to tell,
sleep visited my eyes; I know not how long I slumbered;
but I awone by the entrance of Walter with a torch. He
spoke, but I could not reply. 'Pooryoulh,' said he, 'thy
end draws near; 'tis well that I am saved a further Crime.
The captain will not add to the number of this band, and
my dagger must have reached thy heart; please the Vir.
gin, I will moisten thy lips, and sooth thy passage to the
grave.' He put the flask to my lips; I drank greedily,
arid made signs of gratitude; he left me, and soon after
I heard the shrieks of a female; it was evident another
wretched victim was doomed.to share my fate. The wine
had a salutary effect: I slept and awoke to renovated
strength: even my spirits revived: I crawled from my
dungeon, resolved to better my fate, or perish in the at-
tempt. There, my Geraldina, dear unfortunate sister,
we met. What an interview! What an escape! How
thankful am I to heaven, for my escape from the licen-
tious Siward: may the benign Ruler of the universe mould
his heart to repentance, and teach him the value of the
wife he now neglects. For me, the world has lost its
power to charm; all seems a cheerless blank, nor can I
ever cease to mourn for the gallant Waltheof."
The countess was sensibly shocked by her sister's nar-
rative. That the earl was the person against whom Wal,
ter had vowed revenge, was evident from Christabelle's
account, and she admired the praiseworthy forbearance
he had shown towards herself and the infant heir of Rock-
vale, when placed wholly in his power, and known to him
(for so he had declared) as such. She had no doubt of
the prudence of the monk Ethelred; she therefore made
him, in this case, her unlimited confidant, and solicited his
advice, how to place her sister in some convent- under a
feigned name, and far from any domains belonging to the
Earl de la Clare. The ladies waited impatiently for the
next visit of the abbot. A sudden indisposition had seized


THE MYSTERIOUS STRAN6EK.
15
him, and in his stead, for the first time, appeared Anselmo,
with a letter from his superior to the countess. "Be not
alarmed," said he, "that / have admitted this young friar
to our secret; he will'not betray it: he was confided
young to my care: I regard him, in fact, as my second
self: his studies have given to youth the experience of
age: he is formed in person and mind to be an ornament
to the world; yet neither the noble alliances he could
claim, nor the splendid offers of his relations, could lure
him from the cloister. He took the cowl with transport,
and renounced all his hopes of earthly splendour and
magnificence."
Such was the introduction of Anselmo: the plainness
of his habit did not conceal the dignity of his form, and
his cowl, as it occasionally fell back, displayed a counte-
nance and features of unequalled bea-uty, while his iurgo
dark eyes sparkled with intelligence. Anselmo continued
his attendance, as Ethelred grew worse daily.' Christa-
belle was anxious to quit the castle, for there was a re.
port of the earl coming to Rockvale. Anselmo undertook
to place the lady Christabelle in a convent at Huntingdon,
belonging to the order of St. Bridgetina; no other cere,
monial of admission was required than a stipulated sum,
and a letter of recommendation, which the abbot would
give. Anselmo, habited as a pilgrim, was to conduct the
maiden, in an humble garb, and under the name of Edith,
to the convent. The Iwo sisters took an affectionate leave
of each other, with an expression which seemed to say—
We meet no more.
Six weeks elapsed before Anselmo's return to the Pri-
ory from a supposed mission. He accounted to the abbot
and Geraldinaforan absence that had given them so much
uneasiness, by stating, that the journey had made Edith
extremely ill; and said, he remained at Huntingdon, till
she was sufficiently recovered to enter on her noviciate,
but was still apprehensive of a decline.
The baron arrived at the castle the week after Ohrista.
belle's departure. He appeared so unwell and dejected
that the'countess, ill as he had used her, found her pity
awakened. He would absent himself whole days from
the castle, and ramble unattended through the adjacent
wood. The countess, aware that Walter was his deadly


18
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
foe, felt alarm for the personal safety of her lord; but aa
she could not warn him, without relating the whole parti-
culars of the transactions at St. Anne's, she was obliged
to mourn in silence.
It was late one night when he entered the saloon where
the countess sat anxiously expecting him; she tenderly
greeted his return; he repulsed her sternly, saying, " You
have deceived me, Geraldina; never again will I place
confidence in one of your perfidious sex. Where is your
sister? tell me, or torture shall wring it from you! Siward
will not be trifled with." "I will not trifle with you, my
lord," said the countess; "from me you shall not learn
where Christabelle has taken refuge. I firmly tell you,
she is safe from your pursuits." He was frantic with rage,
and she fled to her chamber. They did not meet till the
next day, when he took no notice of what had passed, but
desired her to prepare herself and infant, to accompany
him to Normandy. So active was the earl in his arrange,
ments, that they set off the next week, and travelled with
speed till they embarked. The weather was tempestuous,
and a violent storm filled the passengers with dismay.
The earl seemed to labour under the horrors of despair;
he gnashed his teeth, and tore his hair from his aching
head, nor would he listen to one soothing argument from
his pious countess. Contrary to all expectation, the wind
abated, and the vessel made its destined port. The earl's
agitation ended in a fever, and he was with difficulty con-
veyed to his Norman castle on a litter.
His ravings were dreadful; the name of WaUer fre-
quently escaped his lips amidst horrid curses. He vowed,
said he, to haunt me as he lay expiring beneath my dag.
ger's point: his threats are verified. "He is continually
before me: vanish, fell spectre, and let my eyelids close.
Mowbray too: pardon me, good old man; every pang thy
heart endured, mine now repays it tenfold. Waltheofj
noble youth, thy days were short. Come to my arms,
sweet Christabelle ; "our love can be no sin." After this
would follow a loud convulsive laugh, and then he usu.
ally exclaimed, "Siward! Siward! what a catalogue of
crimes! dark is thy soul, as the loathsome pit of hell!"
The countess gathered from his ravings, that he had
met Walter during his last visit to Rock vale. What af.


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
17
fected her most was the manner in which he mentioned
Baron Mowbray; yet she could not believe him to be so
vile as to have murdered her father. What he condemn,
ed himself for, must have been some actions incompatible
with his duty as a son-in-law. At length, the strength of
his constitution conquered the malady, and he recovered
his health. Ha never mentioned Christabelle; he grew
reserved and gloomy. He took no pleasure himself, nor
could bear to be a spectator of the mirth of others. They
had not been more than six months in Normandy, when
the restlessness of Siward's indisposition made him grow
disgusted with the scenes around him, and he resolved to
make a tour through France and Italy. Geraldina would
•have rejoiced at this, had not the increasing tyranny of
,her lord denied her comfort. Henry grew a fine piomis-
ing child; but the earl would not allow her to have the
.least share in his tuition, and ridiculed the very idea at
female interference in training up the mind of a boy ; thus
denying her every source of comfort, but what arose from
her unfeigned piety.
On their return to England, the state of political affairs
rendered it necessary for the earl to pass the winter in
-London. In the spring, he went in the king's train to the
continent. Henry remained at Westminster with his tu-
tor, and the countess, after an absence of three years, re-
turned to her retirement at Rockvale. The old warden,
and the faithful Agnes, were no more. Martha had at-
tended her to Normandy, and still continued her attentive
services. The abbot Ethelred had been deceased more
than twelve months; and she heard, with surprise, on ac-
count of his youth, that Anselmo had been unanimously
chosen his successor; for the election of superior of St.
Bernard's was vested in the community themselves. She
sent for Anselmo, eager to hear of her sister, for she had
not dared to hazard a correspondence while absent. The
new abbot came, and realized the prophetic feaffc of Ge.
raldina. Christabelle had been consigned to an early
grave, and he delivered to the countess an affectionate
farewell, which the dying fair one had written with her
own hand to her beloved sister, and renewed the grief so
acutely felt. When the countess became more calm, and
acknowledged to the arguments of the abbot, that it was


18
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
right to bow with submission to the will of heaven, he
took his leave. As he was now appointed her confessor, in
the room of the late Ethelred, he promised to visit the no-
ble lady at such periods as was consistent with his duty.
The time passed with the countess in tedious monotony
for several revolving months, till the chill blasts of winter,
and a heavy fall of snow, added to her ennui, by preclu-
ding Jier rural walks.
One eventful night, the countess was awakened by re-
peated knockings at the door of her chamber, and some
one authoritatively called on her name. She awakened
Martha, (who slept in a recess of the same apartment)
that she might discover the cause of this intrusion. As
the attendant withdrew the bolt, steps were heard receding
along the gallery. A basket, formed of plaited rushes,
was left at the door, and in it reposed a lovely infant,
warmly wrapped up against the inclemency of the wea-
ther. Here was a complete change of apparel, and a
letter addressed to the countess, stating, "That the child
was called Catherine, and nearly allied to Geraldina; it
was six months old, and had been weaned, the more rea-
dily to consign it to her care; but the peculiai circum-
stances under which she was born, rendered it impossible
for them ever to claim her: yet it might occur, that if the
child arrived at the years of maturity, a portion would be
conveyed to her, suited to her noble birth; but no depend-
ance was to be placed on a promise that depended on fu-
ture events." It concluded by observing, " that, though
unknown, a parent's eye would watch over the infant, and
entreated her,to be tender to her charge." "Related to
me!" said Geraldina, " impossible; I have no surviving
kindred; it must be a fraudulent assertion to awaken my
pity. However, sweet innocent, I will not deny thee shel-
ter; you are not guilty. I will adopt you as my daugh-
ter, since Siward's cruelty deprives me of the presence
of my son; and' in tending thee myself, do an act of
charity, and provide a profitable source of amusement.
Siward may possibly object, but, in this instance, he shall
not make me swerve from my purpose." She caused
strict inquiries to be made through the castle; every do-
mestic denied the least knowledge of the infant; and the
warden was positive no person had passed the portal dur-


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
19
ing the night; the whole was a transaction wrapped in
mystery.
On Siward's next return from Normandy to Rockvale,
Catherine had attained her fourth year; tall of her age;
unusually intelligent, and with features that gave promise
of superior loveliness. The countess had, in her letters,
frequently mentioned Catherine, and the manner in which
she was mtroduced to her care; yet he never returned
any answer or remark on the subject. She knew not
from what cause his silence proceeded; more than once
an idea had rushed on her brain, that Catherine was a na-
tural child of the earl's, and placed in the castle by his
contrivance; but as she had too often seen the fallacy of
supposition, she did not choose to regulate her actions
by it. '.
Soon after his arrival, the countess introduced the child
of her affection, and the letter she had received with her.
He extended his hand towards Catherine, but the next in-
stant withdrew it. "Deceitful woman!' he exclaimed,
in frantic accents, "How dare you thus endeavour to im-
pose upon me? away, lest, in my rage, I lay thee prostrate
at my feet." The countess was hastening from the sa-
loon, with the affrighted child, when he called her back,
and took Catherine in his arms—" By heavens," said he,
"the very features \—Cursed duplicity —Tis Christa-
belle's brat; the likeness strikes conviction to my mind."
"If there is a trifling likeness, my lord," the countess re-
plied, "in this child to my lovely sinter, it is a more casu-
ally, as my dear Christabelle, long before the birth of this
infant, was consigned to the grave: grief burst the bands
of existence; concealment now is useless; I caused her,
by her own request, to be placed in the convent of Saint
Bridget's, where she died a professed nun; and I can
bring the holy abbot of St. Bernard's to affirm the truth of
what I now advance." The earl left the saloon, mutter-
ing some indistinct sentences that bespoke his rage.
The countess was hurt at the unfeeling reception her
favourite had met with; but the earl's conduct convinced
her that the child possessed no natural claim on his pro-
tection, and she was lost in conjecture.
The earl soon returned to Normandy, which was become
his favourite residence: it was there he revelled in licen-


so
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
tious pleasures, and kept a mistress, whose conduct was
disgraceful; yet for her the chaste Geraldina was forsaken.
From this period, the earl seldom came to Rockvale; and
in forming the mind of Catherine, consisted the happiness
of the countess, and she felt grateful to the earl, that he
had never issued any stern decree to separate her from the
gentle girl, though she was aware that he always regarded
her charge with unjustifiable aversion.
The abbot of St. Bernard's still continued his office of
confessor to Geraldina, and, in due time, to Catherine,
whom he ever treated with the utmost respectful attention.
His professed virtues and sanctity rendered him almost
idolized by the people around him; and his visits to the
castle were esteemed a great condescension, for they were
the only individuals thus' honoured. When Catherine had
attained her fifteenth year, the countess gave an enter,
tainment on the occasion, and presented the interesting
girl to her guests, as her adopted daughter. This was
the first time the countess had opened her gates to visit-
ants, in the absence of her lord; and she now did the ho-
nours of the house with a splendour calculated to impress
the minds of the neighbouring nobles with the high es-
teem in which she held her darling Catherine; even the
peasantry shared in the festivity, a remote part of the cas.
tie being prepared for their reception.
The banquet was nearly concluded, when an incident
happened that disturbed the general harmony. A female
figure, tahVvery thin, but of excellent symmetry, approach-
ed the table, and seated herself among the guests un-
bidden! When the health of Catherine went round, the
stranger raised the goblet to her lips, and drank it with
peculiar energy; every eye was on her, yet she was known
to none; and the little that appeared of her visage, bad
such a deathlike hue, that it excited terror asd disgust.
A robe of black silk, with a veil of the oarns formed her
dress: a piece of fine white cloth was 'round round hsr
head, and her neck was enriched by a jold chiin, to
which was appended what appeared a minUturs. but whs
concealed from view by a piece of purple velvet sewed
on the mounting; on the fourth finger of the left hand was
a wedding ring, and a diamond keeper, of great value.
Her singular appearance excited an attention that she


22
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
taught her to place dependance on that power who never
wholly forsakes the righteous. In the early part of the
day, Anselmo, the abbot, was announced. "This is ano-
ther mysterious visit," said the countess, "surely this is to
us a season of wonders." On no account, heretofore, bttd
the monk ever exceeded his stated periodical visits to the
castle, though on some particular occasions his presence
had been earnestly requested: his refusals were then mild,
but decisive.
When the abbot entered the room, he looked anxiously
round, and his countenance expressed unusual thought and
melancholy; he slightly, but respectfully, noticed Cathe-
rine, and then requested a private audience of the count-
ess, wno smiled significantly to her child, and Catherine
retired. "The intelligence, lady," said he, "of a visiter
of the most singular appearance yesterday intruding on
you, has reached my ears; it intefested and surprised me,
and I came to request from you the particulars of thnt cir-
cumstance." The countess willingly complied; but the
abbot asked if she had concealed nought that had passed.
She solemnly assured him that she had not, and expressed
her surprise at the question. "Have you no knowledge,"
said he, "of the person who thus introduced herself?"
"Not the least," GeraMina replied, "her face was wrap-
ped up, and she spoke so low and indistinct, as if afraid
of trusting her voice, that had I known her ever so well
formerly, I could not have possibly recognised her." "I
am satisfied," said the abbot, and was preparing to with-
draw, when the countess stopped him: "Pardon me, holy
father, if I ask what are the motives that led you to ques-
tion me on this subject?" "Mere curiosity," replied An.
selmorw" I thought it probable something might have trans-
pired concerning the stranger's visit to the castle, which
had not, by common report, reached my knowledge, and
I felt myself interested for the gentle lady Catherine."
The monk, with an humble bow, retired, leaving the count-
ess very ill satisfied wjjth what he had advanced. She
had watched every turn of his expressive countenance,
and was convinced that he had some weighty reason to
prompt him on this occasion. A few days after these in-
cidents, the countess received a note, given by a peasant

4


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
23
boy (who said it required no answer) to the warden, en-
treating it might be delivered to the noble lady without
delay. It was from the abbot of St. Bernard's, request-
ing the countess 10 be at the Priory the next evening, as
soon as it was dark, as he had communications to make to
her of the most important nature. He laid a strict chargo
on her not to let her visit to the Priory seem to be her own
free act, which she might also pretend was on a charitable
account.
"Can- the Abbot of St. Bernard's," said Geraldina,
"stoop to advise; nay, in fact, to command me to be guilty
of an act of duplicity ?—Can a man, almost worshipped
for his sanctity, thus debase himself!" and she seriously de-
bated whether or^notshe should go to the Priory: at length,
urged by a hope that he had some important disclosure to
make concerning the late mystery, siie resolved to go, and
take two female attendants with her. She had no reason
to suspect ary treachery, nor that the visit she was going
to make would, at any future period, be misrepresented to
the earl; yet she thought it right to guard against thesft
possible events, and to trespass upon the monk's orders so
far, as to make one confidant of the real foundation of her
visit. Who was so proper, who was so faithful, as Ca-
therine 1 To her, she therefore communicated all the
preceding particulars, and obtained a promise of inviola-
ble secrecy.
Catherine felt the most anxious solicitude for the return
of the countess, who came back in safety, after ah absence
of more than four hours. Her eyes were red with weep-
ing, and her agitations were visible. "i have heard,"
said Geraldina, in reply to her adopted child's tender in-
quiries, " a tale of wo, in which I am so deeply interest-
ed, that my feelings are hurt on that point for ever. Your
birth is no longer a mystery to me: I know both your pa.
rents; but my lips are sealed in secrecy for ever. An
awful, but involuntary vow, has passed them. Droop no^
my Catherine -, you are still my darling; dearer to mj
heart you cannot be, for my affection for you is too ardent
to admit of increase." "The earl, madam .'" said Cathe-
line. "I read your meaning in your looks. The earl is
not your father; nor am I at liberty to name the being


24
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER*
who possessed that blessing. Let me advise you, Cathe-
rine, to reverence the abbot Anselmo; and, above all, en-
deavour to conciliate his esteem. His good opinion may
be of service to you when I am no more. The mysteri-
ous stranger is your mother! but, I fear, you have receiv-
ed her last embrace; the walls of a convent immure her;
and she is fast verging to the grave with sorrow. Now
we must drop this subject for ever. I charge you, if you
value my peace, or your own, never to renew it. Go to
your chamber; there pass an hour in devotion, then join
me at our evening's repast."
Three years had elapsed, unmarked by any incident,
except that the abbot had declined the office of confessor
to Catherine, as taking up too much of his precious time.
He continued his attendance on the countess to the last
moment of her existence. Her health had long been de-
clining; her frame sunk under the pressure of neglect
and sorrow, and finally settled in a consumption, which no
human skill could eradicate. When the physicians de-
clared her end approaching, Anselmo, who was present,
intimated his intention of remaining at the castle, and de-
legated a temporary power to one of the monks, during his
absence from the duties of the priory. His ostensible
motive was a pious affection for the dying lady, and as
such, highly praised by every individual in the castle; yet
Catherine thought she perceived a busy officiousness in
the monk, to keep the countess from addressing a private
word to her or any of the attendants. A few hours pre-
vious to the decease of Geraldina, she was visited by a
deep sleep, in which she lay quite composed. At this
juncture, the abbot was apprised, that the porter of the
convent of St. Bernard's waited with a letter from that
community.—" This doubtless is of much importance,"
said Anselmo, "or a message would not have been sent
at this late hour; I will withdraw to the apartment pre-
pared for me; do not neglect to apprise me when I may
again attend your lady, which I would wish to do the mo-
ment she awakes: her time will then be short, for this
slumber is surely the forerunner of her dissolution:" with
these words the monk retired.
The countess continued an hour longer in the same


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
25
state, when she suddenly awoke, and seemed in great
agony. Catherine, pursuant to the mandate of the monk,
left the chamber to acquaint him that her dear countess
required his presence. As she drew near the door, si;o
heard his voice in a loud and angry tone; she stood ap-
palled; but recollecting the emergency of the case that
had occasioned her seeing him, she took courage, and en-
tered his apartment. A malign expression of anger sat
upon the countenance of the abbot; his eyeballs glared
with terrific wildness, as he paced with hasty strides the
spacious chamber; and expressions, ill suited to his holy
character, fell from his lips, while deep groans spoke the
anguish of his soul. He was so occupied in the subject
that had caused these emotions, as to be wholly uncon-
scious of being exposed to observation, till a sigh met his
ear, and aroused him to a sense of the impropriety of
which he was guilty, in thus giving way to his feelings, till
he had secured the door of his apartment against intru-
ders. He turned hastily, and beheld the lovely, but trem-
bling Catherine, whose surprise seemed almost to bereave
her of animation.
The monk, at this juncture, widely departed from the
respectful behaviour with which he had hitherto treated
the gentle fair one; for rudely aeiring her arm, he drag-
ged her into the middle of the room, saying, " Whence
comes it, presuming girl, that you are a midnight spy on
my actions 1" "You mistake," replied Catherine, with
some degree of spirit, "till now I knew not that the pious
abbot of St. Bernard's had actions requiring concealment."
He bit his lips in rage, and exclaimed—" You had acted
far more wisely, not to level your sarcasms at me; it is
not for a weak woman to judge the conduct of the supe-
rior of St. Bernard's; you have not alleged your reason for
seeking me at this late hour." "The countess requests
your presence; she is much altered since you left her;
and the chill of death seems to hang on the face of the-
dear saint." "I will hasten," said the abbot, "to com-
fort her in her dying motnents; but first listen to me; an
event, as afflicting as unforeseen, has filled my breast with
passiohs to which I bad long been a stranger, and cer.
tainiy most improper to display; but"


26 THE MY8TEKI0US STRANGER. X
Catherine availed herself of this pause, to observe, that
•he pitied, instead of condemning, the agitation she had
witnessed. The monk took a missal, that laid on a table
near him, "Swear," said he, " never to repeat what you
have observed this night; kneel, and I will dictate the
form of your oath." The words she had to repeat were
of an awful nature: Catherine shuddered: there was no
alternative; and she made the required oath, and was
then permitted to retire. She hastened to her own cham-
ber. Her attendant was not there—a circumstance un-
expected; but it gave her pleasure, as she could, without
exposing herself to observation, ease her surcharged heart
by tears.
The abbot had condescended to state, that an afflicting
event gave rise to his distressing passions. But what ex-
cess of sorrow could frame a sufficient apology for the
horrid execrations that had disgraced his lips; and where-
fore so much solemn secrecy required of her, who knew
not the cause of his perturbation? She could not nvoid the
conclusion, that, with others, she had wholly mistaken the
real character of the abbot of St. Bernard's. Her reflec-
tions were interrupted by the entrance of Martha, thf
head attendant of the expiring Countess De la Clare.
Catherine inquired for her dear friend and protectress, and
if ihe abbot with her. Martha replied in the affirma-
tive, and then observed—" How humane is the good An-
selmo, to make such'a long stay from his abbey, to sooth
the death.bed of our amiable ladyr and teach us resigna-
tion under our unexpected loss; surely there is not his
equal for every virtuous profession on earth."
Martha'seulogiumson the abbot remained unanswered;
and Catherine, leaning for support on her arm, repaired
to the chamber of the countess, where they found the
monk bending over the couch, in the act of giving a so-
lemn benediction, and appeared like a fine animated statue
of piety. Our heroine was at a loss to reconcile this con-
tradiction, and beheld with amazement the command An-
selmo possessed over his passions; for she was given to
understand, that he had passed more than an hour in pri-
vate conference.
Catherine was clasped in the bosom of her friend, with


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
27
as much energy as the weak state of the latter would ad-
mit. Tenderly affecting were the blessing and farewell
the countess bestowed on her favourite:—My Catherine!
my tender blossom! reluctantly I leave thee to make thy
way through a world, where treachery and deceit lurk in
ambush to stab the innocent and unwary: retain in thy
mind the admonitions I have given thee. Conscience is
an unerring monitor; by that you may scrutinize your
own deeds. I have yet much to say, but agonizing pain
forbids :—Oh, that pang !—Abbot; remember your pro-
mise; protect your —. Ah! how I wander, my
Catherine I Have I, in this, done wrong?—some kind an-
gel whisper to my soul, ere it be too tate. Is an extorted
vow binding—binding even in death 1" The abbot start-
ed, and placed his hand on the countess's mouth. "Noble
lady," said he, "thy life has been marked by exemplary
piety. Let not then guilt stain thy dying hour. Knowest
thou not that all vows are registered on high? and a breach
of one, so solemn as your lips formerly uttered, would be
perdition to your soul."
"I submit," said the countess, with a sigh, and then told
Martha to deliver to Catherine a small ivory cabinet, "In
this, my love, you will find my will, and directions con-
cerning my funeral; a letter to rw absent lord, and ano-
ther for my son ; .a packet for ywwself, containing some
advice, and a few trinkets; keep them, and Ihis cabinet,
,which I have hud from my infancy, as memorials of me."
Catherine was too much affected to reply: but her looks,
and the manner in which she pressed the lips of the count-
ess, portrayed her gratitude.
It was near the morning's dawn, when Martha summon-
ed Clara, Catherine's attendant, to assist in leading the
fair mourner from the chamber where lay the corpse of
that excellent woman, who had performed the tender of-
fice of a mother to her infant years: she cast herself on
har couch, and placed the cabinet on its side, and Martha
quitted her in tears, to assist in the rites required by the
countess. Catherine bade her own domestic to follow;
Bhe wished to indulge her sorrow unobserved; and she
continued to weep, till sleep, unsolicited, gave a respite,
and she did not awake till a late hour in ihe morning. She
then determined to open the cabinet, which was an incum-


28
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
bent duty, as* part of the contents related to the funeral
rites. In vain she sought it; in vain she inquired; it was
not to be found! she repaired to the abbot for advice re-
specting the interment, and declare her loss.
He answered her with quickness—"It was enough to
order the burial;" and waved his hand for her to retire.
Catherine visited the much-loved corpse, and bedewed it
with tears; she had no one on earth from whom to claim
protection. Earl De la Clare had never approved of the
love the countess expressed for her; his son was educated
in Normandy; and, during the last twelve years, had been
but thrice in England to visit his mother; consequently,
she almost regarded him as a stranger to herself, and sin-
cerely regretted the loss of her cabinet, as she supposed
it contained instructions to regulate her proceedings. The
next night she was visited by a dream of an horrific na-
ture; fancy presented to view a dreary cavern, and her-
self in the power of a band of ruffians; one of whom,
whose height and visage were formed to inspire terror,
advanced to plunge a poniard in her bosom; she shrieked,
and awoke: it wanted some hours to day. In vain she
courted the return of sleep; she lay restless and perturb-
ed, till alarmed by footsteps in her chamber, which evi-
dently approached her bed; she leaped from it, exclaim-
ing, "Holy angels, protect me I" A dreadful menace
awed her to silence: the intruder placed something that
seemed weighty on the table, and left the room.
When Catherine secured the door against further inter-
inption, she returned to her couch, and impatiently waited
the return of light to discover what the parcel contained
that was left in so singular a manner^
Nothing could equal her surprise at beholding the very
cabinet whose loss had so much afflicted her: she opened
it with eager haste; the letters individually addressed to
the earl and his son, were sealed with the crest of the
countess, nor did they appear to have been opened; but
that addressed to herself was evidently so, and every pa-
per and article had been inspected. - Nor did the perpe.
trator of this act take any pains to conceal it. Plunder
was not the object, for among several valuable articles,
the bequest of the countess, was a Durse, weighty with
gold.


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
20
Who was she to suspect, but the monk Anselmo? No
vassal of the castle would thus have dared. Her thoughts
reverted to the death of the countess: it was evident that
her mind laboured with an important secret, which tho
monk would not allow her to reveal; and that herself was
the object of that excellent lady's solicitude, was equally
certain. In vain she conjectured; ideas could not bring
proofs.
The message the monk had received from the convent
was, undoubtedly, the cause of his violent rage and emo-
tion. Catherine was apprehensive, though she knew not
how to account, even to herself, for that apprehension, that
she was some way connected with these secret transac-
tions; or why administer an oath to herl—why search so
minutely through the cabinet, bequeathed by the countess?
Deprived of her amiable protectress, she knew not where
toJook for comfort; hope withdrew its influence, and tho
future seemed to present nought but misery—a dull, cheer-
less blank.
Catherine was aroused from these melancholy reflec-
tions by the entrance of Clara, whose breast seemed la-
bouring with some important intelligence. Poor Cathe-
rine mildly demanded the cause of this intrusion. "Ah,
my dear lady," replied the girl, " it is my duty to come to
you, and warn you oX approaching danger." "Danger!"
said the alarmed fair one, " be quick, and explain what I
have to dread." "The abbot is a hypocrite." "Hush!
for heaven's sake!" said the astonished Catherine; "be-
ware how you thus name a man °f his reputed holiness."
"Oh that deceit can>«««ne such sanctity!" replied the
maid; "He is even now plotting against thy precious hie;
I heard him just now, as I was coming up the elm walk,
and so did my sweetheart, Stephano. The abbot was con-
versing with a tall portly man, whom, my lover says, he
is sure, by his appearance, is some bandit captain, for
his belt is full of weapons, and he has: a horn slung by
his side.
"We perceived them advancing towards us, and fear-
fill that the abbot would reprove us for walking out alone,
(though I am sure we neither meant nor did harm) we
slipped behind the great treo the dear countess was so
fond of, and it chanced that they sat down on the very
c2
776073 A


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
81
ceeded to some distance; when the groupe was suddenly
met by a party of horseman, who demanded whither they
were proceeding. Before Ihe men could reply, Catherine
shrieked aloud. "By heaven I know that voice!" said
one of the strangers; "you are conveying her by force
from Rock vale." A serious conflict ensued, and the fair
one soon found, that those who were attempting her res-
cue, were the earl and his son, with their suite of attend*
ants, who had just arrived from Normandy. Victory be*
gan to declare for them, for they being mounted on horse-
back was a great advantage.
Just at the instant Catherine began to felicitate herself
on their progress, the earl fell from his steed, with a deep
groan, beneath the sword of the chief bandit, who gave
a savage shout of joy, and exclaimed, " Walter has tri-
umphed !—Siward! behold the man you have so basely
injured !—you thought you had long since sent me to the
grave; but I survived my wounds, and heaven is just in
its retribution."
Lord Henry drew near to avenge the earl, but he per-
ceived and prevented him. "Secure him," said he, " and
convey him to the castle, but by no means take his life."
This was easily done. Three of the banditti were slain,
and the others fled. The men made a litter of part of their
luggage, on which they laid the earl. Lord Henry took
Catherine on his horse; Walter was bound on another,
guarded by four domestics; and in this order Ihey pro-
ceeded to the castle, to the astonishment of the warden
and domestics, who were assembled in the hall, and had
not even missed the lady Catherine from her chamber.
The earl was conveyed into a saloon, and laid on a set-
tee; Walter gloomily followed. "Secure the abbot!"
said he; "Siward, you cannot live long; my end is also
approaching, for I am taken in toils from which I cannot
escape.—Let us then employ the time left us in doing jus.
tice to the injured fair one and her mother, who now lingers
out a wretched existence in the convent of St. Bernard's.
Just at this instant, the monk entered the saloon: he
had been in his chamber, at a distant part of the building,
and had neither heard the bustle, nor been apprised, by
any one, of the return of Catherine, accompanied by the
earl and his retinue.


32
THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
He now beheld the groi>pe with an astonishment that
beggars description: he was going to retire, but the ban-
dit, perceiving his intention, called out—" Stop him! An.
gelo of Rockvale, brother toSiward, commands you, and he
will answer for what may be called an outrage against the
church." The servants rushed forward to obey; but the
monk, drawing forth a poniard, thrust it to the hilt in his
own bosom, saying, "I will not survive disgrace." He
called Catherine to him—"You need not fear me now;
by heaven I loved thee, even when plotting against thee;
come, and pardon thy cruel father!" "Father!" said
Catherine—she took his hand; heard him pronounce a
blessing on her head, and fainted. When she recovered,
he was no more, and they were in the-act of removing his
corpse.
Lord Henry presented her with a key, which he said
belonged to a casket of the late abbot, that would be found
at the priory of St. Bernard's. He bequeathed it to you,
continued his lordship, while you were insensible. Ca-
therine thanked him, and entreated permission to retire to
her chamber, whither he assisted Clara to lead her afflict-
ed mistress.
She did not close her aching eyes till long after the
break of day, and then opened them to hear the melan-
choly intelligence of earl Siward's death! he expired,
pardoning his brother: be said, " He had deserved what
he met with from Angelo's hands;" and strictly command-
ed his son not to hurt a hair of his head; to remember
he was his uncle; to let him depart wheresoever he pleased,
without molestation; and if tviy inquiries were made, as
to the cause of his death, to ascribe it to the skirmish in
which they had been engaged; but not to implicate the
supposed Walter.
The next day, at the desire of Angelo, every individual
concerned was assembled to hear what he had to relate,
as an elucidation of the various circumstances alluded to,
which he did in nearly these words :—
"Siward and myself were the only children of Bohun,
Earl de la Clare, who was left a widower while we were
very young. I am sorry to say, he was guilty of partia.
lity: he loved me more than mv brother; and, instead of
wisely concealing it, he frequently avowed it, and was


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
33
more than once heard to lament that I was not his first
born. Siward soon hated me for this preference, though
I strove by every means to conciliate his esteem and love;
but his rugged nature was not to be softened by these kind
endeavours, and he never suffered the least occasion to
pass, in which he could injure me in the good opinion of
my father, and in time certainly greatly weakened his af.
fection.
"At length, fate placed me wholly in his power, and
caused my complete ruin. A cottager, on our estate, had
a Jovely sister; the fair Rosetta attracted the notice both
of myself and brother. His purposes were illicit. I pri-
vately married her; I could not eudure to blight so much
,nnocence and beauty, and thought she had virtue to adorn
any station. »
"My allowance was splendid; and I maintained my
wife and children in an elegant retirement. My brother
could not discover where she was gone, and reproached
me with having seduced and concealed her. I denied the
charge. Four years after our marriage, he discovered the
whola truth, and reported it to my father, with many ma-
licious additions. He cursed me, for what he termed a
stain upon our family honours. I was disinherited, and
forbidden his sight.
"Nought remaining to me but my late mother's jointure,
I resolved to embark for some foreign kingdom with my
family, and try my luck in commerce. When I repaired
to the retreat where I had placed my Rosetta and her in-
fants, I found all my treasures stolen from me. The very
building was erased. I heard from a peasant, that the
dear inhabitants had been forced away by ruffians, and
the house pillaged and burnt to the ground. I fell to the
earth, and when I recovered, which was not till after the
lapse of many-days and' weeks, I found myself in a ca-
vera, surrounded by persons whom I soon perceived to be
banditti. They told me they had discovered me on the
ground, and had conveyed me to their retreat. In their
captain I discovered an exiled noble, whom I had been in.
timate with before his disgrace.
"They made proposals to me, and I became lieutenant
of the band. As we sheltered in the rums of St. Anne's,
in the vicinity of Siward's castle, I was on the spot to make


THE MYSTERIOUS STRANGER.
observations on what what passed, and endeavoured to
gain tidings of my beloved wife and children. Alas! too
soon I knew all. One of the vassals belonging to Si ward,
having received a blow from him, found means to join our
community; he confessed he had aided Siward in the de-
struction of my family. My little ones perished through
the damps of the dungeon into which they were thrown!
my dear Rosetta was dishonoured by my brother! and,
resolving not to survive this atrocious act, she perished by
her own hand! I vowed vengeance against Siward, and
carefully concealed myself from him. He knew not of
my destination till many years after, when we met near .
St. Bernard's, as he was wandering about. He looked so
wretched that I could have pitied him, had he not attack-
ed me, and thus renewed my rage. I told him, with bit-
ter reproaches, how generously I had acted towards his
wife and child when they were wholly in my power. To
my surprise he did not know the circumstance. He ques-
tioned me concerning it; and, from my answers, found
the countess had rescued a youth, whose dress I described,
from the cavern; and to screen myself from the venge-
ance of the captain, I was obliged to dig up a part of the
dungeon, and pretend I had interred him.
"'Your tale is false!' exclaimed my brother; 'you
have leagued with my wife to deprive me of Christabelle:
she was thus disguised, and now you avow it, to make me
wretched; but thus will I punish you.' He took me off
my guard, and stabbed me several times in the body, till
he supposed life was fled: in this situation I was found by
some of the banditti; they perceived some faint signs of
life, and succeeded in restoring me to my senses. With .
an additional cause of hatred to Siward, I sought him, but
he was so seldom at Rockvale, I could not complete my
design, till that wretched night, when we so fatally, and
unsought for, met.
"A few years since, a dreadful event placed me in the
power of the abbot Anselmo, and he offered me life, if I
would become his confidant, and perform such services as
he should occasionally require of me and my band, (fori
had just then succeeded their late captain ;) I agreed, and
was bound to him by oath. I found that he was the re.
verse of every thing holy, and his private pleasures were


THE MYSTERIOUS STKANGEH.
35
of the most licentious kind; he was of noble birth, and at
first secreted in a monastery from political motives; after-
ward he made it his choice, as a wide range in which he
might, by hy pocrisy, obtain fame and wealth, at the same
time that he revelled in secret vices.
"He confessed to me, that when employed by the count-
ess to guard Christabelle to the convent at Huntingdon,
he had treacherously conveyed her to the only remaining
tower of St. Anne's, under the care of a ruffian and his
wife, whom he had secured to him by interest; he could
not win her to his love, but force succeeded: she bore him
a son, but he died a few days after; she next gave birth
to a daughter, who was named Catherine, whom she
suckled at her breast, till her senses fled; for she hated
Anselmo, and had long been drooping into a settled me-
lancholy. The monk contrived, by means of a secret
passage from St. Anne's to the castle, to place the in/ant
in the care of her aunt, the Countess De la Clare. Chris-
tabelle was taken to the convent of St. Catherine's, an J
recommended to the care of the abbess as a maniac lady
of property. She suffered most unexampled cruelties,
from the tyranny of the superior, till the death of the lat-
ter occurred, when, happily for the poor sufferer, the ab-
Yess was succeeded by one possessing a tender heart; her
kindness restored Christabelle to her senses, and she told
her wrongs. The abbess heard with pity and astonish-
ment; but she knew it was of no avail to expose the ab-
bot; his power would crush her. She made inquiries af-
ter Catherine, and delighted her mother with the fond ac-
count; and, after which, first having taken an oath not to
discover herself to her sister or daughter, she was permit-
ted to be a spectator of the countess's fete, in honour of
the latter's birthday.
"This was not managed so secretly, but it came to the
knowledge of Anselmo, who took his measures accord-
ingly. The abbess was soon no more'. and Christabelle
was confined in a grated cell. The night on which the
countess died, Christabelle, by some means, effected her
escape. The abbot was apprised of it, and became out-
rageous; he sought her, and I was commissioned to seek
her: I soon found the fair fugitive, and conveyed her back
to the convent. ,
•


THE VICTIM OF SEDUCT1NJV.
Op all the vices which have, stained the fair face of
human nature, and strewed Ui*p*Ji of life with rankling
thorns, none have been more fatally conspicuous than
Adultery and Seduction—fiends engendered by illicit
p:i?sion and licentious habits, to annihilate domestic bliss
and affection, and rend asunder every social tie.
Seduction, the foundation of the following narrative,
is not a solitary crime, commencing and ending in itself;
but it is the parent of multitudes: as IV. Goldsmith
most justly observes, in his Vicar of Wakefield, when
speaking of the betrayed Olivia,Primrose, " it leads to
•deception, perjury, and hatred; and, in many instances,
murder itself has been its produce."
The story of Adeline, the Victim of Seduction, is
founded on a melancholy fact that occurred at the
beginning of the present century: the heroine of the tale
was lovely, tall, and elegantly formed; her whole ap-
pearance prepossessing, but fragile, and delicate as one
of the first flowerets of spring.
Adeline had been early deprived of maternal care and
solicitude, by the unsparing hand of death,—her mother
• died with grief in consequence of a report, that her
beloved husband had fallen in battle: this report, al
though eventually proved to be false, took such strong
bold on her feelings, that even the welcome presence of
her adored Edward came too late to save her:— -her whole
soul had received a shock too powerful for e/en affection
to remove: 'he lovely mourner drooped, and in less than
a month she expired in the arms of her afflicted parmer 1


6
THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
The dying moments of the mother were embittered by
the reflection that her-Adeline, her only child, would be
but too soon destitute of that watchful protection which
none but a mother can afford: as her lasf, her dying
request, she recommended, in the most earnest terms,
the little Adeline to his fatherly care. This he solemnly
promised; and further vowed, for her sake, never again
to enter into the matrimonial state; but to devote hia
whole attention to their darling child. That he faithfully
kept his word, the sequel will prove.
In as short a time subsequent to the funeral of his
lamented Sophia, as his domestic arrangements would
permit, the youthful widower returned to his military
duties; from which he had, indeed, only obtained leave
for a temporary absence, on receiving the distressing in-
telligence of his wife's serious indisposition.
The allied army had several warmly-contested engage-
ments, and in one of these, St. Everard unfortunately
received several shots in his eyes, which deprived him of
sight. Soon after this accident a liberal. pension was
awarded to -our brave, but unfortunate, officer; and upon
this he retired to a neat villa, situated in one of the
German states.
Adeline was now a most valuable solace to her father;
her reading to him, her music, and, above all, her sweet
converse, and affectionate attentions and endearments,
reconciled him to life under the severe privation with
which he was afflicted; and he soon became reconciled
to his bereaved fate.
Adeline inherited from nature much of her deceased
parent's warmth of heart and keen sensibility: a strong
susceptibility often displayed itself; her father perceived
it, and felt a lively alarm for the future fate of this lovely
girl: that she were indeed"lovelv, the recollection of
what her unfolding features were, at the time when he
could gaze on them with parental delight, assured him -
they were doubly imprinted on his memory, in her exact
resemblance of his still-regretted Sophia; and that her
attractions daily improved, he gathered from the obser-
vations of all around; yet this but added to his solicitude


THE TTCTIM OF SEDUCTION.
7
The anxious St. Everard made no direct observations
o Adeline as to this trait in her temper and disposition,
but he selected such books for her perusal as best tended
to strengthen the mind and correct the judgment; and
in the remarks he occasionally made on them, he pointed
out the» difference between real feeling and sensibility.
He, however, found this, her ruling passion, deeply fixed
in her heart; nature had bid it glow, maternal sympathy
had nourished its early existence,—it had taken root in
a congenial soil, and insinuated itself into her very being:
vain, therefore, were her father's endeavours to eradicate
this baneful weed of nature's wildest growth. A tale
of woe, of suffering, or oppression, drew from Adeline
such energy of expression, as often raised her boding
father's fears, startled into consciousness by the vehe-
mency of her manner. But could he have seen the ex-
pression of her countenance, at sorrow's artless tale; or
beheld the fire that shot through the long silken lashes
that shaded her bright blue eyes, when the victim of
unmerited persecution told her narrative of woe, his fears
would indeed have been much aggravated. The very
seclusion in which they lived, the ignorance of the world,
and itst manners, in which their rural retirement kept the
fair maiden, added to the seeds of romance which grew
with hor growth, and strengthened with her strength. All
around seemed, to her, an Eden blooming with luxuriant
sweets: she dreamed not of the serpents which lurked
beneath, eager to sting the unsuspecting victim, or rob it
of repose. In fact, she was happy in innocence, and art-
less as the dove; tenderly loving the author of her
being, beloved by him in return, and satisfied with herself
and all around her.
Out of the limited income enjoyed bf the respected
Edward St. Everard, a certain portion was, with his
consent, invariably set apart by his amiable daughter
for the relief of the neighbouring poor, to be distributed
among them as occasion might require. For this pur- .
pose, she would visit the abodes of misery and want,
and, like a guarding angel, minister to their relief; while
the feeling manner in which she bestowed her gifts, and
the interest she took in their welfare, endeared her to
them all; and the daughter of St. Everard was little less
than idolized by the villagers.
b3


8
THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
Adeline had just attained her eighteenth year, when a
young man, whose exterior deportment and prepossessing
manners formed of themselves a most interesting pass-
port, came to lodge at the house of the curate; who
was compelled to have recourse to letting part of his
house, to augment a salary too small for the claims of a
numerous, and, as yet, infantile offspring.
Albert Mora, for such was the name the young stranger
assumed, described himself as an artist, whose health,
weakened by professional study and application, required
a change of air. The references he produced were high-
ly respectable, and he was with pleasure admitted at the
Parsonage as one of the family.
Adeline was a frequent guest at the house of M. Solani,
the curate, and frequently aided the family by working
for them at her needle, tending the little ones when
indisposed, and other kind offices: it so happened, how-
ever, that the young stranger had been an inmate above
a fortnight, before she became aware of the circum-
stance; and even then she merely heard that they had
a new boarder, and consequently felt no interest in the
communication: besides, her father had been indisposed,
and a succession of wet weather, rather unusual for the
season, having prevented her attending the church two
following Sundays, her intercourse with the inmates of
the Parsonage had been for a while suspended.
At length, however, the rain ceased; and a day, bright
as evei enlivened the face of Nature, succeeded: the sun
shone beautifully; the feathered choristers, delighted
with the change, left their embowering shelters, and
spreading their downy pinions, soared into the air, or
vaulted with the breeze: the peasants renewed their toil;
the distant mills again went merrily round; and all the
country seemed one scene of harmony and joy."
Adeline, intending to avail herself of the favourable
change in the weather, was preparing for a walk to the
Parsonage, when a woman, whose husband had just met
with a serious accident, while tending a cart, entered the
cottage, and entreated its fair inmate to give her somq'
'linen for a bandage, and a little healing oil, the virtues


THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
9
of which, as an application for wounds or bruises, few
of the villagers were unacquainted with. Adeline, who
thought little of her own gratification, while another
needed her assistance, ran up stairs for the required
articles; and having given them to the poor woman,
put on her hat and mantle. Thus attired, she entered
the sitting parlour, to inform her father of her intention,
when she was rather surprised at finding him in con-
versation with a tall, elegant looking stranger. Her
father, the moment he was aware of her presence, intro-
duced the stranger as Signor Albert Mora, the artist at
M. Solani's; and the usual courtesies took place. Our
heroine, at the moment she beheld his fine, manly coun-
tenance, felt,.she knew not what; her cheeks glowed
like scarlet; and .she mentally exclaimed,—" An artist!
I should sooner have supposed .him a nobleman:—rank
and titles give distinction to many; but this youth
would give lustre to the most exalted station."
Krom this, it would appear that the heart of Adeline
felt interested in his behalf the moment she beheld him:
such, indeed, proved the case; and the accomplished
stranger, who beheld with pleasure the secret workings
of her mind in his favour, lost no opportunity of improving
the prepossession.
M. Solani, in whose company Albert had arrived at
the cottage of St. Everard, had come to inquire after
the health of his friend and neighbour; and having a
similar visit to pay in the neighbourhood, Albert, who
complained of a pain in the side, was induced, by the
pressing invitations of the gallant officer, to remain with
him till the curate returned.—And Adeline, who saw
no reason why she should be disappointed of her walk,
and the pleasure of seeing Mrs. Solani and the children,
particularly her own little god-daughter and namesake,
with her father's permission, accompanied the gentlemen
to the Parsonage.
This was the commencement of an ardent attachment
on the part of Adeline. She struggled with her own
heart—but the contest was in vain; she could not sub-
due it; and, eventually, was obliged to relinquish the
ineffectual struggle.


10
THE VfCTIM OF SEDUCTION
Albert soon became a great favourite with St. Everard;
his conversation and sentiments were peculiarly pleasing
to that gentleman, and many an hour was whiled away in
recounting the events of former days,— a topic which
particularly delighted the gallant veteran: Albert was
deeply versed in the history of Europe; and it yielded
a melancholy pleasure to St. Everard to listen to the
detail of occurrences, in some of which he had taken
an active, often a conspicuous part. But these hours,
happy as the father considered them, were fraught with
danger to the daughter: St. Everard was indeed blind;
not aware of the personal attractions of his guest he
dreamed not of their influence; he witnessed not the
language of the eyes,—that language so well understood
by lovers,—and in which volumes were conveyed to the
heart of Adeline, who, till now, felt not the slightest
preference for any man, beyond esteem and friendship.
St. Everard, immediately descended from a, noble
family, had much of German prejudices and pride; and
much the gentle Adeline feared that he would never
consent to unite his fate with the daughter of one who
was indebted to his own industry and talents for a
livelihood. There was also another drawback to her
ideal scheme of happiness—she could not endure the
thought of depriving her father of those services and
attentions he had always received from her, and which
any alteration in her circumstances must so materially
affect. Albert, too, might not approve of her devoting
so great a portion of her time to her parent's comforts:
besides, even supposing the best, she could not expect
Albert would take up his residence at the Villa; and
to remove her father from it, would be & step bordering
on cruelty; for custom had rendered every walk and
every room familiar to him, and the few people with
whom he associated in the village were endeared to him;
and at his time of life, and with his affliction, it was ne.it
to impossible that he could familiarize himself with
strange places and strange people. Reflections like
these cost our hapless maiden many a sleepless night,
arid many a flood of tears.
Albert was frequently absent from the Parsonage,
ed in business in the city, as he affirmed; to the


THE VICTIM OP SEDUCTION.
11
regret of its inhabitants, who delighted in his company.
On these occasions, Adeline strove to attain indifference
and to forget him as her lover; but still his image
reigned triumphant in her breast; and, almost uncon-
scious of herself, she would proceed to the Parsonage,
and there talk of him, until his return banished all her
specious reasonings, and put all her half-formed resolvej
to flight.
Albert, that he might be as often as possible at the
Villa, without seeming intrusive to St. Everard, proposed
to paint on canvas, a whole-length portrait of the lovely
Adeline. This her father declined; alleging, as a reason,
that he should be insensible to the merit of the perform-
ance; and, consequently, unable to derive any pleasure
lrom it.—Yet, wishing to encourage the abilities of his
young friend, who expressed himself somewhat chagrined
at the refusal, St. Everard proposed that his own portrait
should be taken:—" It will serve, said the veteran,
"for a gift to my child, and as a memento of a father
who tenderly loved her, when that father reposes in the
silent tomb."
Adeline's gentle heart was touched: falling at his feet,
her eyes filled with tears, and her heart throbbing as if it
would burst, she clasped his knees, and exclaimed,—
"O my revered and only parent, far, far distant be that
hapless hour !—an hour, Heaven grant I may never live
to see, and ——"
"Hush! hush, Adeline!" said her father, interrupting
her: "it is reversing the kindly order of nature, to wither
the branch before the root is decayed: yet, alas! this is
not linfrequently the case. But God's will be done! and
to him we will leave these awful dispensations, and turn
to another subject."
The painting of the portrait was a friendly pretext
to the lovers; and deception was the first crime of St.
Everard's daughter, though, as yet, not materially trans-
gressing. Ease and security at length lessened the cau-
tion of the youthful pair; and it was not long before
some sentences, overheard by the old officer, joined to
several hints given him by an elderly maiden lady, in


14 THE VICTIM OP SEDUCTIOfr.
that the residence of Albert Mora was not known to the
Curate; but when he imparted his intentions, M. Solani,
eager to promote the felicity of two young persons,
whom he so much respected, and whom he considered as
formed in temper, disposition, and inclination, so suit-
able to each other, offered to go personally to the city,
and seek him out, adding, " I suppose there will be little
difficulty in finding an artist so clever as our young friend:
he must be very popular, and much resorted to by per-
sons of the most distinguished rank, or he would not be
able to live and appear in a style so far above medi-
ocrity."
This friendly offer was gratefully accepted; and the
next day M. Solani proceeded to the city, which was
not more than three leagues distant, to execute his
mission, to the great joy of his amiable spouse, who
anticipated much domestic delight in the union of Albert
and Adeline; and she overwhelmed her good man with
messages to the former, and then seizing her own babe
in hei arms, smothered her with kisses, and taught her
to hold up her hands and lisp a prayer for the happiness
of her godmother.
The kind matron, and every one concerned, had,
however, to experience an unlooked-for disappointment
to the fruition of their hopes, not in Albert's rejection of
Adeline's hand, but, what appeared even still stranger,
he was not to be found: none knew such a person, not
even the artists of his own profession, for M. Solani was
indefatigable in his inquiries, nor desisted whilst the
least prospect of success remained. And then, and not
till then, he returned home.
"Where is Albert," asked his wife, " that you are
come alone V and the curate's explanation gave rise to
many conjectures between the worthy pair. But in this,
as in most cases of the sort, they fell far distant from the
truth.
St. Evcrard was indeed hurt at the failure of his plan,
not on his own account, for unconnected with the
happiness of his darling, the union was not one consist-
ent with his ideas of propriety. He felt pleased that


THE VICTIM OP SEDUCTION. 15-
M. Solani's journey was unknown to Adeline; at least,
as to its object; and it was now resolved that it should
remain a secret, lest the uncertain fate and situation of
ber lover might add fresh poignancy to her grief, on-
wnich time might probably have a salutary effect. And,
that no fuel nAght be unadvisedly added to the flame, it
was agreed that a name so fatally interesting to her,
should be mentioned no more in her hearing.
A few months elapsed unmarked by any particular
event, except that St. Everard was at times rather mare
indisposed than usual; and that Adeline, if not really
happier, was calmer; she suppressed her grief, lest it
should excite the attention: of her father, and increase
his disorder, till at length she benefitted by the effort,
and actually became—what she appeared to be—more:
resigned to her wayward fate.
This apparent tranquillity was, however, only the pre- ,
lude of a more dreadful event: Adeline was missing on
a sudd'en. She had been to the Curate's, who escorted
her to within sight of the Villa; but she did not arrive
there. Night came, and her father felt uneasy at her
unusual stay; he felt a presentiment that he'should not
much longer enjoy that peace and serenity wliich had,
ever since his residence there, undisturbedly presided' in
the persons of his own family, and even extended- itself
to those who dwelt around.
He heard footsteps coming along the lawn. "Heie imm
comes the little chit," said he; "how I will scold her:
Can I scold her 1 oh no, not for chatting with M. Solani.
What a gossiping sex it is 1"—The door opened, " My
dearest Adeline," said he, "how unhappy has your stay
made me! what rendered you so negligent of my feel-
ings 1" But it was not his daughter that entered; it was
the Curate, accompanied by his wife, who, having heard
that Adeline was missing, came to tender their assistance
to the bereaved father.
St. Everard was little less than distracted; never did
he so severely feel the loss of his sight; a loss that pre- .
vented his seeking after his child. Even as it was, he
would have rushed out, and wandered he knew not

. f


THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION. 17
"Would to heaven," said St. Everard, " that my
servants had seized the messenger; yet they were not to
blame, for they knew not he bore intelligence concerning
our lost treasure, and the man, who, they tell me, was
on horseback, galloped off the instant he had delivered
the letter: no doubt such wore his previous instructions."
Then again reverting to the letter, he despondingly ex-
claimed—" Satisfaction, does she say?—Oh no! there
is no such thing as satisfaction to be gleaned from it.
It assures me, indeed, that Adeline lives; but is that hit
I ought to gather, to please me \—* i: I own I have
the worst of fears arising from this mystery,—a mystery
truly inexplicable; no prior events or circumstances call
for it, either in her late mother's family, or my own:
thus I can trace it to no source, except one—and that
it is madness to think upon—that her beauty has proved
fata/ to her. ftven had she consented to eiope with
Albert, there could be no reason for concealment after
marriage. Surely, one would think, they would, before
this, have endeavoured to be reconciled to me :—my
well-known love for Adeline would. have given them
courage."
Thus argued the blind veteran, but the Curate and
his wife could not avoid implicating the young artist in
their own minds, though certainly they felt surprised at
a conduct which appeared to them as inconsistent as it
was undu'iful. Still, they indulged a hope that all
would be well, and Adeline yet re-appear to bless her
father. But she came not, and St. Kverard became truly
pitiable. Grief soon bowed down his wasted form; and
even time served only to augment his load of sorrow.
Company became irksome to him; indeed, his house now
afforded no attractions to visitors; and, except w'hen
cheered by the occasional presence of M. Solani and his
•wife, his constant, soothing friends, he brooded in un-
cheered solitude.
It is now time to account for the mysterious and pain-
ful absence of our fair heroine, who was mnocent of any
previous design as to an elopement. She had, on that
evening, felt more than usually cheerful, and was hasten-
ing home to her fond father, eager to impart to him some
pleasing tidings she had heard concerning a young lady


18
THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
in whose welfare they were much interested, from some
very peculiar circumstances that introduced her to their
notice, unconnected with this history.
M. Solani had scarce bidden her good night, and re-
traced his steps a short distance, when Adeline was
surrounded by a number of men, who managed so dex-
terously as to prevent the slightest sound escaping from
her lips, and who, hurrying her down a lane, lifted her
into a carriage that was waiting; when the horses set
off full speed. A relay of horses waited for them on the
road, and the journey continued several hours. Refresh-
ments were provided in the carriage, which were frequently
offered to Adeline, and as frequently refused. Her com-
panions, however, who were not very nice in this respect,
ate and drank with good appetite, and seemed very merry
at the success of their plan; she listened to their dia
course, but could not gather any thing concerning her-
self, or who was the author of this outrage; and th6
idea of what her father was suffering from her loss, al
most drove her to despair.
At length they drove into the court-yard of an exten-
sive mansion, and Adeline ascended by a flight of marble
steps, into a stately hall, adorned by the finest statues
placed on lofty pillars; from this place she was conducted
by a middle-aged female to an upper suit of rooms, all
in the most costly style, as to furniture and decorations,
terminating in a bed-chamber, small in size, but most
, elegantly fitted up; a fire was burning, the tea-table
spread, and every thing ready for her reception. This
room, she was informed, was to be her's for awhile. An
attendant asked her if she would sleep in that room
alone, or if a young girl, whom she said was her own
daughter, should sleep on a mattrass near her. Adeline
most readily chose the latter, as most desirable undei
the present circumstances.
She wished to question the housekeeper, for as such
she had introduced herself; but received in return, an
excuse against giving any replies.
"As a mother," said Adeline, "you must feel an
interest for your daughter: consider for a moment, only,


THE VICTIM OP SEDUCTION.
19
what would be your sorrows, were she placed in my
situation:—pity me, pity my blind and aged father, and
give me freedom. The distance, I am aware, from our
long journey and rapid travelling, is great; but this will
not deter me: let me have liberty, and I am content to
beg my way back."
"We will talk of this to-morrew," returned the wo-
man, in a tone that not discourage hope. "It is now
near the second hou. -of the morning, and you stand in
need of repose. I also am tired with sitting up. Sleep,
and fear not; you are perfectly safe ; no harm is intended
you, or I would have no hand in the affair, you may be-
lieve me." "I trust I may," rejoined Adeline, "yet
freedom on any terms would be acceptable."
"It -is no use to talk of it now," replied Dorothea,
<( had I thp inclination to serve you at such an hour, I
could not find the means; and were you, my dearest
young lady, to take flight now, you would expose yonr
self to more perils than you »re aware of, and possibly
fall into the hands of ruffians or th« organized banditti
that often sets the whole principality in terror."
"Is your master a bandit, then?" asked Adeline,
,whom the very name inspired with terror and romantic
ideas.
"Heaven forbid!" replied the governante; " a robber!
an outlaw! No, lady; he is one of the best, bravest,
and most noble young men that ever graced his country;'
he has looked dull and pale enough in all conscience
lately; but he will be happier soon, he tells me. Well,
we shall see; and sincerely do I wish it."
"As much, perhaps, as I wish myself out of his
power," replied Adeline, "if to. him I am indebted for
this unseasonable journey and detention." The woman
retired, saying she would fetch Susette, but made no
reply to the observation of our involuntary traveller. She
soon returned, with a pretty-locking girl about fourteen,
and our heroine invited her to share her bed, and dis-
pensed with the offer of a mattrass for her companion,


20 THK VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
who rubbed her eyes as if just awoke out of a comfort-
able sleep.
Adeline now most carefully ascertained that there
were no concealed doors, and as there was no tapestry
or hangings to conceal them, she felt assured that the
interior bolts on the one that afforded entrance, insured
her safety; and, wearied out, she sought repose and
obtained it. The day was far advanced when she awoke,
rather languid and nervous; at first, she was confused;
but recollection soon visited her mind, and with it a
painful train of thought.
"Do you reside in this castle V said Adeline, as
Susette entered with the breakfast. "Yes, lady; 1 was
born in it, and ne*er knew another house; my father was
slain in battle, when I was yet an infant; but my mother
is still continued here by the Prince, who, soon aftet
her widowhood commenced, made her housekeeper here;
before that period she had only resided here out of fa-
vour to her husband, who was foster-brother to his roya)
master, though born of poor parents, who still survive
him, and are amply supported by the Prince."—" My
dear child, of what prince do you speak?" asked the
wondering Adeline.
"Of his Serene Higness. the reigning Prince, to be
sure, lady," replied Susette: " how strange you should
be here, and not know that this is the Palace of Orlen-
burgh I"
Mysteriously strange, indeed, thought Adeline; for
she had always heard the Prince spoken of as a man of
strict probity, and unblemished honour, and even rigid
in administering justice; so that he was both loved and
feared by his subjects, who flourished under his sway.
She had never seen the prince, nor did she suppose he
ever beheld her; it wis also improbable that a man of
his station and exemplary character would cause such an
act of outrage to be committed, especially on the person
of St. Everard's daughter; for St Kverard was an officer
for whom he had often expressed the highest regard and


22
THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
palace, and she resolved to make the trial before she was
deprived of the power, for his stay might be short. She
beheld him enter the hall, and summoning up her resolu-
tion, descended the flight of stairs leading to it; but
he was not there; and in vain she sought him; despair
gave her courage, and she enquired for Albert Mora.
He was not known there, and she was afraid she must
have been mistaken; yet it seemed to her impossible;
too well known were the face and form for her to be
so deceived; neither was she credulous enough to believe
that she had beheld a supernatural being, walking with
such a negligent air about the court-yard, conversing
with a servant. To the latter she would have wished to
have spoken, but it was impossible for her to select the
identical one from amongst such a numerous retinue,
and she returned to her chamber more discomposed and
overcome with grief and agitation than she had been fer
some days past, for a hope had presented itself and
vanished like a dream; her tears flowed fast, and re-
lieved her aching heart.
Not to tire our reader's patience with long details, ws
will at once acquaint him that Albert Mora, the artist,
and the Prince Augustus of Orlenburgh, were the same
individual, as he discovered the same evening to his still
• beloved and adored Adeline. He had three several times
beheld her, unknown to herself, and became enamoured
of her previous to his coming to board at M. Solani's, a
Stratagem prompted by love and founded on his skill in
oil-paintings, which had been one of his principal studies.
"You loved me for myself, dearest Adeline," continued
Lord Augustus, after this explanation; " there was no
interest there; I was and am proud of my conquest. I
urged a private marriage, conscious that no other step
could be taken, unless I submitted to have a bride of my
father's choosing, for national purposes, to ratify an
agreement, or strengthen a prior alliance; but the heart,
my dear Adeline, is not to be bought or sold I carried
you off, to make you mine; finding it impossible to live
without you, and convinced that your father, had I then
candidly declared who I was,- would, from the duty he
considers himself to owe to my father, as his sovereign,
have made a merit of withholding you from me, and thus
rendering us miserable. Be mine, beyond the power of


THE VICTIM OP SEDUCTION.
fate to part us, and then, believe me, dearest idol of my
soul, I will heap every additional comfort on his latter
days that duty can point out or affluence promote, to
make him amends for the gem of which I have deprived
him for a time; but I have been watchful over him, and
find he is well looked to by the kind Curate-and his wife,
but he shall soon have the most pleasing assurances of
your safety, from your own lips.
Augustus triumphed: Adeline could not withstand a
love so represented, and she felt highly flattered by it;
preparations were hastily and secretly made for their
nuptials, which took place on the third night of his
arrival, in the Castle Chapel. For a few weeks, the
youthful pair appeared very happy, and the bride was
led to believe that her father was freed from apprehen-
sions on her account, by partly knowing the truth; and
had blessed her union, though not apprised exactly that
it was the son of his Prince to whom she had given her
hand. Adeline repeatedly urged her wishes and his
promise, that she should visit her parent, till she became
almost tired of asking.
A new scene of mental affliction soon arose that
superseded every other, and rendered her wretched in-
deed. Augustus was unhappy, and in vain she intreated
him to repose his cares in her bosom, that by anticipation
they might be lightened; at length she told him she was
fearful he repented marrying her. He caught her in his
arms, and called on every saint to witness for him that
he most tenderly loved her, even beyond the love he felt
for his own existence. "That, my dear lord, I am ready
to believe; and most grateful is the thought; yet your
words answer not my question. You may love, yet
still repent wedding me," said Adeline.
His eyes swam with tears, though he could not be
said to weep, and his emotions were violent, and much
more so than the occasion seemed to call for, and a
confession of some importance seemed on the point of
bursting from his lips when he suddenly checked it,
muttered something in which only the words, " My
Father," was intelligible, and he paced the lawn with
hasty strides. After some time he became more calm, and


84 - THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
intreated her to dismiss all unpleasant thought* from her
mind, and rely on his protecting love. This, with all the
flexibility of youth and hope, she was capable of doing,
and attributed what had passed to some unpleasant alter-
cation between the Prince and her husband, who might
have been proposing somo lady to him, a circumstance
that, out of delicacy to her, Augustus might not chuse to
explain; and she did not think it becoming in her to
press him too closely as to any subject he might desire
to conceal; but frequent repetitions of such scenes, with
painfully augmented interest, preyed on her mind, and
proved very detrimental to her health; her slumbers
became perturbed and broken, till her nights were al-
most sleepless. It soon became apparent to her, that
Augustus was occupied by one constant theme, and he
frequently talked aloud, though buried in the arms of
the drowsy god; her own name, coupled with that of
Clara, frequently burst forth, accompanied by expressions
that led to the alarming idea, that his hand was another's
before it was given to her, and that Clara was the exist-
ing being, who held the prior claim.
To dwell on words uttered in his sleep, might appear
absurd; this consideration made her silent, but their
constant repetition could not be disregarded, and proved
a great drawback to her felicity.
Some few weeks after this, Augustus was absent for a
few days, having been selected to acccmpany the Pince
in a short tour. One day, during his absence, Ajeline
was informed that a lady wished to speak with hrr: she
ordered her to be instantly admitted, not without wonder
at the incident; as she had not been introduced to any
company whatever, since she became a wife.
The visitor was not so tall or fair as Adeline; but she
was well formed, and had a prepossessing countenance
and an elegant deportment; she had heard much, from
report, of Adeline, and resolved to see her; the secluded
manner in which she lived, caused the people in the
environs of the castle to suppose she was merely a mis-
tress, while the domestics had secretly whispered that
she was his bride; and whispers will spread. The lady,
who deserved a better fate, was soon convinced of the

3


THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
25

innocence and honour of Adeline, but she had a dreadful
truth to impart—she was Clara, the real wife of Augustus,
who had been married above four years to him; but early
disagreements had caused a partial, though not a legal
separation; and the Prince, who had been the instigator
of this unfortunate marriage, and who much respected
his daughter-in-law for the amiable qualities of her heart
and head, and the sincere love she bore Augustus, had
tried in vain to reconcile his son to her, but could not
accomplish this desirable act.
No cruel misplaced revilings burst from the lips of
the injured Clara, and the ladies wept in each other's
arms. Adeline resolved to part from Augustus without
delay, and they both generously agreed not to expose
Jjirn to the resentment of his father. Clara took f
choly leave, and left the fair subject of
overwhelmed in woe. She was, then, no i
victim of seduction; and the child she had
heart on, and so longed to have in her arms,
no legitimate claim either on the name or f
father: and what a blow would this be to her own! She
was on the point of quitting the Castle, when she consid-
ered it would be proper to wait the return of Augustus,
and tax him with her injuries; the tale might be the
- fiction of some crafty rival, to destroy her peace, and
tear her from her loved lord. Alas! poor deluded one I
Augustus was base indeed, and purchased thy ruin by
the worst of perjuries, aided by the mercenary Dorothea
and others of his principal domestics, in promoting the
sham marriage, for they were aware of his former
alliance.
The rage of Lord Augustus was excessive, when in-
formed of the interference of Clara; but he could not
deny his guilt; indeed it was useless, and nothing but
the secluded manner in which Adeline lived with her
father, could have prevented her hearing of his marriage
to, and separation from that .lady; for both topics had
made much food for remark and conversation. He attri-
buted all he had done to ardent love, and on his knees
entreated Adeline to remain, and consider him as her
husband; but she flew from him the first opportunity


26 THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
that presented itself, and hastened to her father, who
she found was entirely ignorant of all that had happened
to her during her absence, except what he gleaned from
one letter, announcing her existence, and making pro-
mises never performed.
Adeline related to the agonized warrior the miseries
that had befallen her, but she persisted in concealing the
names and titles, both of father and son, to the great
indignation of her parent; but threats or intreaties were
alike in vain, for on this point she was as firm as
adamant.
Augustus, unable to live without her, soon traced
Adeline to her father's: he followed, in the hopes ot
prevailing on her to return with him, confiding in her
well-known love, and the interest she must feel for the
fate of her unborn babe. He was vowing to the trem-
bling victim his intention never to reside more under the
same roof with Clara, when he was overheard by St.
Everard, who entered the room precipitately, with a
brace of loaded pistols. "Villain!" said he, " take one
this instant, and let death or revenge be mine." The
young nobleman would fain have excused himself from
so dreadful an alternative as a duel with an aged man
totally blind; but the injured father would not be put off,
and Augustus reluctantly took one of the weapons in his
hand. A regular distance was measured and the in-
tended combatants placed opposite each other: they
drew lots for the first fire; anH Colbert, an old soldier,
and now a servant of St. Everard, declared the chance
to be in favour of his master. "That is as it should
be," exclaimed Augustus. A signal was given, and the
officer fired, slightly wounding his antagonist in the
neck. "Now, my lord," said he, "the next chance is
your own." Augustus, however, who possibly thought
he had done mischief enough in the family, would not
take the advantage given him, but firing his pistol in an
opposite direction, rushed from the house.
Adeline had been apprised of a circumstance, of which •
Augustus was ignorant, that the Prince, his father, was
come to pass a few days at the house of a nobleman in
the neighbourhood, partly on business, and partly on plea-


THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
27
sure. Hither she had proceeded when her parent rushed
into the room; and casting herself at the feet of her
sovereign, intreated his protection for her aged father;
but her manner was so wild and incoherent, that the
Prince, gazed on her as a beauteous maniac, and com
manded his servants to take charge of her, and guide
her carefully home. Her pregnant state gave rise both
to pity and curiosity; the particulars had not transpired,
but it was reared sh .ad been the victim of seduction.
"What a wretch must he be," observed the Prince,
"h6 could wilfully wrong such innocence, and pay no
respect to the venerable, blind St. Everard I it appeared
to me that it was for him she pleaded; and, should he
ever want any aid in my power to bestow, it will not be
asked in vain; his worth and past services alike demand
protection and reward."
Adeline, maddened at the scene from which she had
flown, and fearing that the life of one or other Was by
this time lost, extricated herself from her attendants,
and plunged into the Canal that meandered by the side
of her father's grounds. Her lover perceived her, and
would have flown to share her fate, but was forcibly re-
strained by the domestics, while she was rescued from a
watery grave. The conflict was, however, too much:
she thought of her Augustus as the husband of another—
the injured, amiable Clara—and as the author of her
own misery: yet she could not tear his image from her
heart Her poor father, wounded in his honour, through
her disobedience, added -bitterness to the pangs she felt.
Life was, indeed, wretched on such terms: she felt,
however, the conflict would be soon over; premature
labour had seized her; she felt as one dying; and fer-
vently did she pray for dissolution to release her, and
spread the gloomy veil of death over her involuntary
shame; but she bitterly reflected on herself for the first
encouragement she had given the concealed Artist; the
confession made to him, that he was the master of her
heart, "That," she exclaimed, "that paved the way to
my ruin."
"Ruin can never touch my Adeline," said Augustus,
approaching to support her trembling frame. "Live


, 88 THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
for my sake,—for your father's sake :—trust to the work-
ings of Providence in our favour, and happiness may yet
be ours in its most complete form." Adeline suddenly-
beheld the stains on his sleeves and hand—" Murderer!
unhand me! exclaimed she, with a piercing shriek; " my
father's blood is on you.''—" No, my dearest lave; I
have not added murder to injustice: think better of your
Augustus: these keen sensations destroy you. Allow
me to lead to yoi; espectable and brave father, and
we part till times aie more auspicious. Clara, thougii
the author of your sufferings, has generosity and' good
nature; possibly I may prevail on her to liberate me from
chains which she knows arc galling to me; and then I
will devote the remainder of my days to love, virtue,
and Adeline."
"Never!" she faintly exclaimed: "my life's sand runs
fast, and it is a desirable finale to my woes: reconcile
yourself to the amiable Clara, her to whom your vows
belong, and forget the Victim of your Seduction."
"Cruel, too cruel Adeline," said Augustus; "yet vfur
reproach is justly merited." He could utter no more;—
these words brought them to the presence of St. Everard.
He heard her sigh. She threw herself into his arms,
exclaiming in faint accents, "Receive, oh my father, thy
penitent, wandering child." He felt her drenched gar-
ments, and in an eager agony inquired the cause. When
informed of the intended suicide, he shuddered so vio-
lently with horror, that he could scarce support her.
"Oh! my Adeline, curb those strong feelings," said the
venerable man, "that led you to meditate such a deadly
crime."
"Pardon, pardon," feebly exclaimed Adeline: "adieu,
my beloved parent;—Augustus, farewell; surely it is n&
deep trangression, to say one parting sentence when on
the yerge of eternity. Father—husband—ah! no—
Augustus—" and faltering out the latter words wttL
difficulty, she expired with scarce a sigh; and, we trust,
her spirit took its flight to happier realms.

Thus fell the Victim of Seduction, and it was evident,


THE VICTIM OP SEDUCTION.
20
when the father became sensible of his irreparable loss,
that he wanted that calm resignation he had recommended
to his Adeline, for his grief bordered on frenzy as he
clasped the lifeless corpse, which with difficulty he was
persuaded to resign to the care of her female attendants.
Augustus at this instant seized a last embrace, for he
did not presume to touch her while shielded in the arms
of her venerable father,—an awful feeling restraining
him,—and he was then forced from the spot by the
remonstrances of M. Solani, who led him to his house
till he should become more calm, and capable of 'leaving
a spot which he had clouded-with misery, and where his
presence- would ever be most unwelcome.
St. Everard, on hearing that the Prince was at a
neighbouring Count's was conducted thither, and the
announcing of his name gained an instant admittance to
the royal personage. On his knees he demanded justice,
and told the story of his wrongs as connected with
Adeline, and her death in consequence of such injuries.
This latter event, from its suddenness, much shocked
his serene highness, and he inquired the name of the
author mf this fatal seduction. St. Everard knew it not,
but as Albert Mora; yet his daughter had confessed him
to be • man of rank, and he was now at the Curate's.
"Severe shall be his punishment," exclaimed the Prince,
*' he is a disgrace to the earth which sustains him. Let
my guards be sent to arrest and convey him hither."
Augustus, on hearing of his exposure and his father's
unexpected mandate, would have laid violent hands on
himself, but for the precautions of M. Solani, who anti-
cipated such an attempt
i
What a meeting between father and son'. What a
surprise to St. Everard'.—The seducer was banished by
the Prince for three years, unless he consented to live
with Clara; but he chose the former alternative. Remorse
preyed on his vitals, and he lived not to return; though
in conformance with his dying request, he was interred
in the same tomb where the remains of Adeline weie
deposited,—a point which was conceded to with difficulty


so
THE VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.
by her father, and obtained by the representations of
Clara, that enmity should, if not appeased before, be
at last sacrificed at the grave of those who have in-
jured us.
This amiable lady hastened to St. Everard on thei
decease of his daughter; and, as far as possible, sup-
plied her place till death released her, when she turned
her attentions to the declining Prince; thus rendering
her life valuable and interesting to both these childless
suflererA.


M A R Y,
THE
Bv.the side of a well-frequented road, in the north of
England, stood the sign of the Wheat-sheaf; it hung, ban-
ner-like, before the front of an inn of good repute, and
kept, as abeam expressed it, 'By John Simpson.' This
John Simpson, a Falstaff in outward appearance, (for to
the fulness and redness of his countenance was added a
paunch of excessive magnitude, and calves and thighs pro-
portionably bulky,)—this John Simpson had, from the day
on which he was married, carried on business in the inn-
keeping line, with a reputation for honesty, civility, and
(barring now and then sobriety.) with every good quality
that could make a man of his occupation respected. A
wife he had, and a thrifty one too; some said she was
cleanly, some even that she was civil, but I could never
learn that her kindness was displayed to any but the
wealthy, or those whom it was her interest to oblige; on
the contrary, from morning till eve was she in a state of
irritation; and John her husband, and Harry the waiter,
and the ostler, and the chambermaids, and all her house-
hold, were unceasingly the victims of her caprice. But
the'flower of this household, whose attractions were so
potent as to draw in the neighbouring swains, to the pre-
judice of an inn adjacent, was a daughter, named Mary,
the only child of this worthy couple.
In height she was rather tall than short; plump, but not
stout; and her dress, silways arranged'with the utmost
neatness, was of that make and quality peculiarly adapted
to her form. Her bright line eyes expressed benignity;


• MARY, THE MAID' OF THE IK!». 9
Simpson ; what is it that makes me so active, but my being
so spare?' and uttering these words, she drew up her
figure, which exposed a form every hit as fat as her hus-
bands. But here a loud crash heard from a room above,
put an end to this conference, and directed the eloquence
of Mrs. Simpson into another channel.
'There's a smash!' she exclaimed, 'there's a smash!
and, as sure as salvation, 'tis my hidy flower-pot. Moll I
you hussy ; what is it you have broken now?' (roaring as
loud as she could stretch her voice ) 'O mother,' re-
plied her daughter, 'indeed it was an accident—indeed
»t was.'
'Slut f cried her mother, 'is it the flower-pot V
* 'Twas unintentional—indeed it was.'
* Is that answering my question, hussy ?—is it the
flower-pot?'
* Alack! mother, it is indeed.'
* It is, is it? You hear this, Mr. Simpson! you can
hear all this, and yet be unmoved ;—and that's my iligent,
Indy jar too, as was made me a present by the captain
but I'll be about her negligence,—slut! I'll be about her
negligence.' Thus saying, she shuffled out of the room,
swearing at every step; and shortly afterwards, Mary
was lie«rd exclaiming,—' Oh, mother! for goodness sake,
don't pull my hair so !—oh, you'll tear it off my head!'
and shortly afterwards, she came running into the room
where her father sat, and flew to him for protection.
Mrs. Simpson followed, her eyes sparkjirig rage, and her
cheeks glowing like coals.
* Aye, run to your father" she cried, ' I'll drag you
back again, hussy. Mr. Simpson, you encoorage her
to spite me, you do, you villain! if you bad your own
way, you'd make her the mistress of the house; but that
can't be ;—no, thank God, I've too much spirit for that!'
and as she uttered these words, she made a sly blow at
her daughter, which the daughter warded off. You'd


MART, THE MAID OF THE INN. 11
* Oh,—no, no,—merely, I have a head-ache, and that
makes me low.'
After a little more discourse of the like nature the host
brought in his beverage, and set it before him; soon af
ter which, in came Mrs. Simpson.
* So 'tis you, Mr. Richard, is it?' cried our hostess:
* and you've come, if I guess aright, to leer after mjr
daughter; but I'd have you to know, Mr. Richard, -'
(Oh! he's got summut to drink, thought she,) and so
'twas.—And ' Mr. Richard, you're looking the very pic-
tare of health this cold, cloudy day :—and what d'ye
Vhink of the weather, man? won't it rain before night?—
About four o'clock this morning, I looked out of my win-
dow, and the storm was a driving at such a rate.—I think
we shall have it very boisterous, by and by.'
* So I hope,' muttered a voice.—
* Who was that spoke?' asked all but Richard.—The
young man stared, it was he who had spoken, though the
words had slipped from him unawares.
The clock now sounded two, upon which he started up,
and desiring to be trusted for what he had drank, departed.
No sooner was his back turned, ere the landlady ex-
claimed, ' There he goes, and a bag of unmanly bones it
is too; and to have the impudence to come courting my
daughter, just a veil to run up a score; but if I sets any
thing down for him again, even to the value of a sixpence,
I'll be d d!'—smacking her hands, and going up to a
bellows on which she began chalking—' And for that glass
of brandy and water, in lieu of a shilling, which I charge
other folks, I'll make him pay me eighteen-pence, a
varlet.'
Mrs. Simpson's predictions fell out to a letter Two
hours had scarcely elapsed ere the clouds burst, the windf
began to rise, and the country, as seen from the windows
adjacent, seemed wrapped in a gloomy gray, whilst sheets
of rain swept before it every object.


12 MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.
The tempest continued with unabated fury till the night
closed in ; and our hostess, on whose fiery temper a storm
had ever a very quenching effect, sat doleful by the fire-
side, talking over troubles with her husband.
It was now, as the clock struck eight, that a tall, thin
man, shrouded up in a cloak, tapped at the door of a cot-
tage, which stood on a barren heath; on entering he
looked about, and perceived, seated at table, with a small
piece of candle and a bible before him, a young man of
rather an agreeable aspect; whom, however, he addressed
with ' Dick !—what's this 1 see ?—reading, and a bible.—
Wheugh? you're crazy !—what do you do with a bible?'
'Faith, Tom!' replied the other, ' I begin not to like
our project; and as I am willing to encourage such a (lis*
position, 1 e'en borrowed mother's bible, and have been
reading ever since.'
'Lend it to me,—I'll throw it into the fire.—Up, man,
up !—Where are the pistols ?—Is the dagger sharpened V
• I tell you, Tom,' replied the other, ' I repent; let
us give over our design.'
'Wheugh !—you a man, and waver ?—Have you not
sworn—sworn by the firmest of friendship? and besides,
—remember, my dear fellow, the cash—Dick! the cash!
"Oh what a magic in wealth," as says the song; and
then we'll off to , and no one shall hear any thing
of us afterwards; and we'll keep an inn with the money,
far, far from this spot, and pass away the rest of our life
in plenty.'
'But then'
'Now, none of your but thens; jump up, there's a
good man, and fetch me down the pistols.—Hark! isn't
that a horseman ?—yes—he's going on though; and now
let's lose no time, but despatch—*


MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. 13
* I tell you once more—;' cried the other, but in a
tone more wavering.—' And I tell you once more,' re-
turned the first, 'that we've no time to throw away ; and
unless you desire to remain pennyless, go up stairs, and
fetch down the pistols.'
* But—' cried Richard.
4 I will not hear you speak!' exclaimed the other.
• Let this put an end to the contest: if you do not choose te
s'ind to your oath, as sworn on the point of a drawn
d»sg»ev, I will pursue you for the debt you owe me; and
if it be not paid me by the day specified—curse me—you
go to jail.' Thus urged, (more from the threats of his
companion than his own free will,) he sped up the stair-
case, and in a few moments brought down a brace of
pistols, with powder and ball sufficient for five charges.
* Come, this is well!' exclaimed his companion, * in
half an hour Jones passes by; and if we don't rob him of
every shilling lie's been gathering from his tenants—that's
•11—never say my name's Nicholls.'
With this intent, they left the cottage, bent their course
towards the highway; and, after waiting with some pa-
tience for upwards of half an hour, the squire whom they
designed robbing, rode by. .
Mounted on a well-conditioned pony, the squire little
dreaming that any danger was nigh, trotted on in full
mirth ; for having dined with a member of the chase, and
the bottle having been pretty freely pushed about, the
good gentleman's head was more strongly fortified with
courage than usual.
Two men had no sooner appeared before him, stopped
his horse, and presenting a pistol, each demanding his
money, than with a few good round English oaths, he
thundered out, 'Wounds! do the men think I've got the
Bank of England about me ?—Devil a shilling have I got,
except half a guinea, which, if you particularly want, is at
your service.'


14
MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.
'Come, come, squire!' cried the most resolute of the
two, 'we wish to use no violence j but if the two hun-
dred pounds you've been gathering from your tenants, be
not immediately laid at our feet—you know what—each
of these pistols holds a slug.'
'What!' cried the squire, 'and I lose a good half of a
whole quarter's rental ?—Noa—oil be domtned if I do!'
'Sirrah!' cried the first robber, 'sirrah! mind what
you utter!' at the same time nearing the pistol towards
his throat. The squire became enraged, seized hold of
the barrel, and in endeavouring to wrest it from the rob-
ber's hand, the trigger was by some means pushed back-
wards, and the bullet speeding down through his bones,
entered the very centre of his heart, and killed him.
Tom and his companion despoiled him without loss of
time, and then being perplexed about the disposal of the
body, agreed to dig a large hole in the abbey-aisle, and
bury it. Accordingly, driving the horse before them,
they proceeded towards the wood, which encompassed
the abbey; and one of them hieing to an hovel adjacent,
procured a set of tools, and returned to his associate.
In the meanwhile, two weary weather-drenched tra-
vellers, whose large embroidered military great coats
bespoke their profession, stopped at the Wheat-sheaf
inn; and' alighting from their horses, was shown by old
Simpson into a neat room, where there was a good Blaz-
ing fire, and a table ready for supper.
A large beef-steak was soon served up, and a jug of
ale being added, our visiters soon made a hearty meal;
and having still to ride some distance further, ordered a
bowl of punch, resolving to arm themselves against the
rigours of that severe evening.
Whilst they were making themselves merry over tbii
beverage, one of them seizing hold of Mary's hand, in-


MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN. tb
listed on her seating herself down and becoming one of the
party. To this she very properly objected ; but the mo-
ther being at the bar, the window of which looked into
this room, and having some undefined notion of good ac-
cruing to her daughter (for the old dame loved her child
in the main, though accustomed to give her harsh treat-
ment,) good Mrs. Simpson insisted on her doing what the
gentleman told her. Mary, therefore, with as good a
grace as she could summon, sat down to table; and the
gentleman filling out her glass, exhorted her to join in
their merriment.
And first, one of them Tjegan with, ' Well, my sweet
wench! curse me, but you're dev'lish handsome 1 how
old may you be?'
* Oh! Sir,' she cried, 'women never tell their own
ages.'
'And that's true enough!' roared her mother, 'but
other people may do it for them.—Now, I'll tell you,
gentlemen, (leaning her elbows over the bar window,)
that strapping wench,—who would have thought it? but a
few years ago, she was the littlest bit of a wee-wee thing
that ever you set eyes on ; well, that girl first saw the
light eighteen years agone, come next Michaelmas day;
because as a token, we had roast goose for dinner, and a
fine one it was too ;—and the squire came in for his quar-
ter's rent, and he must needs sit down ;—and so the joke
was, which was the biggest, my daughter Mary, or the
goose; and the squire was for having her laid in a dish
garnished with ould clouts, and so placed upon the table;
and rare fun we had on it too, I promise you.—'
'And lest you should talk yourself dry, good Mrs.
Simpson,' cried one of the strangers, ' be so good as to
empty this glass of punch.'
'With all my heart, Sirs ;' replied the lady, ' and much
do 1 think myself honoured.—Well, but 1 was going to
gay, yvu never saw, from her earliest years, what a spirit
this Mary ws>s ; so different to other folk's children.—She
never minded staying by herself in the dark; and would
go into the surgeon's shop, where there was i real live


16 MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.
skeleton, and never a bit afeard,—whilst, as for me, I never
could pass by the place, but what, sirs, my body felt all
over just as though it were a cold jelly.—'Tis true, in-
deed ;—and then there—she'll walk you round the abbey
of a moon-light night, when the sprites and the goblins
are bobbing about, some in white sheets, and others trail-
ing a long black coffin behind 'em, for all the world like a
snail does his shell; and which my husband has often seen,
and divers other sponsible people in this village ; and yet,
devil a bit does she care ;—she'll wander about for an
hour together, and then she'll come home with a handful
of wild flowers, which I'll be afraid to smell, for fear of
some little ghostly hid in the cup, which, when I bring it
near my nose, may bob up my nostril.'
'And does she mind so littre walking near the abbey,'
cried one of the strangers, ' concerning which spot 1 have
heard such strange relations?'
'Marry, Sir!—just try the wench,' cried her mother.
* Bid her go gather a flower or two, and then bring them
hack; I'll be bound, you wont find her afeard.''
'What say you my pretty lass;' says one of the gen-
tlemen, ' will you convince us now, you have this spirit?'
* Will she?' cried her mother, • she shall, if you wish
it; it isn't as she wills, it's as I choose to order her.—
Come, Mary, get yourself ready ;—go, and get your bon-
net, and you may have my ould hood, if you like it; and
if you think you shall get your feet wet, you may have
my pattens also.'
Though Mary's temper was of that firm nature, that she
seldom cared where she went, yet, urged on against her
iucfNation, and in a night so boisterous, she felt some re-
lucUtice at obeying her mother's order; but then remem-
bering it would take her but a few minutes, for the abbey
was not far off, she was somewhat relieved, and therefore
prepared to set out with expedition.
* Now,' says one of the strangers, ' there's an old yew
tree grows near the abbey, and as there's not a tree of
the like nature in the whole neighbourhood, if you bring


MAKT, THE MAID OF THE IKK.
17
me a twig thereof, I shall he convinced yon have paid the
place a visit; and that you may not go unprovided with
a little artificial courage, come here, my girl, I'll fill you
out a tumbler.' She however declined; but their kind-
ness being of a nature rather boisterous, they made her
drink near half the glass by the dint of force, and then ex-
horting her to keep up her courage, suffered her to depart.
The storm had now ceased ; the clouds were beginning
to break above; and a part of the moon becoming appar-
ent, shed a pale silver light o'er the country round about.
Lightly stepped Mary over field, over stile, and coming
to a wide spreading brook which was crossed by a narrow
plank, passed over it.
She now entered the wood, the leaves rustled as she
brushed along; all was a deadly silence; and a branch
catching her hood and bonnet, took them completely off,
and, for the time, somewhat alarmed her. Still there was
a deadliness about the place, especially as she approached
near the abbey, which she had not at any other time ob-
served ;—was it her fancy, or were her feelings ominous t
—she knew not, and little feared, for her heart was vir-
tuous, and her conscience upbraided her with nought.
At length she caught a view of the abbey, it was an old
ruined building, and reared up its mouldering walls amidst
bushes of ivy.
Thank God! thought she, my purpose is almost accom-
plished; I already see the yew tree, and it is but a few
steps more, and—hark !—hah !—was that a voice? Good
heavens! I hear it again !—sinking—sinking—sinking:—
now 'tis a whisper :—hush—hush.—Was it my fancy t
No! no, it seemed to proceed from the abbey.—There,
again !—hark!
She leaned her ear attentively, and in a state of the
greatest trepidation, approached with a light foot. S*ill
she heard this strange whispering, and stopping short, her
breath became so frequent, and her fears gathered se
fast, that she could hardly manage to stand.


II
HARY, THE MAID OP THE TNtT.
If, (thought she,) there really should be sprites, and it
they should assemble in this lone abbey to perform their
nocturnal revels—and yet, I know not "how to believe
it.—Hah !—there, again! Oh, heaven! I almost sink to
hear it. What, if I make a desperate push; the tree is
hardly five steps from me, and if 1 can but once seize a
branch—
Without debating any further, she rushed forwards, and
had just seized hold of a branch, when the head of a man
thrust itself out of a window of the abbey, and after re-
maining for a moment or two again disappeared.
Her first feelings, on seeing the head, were those of
fear; and so far did these overcome her, that she sank to
the earth, and would have uttered a shriek, had she pos-
sessed breath euough remaining.
On becoming however somewhat recovered, she thought
to herself, surely that head was human; and if there be
men in that abbey, I am sure they are there for no good
purpose. 4
Assuming a little courage, she crept nearer and nearer
the abbey, until she reached the window, and then raising
her head suddenly, and looking within, she saw two men
on the point of taking up a dead body, and laying it,
dressed as it was, in a grave. She gave an involuntary
shriek, with an 'Oh, my God!' which so alarmed the
guilty fears of the murderers, that they let go the body,
and taking to their heels, ran out of the abbey, and dis-
appeared. But she observed that, in the hurry, one left
his hat behind him; and being determined to bring this
mystery to light, she walked carefully into the abbey,
seized up the covering, and leaving the spot, departed
towards home with as much speed as she could summon.
She entered the parlour; the strangers still sat by the
fire, and her mother and father were giving them a rela-
tion of one of Mary's early deeds. 'But, here she is t'
cried her father; ' Well, Mary, my love, what luck? how
did you fare with the ghostis, and where's the branch?'


MARY, THE MAID OF THE IHJf. 19
* What, my brave girl,' cried one of the strangew, .
* how now: are you ill V
• Lord, Lord! as sure as I've a head on my shoulders,
cried her mother, 'she's seen a sprite.—Why, Mary—
What's the girl staring at ? and who in the name of——
Lord, she's got a hat! What's been the matter, Mary?
Come, my girl, out with it.'
'' Mother!' she exclaimed, 'Father! Mother! Sirs!
Sirs 1—there's been murder committed.—Murder in the
abbey, and the dead body lies there still.' She then in a
broken manner, delivered an account of her adventure;
and concluded, by adding, 'I observed a man's hat upon
the ground, and knowing it to belong to one of the mur-
derers, I brought it home with me.'
'Who entered the room then V cried the landlady,
turning round suddenly.
t Oh, 'tis me!' cried a voice, ' Richard Jarvis; I'm
only come to see how Mary does.'
'Oh, Richard!' cried Mary, * I have met with such a
strange adventure.—But here, come here; you shall see
a murder brought to light,—for here, I have his hat, and
his name is—(she looked into the hat, and all pressed
anxiously round,) bring that candle nearer,' she continu-
ed, • and his name is—Richard Jarvis. Gracious God!
support me! Richard Jarvis!' She fell fainting to the
earth, whilst Richard Jarvis, whose first attempt was to
fly out of the room, was secured by the two strangers;
and the landlord procuring a rope from the bar, the un-
fortunate culprit desisted from all opposition, and submit-
ted himself to be bound.
Suffice it to say, that in less than two months the as-
sizes came on; when Richard Jarvis being put upon his
trial, the only witness that appeared against him was Mary.
Her evidence however, though conclusive, was delivered
in a manner, which fully showed how painful were the
struggles that her mind was enduring. Her love of truth
and dread of perjury, contested with a wish to save her
lover's life, in the endangering of wHch she considered


gO MARY, THE MAID OF THE nSIT.
herself the sole and wanton instrument. When, however,
■he kissed the book, such a feeling of awe thrilled through
her mind, with such a conviction that it was her bounden
duty to speak the truth, and nothing but the truth, that,
subduing the weakness of her nature, by endeavouring to
banish all endearing scenes from her memory, and suffer-
ing no suggestions to arise but those of duty and religion,
she at length gave such convincing answers, that her lover
was condemned to die, and his execution was fixed for that
day three weeks. There was, however, one clause to this
sentence, that if he chose to turn king's evidence, and give
up the name of his companion, his punishment would be
remitted. But from an inherent principle, which some
may call honour, this he refused to do, and rather seemed
to look towards death as a release, and prepared himself
for it with all due piety and resignation.
During his confinement, Mary, by some means con-
trived to procure an interview with him ; a scene, excru-
ciating to the feelings of both, ensued.—On her entrance,
he seemed disposed to treat her with contempt; he had
lieen in hopes that she would have forsworn herself; but
finding that her evidence had condemned him to the gal-
lows, he had for some time past considered her in his own
mind as no better than his murderer.—But his scorn and
indifference soon gave place to something like affection,
when he beheld her weeping at his feet, and in the agony
of despair, heard her protest, that she would not outlive
him a single hour. . .
At length that fatal day, when the law decreed that he
should die, arrived. The morn was cloudy ; the sun ap-
peared not; and the busy hum of the multitude, proceed-
ing towards the destined spot, was heard at an early hour
—and heard too by Jarvis.
At eight o'clock, the culprit was taken from his cell;
and being placed in a cart, was drawn to the field of ex-
ecution, amidst thousands of spectators. His conduct was
exemplary; he paid great attention to the clergyman, and
died in full faith.
But. during this, where was Mary? in vain she wa«
searched for at home ? and her father and mother, appre


MART. THE MAID OF THE INN.
21
hensive of her despair, were fearful that she had put some
violent end to her misery. Such, however, was not the
c?se ; she had been watched by a neighbour, and observed
in the midst of the throng.
She walked on, with an eye fixed on her lover, a steady
step, and an air of desperate resolution painted in her
countenance. She uttered not a syllable during the time
of his preparation; but no sooner did she see him hang-
ing in the air, than she ran to the executioner, ' Wretch!'
she exclaimed, ' hang me up too. I have been the cause
of his death, and it is but meet that I should die!' These
were her very words, as taken down by a bye-stander;
but what afterwards occured between her and the officer,
I have not been enabled to learn. It is certain', however,
that her brain was shortly after turned; for she laughed,
cried, and shrieked, alternately, beat her bosom in a cruel
manner, and even danced exultingly round the gallows J
uttering, at the same time, the most incoherent expres
nous.
On her return home, she raved about in so violent a
manner, that her parents found it needful to secure her
with ropes; but in a few days this restraint became unne-
cessary, for her madness had fixed itself into an harmless
sort of melancholy. It was, however, remarked that the
custom of the house dropped ofi' very fast; whether it was,
that Mary's charms had faded,—.that she was no longer
that attractive object which we have formerly witnessed,
or that people in general did not like to sit where a mad
woman waited ; certain it is, that another inn in the neigh-
bourhood, from being very scantily attended, had now ■
superfluity of business, and rose by the other's fall. This
sudden reverse had such an effect upon Simpson's mind,
that it threw him into an illness, which cost him his life;
and his widow, finding business growing worse and worse,
contracted debts which she was not enabled to answer;
and at length had the mortification to see her goods ex-
posed for public sale. The produce, however, falling
short of the sum she owed, her inexorable creditors threw
her into prison . where, having lingered in the greatest
misery for several months, she was at length seized with
the jail distemper, and removed from this life.
C 3


22 MAR*, THE MAID OF THE tSIT
Meanwhile, her daughter, poor mad Mary, wandered
up and down the village, subsisting on the charity of the
well-disposed, though seldom without being accompanied
by children at her heels; among whom she went by the
title of Crazy Moll.
In a few months, however, she left these haunts for others
of a wilder and more congenial nature. She was now in
general seen among woods, or seated under the shade of
a hedge or hay-rick, and very frequently sheltering her-
self for the night, in the barn of a farm-house. But in the
summer months, her principle haunt was a common, where
rushes grew in great abundance ; these she used to gather,
and plait into dinner mats; by which species of industry,
she would sometimes earn a few shillings. But her habits
were now quite depraved; what money she procured, was
all spent in drams, which she would drink to excess, and
was frequently found in a state of stupor, which, but for
the timeiy assistance of ths person who discovered her,
would have ended in eternal sleep.
But what an object was she become! instead of those
fair blue eyes, which beamed benevolence, two dim, with-
ered balls, almost sunken into her head, glared frightful
and vacant on the passenger. Her forehead, once so
smooth and fair, was now covered with wrinkles; her
cheeks were thin, hollow, and discoloured; and her neck
and bosom scarred and sun burnt; and her whole body in
such a wasted condition, that the bones seemed ready to
start through the skin. In lieu of that neat and comfort-
able dress which we have formerly described, she was
now barely covered; a few dun-coloured, thread-bare
rags, hung about her person, and barely served the ends
of decency, much more those of warmth!
One cold wintry morning, about eight o'clock, when the
ground was covered with snow, a woodman, walking to-
wards his work over a field belonging to one Farmer Ba-
ker, saw the body of a female sticking up to the waist in
snow, and on approaching near to examine, found it to be
poor Mary. She was quite dead, cold, stiff, and unsightly;
her eye-balls glared frightful; and the under jaw having
dropped, her mouth was filled full of drifted snow, and


THE BLIND GIRL.
26
love, which the enthusiastic Durmance mistook fo» pity.
He took out his tablets, and wrote a few lines, which he
put into the hands of the boy, who fortunately could read,
and repeated them aloud to bis sister. Thus was an in-
telligence established between them, and be learnt with
extreme regret, that Herminia had not only received a
painful contusion, but had in falling sprained her ancle so
severely; that it was impossible for her to walk home.
Durmance immediately, in writing, requested the little
Leon to conduct him to the place of their dwelling, and
asain receiving the lovely Herminia in his arms, to which
her modest diffidence at first objected, conveyed her to
her home.
The door of the neat little mansion to which Leon had
led him, was opened by an elderly servant, who no sooner
saw Herminia in that situation, than she hurried away to
call her mistress. Durmance deposited his precious bur-
then in a large easy chair, which he had no sooner done,
than the grateful Leon threw his arms round his neck, and
with innocent smiles expressed his thanks. Durmance
tenderly returned his caresses, and instantly withdrew.
Every thing in the humble dwelling evinced poverty
combined with content and neatness; yet Durmance was
not sorry to find it so, and as he bent his steps towards his
own stately mansion, his heart overflowed with feelings of
benevolence. 'She is poor—she is unfortunate,' thought
he; 'the first evil I have the power to alleviate, the lat-
ter would render my misfortune less objectionable to her.
But how can we explain our sentiments to each other?
even should our feelings be in unison, it would be difficult
to establish a communication between two such unfortu-
nate beings. Yet, who knows, some means may be found;
at least it is worth attempting.'
The next morning Durmance hastened into his garden,
and busied himself in culling the choicest fruits and flow-
ers, which he carefully deposited in a basket, and sent it
as a present to the fair Herminia, with a billet expressive
of his tender sympathy, and anxious wish to be considered
her friend. This delicate present was received with the
most lively pleasure by Herminia; who, already interested


26
THE' BLIND GIRL.
by the kindness of Durmance, and the animated description
given of him by the artless Leon, was 'no less affected
by the knowledge of his misfortunes, than he was at her's.
Herminia had been afflicted with blindness for three
years : a cataract had been formed in her eyes, which, for
want of the means of obtaining proper advice, had occa-
sioned total blindness. Owing to this misfortune, her ed-
ucation had been neglected, and having lost her parents in
her infancy, and left to the care of a superannuated grand-
mother, she had been unable to use any exertion for a
maintenance; consequently, their small stock of worldly
wealth gradually'decreased, and they were reduced to a
state of extreme indigence at the period when chance first
introduced Herminia and Durmance to each other.
Anxious to obtain further knowledge of the fair cottager,
Durmance repaired to her residence immediately after
dinner. Herminia was amusing her aged grand-mother
with a song, which she had learnt in her childhood, and
accompanied it with a few wild notes on a harpsichord,
arranged by ear, for she had never received instruction;
yet her taste was so good, and sense- of hearing so exqui-
site, that she cauld-readily compose the harmony of any
little baHad. On asudden she stopped; she had heard a
footstep approaching—the latch was lifted up, and a per-
fume of amber filled the little apartment.
'It is the gentleman!' exclaimed Herminia, starting up
with a smile of pleasure on her dimpled mouth.—' How do
you know, sister?' asked the prattling Leon.—'Because,'
she replied, blushing, ' I can recollect that his hair had the
same perfume.'—Leon instantly communicated this to
Durmance, who felt a secret pleasure, that even the odour
of the powder he wore in his hair should be the means of
recognizing him.—' Ah!' thought he, ' how could I doubt
the goodness of Providence, when even such ways are
conducive to the intelligence of two sympathetic hearts!'
From that time he visited her every day, and at every
visit found fresh cause to admire her sensibility and pene
tration. Having consulted a friend of his, who was a skil-
ful oculist, he found that an operation might safely be per*


THE BUND GIRL.
87
formed in the spring upon the eye9 of Herminia, and with
every prospect of success. Durmance prevailed upon her
to consent to a trial of the experiment, and the delightful
hope of seeing her loved Durmance, inspired her with
courage. At the time fixed on, every thing was prepared
for the operation. The young oculist was about the age
of Herminia's lover, and a very handsome young man.
True love is always timid, and jealous of its prerogative.
Durmance wished to make a trial of the instinctive affec-
tion of Herminia, and cautioned his friend to maintain a
profound silence, should his efforts be crowned with suc-
cess: this being mutually agreed on, he took his seat be-
side the operator, in a trepidation of hope and fear.
The room was darkened, and Herminia endured the pain
necessarily inflicted with exemplary fortitude. When the
bandages were removed, a small portion of light was ad-
mitted, and'Herminia exclaimed, in a voice of rapture—
• Oh, my God! I can see!—How strange every thing ap-
pears!' She touched everything to ascertain its nature,
and reconcile her ideas to a sense almost forgotten; at
length her eyes rested on the two gentlemen.
* Which is our friend Durmance?' asked.Leon, laugh-
ing, and rubbing his hands in ecstasy. Herminia stood
a moment irresolute, for neither of them wore powder
that day. After regarding them attentively, her counte-
nance brightened ; she approached Durmance, and catch-
ing his hand, cried, 'I think this is—yes, yes, I know I
am not mistaken.'—Durmance, knowing by the action
that she recognized him, caught her in his arms, and they
mingled tears of joy together.
A mirror was then brought to Herminia; she looked
in it a short time, with evident delight. Durmance was
alarmed; he feared that the sight of her own uncommon
beauty would give rise to a vanity inimical to his wishes,
and he instructed Leon to inquire what pleased her so
much. Her answer was simple and natural—' I thought
at first that I beheld the picture of my dear mother, whose
features I well remember; but when I saw the figure
move, and was convinced that it was the reflection of my
own form and features, I could not restrain my rapture at
finding I was so like her.'


THE
ORPHAN OF THE CASTLE;
A GOTHIC STORY.
Near the east coast of England, about eight miles from
Berwick-upon-Tweed, and on the German Ocean, stands a
little ?pot called Holy Island, once the capital of the North,
and the see of a Bishop ; but time, that changes all things, has
removed the spiritual government to Durham, and laid in ruins
a castle, and a monastery, the remains of which serve only
now to recall to mind the strength and piety of our Gothic an-
cestors.
Lindisfarne is the name of the castle as well as the monas
tery, both of which are conjectured to have been built soon
after the Conquesi, or some time, at least, before the time of
the Crusades.
Edward de Courcy, a valiant young nobleman, and one of
the favorites and companions of Richard in his famous expe-
dition to the Holy Land, obtained this castle as a perpetual
domain for himself and heirs forever from the hands of his
imprudent though generous monarch, for his military services
in the siege of St, John of Arc, where our gallant countrymen
have since so eminent!) distinguished themselves against the
marauding French arms. It had been, as before observed, of
great strength and consequence; but by failure of issue, had
reverted into possession of the Crown. From this time it was
suffered to fall into decay; and possessing some remains of its
ancient gothic magnificence,"a numerous and fierce banditti
got possession of the place, delapidated and defaced it, until
they-were driven out by the neighbouring Barons, assistc! by
the lung's troops; yet enough remained visible to impress the
mind with an idea of its former grandeur and sublimity. In
this situation it became again a royal bequest to the noble
Baron Mortimer St. Mar, who, at the age of twenty-five, took
for a wife the beautiful Lady Edith, only daughter of Lord
Broomland, whose ancestors descended from De Courcy, the
first possessors of this castle.
Mortimer, in his early youth, had imbibed all the enthusi-
asm of the age of chivalry; but, after his marriage, his time
was entirety domesticated with his lady, whr- in three ve. rs
time presented him with an heir to the noble title of Mortiu .*


4
THE ORPHAN OT
This event was the cause of much festivity at the castle; and
the peasantry in the neighbourhood partook of the Baron's
hospitality. But, alas! all human blessings are of short du-
ration: a fever removed her from the side of her affectiQnate
husband, and plunged him and his domestics in the deepest
distress. The resignation of Lady Edith was exemplary; and
on the ninth day from the beginning of her illness, this pious
■nd beautiful lady gave up her spirit for the happier regions of
heaven.
The Baron's grief was of that kind, that it shrunk from ob-
servation; to indulge it, he would often retire to the most un-
frequented part of the castle, where he indulged his melancho-
y with the How of unavailing tears for the loss of an affection-
ate wife. In tnrlTiopeless manner, day after day, and night
after night, did he mourn his loss, often vowing never again
to know peace or joy in the world. But time, which affaces
the deepest impressions from the hardest substances, alleviated
hissorrow, and, by the persuasion of his fiiends, he was indu-
ced to relax from+iis grief: in short, he resolved again to en-
gage in the busy scenes of war, which were then carrying on
in the Holy Land. He was in his prime, and his former youth-
ful services had not been forgotten, so that he soon got into
command: but, previous to his departure, he dispatched a
messenger with a letter to his brother, communicating to him
his intentions, and particularly recommending his infant son
Mortimer to his care and affection. In this letter he did not
forget his ancient domestics, the arrangement for whose future
support he deferred until his brother's arrival.
The meeting of these two brothers occurred on Christinas
day. Twelve years had elapsed since they had seen each
other. The cause of their separation no more existed, and the
remembrance of it even was obliterated in Mortimer's mind,
nhose generosity was only equalled by the distress occasioned
by the loss of his lady. But Lord Edward, (for so he was
called by courtesy and patent,) his brother, still entertained the
latent disposition of malevolence, the propensity to which was
not a little inflamed by his religious education in Lindisfarne
Abbey. Obsequious attention to royal prerogative, and the
crooked policy of a corrupted court, had early taught him the
arts of prevarication and duplicity; yet he carried himself with
so much seeming affection to his brother Mortimer, that he
soon obtained h is utmost confidence; and in a few days the
preparations foi his departure announced to all his servants his
final resolution of spending some years, at least, in foreign
pu i Is.
lrr hai ir.g made the necessary dispositions for his travels,
am sidled some points of importance with his domestics, he
ipont the short interval of a few days in consoling and weepir,!
L


THE CASTLE.
s
over his infant son Mortimer St. Mar. His uncle, Lord Ed-
ward, had taken upon himself to be his guardian during his
father's absence; and promised to transmit to him, as often as
an occasion offered, an account of his health, welfare, and
progress in learning.
His time of departure arrived; and, after being accompa-
nied by his dependants several miles on the road, they severally
took their leave with tears and benedictions; nor did they lose
sight of him till the parting rays of light absorbed the object
from their sight.
Ten months elapsed before any tidmgs were received at the
castle of Lord Mortimer; when one evening, an old wounded
knight, named Count Nerva, sought admission at the castle
gate with a letter to the Lord. It was written by its former
possessor in the last agonies of e"eath, hi which he very pathe
tically lamented the helpless fate of his orphan child, recom-
mending him most devoutly to heaven, and very earnestly to
the protection of his uncle; nor were his servants forgotten in
this pressing epistle. The old knight (Nerva) reported, that he
died glorionsly in the field of battle of his wounds, after having
penned and charged him with the delivery of I hat letter. The
Heir of the Castle was happily insensible of the loss of such a
parent; and Lord Edward bore the tidings without much ap
parent sorrow. A great change had taken place in the casle.
The servants of the Baron had been, one after another, dis-
missed from their employ, and Lord Edward's domestics occu-
pied their situations. The principal apartments were occupied
by sycophantic dependants; and nothing remained in its for
mer state, bu t the little nursery of the infant orphan of the late
Lord. The care of this important charge had been from the
first assigned to an old and trusty servant named Edwin, who
had been a servant in the family from the infancy of Lord
Mortimer himself. Upon the news of the death of his lord and mas-
ter, his grief knew no bounds; he tore his vestments and his hair;
and, distracted with the violence of his emotion, ran up to the
nursery in the tower, where, snatching up the child, who was
at play on the floor, he knelt with him in his arms before the
picture of his lord, and vehemently exclaimed, "O thou most
precious relic of this noble house, where is now thy parent and
protector!" These words were no sooner uttered, than an ofTi
cious dependant of Lord Edward's, who was in waiting on the
young Baron, carried the words to his master, and repeating
them with additional incidents, completed the ruin of this true
and affectionate servant; for the next rooming he was called
into the hall, where he was informed his services would for the
t future be dispensed with; and, with that, paying him hit a -
rears of salary, ordered him to depart.
The good Edw in withdrew with humility. He had perceived
\S,


■
THE ORPHAN Or
the approach of -b« gathering storm; and be had, by every
prudent means in his power, endeavoured to delay his dismis-
sion, which for some time past he had hourly expected to re-
ceive. Imperious by habit, Lord Edward he knew was in-
flexible, and opposition to his command would only irritate
him farther. It was true, he had been placed by his noble
Lord, Mortimer, about the person of his child, as he had in
his infancy experienced the most tender attachment; but the
authority that had placed him there was no more; and, much
as he regretted the loss of his former station, he submitted to
it with resignation, without attempting to exculpate himself in
any measure whatever, but putting up an ejaculatory prayer to
Heaven, for the safety of the heir of Mortimer, and invoking
the shade of his old Lord to hover over and defend his child,
he at last reached an hospitable peasant's hovel, where he in-
tended to abide till a more favourable opportunity should draw
him out.
But the events of this world are not governed by the wishes
of weak mortals, and death pays no respect to innocence more
than to guilt, An epidemic distemper, soon after Edwin's de-
parture, seized the young St. Mar, the amiable heir of Lord
Mortimer, which, it was reported, he had caught from the
sinister caresses of a bare-footed mendicant friar, who was suf-
fered to visit the nursery in the guise of a confessor to a female
attendant on the child, The disorder made rapid progress,
and the thirteenth 'day gathered him to the communion of
saints.
At this disaster Lord Edward seemed to take on; and his
grief, though neither loud nor vehement, was decent. For
several days he refused nourishment, nor would admit to his
presence any of his household; the light of day was shut from
his apartment, and he gave unbounded indulgence to his la-
mentations. But when the funeral rites were performed, and
St, Mar laid in the vault of the castle, he appeared in the great
hall, and received the compliments of the nobility, on his ac-
cession to the barony and honours of Lindisfarne.
The disposition of Lord Edward was, by nature, turbulent,
overbearing, morose, and irritable; to his inferiors haughty
and supercilious, though fawning and obsequious to those
atove him; but, notwithstanding the malice of his heart, he
had so well concealed the venom of his nature by long prac-
tising dissimulation, that he had imposed upon his unsuspect-
ing brother, who, by constituting him guardian to his child,
had invested him with all power and authority at thc.CMtler.
Now Lord of that castle, and jealous of his power, without
any claim to its respect, he was by turns a tyrant and a para-
site; for though he exacted, by disposition, the homage of
his dependants, with abject meanness he was himself a sj^ve to


THE CASTLE.
7
the smile of power; unsocial by nature, and extremely avari-
cious, the sounds of mirth and festivity were banished from
the mansion of Lindisfarne, the hospitable banquet no longer
appeared; and the gates of the castle reluctantly unfolded
their ponderous hinges, even when the surly porter refused
not admittance to the pilgrim and the stranger.
The prido of the Baron gathered consequence by seclusion,
and his austerity rendered hiin displeasing to the neighbour
ing nobility. His friendship he confined to one person, who
ometimes visited hiin in his retirement. This was Sir Bevis
of York, who passed some months every summer at the c.tstle,
during the first seven years that Lord Edward was its master;
but at the end of that period he went abroad; and after his
departure, the Baron seldom went without the boundary of his
castle walls.
Nineteen years after the death of young St, Mar, Richard
returned from the Holy Land. All England rejoiced at the
presence of their beloved Monarch, and the capital was throng-
ed with every description of persons, to welcome his enlarge-
ment from captivity. To show himself on this public instance,
Lord Edward emerged from his retirement, and crossing the
sea, repaired in sullen state to the court of England; he paid
his duty to the King: but his jaundiced mind turning, with
disgust, from scenes of pleasure which his gloomy soul could
no longer enjoy, he heartily set out on his return to the castle.
On his returning back, he narrowly escaped shipwreck; but
when he landed, he mounted his horse, impatient to arrive
at his mansion, as the only theatre where his grandeur could
be properly exhibited; he pressed his courser with impetu
osity, and without delay, proceeded towards Lindisfarne.
At the close of the day, a storm from the east seemed fast ap-
proaching, the hills gathered rain, a heavy black cloud dark-
ened the road before him, and a crimson streak of sky hero
and there added to the tremendous appearance of the bursting
storm. The rain now fell in torrents, the blue lightning play-
vain they sought a shelter from the rain; the heath before
them was a desolate waste; and the moon, which at intervals
afforded a faint light, only served to show them the dreari-
ness of the plain, Lord Edward pressed vehemently forward,
and soon discovered at some distance, the appearance of a
dwelling. He advanced towards it; but a small wicket im-
peded nis progress; his horse, he knew, could easily clear
X; but in Tain he used his spur, the s-teed refused. The fiery
pirit of Edward, impatient at the storm, which now became
nore violent, again prompted him to force his courser. The
f orse reared, plunged, and, rearing a second time, fell back
t.on his Lord. The attendants who stood aloof, now ran to

thunder rolled towards him. In


■
THE ORPHAN OF
his assistance; they raised him from the ground, and saw by
the l ight of the moon, which soon after shone out from between
the clouds, that the building before them was surrounded by
a deep moat, over which was a drawbridge, which the wicker
opened to. The bridge was drav<-n up; and had Lord Ed-
ward's courser obeyed his rider, they must both have been
precipitated into a deep ditch, the sides and bottom of which
weie full of long iron spikes.
The servants calling loudly for assistance, a glimmering
light appeared at one end of the building, and slowly moved
within the grated windows. They waited some minutes, but
no one appearing, they again demanded help. A bell tolled
from the turret in the centre of the mansion, and a large door
being opened, an old man, in the habit of a priest, came for-
ward, and seeing the person of Lord Edward in distress, im-
mediately let down the bridge. They passed over it and
following their reverend conductor, entered into a chapel,
where the brethren of St. Anthony's monastery were at ves-
pers. The superior stood at the altar, and beside him knell
a youth habited as a knight. His armour was of polished
steel; and his crested helmet being off, discovered a counte-
nance animated and beautiful. His person, though he hardly
appeared twenty years of age, was lofty and commanding.
The service was interrupted; and the youth ran to the assis-
tance of the expiring knight. He unbuckled his helmet, wip
ed the blood froin his mouth, and Lord Edward discovered
signs of life. He breathed short, and convulsively, groaned
with extreme anguish, and opening his eyes, they becam
fixed upon the stranger, when almost starting from their o
bits, his limbs shook, and the blood-vessel which he had brok-
en by his fall, again sent forth his crimson torrent. He at-
tempted to speak; but finding himself unable, his impatience,
accelerated his danger, His glaring eye-balls darted their
angry frowns by turns on the group that surrounded him, ann
fearfully resting them on the stranger, his groans became
more deep and inward. A suffocation, which they apprehea-
ded, soon- came on; his respiration grew more difficult, and.
after a faint struggle, he expired; but his eyes, over whicu
death had laid a thick film, were unclosed, and still bent upon
the warrior, who turned from the horrid spectacle; and tne
eorpse being removed into one of the cells, joined with the
holy brethren in prayers for the departed. After mass was
performed, the superior pressed the stranger to repose him-
self for that night at the monastery; but the storm being abat-
ed, and the moon shining with unclosed lustre, he dec .ined
his invitation, and gracefully returning thanks for their nospi
tality, mounted his horse, and pursued his track acron tW*
heath.


THE E.

The attendants of the deceased Baron. Lord Edward, par-
took of what the convent afforded, and being seated round a
sjodd fire, Edmund, Lord Edward's page, eagerly inquired
about the stranger, and received for answer, that he had been
driven thither early in the evening by the storm, and at their
sual hour of prayer, had joined them in their devotions; this
was all they could inform him. They wen struck, they said,
by his appearance; and would the rules of civility (for, retir-
e.l as they lived, they were not ignorant of them) have allowed
them to ask his name, they certainly should have demanded it:
they supposed he was in the service of the King, as the cross
on his shoulder was a token he fought against the infidels.
Edmund, after a pause, said, "I have seen his likeness some-
where, but cannot immediatil/ recollect where." "Your
thoughts meet mine, (replied Hubert, another of Lord Ed-
ward's servants,) and I can help you to the place. He is the
image of that pfcture at home in the great hall of our Lord's
brother, who died in the Holy Land." In this and other dis-
course they passed the time till day appeared,, when Edmund
despatched a servant to the castle; and as Lord Edward had
no friends to respect him while alive, no one mourned when
the tidings of his death were made known at Lindisfarne.—
He was, without much ceremony, interred in the vault at the
feet of young St. Mar; and with him the name and title ex-
pired.
When his death was announced to the King, as Richard
nobly rewarded those champions who had signalized them-
selves in the Crusade, he bestowed upon Reginald Longford,
the title, castle, and domains.
Among the foremost of the warriors who had given proofs
of their prowess in this memorable cause, was Allen Fitz-Ro-
bert, a youth of mean birth, but undaunted courage; his no-
ble person and intrepid spirit had been admired and reward-
ed by Lord Longford, who had appointed him his esquire.
Even Richard himself owed his life to his valour, and ever
after highly regarded him.
He conferred upon him the honour of knighthood; appoint-
ed him a station near his person; and when he publicly de-
clared the service for which he. requited him, pronounced his
advancement to be the reward of his valour. And when this
beloved Monarch was restored to his people, after his unjust
detention by Leopold, the Duke of Austria, Fitz-Robert was
honoured with his friendship, and daily received fresh proofs
of his regard. He was entrusted with his confidence, and was
employed in a service of secrecy, when the storm forced him
to take shelter in the monastery of Lindisfarne ; for Allen Fitz-
Robert was the stranger who had witnessed the agony of the


10
THE ORPHAN OF

expiring Edward, and had joined in prayers foi the repose of his
soul. *'
Lord Longford, whose friendship for the youth daily in-
creased, the more he became acquainted with his virtues, and
the more felt his partiality justified, was anxious to introduce
him to his lady, who had already taken up her residence in
the Castle of Lindisfarne.
Upon this transaction, Allen Fitz-Robert obtained permis-
sion to pass a short time with the Baron; and at the end of
the fifth day, they arrived within sight of the mansion.
The horn was sounded by Longford's page, and the porter
opened the gate. They passed the bridge, and entering the
great door of the castle, crossed a quadrangle, artd met (he
Lady Longford at the entrance of the great hall. She wel-
comed them to the mansion with all the transport of true af-
fection, rejoiced at the presence of her Lord, and, with an
air of sweetness and dignity, extended her han'd to their guest.
He had respectfully taken it, when an exclamation from the
Lady drew his attention; and he had hardly time to remove
from where he stood, when a heavy suit of armour, belong-
ing to Lord Edward, the latter master of the castle, which
happened to stand just above him, fell from its station with a
ponderous violence on the ground. It was of great weight,
and would most probably have injured Fitz-Robert consider-
ably if the Lady, who had seen it totter, had not warned him
by her exclamation. The noise drew together the domestics,
who gazed with wonder at the armour; but, happy to behold
their master, pressed round him to welcome his arrival. One
venerable person stood behind the rest, whom the Lady Long-
ford particularly introduced. His name, she saioV:»^'s -Ed-
win, and he had formerly lived in the castle, a favoured hftd
faithful servant of the Baron Lord Mortimer; but that his suc-
cessor had dismissed him from his service, and that he had since
that period been struggling hard with poverty and age. "On
my arrival here, (said she,) he prayed that he might sometimes
have permission to visit the castle, and, while it remained
in its present state, be permitted to feast his sight with the
contemplation of his master's portrait. I have (continued she)
assigned him a station in our household, and, by adding to
his happiness, have considerably augmented my own; and I
know my beloved Longford will rejoice that his Matilda has
soothed the declining life of a faithful servant." The Baton
pressed the hand of his beloved wife, and turning to Edwin,
regarded him with attention. The old man had advanced in-
to the middle of the hall; his face bore stronger marks of sor-
row than age, and his countenance was intelligent, but mel-
ancholy; he leaned a good deal on his staff, his long white


THE CASTLE.
hair was parted at the top, and neatly comhed, hung upon
his shoulders. The tears streamed down his cheeks, as he
listened to the Lady's recital; and his voice was broken by
his emotions, as he thanked her for her goodness.
At night, the banquet was prepared in the great hall, and
during the repast, Fitz-Robert regarded its loftiness and gran-
deur with a kind of solemn admiration. Its roof was arched,
and carried to the height of the castle, and the floor was of
black marble. The banners of knighthood were suspended
from the sides of the apartment, which were decorated in dif-
ferent parts with trophies of military valour. At the upper end
of the hall stood the chair of state; the lance and shield were
crossed over the arms of Lord Mortimer, which sustained a
helmet adorned with an enormous plume; these were placed
over the chair, which was covered with crimson velvet. But
Allen's attention was particularly attracted by two portraits at
the lower end of the apartment; one represented a warrior
completely armed, with the vizor of his helm turned up; the
other a lady, young and beautiful. The warrior seemed pre-
paring for battle, and his look bespoke resolution and cour-
age. The lady's aspect appeared strongly pictured with re-
signation, fortitude, and love. The Baroness remarked his
attention to the portraits, and said, "These are the objects
of Edwin's idolatry: they are not, he affirms, half so beauti-
ful as the originals: but we must make some allowance for
the old man's partiality to his master and mistress."
The evening passed with rapidity; the clock had struck
twelve before they thought of parting, when the Baron con-
ducted Fitz-Robert in his apartment, which was situated near
bis own, on the western side of the castle. A long gallery
which had two doors at the end, led to the state chambers:
one of these doors opened to the youth's, and the adjoining
one, which was strongly fastened, the Baron told him, had
been formerly used as a passage to the chapel; but that they
had never opened it, having always gone through the quad-
rangle, or square of the castle.
Longford having seen that his friend was properly aecommo^
dated, retired to his own chamber. Fitz-Robert looked round
his apartn.ent which was large ani! lofty; it was hung with
tapestry that represented a tournament; his bed was of crimson
velvet, with arms similar to those in the hall placed in the
dome; an heavy lance and target were crossed over the chim-
ney, and a large picture fronted the bed's foot. The picture'
represented a group of figures that surrounded a lady, who
was sitting under a canopy with a child in her lap; a gentle
man stood leaning over the back of her chair, looking at a
man who seemed pressing forwards to view the infant. He
.Vised the taper, to examine the figures distinctly, and saw


12
THE ORFHAH OF
upon the child's wrist, the exact form of an arrow. He drew
np her sleeve, and smiled at the oddness of the circumstance:
as he had a similar mark on his own arm. He looked at the
picture for some minutes with the warmest admiration; it was
done by the hand of a master; and he applauded the judg-
ment and taste of Longford, who he had informed him, that
it was his intention to continue in its present state the gift of
his sovereign. Fitz-Robert's rest was broken and disturbed;
his sleep was unrefreshing ; and his mind occupied by dreams
of conversation with the ancient inhabitants of the castle; the
forms of persons he had never seen before, hovering round his
bed, and he awaked in the morning harrassed and uncomfort-
able. They assembled at breakfast; and that day, and the
following, were passed in receiving the congratulations of nu-
merous visitors.
Edwin appeared to have renewed his age. He had become
his master's confidential attendant, and often, while looking
at him, tears silently rolled down his face. He frequently
entertained him with the praises of the late Baron Mortimer
and his Lady, and expatiated with rapture on their numer-
ous virtues. This faithful Historian was never so happy, as
when he drew Fitz-Robert's attention to his discourse. The
■mile of triumph lighted up his features, When he related the
prowess of his old master; but the recital was concluded with
a sigh, that the virtues he recorded should sleep in the grave,
where he himself would most gladly lie down for ever,
On the third night, he appeared at the bottom of the stairs,
and requested permission to light Fitz-Robert to his apartment.
This office he continued to perform; and one night, as they
passed through the gallery, he observed him transiently look
mg at the pictures. He stopped, and pointing at the different
personages that came within his own recollection, enlarged on
their various excellencies. A venerable lady, whose portrait
he particularly noticed, was, he said, Horatio St. Mar, mother
of his Lord. She was in a religious habit, having founded a
monastery, on the death of her husband, of which she had
been abbess, and her great learning and piety had during her
life been the theme of every tongue. The youth regarded
the picture with admiration, and reluctantly passed on to the
next. This represented a warrior, whose face he ^eemed to
have a faint recollection of having seen. Edwin made no
comment on this personage, and quickly passed on to the por-
trait of his mistress, the Lady St. iWar; but Fitz-Robert still
looking at the warrior, Edwin told him, that was Lord Ed-
ward his master's brother, the late possessor of the castle,
who had been killed by a fall from his horse near Lindisfarne
Abbey. Fitz-Robert, by the mention of this circumstance,
immediately recollected that the person, whose death he hail


THE CASTLE.
13
witnessed at the monastery, strongly resembled the picture be-
fore him. "I was present at his dissolution," he rejoined,
"and never beheld so melancholy a sight; he died in great ago-
ny, and visibly struggled against the approach of death." Oh!
(said Edwin in a whisper, and looked tearfully around him,
as if he would not be heard,) he never enjoyed himself while
alive, and no wonder he should shrink from death."
Fitz-Robeit took the taper from Edwin, and raising it to
examine the frowning visage of Edward, the light suddenly
grew pale, and was soon perfectly extinguished. He told the
old man to wait, while he ran to bis own apartment to light
it at his fire. They were in total darkness, and Fitz-Itobert
cautiously groping for his door, found i', as he thought, a-jar.
He ciossed the threshold, but scarce had he gone a step be-
yond it, before he found tlie ground give way beneath his feet,
and he fell, with great foice, a considerable depth. He was
much bruised; and being without any light, was apprehen-
sive of falling still further, if he attempted to gain the gallery.
He called loudly on Edwin, who having heard him fall, had
knocked at the Baron's chamber, to beg he would go to his
assistance. Longford, who had not yet retired to his bed,
opened his door, and advanced towards the place from whence
he heard his friend's voice; but when he saw by the light
that he held in his hand, that the bolted door was thrown
open, and that Fitz-Robert answered him from thence, his
astonishment deprived him of speech. He looked at Edwin
for information, who, pale as death, could only relate their
employment, and that Fitz-Robert had only gone to his apart-
ment to relight his taper. Longford ran to the assistance of
his friend, and with some difficulty helped him to regain the
gallery. The Baron then said, for that night, he should sus-
pend any furtfier inquiries; But the next morning he would
find out the truth. Edwin looked with meaning, and crossing
iiimself devoutly, said, "God, in his appointed time, will dis-
cover all thingsi" They placed the bar across the door;
but its weight required all the strength that the Baron and his.
friend possessed to lift it.
They then separated for the night, and Fitz-Robert, for the
first time, turned the key of his apartment. He sat down by
his fire, of which only a few dying embers remained, and re-
volving what had passed, thought succeeded thought; and h*-
so deeply meditated upon the many events of his life, that
his candle was expiring in the socket, before he perceived
that he must make haste to undress himself, or he should soon
be left in darkness.
The, clock had just struck one, when a noise in the gallery
drew his attention. He listened, and distinctly heard th«
sound of footsteps • a light rustling of garments appeared *s.


14 THE ORPHAN OP
proceed from the unfrequented passage. He opened his door;
the noise ceased, and he attributed it to his imagination. He
advanced a few paces into the gallery; but all -yas silent;
upon which he returned into his chamber, and retired to rest,
-with a mind devoid of fear, though not perfectly tranquillized
from the events of that night.
In the morning, he strove to recollect the wild excursions
of his sleeping fancy; he remembered, that at one time he
supposed he had involuntarily drawn aside his curtain to look
at the picture from whence he thought the Lady descended;
who having approached his bed, took him by the hand, and
egarded with attention, the mark upon his' wrist: a warrior,
he fancied, then entered his room, and bade him rise, when
each taking a hand, they led him down the bolted passage.
At another time, he had imagined he was at the court of Rich-
ard, who created him a Baron of the realm. These visions of
the night appeared so real, that there were moments when he
could hardly dispossess himself of the idea, but that the Lady
really had conducted him to the adjoining tower, and that her
descent from the picture was no illusion.
He met the Baron and his Lady at breakfast; they dis-
coursed of the unexplored passage, and various conjectures
occupied their thoughts and conversation, till their repast
was concluded, '-tnd each had retired to dress for the day.
When Matilda had retired also, the Baron summoned all
his servants to the great hall, and threatened them with his
displeasure if they evaded the truth, promising his forgive
uess to whoever had been led by curiosity to open the boltei.
apartment. They all declared, that (since they must speak)
none of them ever willingly went near that end of the castle;
and as for the room which joined the tower, it was well known
to have been shut up for years before his Lordship was mas-
ter of the castle, The Baron looked angry, and sternly amaz-
ed, and addressing himsel*" to Edwin, who, was listening at-
tentively (but without speaking) to what passed, asked him
whose this apartment was when he lived in the castle. "My
Lord's," replied Edwin, "till his departure for the Holy
Land; then the young Baron occupied it; but I was dismis-
sed soon after the melancholy event of my Lord's death was
made known here: some of the domestics, however, informed
me, that a few days after the inteiment of the young Lord,
the Baron caused all the rooms at this end of the castle to be
shut up; and removed himself from the chamber in which
your Lordship sleeps, to one on the eastern side of the man-
sion." Was ever any cause assigned for this removal?" said
the Baron. "Only this," answered Edwin, "that his Lord-
ship could not bear the sight of places which so forcibly re-
minded him of j-ersons whose loss so much afflicted him."


THE CASTLE. 15
,*
"What apartments are there beyond the door at the end of
the gallery 1" inquired the Baron. "Two my Lord," repli-
ed Edwin; "the steps are strait till you arrive at a small land-
ing place, which has two doors, one on the right, and the
other on the left; the left hand one was formerly occupied by
Father Launcelot, and that at the right was the confessional;
the stairs froai this place were narrow and winding, and ter-
minated at the bottom by the vault. At her morning devo-
tions, my Lady always went this way to the chapel, as being
less exposed than crossing the great court of the castle."
Fitz-Robert, during this conversation, appeared buried in
thought. He was roused, however, from this reverie, by the
Baron's resolution of exploring the Haunted Tour, which he
found was the name it was commonly known by. Fitz-Ro-
bert offered to accompany him; ani\ as. Edwin was the only
person acquainted with the situation of the place, the Baron
ordered him to lead the way. Being e.ich provided with a
light, they proceeded to the bolted door, which was opened
with great difficulty. Edwin advanced tfrst; but the wind,
which in opening the door, had ascended the stairs, blew out
his torch. Fitz-Robert, who was next him, then took the
lead, and descended; the Baron followed, and Edwin had no
sooner put his foot upon the second 'stair, than the door fell
fast behind him.
At the approach of the light, the birds, that had been for
many years in quiet possession of the building, flew from their
nests; the walls had in many places gone to decay, and the
creeping ivy had found its way through; the stairs were
mucli broken, and by the constant damp were covered with
green moss. A projecting step, that jutted from the loose
earth, iiad broken Fitz-Robert's fahVwhffcil, as they-passed
the spot, they stopped to examine, and Edwin—picked up
something from the ground. It was, to appearSice. an old
piece of copper; but rubbing it upon the floor, it acquired
an air of brightness, and, holding it to the light, he exclaimed,
"It is a gold clasp, that was worn by my young Lord." They
arrived at the landing-place, and found both doors open.—
They entered first the habitation of the *ioly man. The fur-
niture was going rapidly to decay. It consisted of a pallet bed,
a table, a crucifix, a small picture of the virgin, his cowl, a
few Latin manuscripts, and an earthen lamp. Sir Allen
Fitz-Robert stumbled on a small bundle that lay on the floor,
which they took up, and examined. Within was a child's
vest, of white satin, the border curiously worked; and a clasp,
the fellow to that found on the stairs.
They examined the apartment with care, and turning uo
the straw bed found several mourning habiliments, a scarf,
and a beaver adorned with black feathers, a lance, and a


IB
THE ORFHAK Or
nhield witli the arms of Lindisfame painted on it; the dress
hail evidently Iieen worn at a funeral. "Who attended
young St. Mar as chief mournei ?" said the Baron to Edvir.
"Sir Bevis of York, my Lord," replied the latter. "Were
voti present at the interment?" "I was. A multitude of
spectators assembled in the chapel; I mixed with the crowd,
and mourned, with real sorrow, the early death of the young
heir." "And what," said the Baton, "became of the knight
who attended your your.g Lord to the vault of his ancestors?"
"Some years after," replied Edwin; "it was rumoured
among the servants of the castle, that he had undertaken a
pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and died on his return home."
They then left the cell of Father Launcelot, and crossing
the platform, passed through the confessional into the chapel.
They had great difficulty to open the door which led into it;
but, after mfinite labour, accomplished their purpose. They
then repaired to Lady Matilda, whom they found in the gal-
lery, where they all looked with amazement at the door which
had fallen fast of itself as they were descending;.
The Baroness was informed of all they had seen; and the
bundle, which they had found in father Launcelot's ceil, was
again opened. Her astonishment equalled their's ; and though
the Lord Longford reluctantly harboured unfavourable thoughts
of the deceased Lord Edward, he could not help giving way
to suspicions, that all had not gone as it ought in the castle of
Lindisfame.
Edwin retired to his apartment, and opening the treasui
committed to his charge, contemplated, with wonder and at-
tention, the mantle and vest. These sacred pledges of a noble
name, now buried in the grave, he folded to his breast, and
silently invoked the Avenger of wickedness to disclose in his
own good time the fate of the infant St. Mar. That he was
at peace in the vault of the chapel, was a truth that Edwin
was well convinced of; but the garment found in the cell, the
strange events of the western tower, the desertion of those
apartments during Lord Edward's life, and the fall of the
stranger down the unfrequented passages, all perplexed him
with conjecture. He hoped he knew not what. The name
of Mortimer was no more, and he still adored the portrait of
lis Lord; yet his eyes now more frequently dwelt on the youth
Fitz-ltobert; and irresistible attachment to the stranger had
rooted itself in his bosom, and his thoughts involuntarily rest-
ed upon him.
The conversation at the castle the whole of that day turned
on no other subject than the Haunted Tower. The more they
thought of it, the more the mystery increased. The doo' had
certainly opened without human assistance, and had closed also
without help. This last circumstance, indeed, might be ac-


THE CASTLE.
17
«ountcd for by a draft of wind; but it was firmly fastened al-
so, and every endeavour to open it again now proved inetfec-
tual; it was necessary, however, it should appear to the do-
mestics, as if what had happened was not thought worthy of
regard. At night, the great hali was filled with visitors, and
the usual diversions took place; the festivity that the Baron
promoted in the evening dissipated the alarms of the day;
ar I when the hour for retirement arrived, the inhabitants of
the castle slept in peace, devoid of apprehension, even of the
Haunted Tower.
But Fitz-Robert, whose apartment was more nearly con-
nected with it, alone took a retrospect of what had past.
Though utterly devoid of superstition, he was firmly convita-
ced that a superior power had directed the events of the day.
The miraculous opening of the door, the garment tound in
Father Launcelot's cell, and the noise he had heard in the
gallery the preceding night, all impressed him with a thorough
belief, that the tower adjoining his chamber had been the
place of action for some great work of iniquity; and he
thought it not improbable, but that he might be chosen as the
instrument of Providence, to discover the secret. His fall in-
to the unfrequented passage, the door of which must have
opened to receive him, gave birth to this opinion; and he de-
termined to obey the will of Heaven, should he be called up-
on to answer the summons. He had undressed and was lying
down in his bed, when a rustling on the opposite side of his
apartment, and alow voice, pronouncing the name of St. Mar,
made him start from his pillow, wd hastily undrew his cur-
tain. He looked attentively, and listened, but neither saw
nar heard any thing more. He composed himself again to
rest; and relying on that providence which had hitherto so
manifestly protected him, was just falling mto a slumber,
when the same voice, but louder, calling on St. Mar, awaked
him. He drew his sword, which always lay upon his pillow,
and undrawing the curtain, bad set one foot on the floor, when
his faculties were suspended, and his whole frame petrified
by what he saw. The same figure he had beheld in his sleep,
the first night of his arrival at the castle, now passed slowly
before him, and waving her hand with a majestic air, bade
him in a solemn tone, to repair to the monastery of Lindis-
farne; and slowly retreating towards the door of his cham-
ber, in the same solemn tone, bade him remember, and
pointing towards the picture, said, "Tht mother warns
thee!" Thrice he attempted to speak, but his voice
died away ere he could articulate a single sentence: a secret
power deprived him of utterance, and his straining eye-balls
followed her to the door. A faint light streamed around the
vision, and encompassing the fleeting shadow, enveloped her
B2


THE ORPHAN or
in its brightness; tlie luminous appearance still irradiated his
Chamber; he extended his arms towards it, and exclaimed,
"O! if thou art not an illusion of the brain, tell me why this
command!" But the phantom had disappeared ere he could
utter his adjuration. He threw himself on the bed, and it was
some minutes before he could recover himself from the per-
turbation into which he had been thrown. The figure of the
lady was deeply impressed upon his memory, and exactly re-
sembled the portrait of the Baroness of Mortimer in the great
hall; but the words " Thy mother war.ns thee," vibrated
in his ear. The command to repair to the monastery of Lin-
disfarne was inexplicable; but he resolved to obey the man-
date, and leave the rest to the disposal of Heaven. He wait-
ed with impatience for the morning, and when he heard the
Baron quit his chamber, joined him in the gallery. They
descended the stairs; and Fitz-Robert, with an agitated coun
tenance, and a voice that betrayed the perturbation of his
mind, related to him the appearance of the spectre, and her
command to repair to the monastery. The Baron embraced
him with fervor, and listened with attention to an account of
all he had seen that night in the western apartment; and it
was fixed that the following morning Fitz-Robert should quit
the castle. The Baron did not wait for an invitation to ac-
company his friend; but feeling himself in some degree a par-
ty concerned, as Lord of the mansion where those strange
events had befallen His guest, made an immediate offer of
bearing him company on his journey. Fitz-Robert, he clear-
ly saw, was the person to whom Providence had delegated
spme important discovery, as the former possessors of the cas-
tle had qiitted the peaceful mansion of the grave to deliver
then commands to a low born stranger. He crossed himself
with devotion ; and as the family of Longford was innocent, he'
trusted the punishment would only fall upon the guilty. "My
Sovereign (said he) bestowed upon me this noble inheritance;
but if a higher Power wills me lo resign it, I submit to its de-
crees," ''His will be done, said Fitz-Robert, also crossing
himself.
They agreed to keep Lady Matilda ignorant of the real
cause of their departure from the castle; a mandate from the
King, requiring Fitz-Robert's immediate presence, was to be
the ostensible- reason, and that the Baron intended accompa-
nying him part of the way. The Baroness lamented the loss
of their guest; and in the warmest terms, pressed him to re-
turn to them, whenever he could disengage himself from b's
attendance on the king. Fitz-Robert's heart was replete
with gratitude; though the power of thanking her bywords
was denied; but his looks were more expressive than the most
laboured eloquence: he knelt at her feet, and at last exclaim


THE CASTLE.
19
ed. "On the uncertain smiles of courtly favour I'have ever
placed a precarious dependance; but though educated by the
hands of indigence, and trained to poverty from my cradle,
yet, Lady, possessed of your's and my Lord Longford's re-
gard, I could forego the smiles of power, or return to the
cottage which ambition first caused me to desert." This de-
claration was made with a sincei ity of heart that was evident
in the expression of his animated features. He retired to his
apartment, to make the necessary preparations for his intend-
ed departure, with a mind wholly absorbed by the enthusiasm
of friendship. His affections, strong and ardent, rested them-
selves on his patron, the Lord Longford, with an attachment
which had every requisite to render it permanent. Gratitude
was the basis on which the purest friendship had erected its
structure; the character of his friend he had adopted as a
mode] for his own.
They passed Ihat day at the castle, without the interruption
of visitors; and as they meant to depirtUkt- the dawn of the
following day, when the Baroness rose to retire, he advanced
towards her, and bowing upon the hand she presented, said,
"1 go, madam, to attend a summons I dare not disobey;
but though commanded by a power whose mandate I must re-
spect, yet the soul of Fitz-Itobert will still remain at the cas-'
tie of Lindisfame. Your goodness, lady, shall cheer ray
heart, and vour patronage will secure me the favour of the
world."
At the dawn of day, Fitz-Robert and the Baron met in
the hall. Edwin, who had risen to look once more at FitZ-'
Robert, stood at the door to bid them farewell. The youth
thanked the old man for his attention, who falling at his feet,
embraced his knees, and prayed that Heaven would pour its
blessings on his head. "Forgive me (said he,) but"
"But, what?" said Fitz-Rbbert. "Oh, (rejoined Edwin,) thou'
art the image of my Lord?" The youth trembled; and sup-
porting himself on the back of a chair near which he stood,
inarticulately answered, "of thy Lord!" "Yes, (replied Ed-
win,) the hero St. Mar." Lord Longford, who had quitted the'
hall to give some orders to his servants, at this instant returned,
and, told Fitz-Robert he was ready. The old man wrung
Iris hand, and when he could no longer behold him, returned:
into the hall, and by regarding the portraii with increased at-
tention, was more and more convinced} that had young St;:
Mar himself been alive, he could not have'tooyrie a stronger'
resemblance to the picture, than the youth who: had justtle#;
the castle. •• , '••"! "• ''k|--.(
At the end of the second day, the travellers were within^, ;1
few hours ride of the monastery, and, as the nigfct , was' c(dmv-
ingon, the Baron advised resting till the morrnngt bat Fi<«-


to
THE OJtl'HAN or
Robert was impatient to proceed, and they arrived at the con-
vent about midnight. The passing bell, which proclaimed
an approaching dissolution, was to.ling in the chapel. They
obtained admittance; and the brother, who opened the gate,
informed them, that the holy fathers were all assembled in
the chapel, where lay Father Jerome at the point of death.
It was the custom in this convent, when any member of their
community was at the last extremity, to remove him into the
chapel, where confession being made, absolution was given,
and the holy sacrament being administered, the good fathers
as a warning to themselves, waited to witness the last sigh of
their expiring brother. The strangers entered the chapel;
and the awful scene that presented itself before them, caused
each to turn involuntarily from the sight.
In the middle of the chapel, on a bed of straw, lay the ema-
ciated form of the expiring father; his head was uncovered
and the woollen cloth, which barely met over his convulsed
chest, was fastened round his waist by a black cord; his eves
were sunk within their sockets; his lips moved; a quick ir-
regular hiccup agitated his frame; and his feeble hands grasp-
ed a crucifix, on which he bent his glassy eyes. The last mo-
ment seemed arrived, and he appeared at the point of death.
The venerable superior knelt by his side; and at the solemn
adjuration of, "I charge you, as you are soon to stand be-
fore the presence of your God, to repent you of your sins," the
almost expiring lamp of life faintly revived, and after a pain-
ful struggle for articulation, in a hollow voice, which seemed
broken by anguish, the dying father uttered these words:—
"The hour is indeed come, when Sir Bevis de Morney must
wait the due punishment of his crimes." At the sound of this
name, Fitz-Robert rushed forwards. The noise of bis ad-
vancing drew the attention of the father, who, uttering a loud
cry, exclaimed, "It is St. Mar himself 1" A cold sweat be-
dewed his face, his limbs shook, he grasped the crucifix, and
his eyes rolled wildly every way, but where the stranger stood:
exclaiming, "Oh! if you have any mercy, remove that
dreadful vision;" and deeply groaning, he called to heaven
for pardon. The superior urged the necessity of being com
posed, as a confession of all he knew respecting the person be-
fore him, was the surest w<ay of obtaining the pardon he pe-
titioned for. He fearfully and irresolutely turned his eyes
towards the youth, who knelt beside him, and having regard-
ed him for a few moments, in an imploring accent said, "Tell
me if it be an illusion of the brain, for if not, it is the off-
spring of St. Mar." Fitz-Robert clasped his hands in an ago-
ny of expectation—" If on thy right arm (continued the pen-
itent) there is an arrow—" The youth drew back his sleeve
—A faint smile brightened the expiring man's features; he


THE CASTLE.

pressed the crucifix to his lips and inarticulately said, "she
hour of retribution is swtve.V, .ind justice has fallen on ti e
guilty; the injured Oipfitin os tbt, t/.istle is called upon ,.
witness tin; shame and confession of Sir Bevis do Morney"
The superior blessed these dawnmgs ot repentance, lie paus-
ed a . momma, and turning towards the youth, said, "Thy
true name is Moituner St. Mar; and thou art the image of
thy father. On his retiring to the Holy Land, he entrusted
thee to thy uncle's protection. Dangerous confidence. He
sought thy life to inherit thy possessions; and, knowing the
barbarity and villainy of my nature, (for we had but one mind),
proposed to me to be thy executioner. It was reported you
had caught an epidemic distemper of a child belonging to one
of the domestics; your death f> lowed in due time : and a fic-
titious funeral was celebrated with great pomp. During this
period, you was kept with the domestic, who was entrusted
with the secret, in Father Launcelot's cell. There I decend-
ed at midnight, and having taken oft' your upper garments,
which were heavy, and tod costly for that concealment we
wished to preserve, in the habit of a peasant, with you in my
arms, I escaped, under cover of night, the prying eye of cu-
riosity. The domestic locked the doors of the chapel after
me. and I proceeded on my way amidst the peltings of the
bitterest storm I had ever remembered. A sleeping draught
had been previously given you, which locked your scenses in
forgetfulness. I had twice attempted during the darkness of
the night to execute the commands of Lord Edward, and the
last effort would have accomplished them. My poignard was
raised for the stroke, and you< bosom bared to receive it,
when the lightning, which was almost incessant, aj thai in.
stant rested its light upon your beauteous form. A smile play-
ed upon your face, and I felt a superior power arrest my arm.
I determined to spare myself the crime of actual murder, and
leave you in the wood, to be rescued by the mercy of some
pitying traveller. At the gray of the morning, I placed you
in the path that was made through the forest, and retired
among the thickest of the trees. A peasant going to his morn-
ing work, heard your cries, for you had just awoke, and
taking you from the ground, pressed you to his heart. His
rugged countenance spoke the feelings of humanity, and plan-
ted a thousand daggers in my own bosom, I had pledged
myself to execute the will of your insatiate and savage uncle,
who had hired me to take away the life he was bound to protect;
and a base born peasant, labouring, perhaps, under indigent
poverty, had rescued you from certain death.
"I followed him at a distance, till I saw him enter a ham
let on the skirt of the forest, .and then returned to the castle.
I received the promised reward ; but Lord Edward had al-


trit t*Kra*i or
mvly experienced the pangs of an accusmg conscience; ne
tiembio'l wnen 1 presented the poignard, witlr which I told
bim i had taken your life; and before I quitted the mansion
had entirely forsaken }he western side of the castle. But I
must hasten to conclude, for 1 feel that my dissolution is at
hand. I went abroad in search of that rest England denied me,
but there I experienced the torments of the damned. Your
figure night and day constantly was present before me, and I
revisited my native land more miserable than when I left it;
at length distracted by remorse, and burthened by a sense o.
my guilt, I determined, by a life of mortification and repen-
tance, to procure that pardon I had so little right to expect.
You (turning to the superior) received me into your commu-
nity; and had peace been allotted for me I should have found
it here; but my mind has been harassed by perpetual tu-
mults, and an inward decay has rapidly brought me to the
grave. Three nights ago, being at prayer in my cell, the
faint light of the lamp that was burning on my table, sudden-
ly gave place to a blaze of ethereal lustre that shone round my
bed ; the form of lady St. Mar presented itself to my astonish-
ed sight, and, in a voice of electrical harmony, told me, she
had warned her child, who was still alive, to repair to the
monastery ; and bidding me repent the bright flame again- in-
closed her, and in an instant my cell was in total darkness.
This vision so powerfully affected my sinking frame, that it
has hastened my dissolution; but I die contented, since the
true heir of St. Mar will be restored to his ancient right." He
requested them to raiseTrim from his pallet; but whilst they
were lifting him, his head sunk between his shoulders, his
limbs became convulsed, his eyes fixed in their soekets, and
a deep convulsed, groan issuing from his breast, he expired.
The youth contemplated with a variety of emotions the life-
less corpse of the departed Sir Bevis, and turning to Lord
Longford, who remained silent, threw himself before him,
and, in a voice of grief, exclaimed, O! do not regard me
as a claimant to Lindisfarne, but look on me still as the or-
phan Fitz.Robert! I have no friend, if you reject me; no
one to aid me with counsel or advice. Blessed spirits of my
parents, hover over your chilcl, and enable him to- act as the
descendant of St. Mar in the intricate path before him !" The
Baron knelt beside him, and embracing him with fervour as-
sured him of his counsel and friendship. "That I have been
an usurper, (said he) was permitted by Providence for wise pur-
poses. Had Richard bestowed the castle on another, your claim,
perhaps, might not have been so easily established." <They
then debated what steps they should take, and fiist determin-
ed to go to the village where his supposed parents died. He
had been informed, on his return from the Crusade, that his


TUB fc.tTTT,
mptliei had left, a small box in ilie handout t'>« pmn win con-
fessed her. He had never yet claimed it; as, knowing their
poverty, he imagined it contained nothing of <:onsenuence;
but the hope of elucidating his birth, now made him consider
it as a treasure. The priest, on being applied to. presented,
him with the deposit, which he had received from Bertha Fitz-
Robert, on her death bed; and delivered to him at the same
time a sealed paper, which he said was the confession she had
made. It declared that her supposed son, Allen r itz-Robert,
who was then engaged in the Holy War, was only the child
of her adoption; that seventeen years ago, her husband had
brought home an infant, which he had found in the path that
led towards their dwelling; that having no family of their
own, they had nursed it with all the tenderness their poverty
would allow, and possessing for him the affection of a parent,
she had been unwilliug to reveal the secret, lest he should
leave them in search of his natural protectors; that she had
carefully preserved the clothes he had on, as they might have
led to a discovery, had there ever been any inquiry made
about him; but having removed to a distant part of the coun-
try soon after this event, she supposed, if any search had
been made, it had been long since given up.
The trunk being opened, was found to contain a petticoat
of white satin, very much soiled, the work of which exactly
corresponded with that on the vest, that had been found in
Father Launcelot's cell, and a white cloth, which, they ima-
gined, had served for a mantle. These invaluable and ln-
contestible proofs of his birth, the youth regarded with a mel-
ancholy delight; he reverted to his forlorn situation when
the peasant first saw him, and shuddered at his helpless state;
he wept at the recollection of his parents, and sincerely la-
mented the unrelenting cruelty and sudden death of his per-
fidious uncle.
The Baron advised their immediate presence at the courf,
and St. Mar (for by that name Longford exultingly addressed
him) being in all things guided by his friend, forthwith con-
sented to accompany him,
Richard rejoiced at his favourite's advancement, and con-
firmed him in his rightful honours: he presented him to his
nobles as the Baron St. Mar, and on the Lord Longford be-
stowed the warmest commendations for his disinterested friend-
ship.
They demanded their Sovereign's permission to repair to
the cast.e, where the Baroness impatiently expected her
Lord; though she had been infoimed by a messenger, whom
the Baron had dispatched from the monastery, that matters of
importance prolonged his stay.
When they came within sight of the mansion, the youth


14 t,,f owa * or TBI CASTLE.
turned apprehensively towards his friend. His emotion at
beholding the place of his birth, from whence he had been ta-
xen a devoted victim, joined to a thousand conflicting pas-
sions that agitated his mind, became too powerful to be sup-
pressed; and when they arrived at the gate, while the ser-
vant blew the horn, the young Baron dismounted, and leaning
against his friend, who had ran to his assistance, the tears
streamed from his eyes; he clasped his hands in an agony,
md iiivoked the spirits of ihis parents. The gates flew open
to receive them; the Baroness met them at the entrance of
the castle, and her Lord introduced her favourite Fitz-Ro
bert, as Mortimer St. Mar, and owner of the mansion. She
involuntarily drew back her offered hand, and with dignity
demanded an explanation. The Baron, led the way to the
great hall, and then briefly informed hei of the wonderful
discovery that had been made, on which she held forth her
hand, and with an air of majesty replied, "The friendship
of Matilda was never lightly bestowed; nor can it easily be
withdrawn."
Edwin partook of the joy that reigned in the castle; the
bolted passage was repaired; and the chapel again resorted
to by that communication; all apprehensions were banished
from the mansion, as the Heir of the Castle was restored to
his just right.


BEL.FONT
AXD
THE CURATE'S DAUGHTER,
AT an age when i\o human mind is most susceptible of,
and too often imbibrs a passion for voluptuous pleasure;
ere yet experience her sage precepts had impressed, Lord
Belfont inherited a most splendid fortune. His levees were
crowded with the most fashionable part of the world: the
voice of fl-"',iy incessantly sung his praise, and bestowed
on him every virtue that could ennoble man. His rank in
life and extensive fortune introduced him into the first fa-
milies in England; and overtures of marriage were made
to him by the parents and guardians of the greatest beau-
ties of the age; but Belfont, though not insensible to the
charms of beauty, was not yet become the vassal of their
power.
The attention which he invariably received from the
whole circle of his acquaintance, it might reasonably be
supposed, was very acceptable to the inexperienced Bel-
font; but, notwithstanding his extreme youth, and igno-
rance of men and manners, he suspected the sincerity of
those encomiums which flattery bestowed on him; and
the pliant voice of adulation had made little impression on
his mind.
At once to prove the integrity of his professed friends,
he carefully spread a report, that, by one imprudent step,
he had been precipitated from Prosperity's flowery mount
into the barren vale of Poverty. Swift as wildfire ran the
evil tale; and those very doors which, as it were by magic,
opened at the approach of the rich and happy Belfont,
were now barred against the ruined spendthrift.
a2


4
BELFONT A.ND THE
To give his distress" an air of certainty, he made seve-
ral applications for assistance to his once vowed eternal
friends, which were mvariably treated with a mortifying
contempt. To the fair rivals of his affections he addres-
sed his tale of sorrow. Here, too, neglect was his fate.
Belfont, dispossessed of the means to gratify their fondness
for dress, amusement, and pleasure, was an object no
longer worthy of their regard.
Reflecting on these events, he exclaimed :—" How
wret^ed are the children of Fortune! the poor man, in
his hour of distress, finds a friend; but the rich man,
when he ceases to be so, is disregarded by those whom
his former bounty fed, and who have not charity enough
to give to his misfortunes even the costly sigh of pity!"
In the midst of his contemplation, a servant entered the
room, and announced the arrival of Lord Bremere, who,
returned from a country excursion, had just heard of Ins
friend's misfortune, and hastened to relieve his necessi-
ties. As he approached, Belfont, rising from his chair
ran to meet him. "It is some consolation," said he,
"for the disappointments I have experienced, to find the
man whom I most valued not unworthy the esteem I bore
him. This (continued he) more than recompenses the
ingratitude of those mercenary wretches, who cannot re-
collect the features of their friend when shaded by the veil
of affected distress."
The conclusion of Belfont's address forcibly struck
Lord Bremere, who repeated the words "affected dis-
tress !" adding, with much surprise, " Are, then, your mis-
fortunes bred of the idle tattle of the town?"
"No, my lord," returned Belfont, " not from those con-
temptible beings, who eagerly busy themselves with every
body's affairs, while they neglect their own; and who are
only industrious in the propagation of scandal, but from
myself arose the tale of my distress. I invented it merely
to prove the sincerity of those protestations of eternal
friendship, which every, day the siren Flattery whispered
in my ear, and which, to speak the truth, were become
most intolerably disgusting. Among my female acquaint-
ance, (continued he) a lady on whom I looked with par-
tial eyes, and who, in fact, had made some faint impres-
sion on my heart, had the cruelty to smile at my distress;


cuhate's daughter.
5
but J thank her for her contempt; it has hroke asunder
those chains her beauty had forged to hold my heart in
bondage."
"And what does your lordship mean to make of this
discovery ?" enquired Bremere.
"My resolutions, Charles," returned Belfont, " and
your ideas, I will venture to say, are of an opposite na-
tare. You, perhaps, imagine that I shall return to the
fashionable world, refute the opintou it entertains of my
distress, and reproach it for its ingratitude V
"What else can you possibly propose V asked Bre-
mere.
"Convinced of your lordship's integrity," replied Bel-
font, " 1 shall not hesitate to repose in your breast the se-
cret of my resolves. The sudden death of my uncle (con-
tinued he) has given me an ample fortune, the enjoyments
of which, in the vulgar opinion of mankind, ensures the
constant possession of happiness. Alas! how mistaken
is such a notion! It is true, my every wish is gratified
but one. You smile, Charles, and already anticipate
that yet unaccomplished wish; yes, my friend, the society
of a virtuous female whose bosom is awake to the soft
touches of humanity, and who will not, to the offspring
of distress, refuse the tributary sigh of pity, nor from the
needy sufferer withhold the sacred boon of charity, is
what I am now in search oL In the higher circles of life
(added he) my pursuit has proved abortive, and, assum-
ing the appearance of the rustic cottager, I mean to seek
it in humbler scenes."
It was in vain that Lord Bremere endeavoured to dis-
suade his friend from his purpose. Belfont remained in-
flexible to his entreaties; and, having drawn from his
. friend a promise of inviolable secresy, they parted; Bre-
mere to the haunts of giddy fashion, Belfont to prepare
for his visit to those of rural felieity. »
After a short repast, Belfont, leaving directions with
the steward for the management of the family in his ab-'
sence, retired to rest; and, at an early hour, while the
sons of riot and dissipation were returning from their noc.
turnal revels, he left his splendid mansion, and, in the
humble garb of a peasant, with a few necessaries tied up
in a handkerchief, began his retreat from the metropolis.


6 BELFONT AND THE
His name and title were only known in Grosvenor-square -
at present, he contented himself with the less dignified
appellation of George Trueman, and all traces of Lord
Belfont were for a time vanished
Having continued his walk for near three hours, he
found himself somewhat fatigued, when an inn opportunely-
presentmg itself to view, afforded him an opportunity of
resting his weary limbs, and satisfymg the craving of na-
ture.- which exercise had rendered more than acute. The
obsequious host soon furnished him with an excellent
breakfast; which, having finished, he mounted the Nor-
wich stage, that had arrived during his repast, and, at the
close of day, found himself in that city.
Meanwhile, Bremere, mixing with the circle of Belfont's
late acquaintance, heard with silent indignation, the il-
liberal and unjust reflections that were cast on the sup.
posed misconduct of his friend.
The impertinent enquiries with which his ears were as-
sailed from all who knew him in the habits of friendship with
Belfont, were almost too much for his temper to bear with
composure; and he was often on the point of violating
the promise of secresy his friend had extorted from him,
to vindicate his character from the aspersions of slander.
Seated one evening in a box at Drury-lane theatre, he
was seen by Lady Caroline Blandish from the opposite
side of the house, who, without ceremony, immediately
came round to him. "So, my lord," said she, entering
the box, " what is become of your friend Belfont 1 Have
you seen him lately? How does he bear his misfortunes?
I am really sorry for the unfortunate youth."
"My friend," replied Bremere, " is infinitely obliged to
your ladyship for the concern you take in his distress."
"You know, my lord," returned Lady Caroline, " one
can't help being concerned for the distresses of those who
were of one's acquaintance. I profess (continued she>
the news of his ruin astonished me prodigiously; and I
assure you, I felt myself extremely hurt at it; for his
lordship had paid me much attention, and I began to think
I had made a conquest. It is, however, (added she) very
fortunate that the affair ended as it did; for you know, it
would have been a shocking thing to have involved one's
self in such difficulties."


curate's daughter.
7
-** Tnie, madam," replied Bremere, who, by her lady.
ship's discourse, found she was the person to whom
Betfont alluded as having attracted his particular no.
tice ; "but, after all, whatever diminution the fortune of
Lord Belfont has received, be assured it is still sufficient
to support the woman whom he shall honour with his
hand, in a style of elegance that mightsoothe the most ex-
tensive vanity!" And, without waiting her ladyship's reply
bowed, and wished her good night, disgusted with the af-
fected concern she expressed for his friend's imaginary
distress, which was but ill-calculated to conceal the ma-
levolence that rankled in her bosom.
Lady Caroline stood some minutes after Bremere's de-
parture in a fixed astonishment; she knew not what con-
struction to put upon his words; but, after a short consi-
deration, she concluded what he had said was only to
shelter his friend from the censure of the world, and to
enforce the opinion that his affairs were not so desperato
as they had been represented. With these ideas she re-
joined her company; and in discoursing on other topics,
Belfont and his misfortunes escaped her memory.
And now, gentle reader, let us banish from our thoughts
the giddy Lady Caroline, and attend the steps of Belfont,
whom, hereafter, if you please, unless it should be found
necessary to use his real name, we will distinguish' by that
of Trueman. Having spent a few days at Norwich, in
examining those objects most worthy of a traveler, he left
that city, and continued his excursion till he found himself,
for the first time, on his own estate, in the midst of his te-
nantry.
Totally unknown to his tenants, and equally so to his
steward, he had an opportunity of informing himself of the
oppression which the former bore, and the abuse which
the latter committed. It was near sun-set when he arrived
at a pleasant village on the borders of the sea, which con-
tained what is there called an inn. Here he took up his
quarters. Having deposited his bundle in the room where
he was to sleep, he repaired to the kitchen; and seating
himself among the rustics assembled over their evening
gotch of nog, joined in their discourse. . 1
The conversation chiefly turned on the transactions of
the viilago; and among a variety of anecdotes detailed



8
BELFONT AND THE
by the inhabitants, the recent misfortunes of their worthy-
curate most attracted the notice of Trueman. The inci-
dent dwelt strongly on his mind; and fatigued as he was
by his day's walk, he determined before he slept to make
himself acquainted with the narrative of a man whom his
parishioners spoke of in such high terms of approbation.
When the company retired, he invited the landlord to
partake of his beverage; who, being a communicative
sort of a person, and one who*had a considerable share
of humanity interwoven in his composition, readily com-
plied with Trueman's request to relate the misfortunes of
the worthy pastor.
"I will tell you, Sir," said he, "the story of Parson
Benley. You must know, Sir, that he is the curate of our
parish. The living, which is the gift of my Lord Belfont,
belongs to a clergyman, who lives in the west; and
though it brings him in a good three hundred pounds per
year, he gives his curate only forty pounds out of it. So
that, you see, the master gets two hundred and sixty
pounds for doing nothing, as one may say, while the ser-
vant, who does every thing, is obliged to be contented
with scarcely a seventh part of that sum; and, although
the good woman, his wife, brought him a large family,
he could never get an increase of salary. This made him
determine on taking a farm, which by the death of one of
his neighbours, became vacant. But I don't know how it
was, though he worked as hard as any day labourer in
the parish, and his wife was as industrious as a bee, they
could not, as the saying is, bring both ends together;
and, to make short of the matter, my lord's steward seized
on his stock, which, not being sufficient to pay all arrears,
the hard-hearted rascal clapt him into the county gaol."
"And his family?" asked Trueman, " what is become
of them?"
"His wife and four children," returned the landlord,
"three fine boys, from ten to thirteen years old, and a
daughter grown up, are in a cottage hard by, that belongs
to me. The overseer of the parish, who is a crabbed
sort of a fellow, and a friend of the steward, was for send-
ing them to the workhouse. But ' No,' says I, 'hold,
neighbour Bruin, while my roof can give them shelter,
and I can provide them with a meal to eke out the earn


curate's daughter. S
ings of their own industry,' and you must know, Sir, (said
he, with a significant nod,) I am pretty warm,' they shall
never endure the hardships of a prison! For what, (says
I,) is your workhouse bul a dungeon, where the poor
eat little, and labour hard?' But, Sir, (continued the
landlord) not only I, but the whole village was against
their going there ; and the inhabitants ail cheerfully spare
a little towards the family's support; nay, even the la-
bouring cottager, out of his hard earnings, throws in his
mite."
"And what," enquired Trueman, " is the amount of
the sum for which the unfortunate man is now confined V
"The whole debt," replied the landlord, " I am told, is ,
about three hundred pounds, a sum by much too large for
the inhabitants of our parish to raise without injuring
themselves; or, depend upon it, he would soon be snatch-
ed from the hard gripe of the law."
Every particular relating to this worthy man, Trueman
enquired with an earnestness that displayed the philan-
thropic sentiments of his mind, and intimated not merely
a wish, but a fixed determination, to rescue the indigent
sufferer from the horrors of a prison, and restore him
to his disconsolate family. Impressed with this gene-
rous sentiment, he retired to bed, meditating on the
means by which he might effect his laudable designs, so
as to give the least offence possible to the delicacy of suf.
{bring virtue, and conceal the hand that loosed the chains
of bondage, and gave once more to the drooping captive
the possession of liberty.
After proposing to himself many plans, he at length de-
termined to walk the next day to a post town, about three
miles ofT, and inclose notes to the amount of Mr. Benley's
debt in a letter to that gentleman.
In his return, he saw, at a short distance before him, a
female and a little boy. The youth carried a little basket,
which seemed too heavy for his feeble strength to support.
The female had, in each hand, an earthen jug; and hav-
ing out-walked her companion, had seated herself on a
stile, to wait his coming up. Trueman accosted the youth,
and offered to assist him in carrying the load; a proposal
which the youngster readily accepted; telling him at the


10
BELFONT AND THK
same time, that he had been to a neighbouring farmer for
cheese and butter; and that his sister, then waiting for
him at the stile, had gDt two jugs of milk for his brothers'
breakfasts, who were at home with his mother. "And
what is your name, my little fellow," said Trueman.
"Benley,(Sir," answered he, " and we live in yonder cot-
tage," pointing to a small house across the meadow.
Trueman, who longed for an introduction to the discon-
solate family of the poor but worthy curate, was highly
gratified with this piece of intelligence.
"Charlotte," said the boy, as they drew near the fe-
male, " here is a gentleman has kindly carried my basket
for me; and, as you complain the jugs are too heavy for
you, I dare say he will help )-ou."
"That I will most readily, and esteem myself obliged
in having permission so to do," said Trueman, placing the
basket on the earth, and bowing to Miss Bcnley.
"You are very kind, Sir," said Charlotte; "but I am
ashamed that Henry should have given you so much trou-
ble; he is an idle boy, or he would not thus have intruded
on your politeness."
"Call it not intrusion," returned Trueman, "the young
gentleman asked not my assistance, and my service is
voluntary."
The blushing Charlotte accepted, with reluctance, the
assistance of the gallant stranger, and permitted him to
attend her to her humble dwelling. Trueman, a stranger
to the undisguised charms of nature, viewed, with a joy
bordering on rapture, the personal accomplishments of hif<
fair companion. "And oh!" said he to himself, " should
she wear a mind pure and unstained as is her lovely form,
she were a treasure worth the proudest monarch's love."
The lovely maid, unconscious of her power to captivate,
received with unconcern the compliments which Trueman
paid to her beauty; and, impressed by his gallantry, an-
swered with polite indifference the questions of the ena-
moured youth.
With her eyes fixed on the ground, she saw not the
man with whom she conversed. Those features, which
beauty claimed her own, that form, where grace with ele-
gance was allied, met not the view of the sorrowing Char-


citrate's daughter.
11
lotte ; and, before he could impress his lovely auditor with
a favourable thought, the painful moment arrived when
he was to bid her adieu, or suffer the restraint which the
presence of her family would Jay him under.
Henry Benley, the youth to whom Trueman offered hia
assistance, eased of his burden, had reached home some
time before the arrival of his sister. Having informed his
movher of the stranger's civility, the good woman walked
to the wicket gate, that formed an entrance to the gardes,
to welcome her daughter's return ; and thanking True-
man for his politeness, invited him to partake of their
morning's refreshment, whioh he readily accepted.
"I am sorry," said the venerable matron, "that my
means and my inclination to make you welcome, are not
in unison with each other; but that which I have to give,
I give freely. There was a time," added she, with a sigh,
and stopped to wipe away the tear which reflection had
urged
I have heard of your misfortunes, madam," interrupt-
ed Trueman, "and I sincerely sympathise in your suffer-
ings; but do not (he continued) yield to despair. The
hand which inflicts distress can also bestow happiness;
and though the pitiless storm of stern Adversity to-day
bears hard and heavy on our defenceless roof, to-morrow
Prosperity's cheering sun may raise our sinking hopes,
and repair the ravages of the ruthless blast."
Here the discourse was interrupted by the arrival of
breakfast, which Charlotte had prepared. Mrs. Benley,
however, could not help noticing the remark and the lan-
guage of her guest, which she seemed not to expect from
a person in the habit of a peasant. Trueman found that
he had excited surprise; and, as soon as their repast was
over, in a few words, gave a feigned story of his life;
concluding with his intention to reside a few months in the
village, and requesting permission to visit her. . Mrs.
Benley assured him, that the society of a man possessing
such sentiments as he had expressed, would always be to
her acceptable; and, with a promise to renew his visit
on the morrow, he took his leave. Mrs. Benley and
her lovely daughter in the mean time, could not avoid
making their observations on the strangeness of the visit,
and the visitor; while he congratulated himself on tho


12
BELFONT AND THE
completion of his wish for an introduction to the amiable
family.
The voluntary contributions of the surrounding pea-
santrv, that so amply supplied the wants and necessities
of Mrs. Benley and her family, were not confined to the
narrow limits of this obscure village: the venerable pas-
tor, in the gloomy confines of a prison, tasted the grate-
ful bounty; and the sorrows of the unfortunate captive
found alleviation in the affectionate concern of his parishi-
oners. Not a week passed but some one of the village
attended the market; and none ever entered the gates of
the city without paying a visit to Mr. Benley.
It was on one of these market days that Farmer Wel-
ford, having disposed of his samples of corn to a pur-
chaser, waited on the good old man. He found him in a
small room, remote from the thoughtless herd of debtors,
who sought to bury their cares in riot and dissipation, in.
duligng the religious habits of his mind, and pursuing his
pious meditations. The appearance of any of his parishio-
ners was a cordial to the drooping spirits of Mr. Benley.
He received them with undissembled pleasure. His anx-
ieties, his griefs, though not forgotten, were suppressed,
while conversing with his friends; but at the moment of
separation they returned with increased poignancy; and
it required the utmost efforts of his mind to support the
painful—" Adieu."
"Eternal God!" exclaimed the weeping father, "must
I no more enjoy the sweets of liberty 1 Shall I no more
behold my humble cot 1 And must those shrubs, those
flowers, which Art has taught to twine around my lattice,
unfold to some stranger's eye their fragrant bosoms 1
Must I no more, at close of day—the fond partner of my
bosom leaning on my arm, the sweet pledges of our mu-
tual love in playful fondness attending our steps—must I
no more, at this sweet hour, along the deepening vale ex-
tend my rural walk, attentive to the song of the thrush,
or the happy milkmaid's artless ditty 1 Must I no more,
on the brow of some beech-crowned hill, my station take,
to view the stately vessel scud before the breeze 1 or down
the sloping cliff urge my peaceful way; and on the sea
shore, pensive listen to the lashing waves, and mark the
frothy surge's due retreat? No! these joys are vanished;


curate's daughter. 13
happiness flies my void embrace; and misery and want
press hard on my declining years. These were the pleasures
which faithless Fortune once bestowed. How changed the
scene! Here, when i\ight her sable mantle o'er the face
of Heaven begins to spread, nothing is heard but the dis-
mal rattling of chains; doors of massy iron, grating on
their hinges, appal the timid soul; while horrid oaths,
and dreadful imprecations, wound the listening ear! O
Welford! my soul sickens at the scene; and philosophy
scarce can shield my mind from the dreadful horrors of
despair."
At this moment the gaoler entered the room, with a
- letter for Mr. Benley. "The hand is unknown to me,"
said he, looking at the superscription. "It has a goodly
outside," said the gaoler, "pray Heaven it proves not like
the world, fair without, and foul within."
"Why truly, friend," returned Mr. Benley, "your sa-
tire upon the manners of mankind is not unreasonable.
It is, I fear, the maxim of too many of the present age to
conceal the depravity of the heart beneath the specious
appearance of honesty. This, however," continued he,
breaking the seal, " I think bodes no harm; I will, there-
fore, inform myself of its contents."
Here sat the reverend father, with placid countenance
and mind serene, prepared to meet, with complacency,
the smiles of fortune, or to combat, with success, the
frowns of adversity. Near him stood the gaoler, whom
nature had cast in too soft a mould for his iron-hearted
profession; and on his right hand was seated the honest
farmer. In the countenance of these, Hope's dawning
smile was sweetly contrasted with the dusky frown of
trembling Fear. Now Hope shot forth her brightening
beam; now Fear veiled, with her murky cloud, the gilded
prospect; and each, by turns, the balance swayed.
At length, Mr. Benley, raising his eyes from the letter,
ended their suspense. "It is well, my friends," said he,
"goodness is still extant, and innocence enjoys the guar-
dian care of Providence. The contents of this letter will
best explain my meaning.
"To the .Rev. J. Benley, at the Castle of Norwich.
"Reverend Sir,
"The inclosed notes, which I find, on enquiry, will cover the
whole of your debts, wait your acceptance. They are the gift of one on
9.


14
BELFONT AND THE
v> horn Fortune has bestowed more than he can claim on the score of desert';
and who anxiously hopes, while it restores to you those most enviable
blessings, Liberty and Domestic Happiness, hs has left no clue by which
a discovery of the donor can be effected."
Here the gaoler broke out in a swearing fit of joy; the
farmers whose emotions were too violent for utterance,
could only express his pleasure by his looks; while the
grateful pastor threw himself on his knees, and, in a fer-
vent pathetic address to the Giver of all Goodness, poured
forth the grateful transports of his soul.
While the bounty of the generous Trueman was thus
employed in releasing the worthy curate from the horrors
of a prison, he himself was no less assiduous in soothing,
by every act of benevolence and hospitality, the anxiety
of the family at home. His urbanity and complacence
had already obtained him the good opinion of Mrs. Benley;
and the amiable Charlotte began to view him with a sis-
terly regard. If the graces of his person pleased her eye,
his generosity of sentiment, and nobleness of soul, ex-
cited her admiration and esteem. Trueman cultivated her
good opinion with an anxious solicitude, that bespok* her
dear to his heart; and he had the happiness to know that
he was not indifferent to the object of his love.
With the assistance of his communicative landlord, he
was become acquainted with every transaction that had
occurred in the village for at least twenty years back;
and from the same source he had the painful information
of innumerable abuses which his faithless steward had
committed on his industrious tenantry; all of which he
determined speedily to redress, and to punish with seve-
rity their ungrateful author. On this subject were his
thoughts employed in one of his evening walks, when he
was roused from his meditations by the sudden exclama-
tion of a female voice; and raising his eyes, beheld, on
the opposite side of the hedge, the fair object of his afTec
tions endeavouring to avoid the importunities of a gentle-
man, who was pursuing her.
"Stay, lovely Charlotte," said the stranger: "Why,
my fair enslaver, do you fly me thus 7"
"Why, Sir," returned the affrighted girl, "are you so
importunate 1"
"Because," answered he, "I wish to remove the cloud
o/ sorrow that hangs on your brow. In short, because I


curate's daughter.
15
love you. Who could behold beauty such as your's, and
live a stranger to affection?"
"Affection!" returned the lovely girl, while the glow
of honest indignation increased the vermillion of her
cheeks; "view your recent conduct to my father, then
say if affection bore a leading feature there?"
"On honourable terms," said he, " I sought your hand,
which you in scorn refused. Had then your father laid
on you his commands, and forced you to be mine, he had
escaped my just resentment."
"My choice was free, Sir," said the indignant maid,
"and perhaps it was my nature's fault I could not love
you. But excuse my abruptness (added she, withdrawing
from her persecutor,) should we be seen thus discoursing,
the discovery would not add to my reputation."
"This contempt, child, is very pretty," said the un-
feeling monster: then, rudely snatching the struggling
beauty to his loathed embrace, impressed on her lovely
lips the guilty purpose of his passion. At that instant, rage
and indignation fired the soul of Trueman, who, darting
through the hedge, seized the rude ravisher by the throat,
and hurled him to the ground. "Detested monster,"
cried the enraged youth, " I know thee well. Thou art
the faithless steward of the mis-used Belfont. Already
has thy fame reached thy master's ears; nor think, vile
ingrate, that he will suffer thy villanies to escape with
impunity." Then, taking the almost fainting Charlotte
by the hand, he hastened from this fallen Lucifer, leaving
him to the torment of his guilty thoughts, and in utter as-
onishment at the mysterious words.
The fluttered spirits of the amiable Charlotte hardly
supported her from the presence of her base assailant, be-
fore she sunk lifeless in the arms of her deliverer; who,
urged by fear, placed her on a bank, and ran for water
to a neighbouring rivulet, and besprinkled her face with
the cooling drops. Soon, to his wishes, she unclosed her
lovely eyes ; and, fanned by the gentle breezes, recovered
from the state of transitory death. "You tremble still,
my dear Charlotte," said the enamoured youth, "and by
your disordered looks, seem to doubt your safety."
« O no!" faintly answered the grateful fair, "where
Trueman is, suspicion can have no dwelling."


16
BBLFONT AND THE
"Enchanting sweetness," exclaimed the enraptured
lover, catching her hand and carrying it to his lips. "Oh!
my lovely Charlotte, never till this hour of danger did I
know how dear an interest in my heart you held. Would
my sweet girl but kindly listen to my artless tale, would
she but give my ardent passion one approving smile"
"Alas!" interrupted Charlotte, rising from her seat,
"I have no smiles to give. On any other subject I will
hear you ; but till again my father breathes the air of free-
dom, till from the chains of bondage he is freed, I have
forsworn all joy."
"Till that blessed period," said Trueman, " when for-
tune shall cease to persecute thy venerable sire, and give
the captive to his weeping friends, my passion in conceal-
ment's painful bosom shall dwell immured, if then thou
wilt give my artless tale attention. This only do, I ask:
grant me but this, and hope, like a fond parent, shall
nurture my love, and lull to rest each intrusive care.'*
"Then, by my hopes of bliss hereafter," said the lovely
maid, " I vow when that happy hour arrives, I will not
chide thy fondness. But tell me, if- you know, what
means this sudden joy that through the village reigns?
How sweetly sound the merry bells, while every breeze
from yon shouting throng wafts the breath of pleasure."
M And see," said Trueman, " where to my Charlotte's
cottage they bend their steps; it is, methinks, no vulgar
cause that swells this loud acclaim; but see your- brother
comes, the harbinger to happiness."
"Oh, Charlotte !" said Harry, as he drew near them,
"our dear father is come home again. Farmer Welford
brought the news that he was on the road, and the whole
village went to meet him; they took the horses from
the chaise, and dragged him to our cottage. My mother
cries for joy, and sent me to seek after you. Make haste,
my dear sister, my father longs to see you. And do you,
Mr. Trueman, come too; my mother has told him what
a kind friend you have been. I wiii run back, and say
you are coming."
"Now, now, my Charlotte," said Trueman, "indulge
this flood of joy, nor check the soft emotions of the soul.
These tears become thee, which, like the fleeting shower


cueate's daughter. 17
that bates the summer's day, gives fresh lustre to the
charms of nature."
"Is that which I have heard, derived from truth V ask-
ed the astonished Charlotte: "or is it but the dream of
fancy? My father released from prison? By whom V
"Why," said Trueman, " should you question whence
the gracious bounty came? It is sufficient that he is re-
turned. Think, my dear Charlotte, the measure of his
bliss incomplete, till in his paternal embrace he folds thy
lovely form. Hasten, then, to increase and share his
merited happiness." Then folding her arm in his, he hur-
ried towards her dwelling.
Mr. Benley, at the moment of their approach, was
seated at the door of the cottage, surrounded by many of
his parishioners, when Charlotte, breaking from Trueman,
rushed into her father's arms, exclaiming, " My dear,
dear, dear father!" The enraptured parent mingled the
tears of fond affection with those of filial gratitude, and
every countenance beamed with smiles of joy. Nor was
the welcome of the worthy Trueman wanting in cordiality;
but when the lovely Charlotte related her rescue from the
hated Sandford, the murmur of applause fell from every
tongue, while the grateful father strained the gallant
stranger to his heart by the endearing name of son.
The return of the worthy pastor to his mourning flock
was celebrated by them as a sort of jubilee. Every one
strove to excel his neighbour in acts of courtesy. Stores
of viands were conveyed from all parts of the village ; and
while, by the pale light of the moon, gay youth led up the
merry dance, cheerful age sat and quaffed the nut-brown
ale, talked over the feats of former days, and in thought
again grew young.
Charlotte, the lovely Charlotte, no more a prey to grief,
ho more the victim of despair, listened to the impassioned
breath of love. The gallant Trueman forgot not to claim,
nor did the blushing maid refuse, the promise she had
made; and before "the hour of parting came, her tongue
confirmed the passion which her eyes revealed.
Every transaction that had occurred since Lord Bel-
font's arriyal in the village he had transmitted to his friend
Bremere; and, on confirmation of the oppression which
his steward had exercised upon his tenants, inclosed the


l8 BELFONT AND TIIE
discharge of that unfeeling wretch, with an order to deli-
ver his accounts to Mr. Benley, whom he appointed his
successor. A letter, announcing to this gentleman his
appointment, also accompanied the packet, which Bre-
mere duly forwarded from London in the manner his
friend had directed. By this time, Bremere, on the per-
mission of Belfont, who now intended to assume his real
name and character, had refuted the opinion which had
been entertained of the derangement of his lordship's
finances. The whole was declared to be a feint; and no
one was more affected at this unexpected discovery than
Lady Caroline Blandish, the former object of Belfont's
regard.
The sensations of Sandford on reading his lordship's
letter, were such as are familiar only to the guilty mind.
In addition to his inhuman treatment of the worthy curate,
and libidinous designs on the honour of his child, he had
been guilty of the most barefaced acts of fraud on his
employer; and, conscious that he had wasted the pro-
perty of another man in extending his own ambitious
prospects of greatness, the conflict became too painful
for him to bear. The perturbation of his mind brought
on a violent fever, which, as he refused every medical
assistance, soon terminated his miserable existence.
Far different were the feelings of Mr. Benley on the
perusal of this epistle. That which the ambitious Sand-
ford lost by pride, he by humility had acquired. The
salary annexed to the office of steward amounted to three
hundred pounds a year, an acquisition which Mr. Benley
as little expected as his release from prison. "How va-
riegated," exclaimed he, " is the life of man! his morn
of infancy rises immersed in clouds, and the lowering tem-
pest carries ruin in its aspect. Anon, the friendly breeze
of Fortune disperses the threatening storm; Prosperity's
golden sun sheds forth its cheering rays, enervates the
chilling blasts of bleak Adversity, and decks the evening
of his days in smiles of joy."
"And oft the ministers of Fate reverse the pleasing
scene," said Trueman, who had entered the cottage un-
observed, while Mr. Benley was speaking.
"You come very opportunely, my dear Sir," said Mr.
Benley, "to share the pleasure which our new acquired


curate's daughter.
19
fortune gives." And, after havmg informed Trueman of
the contents of the letter (which himself had written) said
he had discovered the bounteous hand.
"To-morrow," said Mr. Benley, " we purpose leaving
this humble dwelling, and once more take possession of
our former mansion, where I hope, my dear friend, we
dhall enjoy the pleasure of your company."
"You do me infinite honour, Sir," said Trueman,
"and I will study to deserve your favour. But where is
Miss Benley, Sir?"
"I believe you will find her in the garden," replied
Mr. Benley.
Trueman walked to the bottom of the garden, and
found his lovely Charlotte seated in a bower of osiers,
which herself had reared. His approach roused the
weeping maid; she started from her seat, hurried a letter
into her pocket, and, with a wildness in her air, darted
an angry look at the astonished youth.
"Why, my lovely Charlotte!" said he, alarmed at her
strangeness, " why do you thus angrily fix on me those
streaming eyes?"
"Answer me faithfully," said she, " art thou what thou
seemest? or, beneath that mean attire dost thou not hide
Ha '. my fears are true! the blush of guilt has crim.
soned o'er thy face, and that confused air, that sudden
.-start, proclaim thee false.?"
"Tell me," said Trueman, recovering himself, "the
grounds on which you have raised this unkind suspicion
of my honour?"
"This will inform you, Sir," replied Miss Benley,
drawing from her bosom a paper. "' A friend of Miss
Benley advises her to be on her guard. Trueman is not
what he seems; but, beneath the appearance of rustic
honesty, harbours designs destructive of her peace and
honour.' Now, Sir, what can you plead to this charge I"
asked the suspicious maid.
"Miss Benley," said Trueman, in a firm and animated
tone, " to the charge here preferred against me, that I
am not what I seem, I plead guilty: but to the rest, with
all my soul, I pronounce it a base falsehood, which, at
the peril of my life, I will prove to its author, if ever for.
tune shall make the traitor known."


10 BELFONT AND THE
"Less warmth, methinks, Sir," said the angry maid,
"will better serve the cause of truth."
"Less warmth, madam," returned Trueman, "would
confirm me the guilty wretch your hard thoughts and this
vile scroll have made me. But tell me, Charlotte, if I
can repel, by truth indubitahle, this unjust arraignment
of rhy honour, what reward may I expect f
« Oh !" said the half-relenting girl, "clear but thyself
of these gross suspicions with which I do confess my mind
is filled ; appear but the man my fond wishes have formed
thee; and, though fortune, while she raised me to the
giddy heights of greatness, should sink thee to the lowest
ebb of poverty, I would still reject the crowned monarch's
hand, to share thy honest love!"
"Then dismiss thy fears," said the enraptured lover,
"and know, that he who thus thus throws himself at thy
feet, a willing slave, is the happy Belfont."
"Lord Belfont!" exclaimed the astonished Charlotte.
"Yes, my dear girl," he returned, "the rich, the
happy Belfont, lives the vassal of your power. In the
haunts of titled grandeur, amid th,e sumptuous domes of
greatness, I sought for beauty, wdrth, and honour; for
pure, disinterested love; but fruitless was my search. In
the calm sequestered shades of human life, in the person
of my lovely Charlotte, I have found them; nor would I,
for all else beneath the canopy of heaven, forego the en-
vied prize. But tell me, lovely girl," continued he, " from
what envious hand didst thou receive this vile defamer of
my truth V
"Last night, when dancing on the green," replied Miss
Benley, " a letter fell from your pocket. I took it up
unobserved, and after the company retired, perused its
contents; from these I learned that you were in disguise."
"And the rest," replied Belfont," your fears supplied?"
"Even so, my lord," in soft confusion, replied the
lovely maid.
"Then truly," said Belfont," you had reason for suspi-
cion. But come, my lovely bride, for such I may now
call you," continued his lordship, " let us disclose our mu-
tual passion to your parents. Their approbation gained,'
we then will name the happy day."
The yielding fair one gave him her hand, and he led


ctjkate's daughter.
21
her to the cottage, where he found Mr. Benley on the
point of going out. "May I entreat a moment's conver-
sation before you leave us, Sir?" asked his lordship.
"Aye, my good Sir, an hour's if you please," replied
Mr. Benley.
"Thus it is, Sir," said Belfont, "your daughter has
beauty, worth, and innocence. To say I barely love her
falls far short of the measure of my affection. I sought,
I gained a fond regard; and it is now our mutual wish,
with your consent, to exchange at the altar our holy
vows, and sign a contract of eternal love."
"How say you, Charlotte V asked Mr. Benley: "in
this does Mr. Trueman speak the wishes of your heart 1"
"He has my free consent, Sir, to what he how pro-
poses," answered the blushing maid.
"The request is somewhat sudden," resumed Mr. Ben-
ley; "it is true I have found you worthy, and your me-
rit well deserves the treasure which it seeks; but a ten-
der regard for the happiness of my child forbids me to
give a too precipitate answer; and some little enquiry,
methinks, is necessary to—"
"True," interrupted Belfont, " it is a matter that re-
quires me most serious consideration; and the reluctance
which you feel to decide this important request, gives ad-
ditional worth to your character. An incident (continued
his jorashio) has revealed to the fair object of my wishea
(or I should nave worn the mask a few days ionger) that
he who sought to win her love was not the lowly peasant
he appeared. With angry voice she questioned my fide-
lity, and charged me, Heaven knows how wrongfully, with
meditating designs against her honour. To repel this un-
just suspicion of the purest Dassion that ever warmed the
breast of man 1 thiew ttsule disguise, and confessed
myself the happy Belfont"
"Your lordship does noi mean to sport with our mis-
fortunes 7" said the astonished parent.
"No, on my honour!" replied his lordship; "that
which I have proposed, it is my most ardent wish should
be accomplished."
"Then take her, my lord," said Mr. Benley, presenting
to him his daughter's hand; "and may she prove deserv.
in<r of your love."


22
BELFONT, ETC.
"Thanks! a thousand thanks !" returned the grateful
youth, " for the precious gift. And now, Sir, by your
leave, we will again assemble our rustic friends, and
spend the night in merriment; and, to-morrow, yes, if my
Charlotte will indulge the fond request, to-morrow's sun
shall light us to the bridal bed!"
The lovely maid smiled consent, and Mr. Benley has-
tened to the village, where the joyful tidings soon spread'.
The tenants flew with cheerful haste to pay their duty to
their illustrious landlord, and none refused the invitation
of his lordship.
"Joy reigned, and Pleasure lit the smiling scene."
The dance, the song, the catch, and mellow ale went
round; while time flew swiftly on, and night, almost un-
observed, resigned her sable reign. The ruddy mora
peeped over the misty mountain's top, and the gainsh sun,
with more than usual brightness, rose to grace the nup-
tials of the happy pair. Transplanted from the vale of
human life into the gay parterre pf stately grandeur, the
virtues of the beauteous Charlotte in all their native splen-
dour shone. The enamoured Belfont, each returning day,
found in his lovely consort new beauties to admire . while
a numerous offspring, emblems of the race from whence
they sprung, heightened the pleasures of the marriage
state, and filled the measure of their earthly bliss.


THE FATAL SCARF.
O thou tyrant!
Doit not repent those things: for they are heavier
Than all thy woes can stir? therefore betako thee
To nothing but-despair. A thousand knees.
Ten years tegetlier, naked, fasting,
Upon a barren mounta'n, and stiil winter
In storm perpetual, could not more the gods
To look that way thou wert.
winter a *4M.
The following story was handed down to me er^
experience had taught me to receive it as a mere in-
vention. The powerful emotions it once excited in my
mind, have never entirely subsided. I have sometimes
imagined sentences in the Legend of Cuth-Ionor har-
monized by the harp, and breathing the language of
Ossian.
Alone, on the stormy heights of almost inaccessible
steeps, and surrounded by a roaring flood of white-
foaming water, whose source was derived from the fa-
thomless depths of ocean, stood, awfully terrible in
their dignity, the immense battlements of Cuth-Ionor.
Time, which eventually destroys all things, seemed
to combat vainly with those turrets, and as vainly at-
tempted to fix the origin of their masters, who were
said to have descended from a race of giants. What
common hands could have raised on such an eminence
a pile go ponderous and mighty! Since that era, Scot-


THE FATAL SCAKF.

Jand's hardier chiefs have fallen into obscurity, and her
more savage ones into almost utter oblivion. Fancy
only is capable of filling the outline left by the imper-
fect hand of tradition, and to fashion the nature of
their manners and their existence.
Fin Dalian, the lord of Aden Mader, called early for
his steed, and, as the neighing courser, foaming,
champed his iron mouthings beneath the sturdy sub-
jections of the groom, who led him to and fro in the
almost dark avenue of the castle, the chieftain took
from an oak cabinet a scarf, which he had brought
from the late battle, where, though Fin Dalian was
proclaimed victor, Cuth-Ionor, his friend and compa-
nion, it was believed, had perished. There were spots
of blood upon that scarf, the marks of a dying hand.
Fin Dalian observed that they had sunk from their ori-
ginal crimson into a darker shade; the colour for a
moment left his cheek; in an instant it returned with
double force to his brow, his eye flashed with a look
of horrible exultation, and, throwing the golden broi-
dery across his shoulder, he hurried from the cham-
ber, and haughtily mounting his steed, issued proudly
from the portal. The husbandman, as Fin Dalian
rode slowly along the valley, left suddenly his employ-
ment to pay his obeisance to the chief; but Fin Dalian
was either too imperious, or too absorbed in his own
reflections, to return the attention with the polite cour-
tesy shewn by chiefs to their dependents in those days.
Fin Dalian was young and handsome. He was of
tall stature; noble and commanding in his person,
there was a degree of manly beauty in his looks; but,
while we drew near to admire the harmony of his fea-
tures, we started almost dismayed from the contemptu-
ous turn of his curled lip, and the sarcastic fife of his
dark, soul-investigating eye. His family had for seve-
ral centuries sought an alliance with the virtuous house
of Cuth-Ionor; but the daughters of that clan recoiled
from the fierceness of the Fin Dallans, whose earlier
name had been stained with ambitious crimes—>*vith


THL fatal scarf.
7
blood, only to be wiped away by some heavy and severe
enance, which the Fin-Dallans, up to the present heir,
ad neglected to adopt.
The last young Cuth-Ionor had become the intimate
friend of the present Fin-Dalian; he had also proved
a warm advocate in his behalf with the beautiful Cuth-
Ilvena, his only sister: but, as the rose twines un-
couthly with the rough fdliage of the pine, so ill was
assorted the hand of Fin-Dalian for the soft and gentle
maid of Ionor. She esteemed the chief as a guest—as
the friend of her brother, but the tearful moment of
decision confessed, that her heart could never become
Fin-Dalian's. The result of that conference being
made known to him, he covered his features with a
smile. His wished-for union was rather the impulse
of obstinacy then affection. He secretly swore to
wreak a dreadful revenge; he swore to accomplish it,
and he did so.
If It had been the ambition of the Fin-Dallans to
unite themselves with the Cuth-Ionors, it now became
that of the present lord to perfect at one master-stroke
the whole aim of his forefathers' ineffectual efforts.
Power to overcome, as a public and declared enemy,
the might of Cuth-Ionor, he had not; but he wrought
in the dark recesses of his soul a resolve, black and
eruel as his own unholy purpose.
The border chieftains were at war: and the better
to support their own followers, made frequent incur-
sions back on their neighbours, penetrating even as far
as Aden-Mader, the result of which seemed likely to
leave behind it a lamentable desolation. The claymore
of Cufh-kmor, though his own territories remained
impregnable, was ready to assist the cause, and defend
the rights, of his pretended friend. ,
Ilvena stood pensively at the extremity of a minor
turret, forming a base angle of her brother's mansion,
as the little band arranged itself to depart. Her hand-
maids were with her, but she stood alone and abstracted
among them. That morning Ilvena refused to wear,
as was her custom, the flowers of her native hills brai-
bS


THE FATAL SCARF.
9
Dalian, in the hour of danger, in the moment of anni-
hilation, remember you desert not the side of Cuth-
Ionor . and you, my brother, while you trust your own
life adventurously, too adventurously perhaps, remem-
ber that Ilvena has no earthly protector but her bro-
ther.' With these words, without a tear, though many
wept that marked the woeful paleness of her looks, she
turned to one of her maidens, and taking from her an
embroidered scarf, placed it in the care of Cutb-Ionor.
He instantly hung it across his armour, and receiving
her extended hand, pressed it once again affectionately
to his lips. Ilvena uttered not a word, but pointed to
the scarf, on which was embroidered her own name,
* Ilvena.' Each understood the meaning of her silent
admonition. The tears were forcing themselves into
Cuth-Ionor's eyes, and he spurred on his courser in
order to conceal his agitation. Fin-Dalian laid his hand
on his breast to Ilvena, as the band moved on; her's
were already crossed upon her own bosom, and, un-
mindful of the chief's appeal. she continued to invoke
the assistance and protection ol Heaven, till even the
sound of the war-march was lost in distance or drown-
ed in the roar of the neighbouring torrent, -
Our adventurers continued their route till noon, and
then halted in a glen not far from the encampment of
the aggressors. The attack, though not till evening,
was sudden, and victory seemed already to declare it-
self in favour of Fin-Dalian, when an arrow from some
near and well-directed hand, pierced the breast of Cuth-
Ionor. The warrior fell, his foot caught in the trappings
of his steed, in which manner he was dragged by the
affrighted animal into a wood at a considerable distance
from the field, where he sunk on the earth bleeding.
Fin-Dalian, true to the injunction of Ilvena, was indeed
by the side of the unfortunate Cuth-Ionor, and, seeing
him about to breathe his last, he endeavoured to force
from-his shoulders the scarf given by Ilvena at parting.
Cuth-Ionor opened his eyes, 'Fin Dalian,' said he, in
accents weakened by loss of blood, 'I am not dead;
desert me not, support me to some place of shelcer,


10 THE FATAL SCARF.
where I may find means to staunch the wound in my
side.'
'Fool!' reiterated Fin Dalian, scornfully, * think
not Fin Dalian cares to preserve the hated existence of
a Cuth-lonor! die, last of a proud race, while Fin
Dalian, with the intelligence of your death, returns to
tyrannise over your demesnes, and the high heart of
your insolent sister.' With these words, throwing Ionor
from his arm, the remorseles assassin again proceeded
to rend oifthe scarf. Ionor's countenance changed;
his lips became deadly pale; his heart beat cold and
heavily.
'Fin Dalian !' exclaimed he,t is it indeed you? is it
.the voice of my friend that imparts such horrible words!
in mercy, Fin Dalian, do not—you cannot, leave me to
perish;' and with ineffectual grasp be held the scarf,
which Fin Dalian easily succeeded in dragging from
him.
The moon was rising, and, as its pale light fell upon
the tall armoured figure of Fin Dalian, it gave him the
appearance of a fiend watching over the last moments
of a condemned soul; for, as Cuth-lonor, with a buret
of anguish, sunk apparently lifeless at his feet, the as-
sassin seemed lingeringly to await the last convulsion.
Cuth-lonor had ceased to speak. Fin Dalian, in order
to assure himself that he was no more, placed his hand
upon his heart, and perceiving no symptom of return-
ing animation, threw Ilvena's scarf over his own shoul-
der, and hurrying to his steed, pursued the nearest
path which led to Aden Mader.
Ilvena had already been made acquainted by Fin-
Dalian' s courier with her brother's death; and, in
order to renew the commencement of our narrative,
we must return to Fin Dalian on his journey to Cuth-
lonor with the fatal scarf. In deep mourning, he
presented himself at the castle. Ilvena being apprised
of the chief's arrival, almost rushed into his presence;
her heart seemed to assure her that Fin Dalian would
bring tidings from the grave of her brother: at least
he would impart to her the dying accents of his


THE FATAL SCARP.
11
lips—the last wish that escaped from his affectionate
breast.
Any one bat Fin Dalian might have been moved by
the forlorn and altered looks of Ilvena; but, cold and
relentless as marble, the arch hypocrite gazed upon
the unconscious being his own guilty hand seemed to
have rendered desolate.
Ilvena, unable to support the emotion excited in her
mind by the presence of the very man, who so short a
time since she had been taught by her brother to
respect and esteem, wept bitterly. Fin Dalian was
not displeased to find that the bosom of Ilvena was
awake to the liveliest agitation; he was glad that her
grief appeared likely to dissolve itself in tears, and look-
ed forward to the moment when his protection and his
hand should become but too welcome. He took the
scarf of Cuth-Ionor from his bosom, and presenting it
to Ilvena with an air of well-feigned sorrow, 'Lady,'
said he, ' receive from my hands the last token of an
expiring brother's regard, who besought me, with his
closing breath, to bear it to Ilvena, as a pledge, that
dying, he remembered her; 'tell her too, Fin-Dalian,'
said he, ' that it was his wish'
Ilvena could hear no more; for as her eye rested on
the impression of the bloody hand in the scarf, with a
scream of horror, she fell senseless into the arms of
her attendants. The bloodstained evidences of Fin
Dalian's guilt, as it sunk expanded on the floor before
him, seemed to offer a reproach for its master; and
even Fin Dalian felt an embarrasment in his mind,
while he silently gazed upon it. At length, as Ilvena
slowly recovered,' take that scarf,' he exclaimed, to
one of the attendants, 'the last relic of a Cuth-Ionor,
and hang it on the tomb of his ancestors.' The old
man wept as he respectfully took up the scarf, and
Ilvena waved her hand in mournful acquiescence.
Already Fin Dalian looked upon himself as the
future lord of Cuth Ionor, and flattered himself with
the idea that Ilvena was his devoted victim. Under
this impression, he conceived it would be politic to


It
THE FATAL SCARF.
implant in Ilvena's mind the supposition, that Cuth-
Ionor's dying lips had bequeathed her to him: the
moment of regret was the one most auspicious to his
hopes; and taking Ilvena's hand, 'Lady,' he conti-
nued, 'it is the painful duty of Fin Dalian, the rejected,
despised Fin Dalian, to say that your brother, with his
ebbing life, bequeathed to him a treasure, richer in his
estimation, than those wide domains: that treasure, I
speak it now, lady, now, while the recollection of my
departed friend pleads most urgently in my behalf, that
treasure was his sister.'
llvena shuddered convulsively; a sudden light rush-
ed upon her bewildered mind, and, almost with a look
of scorn, she gazed upon Fin-Dalian. 'Merciful
God!' she articulated, ' Cuth-Ionor, perhaps, for my
sake 'and, with a dead pause she again wildly in-
vestigated on the darkening features of Fin-Dalian.
* llvena!' exclaimed he, 'Was this a time, Fin-
Dalian?' shuddered she, extricating her hand from his
grasp, and haughtily turning away; • leave me, you
forget that I am still a Cuth-Ionor.'
• In the eye of Heaven,' said he, 'you are now a
Fin-Dalian.'
'Lord Fin-Dalian!' resumed llvena, solemnly,
'Cuth-Ionor fell with you—God grant he fell not by
you!'
'Woman!' cried the chieftain, furiously laying his
hand on his claymore, as llvena retreated a few steps;
and one or two of the vassals who, alarmed by their
mistress's screams, had entered the apartment, prepar-
ed to defend her, 'had a warrior dared to utter this,
my claymore should instantly have pierced his heart;
O cruel, hlack injustice! Fin-Dalian accused of a
crime, at which humanity shudders—llvena, llvena!'
and he hastened towards the astonished group with the
impetuosity of a maniac. At that instant the folding-
doors of the apartment flew open, and, leaning on the
arm of a stranger, Cuth-Ionor himself entered.
Astonishment, for a moment, suspended every facul-
ty; at length, with a burst of joy, llvena flew into the
extended arms of her brother-


THE FATAL SCARF.
IS
Pin-Dalian attempted to speak, but Cuth-lonoi point-
ed haughtily to the doort Fin-Dalian bit his lips in
malice—his hand involuntarily rested upon his dagger;
a dreadful thought came across him, and he departed.
The stranger who arrived with Cuth-Ionor, the pre-
server of his life, was the youngest son of a Border
Chieftain, who had witnessed the circumstance of lo-
nor's steed dragging him into the forest, and immediate-
ly after the contest was decided, the youth lost no time
in seeking for the unfortunate rider. Fin-Dalian had
been gone only a few minutes, when Comalvin reached
the spot on which Cuth-lonor was slowly recovering
from his swoon; he raised the bleeding warrior in his
arms, and, after binding up his wound with a bandage
torn from_ his own raiment, succeeded in supporting
him to the cabin of a woodcutter, and from thence, by
means of a litter, saw him safely conveyed to his own
castle.
From the violent conflict of his mental and bodily
faculties, Lord Cuth-Ionor was for some time confined
to his couch: during which period, Comalvin seldom
deserted his pillow, but with most assiduous care watch-
ed the dawnings of health as they slowly returned to
his cheek. Perhaps Comalvin had a secondary fascina-
tion to that of benevolence, the frequent society of the
beautiful Ilvena; nor was Ilvena insensible to the worth
and virtues of Comalvin.
Winter had"set in, and Comalvin was still the wel-
come guest of Ionor. The night was cold and stormy,
and the heavy flakes of snow glistening on the moon-
beams, hung about the suspended progress of vegeta-
tion, like the shroud of nature. Cuth-Ionor and his
family were assembling round a fire of blazing faggot-
*wood in the hall, and Ilvena, at the request of Comal-
vin, had taken up her harp in order to beguile away the
lingering hours. The rich tones of the instrument, as
they echoed through the vaulted roof of the place,
seemed to return a melancholy sound like that which
knells the departed soul to heaven. Ilvena paused;
she thought the distant tumult of strife mingled with


14
THE FATAL SCARF.
the dying cadences of her own plaintive melody, and
she turned fearfully towards the door fronuwhence the
sound proceeded; Cuth-Ionor and Comalvin also heard
distinctly the rush of footsteps, and the shriek of dis-
may.—Each arose hastily in order to secure his clay-
more; at that instant, Fin-Dalian, heading a band of
6erce and dark-looking men, burst into the apart-
ment—a dreadful confusion ensued. Cuth-Ionor strug-
gled for a moment with Fin-Dalian, and wrung from
him his shield—the clash of steel, and the strife of
words, drowned alike the appeal of mercy and the cry
of despair; desperation and revenge sat brooding in the
cruel countenance of Fin-Dalian, as the whole throng
of assassins rushed furiously upon Cuth-Ionor, and
huried a hundred daggers in bis heart; with a deep
groan, the unhappy chieftain sunk dead upon the earth.
Fin-Dalian bent over the body where it lay, and, with
the triumph of an infernal, smote it again and again with
his rueful poignard. Comalvin was inhumanly dragged
into the adjoining gallery, and his dying cries were the
first to arouse Ilvena from the state of stupefaction into
which she had fallen. She fonnd herself alone, sitting
by the body of her murdered brother. The clash of
swords through the building still assailed her ear: and
a horrible calm pervaded her mind, as she expected
the momentary return of Fin Dalian, to terminate her
own miseries. An awful silence followed. Ilvena
gazed fearfully on the distorted features of Cuth-Ionor,
as the yellow light of the fire served to render them
more awful. Ilvena grasped wildly the cold hand of
her brother, which still held firm the assassin's shield,
and besought him in the anguish of her soul to rise up
and preserve her from the destroyer. What followed
was the darkness of chaos—the stilly approaching
thunder that bursts suddenly on the head of some de-
voted traveller. Ilvena was not mad, few she saw the
blood flowing across the floor from Cuth-Ionor's body
—it was as though the influence of some spell were
upon her. Ilvena was not broken-hearted, for her eyes
were unfilled with tears, and her spirit appeared to nave


THE FATAL SCARP. 15
become superhuman in despair, as she frequently call-
ed down a curse on Fin Dalian. A wild laugh ap-
parently echoed through the gloom, and the tall spirit
of Cuth-Ionor seemed hanging over her. IIvena was
on her knees : • Shade of departed Cuth-Ionor !' she
exclamed, • last of an injured name, Ilvena swears to
avenge thy death, or sleep beside thee, in the narrow
house !—the whole blood of the Cuth-Ionors rushes
through my heart, and it shall not yield till Fin-Dalian
is annihilated.' The returning footsteps of Fin-Dalian
•were heard;—' He comes,' said she, 'to seek his
shield; he will find it in the hand of the slain: it will
speak to him from the grave of Cuth-Ionor. But Il-
vena shall be seen no more; her step shall be sad in
loneliness: she shall come like a phantom in the night,
like a darting adder from the green tree: her return
shall bring destruction to Fin-Dalian, and the hand
which has laid low the strongest of the Cuth-Ionors by
the weakest of the Cuth-Ionors shall perish. Ilvena rose
from the ground ; the soirit of her brother appeared
floating before her, as she issued from the chamber of
death.
Fin Dalian returned in search of Ilvena; she was
ni? longer to be found; a dull cloud overspread his
brow, but it passed rapidly away. Fin-Dalian became
usurper and Lord of Cuth-Ionor, and the form of Ilve-
na appeared no more.
Ambition had reached her golden height, but Fin-
Dalian discovered, too soon, that enjoyment consists
less in attainment than in anticipation. The vassals of
Cuth-Ionor, though subdued to the government of their
new chief, were secretly his foes; they abhorred the
assassin of their master, and hostilities daily occurred.
Comalvin, who was not dead, had been confined in a
dungeon of the castle, from which he had found means
to escape, and the guards themselves were companions
of his flight.
Such events could not fail, while they awoke him to
a sense of his own enormity, to scatter thickly on the
pillow of Fin-Dalian innumerable thorns. He had


16
THE FATAL SCARF.
grasped so eagerly at the rose, that its hidden barbs had
pierced him through and through. The murdered form
of Cuth-Ionor stood ever before him, and the fate of
the unhappy Ilvena forced itself continually on his
mind. Night no longer yielded its slumber or its tran-
quillity; darkness came filled with new horrors. The
guilty have no repose. They may not even sigh for
the serenity of the grave. Fin-Dalian trembled as he
reflected on the blood which he had shed,—on the
erime he had committed, on the infidelity of his mi-
nions. 'Summer,' sighed he,' sinks imperceptibly into
autumn, day into night, life into death, but the tortures
of Fin-Dalian remain eternal.'
One night, Fin-Dalian went late to his coueh, his
own tried warriors paced to and fro in the gallery of
his chamber; the heavy sounds of their footsteps was
music to the chieftain's ear, and he resigned himself
gradually to sleep. A fearful dream came o'er him.
It was the form of Cuth-Ionor which he saw. The
spectre was clad in white armour, his looks were
ghastly in anger, his gory locks floated in the wind; his
steed was white like the rider, and the forked lightning
burst from its distended nostrils; a pale cloud came
over them, and Fin-Dalian was still alone. He started
franticly from slumber; his cold grasp seemed rivetted
to a deathlike band, he glared desperately upon it; it
was the claymore which he had laid beside him. A
sudden smile passed over Fin-Dalian's features, but
they were haggard as the brow of desolation. Shame
smote his heart, again he threw himself upon his pallet;
he slept, he awoke. By the flare of the chimney torch,
Fin-Dalian beheld, as it were, his accusing spirit. It was
a wild, fantastic spirit, tall, faded, and full of majesty;
fearlessly it hung over the usurper; the dagger with .
which he had smote Cuth-Ionor was gleaming in the
air—the arm of the phantom was upraised; Fin-Dal-
ian marked the corselike features of Ilvena; a deep
groan escaped his lip$: in powerless phrenzy he waited
for the annihilating blow; it came not; a momen-
tary irresolution seemed to withhold it ?—the form had


THE FATAL SCABF.
17
disappeared. Fin-Dalian listened; the sound of re-
tiring footsteps convinced him that the intruder was
earthly; firmly he grasped his weapon, the guards were
asleep as he passed, but the form glided swiftly before
him ; 'by the pale moonlight, it is, it must be Ilvena!'
Fin-Dalian hurried along the avenue; he was on the
eve of arresting the mysterious being as it turned ab-
ruptly into the chamber where Cuth-lonor had fallen.
Fin-Dalian recoiled in dismay; his heart sickened at
the remembrance of its own treachery. *
Some time after this, the goatherds, as they led forth
their goats to the glens of Cuth-lonor, were alarmed
by the frequent appearance of a wild woman amidst
these perilous crags. That she was mad, was evident,
by the distraction of her mien, the rapidity with which
she fled from the approach of human beings, and the
uncouth distortion of her attire. More then once she
had been surprised weeping on a beetling eminence,
and gazing abstractedly towards the distant battlements
of Cuth-lonor. Once, as it was supposed, pressed by
hunger, she had entered the solitary cottage of a moun-
taineer, and eagerly taken from his board part of the
coarse viands which it presented. She answered no
inquiry, tremblingly put to her by the tenant of that
cabin, but fled at the first accent of his lips, and plung-
ed, fearless, into the remotest caverns of the hills. In
those caverns the Cuth-IonQrs of ancient times had
jeen interred; it was believed that the ghosts of depart-
ed chiefs mingled there, and never was it known that
living voice broke the stillness of its sepulchral gloom.
National superstition led the peasantry to imagine, that
the solitary being which some of them had of late mdstly
observed at the entrance of the caves, could not be mor-
tal; they at length supposed it the unquiet spirit of Il-
vena, who had been secretly murdered by Fin-Dalian.
At the set of sun, each one trembled as he hurried his
cattle past the almost inaccessible windings and decli-
vities of the haunted glen; and mothers wept at dusk
the absence of their children, lest they should have fal-
len into the hands of the awful wild woman of the


18'
THE FATAL SCARP.
Cuth-Ionor steeps. One creature only had the courage
or humanity, every morning, to leave a certain quantity
of provision near the cave, but this creature, whose
name was Elfie, had lived, it was said, a century back,
in the service of Cuth-Ionor, anil from her extreme
age was looked upon as a wie,rd-sister, whom no one
dared to interrogate: her benevolence, therefore, ex-
tended to the maniac, served not a little to heighten
the idea of its being superhuman.
Several of the various accounts at last reached the
ear of Fin-Dalian; he readily believed the mysterious
woman to be some agent of a conspiracy aimed against
himself, and resolved alone, and in secret, to visit the
habitation of the sorceress Elfie.
Daybreak found him on his way, sullenly reining his
steed round the dangerous and overhanging rocks. It
was impossible to proceed on horseback, Fin Dalian
therefore descended, and fastening the animal to a with-
ered tree, continued his rout on foot. The scene be-
fore him was wildly sublime, but the sublimity of nature
had little influence to touch a heart calloused by the
exercise of cruelty, and shut by ambition, to the suffer-
ings of oppressed virtue. The sun was just rising from
his ocean-bed, and gilded, with his benignant rays, the
stormy snow-covered summits of Cuth-Ionor. A thou-
sand fantastic varieties of light and shade, burst
through the innumerable projections oflowly and aspir-
ing cliffs, along whose sides the clinging and sweetly -
scented under-wood sparkled with millions of translu-
cent gems. So early was it, that nothing molested the
bewitching solitude of the scene except the cautious
steps of Fin-Dalian and the lamenting cry of the lap
wing announcing his approach. The hut of the wierd
Elfie at length appeared; covered almost with brambles,
and surrounded by a deafening cataract of white foam-
ing water, which rushed furiously over the loftier sum-
mit of a neighboring height. By means of several mas-
ses of fallen rock, which nature seemed conveniently
to have hurled into the flood, Fin-Dalian succeeded in
gaining the witch's doori Elfie, who was sitting almost


20
THE FATAL 8CARF.
furiously,'how that scarf came into your possession 1—
tell me, or'—and he placed his hand on his claymore.
Elfie calmly touched his arm—' Lord Fin-Dalian V
continued she,' I am too old, to fear any impetuosity of
yours; the blast spreads no desolation over the sapless
tree. Fly, murderer of Cuth-Ionor! the hour of ven-
geance approaches—I guessed it would end so. Yes,
unhappy Uvena! you shall be fully avenged! hark!
already I hear the note of death; they come; see,
cruel Fin-Dalian." With a sudden effort, she threw
open a wide oaken casement, and pointed with her
shrivelled finger, exultingly, to the distant towers
of Cuth-lonor.
Fin-Dalian cast his eyes hastily across the expanse,
and beheld with dismay, that the banner of Cuth-Ionor
was replaced upon the battlements ;—turning round to
enquire of the sorceress; he perceived that she was
gone; and after waiting some minutes in fruitless ex-
pectation of her re-appearance, he abruptly quitfed the
place. Alarmed at the sight of the ancient banner of
Cuth-Ionor upon the turrets, he prepared hastily to re-
turn, and was hurrying to his steed for that purpose,
when the clash of arms, at no considerable distance,
smote his ear; Fin-Dalian paused, the words of Elfie
returned forcibly to his recollection. At that instant
he beheld a martial band filing down the mountain; die
leader was Comalvin. That the treachery of his fol
lowers, and the chastisement of his enemies, were wm
about to prevail, Fin-Dalian readily believed ; his heart
siAik within him at the conviction, and he abandoned
himself for lost Full of despair he arrived 1.1 ihe en-
trance of the cavern, the very cavern in which the
wild woman was supposed to conceal herself; it was
a wide and deep chasm, rent by the hand of nature;
the descent was steep and gloomy, but Fin-Dalian was
goaded on by despair.
He continued to grope his way for some time in dark-
ness, pausing occasionally to hearken to the Indistinct
voice of his pursuers. At length he arrived at a more
ample space in i the cavern, which received air from


THE FATAL SCARF.
21
above by a sort of loop-hole, (doubtless effected by
art,) which being overgrown with.brake, admitted only
a sufficient quantity of light to render surrounding ob-
jects indistinctly awful. A quantity of rude tombs,
half sunk in the earth, scattered around, convinced
Fin-Dalian that he was in the burying place of the
Cuth-Ionors. His knees smote each other in agony;
his claymore seemed falling from his nerveless grasp;
and he leaned for support against one of the projecting
monuments. A light step approached the spot; Fin-
Dalian scarcely breathed: it was the form of a female
'which passed him; it was the wild woman of Cuth-
Ionor.
Never had Fin-Dalian Imagined a pain so excruci-
ating as that which swelled his heart at the signt of this
distracted being. She moved slowly along,—her looks
were those of the grave, her sighs were like some me-
lancholy gale sweeping through the quiet abode of the
dead. She staid suddenly before a sort of altar newly
constructed in the certre of the place, formed of loose
stones, unskilfully piled together ; Fin-Dallanobservttd
a dagger upon that altar's base, and also the name of
Cuth-Ionor uncouthly sculptured. The wild woman
had sunk upon her knees, her head rested in an atti-
tude of woe unon the cold stone, and, as the long hair
streamed Dack from her shoulders, thougn tne eye was
faded, though the cheek was sunken and pale as mar-
ble, he saw, he knew the features of his victim—
Ilvena! An involuntary shudder escaped him at the
conviction; an insurmountable awe took possession of
his mind, and he resolved to rush forth and die upon
the approaching blade of his enemies, rather than meet
the being he had so basely wronged.
The retreat of Fin-Dalian startled the unhappy Il-
vena; her wild shriek echoed the cavern, it reached
the ear of Comalvin, who outstripping his attendants,
had entered. Fin-Dalian, rendered mad by the con-
tending emotions within him, rushed like a tiger from
its unseen lair upon the youth as be approaches.
Lonuurin is scarcely equal to the furious strokes of the


tt
THE FATAL SCARP.
monster; his strength, subdued by long suffering, gives
way; he sinks upon his knee; the dreadful arm of
Fin-Dalian is uplifted; his blade gleams wrathful above
his head; " die f he exclaims; Ilvena knows the
voice, her hand grasps the dagger rusted in Cuth-
Ionor's blood; she makes suddenly between the com
batants, and buries the weapon in Pin-Dalian's heart.
Terrible was the death of Fin-Dalian, as the avenger
gazed franticly upon him. Comalvin called tenderly
on the name of Ilvena; she knew, and recognized her
lover.—Her soul burst joyfully to her lips; firmly she
grasped his hand, her pale eyes rose towards heaven;
Comalvin called tenderly on Ilvena, but Ilvena had
ceased to hear.


4 The Irish Freebooter.
tion was,' in consequence, pven to tne magistrates of Ca
low, that he had retired to rest at a public house, a few
nines fom *.T!a.'. -.'>w'i • qnrt ">v *netr oireifw s? "/wpsiTiy
of soldiers were ordered ofl', for the purpose of taking him
into custody. They.surrounded the house; but Red-
mond had some private information of their march, and
was now observed on a neighbouring hill, with a blun-
derbuss in his hand, and only half dressed. - A consulta-
tion was held, in which it was agreed to form into three
parties; one of which should follow in a direct line; the
second a little more to the right; and the other party to
the left; hoping by these means to keep him running
straight forward, until the intervention of some town or
village should throw him into their power.
Redmond was an active man, but yet was he kept in
view nearly the entire day , towards night, however, wea-
1 y and exhausted, he hid himself in a bush, being about
1 alf a mile ahead, and out of sight of his pursuers. He
had just begun to imagine that the pursuit was given
over, and that he was consequently out of danger for the
present, when the souod of voices, close to where he lay,
alarmed him for his safety. He could soon distinctly
hear their conversation, and at length perceived four of
the soldiers stop within a few paces of his bush, and fix
upon that spot for their residence for the night. They
fired several shots, for their companions to come up;
where, when all encamped, they placed sentinels ai
around, partook of some refreshment, and retired to
pose.
Red/ rond, though excessively fatigued, dared not close
his eye , in sleep, resolving, under cover of the night, to
give tlem the slip, if possible. A brilliant and cloudless
moon, however, frustrated his intention; nor could he
eave his perilous situation until thut bright luminary
went down. He got ofl' a little before daylight, but, his
evil stars prevailing, was observed by a sentry, and tbe
chase became again as hot as ever, and in the same form
before. Redmond, although faint from hunger, as we J


The Irish Freebooter.
5
as from exertion, still kept a good lead "during the dnyt
and at night took up his lodgings again in a bush, and
with very little better success than before. He could no
longer withstand the approaches of sleep, but yielding to
necessity, the following day had considerably advanced
ere he awoke from his rough retreat. The soldiers were
still lulled in sleep, and Redmond had already left his
thorny pillow far behind, when his evil destiny once more
prevailed. The soldiers were awakened by the distant
barking of a dog, and, on looking in the direction from
•whence the animal's yells proceeded, observed a man en-
tering a cottage, half-dressed, the watch dog of which
was. opposing his entrance. •
They made no doubt but that the man was he whom
they were in pursuit of; and, marching in silence, in less
than half an hour surrounded the hojse, where pwo
Redmond was seated at a breakfast of barley-bread and
milk, little expecting a visit from those whom he imagin-
ed he had finally escaped. The captain of the soldiers
with some of his officers, entered, and told Redmond he
was the king's prisoner. Redmond acknowledged the
justice of his remark, but requested permission to finish
his meal, the first he had partaken of since the chace be-
gun. Permission was granted; but as soon as he had
concluded, be took from behind his chair his blunder-
buss, which had remained there unperceived, and pre-
senting it at the captain, swore heartily that he would
shoot the first person who offered to interrupt his retreat.
Each fell back in surprise from the mouth of his blun-
derbuss, until getting near the door, with one bolt, he
was ouce more before them. Some time elapsed ere
they could form so as to fire without hurting each other,
during which time he got a tolerable good lead. At
length they fired a few volleys, and one ball slightly gra-
zed his right heel. The chace was continued for about
two hours longer, when he completely eluded their vigi-
lance, and escaped.
His next appearance was in the neighbourhood of


6 The Irish freebooter.
Wexford, where he became so notorious, (now appearing
well mounted,) that the inhabitants would never travel
with money about them, unless in companies of three ot
four, and well armed. A tradesman residing in a village
about twenty miles from that city, was in great want of
money, and although three hundred pounds were due to
him from a person in Wexford, he feared to venture thi-
ther, lest he should be robbed on his return. He had an
apprentice who volunteered his services, and gave his
master so many assurances of his success, that he at length
consented, and saddling an old horse, he set off on his
mission.
He met Redmond on the road, who addressed him fa.
miliarly, and entering into conversation, inquired whither
he was going, and for what purpose. The boy very can-
didly told him his business, the sum he expected to re-
ceive, and every other particular which Redmond desired
to be informed of; amongst which was the time fie ex-
pected to return. Having received all the information
he required, he took his leave. Next day, however, he
was on the road at the hour the boy told him he would
return; and had not waited long before he perceived him
. approach. "Well, my lad," he cried, as soon as he came
within hearing, "what success?" "Oh! I received the
money," replied the boy. "I am glad of that," replied
Redmond, "for I want to borrow it of you for a short
time." "I dare not lend my master's money," replied
the youth, "or I would willingly oblige you." After I
some vain entreaties, Redmond drew forth a pistol/anflPfli
insisted on his delivering him the money. The boy hesi%
tated, grumbled, and at length putting his hand in his
pocket, drew forth a leathern bag, and flung it over a
hedge at the road-side, telling the robber that he ihonld
have a leap for it, if he wanted it. Redmond, eager for
the booty, instantly dismounted and crossed the hedge,
of which the boy took advantage, and mounting his horse,
rode off, leaving his master's worn out old drudge behind
him. Redmond, in the mean time, had opened the bag, •
~> ,


Humphrey Kynaston. IB
\
example of dur hero; and some few, particularly Bren-
nan, who was hanged about ten years since in Cork, have
shown specimens of talent and genius but little inferior.
Of these we may perhaps be hereafter tempted to give
our readexs a history, if our present publication is read
with the avidity and pleasure we anticipate. We Jiave
some idea of publishing the adventures of the most cele-
brated robbers, not only in Ireland, but throughout Eu-
rope; for instance, that of Humphrey Kynaston in this
country; Sacioviski, in , Hungary and Turkey; and
many others, of equal notoriety, if we receive adequate
encouragement for the labour attending such a work.
With the hope that our readers have been agreeably en-
tertained with the story of the celebrated Captain Red-
mond O'Hanlan, we now take our leave of them for the
present wishing them all health and happiness until our
next meeting to canvass the life of 3ome oher hero of
freebooting renown, in some other part of thet world
THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
HUMPHRE Y KYJYJSTOM
This celebrated robber was the son of Ralph Kynaston,
Esq. a gentleman of good fortune, residing in the town
^tof Oswestry, in Shropshire, where he was born. The
old man dying while Humphrey was yet a minor, he in-
V inherited when of age, not only a handsome estate, but alsp
a large' sum of money, accruing to him from the receipts of
the estate during his minority. By the advice of his
/Wends he paid his addresses to a young lady in the neigh-
bourhood, and finally succeeded in his proposals for her
h^nd, together with a handsome fortune.
This step, which his friends supposed would act as a
curb to his unbridled extravagance, did not produce the
effect for which it was intended; unbounded profusion


16 Humphrey KynastOn.
produced debt, debt embarrassment, mortgages, and ulti-
mately ruin. He appealed for assistance of his friends,
but friends are difficult to be found in the hour of need:
besides, his character was by no means good, nor had he
treated his wife with that affection which her amiable
qualities merited. They refused assistance; some with
well affected condolence for his misfortunes, and otheti
with taunts for his extravagance and abuse for his neglect
of an affectionate wife. In this emergency, his wife re-
turned to her relations; and Humphrey, giving a loose
to his impetuous and uncontrollable temper, entered up-
on a line of life unsanctioned by the laws of his coun-
try, and through which it is our present task, to trace him.
With misanthropic feelings he mounted a favourite
hunter, which he had yet preserved from the wreck ol
his property, and left the town of his nativity, resolving
to levy contributions on that society which scouted hira
from the circles in which he had been accustomed to
move, as an unworthy member.
His first object was to seek a secure retreat from open
pursuit, or from prying curiosity; and this he found in
the Nestcliff mountains. He dug a hole in the rock,
which was inaccessible to more than one at a time, and
proved to him a perfect safety for his person. As to his
horse, so well trained was that faithful animal, that al
though a whistle from his master was instantaneously
obeyed, he could baffle the ingenuity of one hundred in-
dividuals to take him by force. This cavern is consider-
ed at the present day a great curiosity; and it is not as-
tonishing that it should, when we consider, that his horse
climbed daily up a flight of rocks, so steep and rugged as
to be almost inaccessible to any but active young men.
The truth of this statement might be doubted, if it de-
pended merely on the veracity of the author; but every
native of Shropshire can testify that the places are still
visible, where his shoes, in his exertions to climb nightly
to his rest, have worn deep traces in the rocks;—and
SCOTV child can direct the curious traveller to Kynaston I


Humphrey Kynaston 17
At tlie period we speak of, there was not the -game
method of safely conveying money from one place to
another; the benefit of which is now so universally ac-
knowledged; but stewards in general, after receiving the
rents of an estate, carried them in person to their land-
lords. Upon those gentry it was that he levied his first
contributions, until they became so excessively notorious,
that the gentlemen of the neighbourhood, particularly
Mr. Lloyd, of Aston, (who had been an intimate friend of
bis father's) offered large rewards for his apprehension.
These rewards however proved entirely fruitless, fur he
made an army of friends in the poor of the neighbour-
hood, where he fixed his uncomfortable habitation, by.
distributing every Monday morning, the entire profits of
his exertions the foregoing week. The return lie receiv-
ed from their gratitude was security for liis person, a con-
tinual supply of well-dressed provisions, and constant
changes of clean linen of every description.
Having heard that Mr. Lloyd was using every exer-
tion to have him delivered over to the offended laws oi
liis country, he resolved to be revenged, and mounting
bis horse, early one morning, set out for Aston, where he
arrived about noon, and on inquiring for Mr. Lloyd, was
informed that he was at home. He immediately sent up
his name, and a request to speak a few words with Mr.
Lloyd, who was greatly discomfited on receiving the
message. He, however, put on the most engageing as-
pect he could assume, and descended from his apartment,
roceeding to the hall door, and after the usual saluta-
is, entreated that Mr. Kynaston would alight and walk
in.
This request he for obvious reasons, declined, alleging
shortness of time and business, as an excuse, but said
that he could not pass the house of his father's friend
without giving a call to see how they did, Sic.—He was,
however, thirsty from his ride, and would feel thankful to
-^t. Lloyd for a tankard of ale. Mr. Lloyd immediate-
ordered his request to be complied with, and in a few


lg Humphrey Kynaston
minutes a servant returned with the liquor foaming oyer
the edges of the silver vessel which contained it. "Pledge
me, Mr. Lloyd," cried Kynaston, handing him the tank-
ard; Mr. Lloyd complied, after which Kynaston finished
the remainder of the home-brewed ale to the good health
of his host, and putting the silver tankard in his pocket,
very cavalierly departed, wishing Mr. Lloyd a good day,
and promising that he would call again the first time lie
passed that way.
Close to his cave lived a blacksmith, who constantly
ihod his horse, and always differently, that he might
never be traced by the impression they would leave in
flying from pursuit; though, it must be confessed, there
vras but little occasion for this precaution; his horse
being so uncommonly fleet, as to bid defiance to pursuit.
An association was at one time entered into by the
country gentlemen to surprise him, if possible; in which
they so far succeeded, as to hem him into a most critical
situation. His pursuers formed a half-moon behind him,
but a short distance, whilst his flight was checked by the
river Severn, which was forty feet wide in that place.
No time'was to be lost; he struck the spurs into the side
of his courser, and wonderful to relate, he cleared it in
one spring which was considered so great an effort of
strength and agility, that it goes by the name of Kynas-
ton's Leap to the present day.
A wealthy farmer, at the opposite side of the river, who
had witnessed this extraordinary achievement, called out
to Kynaston, that he would give him "ten cow^pffltf^ j
bull for his horse," and received the following laconic
answer from that daring marauder :—" Ten cows and a
bull could not do that!" alluding to the leap winch he
had just taken. The farmer smiled, and Kynaston con-
tinued his flight, and finally reached his cave in safety.
Some time afterward he robbed the steward of a gen-
tleman possessing a large estate in Shropshire, of a sum
of money amounting to between five and six hundred
pounds; which, as usual, he distributed amongst his poor


rr
Sumphiey Kynaston. 19

dependents of the Nest-clift* Hills. He shortly after-
wards, however, received through the hands of one of
his poor neighbours, a letter from the gentleman himself,
stating that he had considerably distressed him by the
robbery; in consequence of which be should be compel-
led to do that which he had never done before, and
which might bring upon him the title of being a bad land-
lord, via. to call in all arrears due to him from his tenants,
and enforce payment from those by distraint, to whom he
would otherwise give time to extricate themselves by in-
dustry from immediate and pressing difficulties.
Kynaston's professed object, since he hadtaken up his
present mode of life, was that of befriending the poor at
the expense of the rich. This letter had consequently
much weight in his mind; and after great cogitation, he
returned for answer, that, if the gentleman would send
him a list of his tenants, so that by inquiring he might be
able to judge of his former conduct towards them in ge-
neral, he would deal with him according to the result of his
inquiries.
The gentleman on receiving his message thought pro-
per to comply with his request, and sent the list of his
tenantry, as required, to Humphrey Kynaston, who lost no
time in making the inquiries, which fully convinced [him
that his correspondent was one of the best landlords, and
this conviction was followed by an immediate determina-
tion to make restitution of the sum of which he had plun-
dered his steward as soon as another prixe would enable
him to do so.
Ll^ His wishes and exertions were soon after crowned with
success; for hearing of an estate contiguous to Oswestry,
the landlord of which had given directions to his steward
to destrain every tenant in arrear, Kynaston stripped him
of every guinea he had taken so much pains to collect,
stifling every feeling of humanity, for the woes inflicted
by the severity of his 'master upon the unhappy wretches
who were so unfortunate as to become tenants to such a
tyrant. In this instance, however, he was paid according


gO Humphrey Kynaston.
to his deserts: although the distributer of justice was a
robber. . -#
Ke now sent the gentleman a letter, in which he ap-
pointed a day on which he would repay him if he would
agree to a private meeting in a small wood near old Os-
westry. Both were punctual to the time appointed, and
Humphrey made restitution to the uttermost farthing:
and the gentleman, after returning his sincere thanks, de-
parted very well pleased at the result of this, to him, not
very unpleasant adventure.
The magistrates of the county at length resolved to
use every exertion to take him prisoner, for which pur-
pose they embodied all the constables of Shrewsbury,
Nest-cliff, and every adjacent village, to the number ol
above one hundred and twenty; and with this formidable
troop they determined to surprise him on Monday, while
distributing to the poor the profits o'f his week's employ-
ment. They accordingly came to the hills; but op
seeing the number that crowded for a share of the out-
law's benevolence, they deemed it of all others the most
improper time they could choose for their purpose ; and
returned very prudently to their houses, to concert pro-
jects of capture more feasible in the execution, than that
which fear had compelled them to give over.
Kynaston always visited his sick neighbours in person;
and one day, alighting from his-fcorse, and tying the reins
to the latch of the door, he entered a cottage where a
poor old woman lay in a fever upon a miserable pallet.
While Kynaston was performing the dictates of humanity,
some knave stole his horse and rode off. On missing his
horse, Humphrey directed his steps towards his cave in
the rock, whistling (his usual signal to his horse) all the
way. The well known signal was heard by his favourite
and faithful animal; and immediately plunging and rear-
ing, be threw the thief who stole him to the ground, and
crossing the country, in spite of every obstacle that op-
posed itself, towards the spot from whence the whistling
proceeded,. Humphrey had once more the pleasure ol


Humphrey Kvnaston.
SI
mounting lus horse, who pleased with his load, bounded
forward with renewed swiftness and strength.
His friends had offered latterly to provide for him, if
he would leave off the life he had hitherto led, bnt here-
fused every offer of the kind, telling them, they should
have done so before he became what he then was.
His horse he always turned out to grass upon those
day* when he gave himself rest, and whistled for him
when he required his services, which signal was instantly
obeyed. The animal, however, took a particular fancy
to the field of a farmer in the neighbourhood, which was
his constant resort.—The farmer at length resolved to
impound him, and got all his labourers, with ropes to as-
sist him in catching the horse. The animal grazed very
quietly until a complete circle was formed around him
with ropes; but as the circle gradually advanced, he ran
towards the man next him, and, in one spring, leaped
over his head, and was off at full speed.
*-' About this time, he was taken ill of a violent fever,
during which he expressed his conviction of the approach
of death, repented of his former ill treatment of his wife,
w hich, he said, hung heavy at his heart. He would not
permit of any medical attendance whatsoever; but at the
earnest request of the poor inhabitants, who dreaded the
loss of their benefactor, he agreed to receive the advice
of an old woman who dealt in herbs, and passed as a
witch in the neighbourhood of West-Felton, where she
lived, in a cottage by herself, and administered medicine
to the sick in the cottages around her.
She obeyed the summons, and repaired to the cave
where Kynaston lay writing in agony both of body and
mind.—As she felt his throbbing pulse, he said in feeble
accents, "Alas! my good woman, your skill, I fear, is
rain ; my complaint is partly in the mind; I had once a
/cjvely and tender wife whom I grieve to say, I treated in
a manner unworthy her deserts; this it is that annoys
aw- and, could I but receive her pardon, and her
hlessing, ere I die, it would be a consolation to my few


82 Anecdote* of James Macpherton.
remaining hours, and I might hope for mercy hereafter."
Hope then for mercy!" cried the apparently old
woman, throwing oft' a disguise which concealed the
youth and the features of his wife; "from my heart do 1
forgive you, and will pray that Heaven may do so like-
wise." A reconciliation now took place; and she at-
tended him constantly till he died, which was a few days
afterwards, universally regretted by the poor, whom h'u
daring robberies had almost entirely supported.
ANECDOTES OF JAMES MACPHERSOK
THE ANCIENT FREEBOOTER AND MUSICIAN.
James Macpherson, the subject of our memoir ras
born of a beautiful gipsy ; who at a great wedditig at-
tracted the notice of a half-intoxicated Highland gentle-
man. He acknowledged the child, and had him reared
in his house, until he lost his life in bravely pursuing a
hostile clan, to recover a spraith of cattle taken from
Badenoch. The gipsy woman hearing of this disaster,
in her rambles the following summer, came and took
away her boy, but she often returned with him to wait
upon bis relations and clansmen, who never failed to
clothe him well, besides giving money to his mother. He
grew up in strength, stature, and beauty, seldom equalled.
His sword is still preserved at Duff-house, a residence of
the Earl of Fife, and few men in our days could carry,
far Jess wield it as a weapon of war, and it must be own-
ed, his prowess was debased by the exploits of a freeboo-
ter, it is certain no act of cruelty, no robbery of the fa-
thei less or distressed, and no murder was perpetrated un-
der his command. He often gave the spoils of the rich
to relieve the poor, and all his tribe were restrained from
many attroci ties of rapine by their awe of his mighty arm


Anecdotes of James Macpherton. 23
Indeed, it is said that a dispute with an aspiring and
savage man in his tribe, who wished to rob a gentleman's
bouse while his wife and two children lay on the bier for
interment, was the cause of his being betrayed of the ven-
geance of the law.
The magistrates of Aberdeen were exasperated at Mac-
pherson's escape, when they bribed a girl in that city to
allure and deliver him into their hands. There is a plat-
form before the jail, at the top of a stair, and a door be-
low. When Macpherson's capture was made known to
his comrades by tha frantic girl, who had been so credu-
lous as to believe the magistrates only wanted to hear the
wonderful performer on the. violin, his cousin Donald
Macpherson, a gentleman of Herculean powers, did not.
disdain to come from Badenoch, and to join a gipsy,
Peter Brown, in liberating the prisoner. On a market
day t'.iey brought several assistants, and swift horses
were stationed at a convenient distance. Donald Mac-
pherson and Peter Brown forced the jail, and while Peter
Brown went to help the heavily-fettered James Macpherson
in moving away, Donald Macpherson guarded the jail
door with a drawn sword. Many persons assembled at
the market had experienced James Macpherson's human-
ity, or had shared his bounty, and they crowded round
the jail as in mere curiosity, but, in fact to obstruct the
civil authority from preventing a rescue. A butcher,
however, was resolved, if possible to detain Macpherson,
expecting a large recompense from the magistrates: he
sprang up the stairs and leaped from the platform upon
Donald Macpherson, whom he dashed to the ground by
the force and weight of his body. Donald Macpherson
soon recovered, to make a desperate resistance, and the
combatants tore off each other's clothes. The butcher
got a glimpse of his dog upon the platform, and called hia
to his aid: but Macpherson, with admirable presence of
mind, snatched up his own plaid which lay near, and
threw it over the butcher, thus misleading the instinct of
his canine adversary. The dog darted with fury upon


24 Anecdotes of James MacpHenon^
the plaid, and terribly lacerated his master's tbigh. In
the mean time, James Macpherson had been carried ou
by Peter Brown, and was soon followed by Donald Mac-
pherson, who was quickly covered by some friendly spec-
tators with a hat and great coat. The magistrates order-
ed webs from the shops to be drawn across the Gallow-
gate, but Donald Macpherson cut them asunder with his
sword, and James, the late prisoner, got off on horseback.
'He was sometime after betrayed by a man of his own
tribe, and previous to the abolition of heritable jurisdic-
tion. He was an admirable performer on the violin, and
his talent for composition is still in evidence in "Macpher-
son's Rant," "Macp"herson's Pibroch." and"Macpher-
son's Farewell." He performed those tunes at the foot
of the fatal tree, and then asked if he had any friend in
the crowd to whom a last gift of his instrument would be
acceptable. No man had hardihood to claim friendship
with a delinquent, in whose crimes the acknowledgement
might implicate an avowed acquaintance. As no friend
came forward, Macpherson said the companion of many
gloomy hours should perish with him, and breaking the
violin over his knee he threw away the fragments. Don-
ald Macpherson picked up the neck of the violin, which to
this day is preserved as a valuable memento by th»
family of Cluny, chieftain of the Macphenoiw.


DR. FAUSTU8.

taken no rest that night, arose, and went into the hall, in
which they left the doctor, they found the hall spinkled
with blood, and his brains cleaving to the wall, for the de-
mon had beaten him from one wall against another; in ono
corner lay his eyes, in another his teeth, a fearful and pitiful
sight to behold! The students then began to weep for him.
and sought for his body every where, till they came into tne
yard, where Ciey found it lying on the horse-dung, dreaa-
fully torn, and most frightfully mangled, for his head and
has joints were dashed to pieces.


, m


LOVE, COURTSHIP, AND M ARM AGE. 23
on you home, during which time I made you acquainted
with my name, business, and connexions in life, to which I
had the vanity to think you seemed to listen with some de-
gree of attention and approbation. At our parting, you
granted me permission to visit you the ensuing day, which
liberty I was unhappily deprived ul, &y receiving the ne.<a,
that very evening, of the death of a very near relation in
London. This unfortunate event rendered my immediate
presence absolutely necessary, and in consequence of which
J set out very early the next morning for town.
Believe me, Madam, I had a most melancholy journey, as
•he business I was going on was, in itself, of a very disagree-
able nature; but what was ten thousand times worse, it de-
prived me of the opportunity of seeing the dearest object of
rny wishes, and for whom I had conceived the most tender
passion. Judge then, Madam, the anxiety of mind I must
undergo, at being so suddenly torn from every thing I held
dear and valuable, and at the same time knew not what un-
favourable construction mighl be put on my abrupt depar-
ture, you not being apprised of the real cause. I determin-
ed then, on my arrival in London, to embrace the earliest
opportunity of supplicating a pardon, which I flatter myself,
now you are made acquainted with the case, you will not
scruple to grant.
I hope, ere long, to have the happiness of seeing you again
at York, and shall think every moment an age, till I am once
more blessed with a sight of your adorable person.
In the mean time, Madam, suffer me to make a tender of
my future services, by offering you a heart wholly devoted
, to yourself, and incapable of deceit. It a passion of the
purest and most exalted nature, be worthy your regard, I
think I may justly claim some share in your esteem.
Permit me then to hope, if some one more happy than my-
self has not already engaged your affections, (which graci-
ous heaven forbid !) that my utmost wishes will be crowned
with their desired success; and my life and fortune shall be
wholly devoted to the happiness of yours. Suffer me then
to hope for your kind compliance, and relieve me from the
most torturing suspense, by the favour of a few lines of ap-
probation: in anxious expectation of which, I remain your
devoted Slave and Admirer,
Christopher Careless.


26 COMPLETE INSTRUCTIONS CONCERNING
The Young Lady's Reply.
•Sir,
With much surprise, I received your letter, and often de-
bated with myself whether it would be prudent in me to an-
swer it. As to my behaviour at the assembly, in suffering
myself to become your partner in a dance, it is nothing more
than what is customary in the place, and might have happen-
ed to any indifferent person as well as yourself: therefore I
can see no right you have to claim any liberties on that ac-
count.
As to your pretended passion, I conceive it to be nothing
more than words of course, and what might naturally be ex-
pected from any gentleman in a similar situation; indeed,!
think no woman can be weak enough to believe any gentle-
man could be so deeply smitten at first sight, and should ra-
ther imagine he had something more to interest him in the
pursuit than mere love; and, Sir, as I would wish to he in-
genuous with you, I must confess I have received some in-
timation of your design: in plain terms, Sir, it has been
whi-pered through the City of York, by some persons who
saw you at the assembly, and pretended to be well acquaint-
ed w ith your real situation in life; that your father, a few
years since, left you possessed of a very considerable for
tune, and also the business by which he had acquired it;
since which time, you had led a most dissolute life, and liws
by practising all the fashionable vices of London, have re-
duced your fortune to a very low ebb, and that unless yon
can retrieve yourself by marriage, a bankruptcy is inevi-"
table.
These, Sir, are the charges exhibited against you, and as
you intimate a design of re-visiting me at York, I must beg
leave to decline the intended honour, till such time as the
above charges are refuted. I am, Sir, your well-wisher,
and humble Servant,
Margaret Cautious.
The Young Tradesman's Reply.
Madam,
The receipt of your letter, with the charges therein con-
tained against me, I now consider as the happiest event in
my life, as it has brought me to a state of reason, to which
before I was an utter stranger. I have long been in a le-
thargy, from which, by your kindness, I am now perfectly
awaked, and can justly say with the Poet, "Through all tiw „


LOVE, COURTSHIP, AND MARRIAGE. 27
voving pleasures of my youth, where nights ana days seem-
ed all consumed in joy; where the false face of luxury dis-
played such charms as might have shaken the most holy her-
mit, and made him totter at his altar, I never knew one mo-
ment's peace like tins."
To you, Madam, I acknowledge myself indebted for this
wonderful change. To you then will I appeal as judge in
my behalf, and after a candid hearing, will submit myself to
any sentence you shall think proper to inflict.
In the first place, Madam, 1 confess, that being of a vola-
tile disposition, and hurried on by the passions of youth, I
have suffered myself to be too often led into the fashionable
follies and extravagancies with which this place abounds;
but that I never yet quitted the paths of honour. That in
consequence of my irregular mode of living, I must also
confess, that my fortune is considerably diminished, but so
distant from a bankruptcy, that after discharging all my
debts, I shall have a sufficiency left to maintain a genteel
independency.
The last accusation is, that my fortune being greatly re-
duced, I had no other alternative, than retrieving it by mar-
riage. This charge I have before refuted, by proving that
my affairs were not in so alarming a situation as was gene-
rally imagined; but I will not absolutely deny that I ever
entertained a thought of that nature; on the contiary, I
conceived it to be a very eligible plan, and have often men-
tioned it as such, but never attempted to put it into execu-
tion.
With regard to yourself, Madam, I protest in the most so-
lemn manner, that I never was actuated by any other motive
than pure and disinterested love.
On your first entering the assembly room, I was struck
with the charms of your person, and determined from that
moment to make you an offer of my heart. During the
course of the evening, I was convinced that the mental qua-
lities you possessed were ecjual to the beauty of your person,
which, added to a most enlivening conversation, infinite
fund of wit, and a most engaging disposition, all conspired
to complete the conquest.
Thus, Madam, as I have given a true state of the case, I
hope I shall receive my > pardon, signed by your delicate
hand, Jby the return of the post, after which T may once more
be permitted to visit York, and be blessed with the sijrb* *"
my adored Fair One.


£8 COMPLETE INSTRUCTIONS CONCERNING
Permit me, dear Madarn, to subscribe myself with Un. ut-
most sincerity, your faithful Lover,
Christopher Careless.
The Lady's Reply.
Sir,
I cannot but acknowledge that in your last letter there
breathes an air of sincerity, which seems to carry conviction
with it, and which leads ine to hope, that your boasted refor-
mation is built on a solid foundation, and able to withstand
the vast stream of fashionable dissipation, with which it is
environed. How happy then shall 1 think myself, in being
instrumental to so great a change; at the same time that I
rejoice with you on your escaping the horrid precipice, from
which you was in imminent danger of plunging into irre-
trievable ruin! I cannot but lament the depravity of humau
nature, that the vices and follies of our fellow-creatures, in-
stead of exciting pity, are artfully related in a private assem-
bly, and thence propagated throughout every polite circle in
town, with the most exaggerating circumstances; so that a
gentleman, who by a run of ill-luck happens to lose a few
guineas at a card or billiard table, and the story becoming
once known, stands a chance of being accused of mortga-
ging his estates, being reduced to poverty, turning fortune-
hunter, which scheme miscarrying, goes upon the highway,
and at last suffers an ignominious death as a felon; and all
this perhaps proceeds from no other cause, than a sudden
disappearance, having furnished these reputation-murderers
with matter sufficient to exercise their fertile imaginations,
and gratify their envious dispositions with the most malicious
slander. This, Sir, might probably have been your case,
had you not received timely notice, and thereby vindicated
your reputation and honour, which I think you have done so
much to the credit of yourself and friends, that if you perse-
vere in your design of re-visiting York, you may be assured
of a hearty welcome, from •
Margaret Cautious.
From a Young Gentleman of Fortune, to a reputable Trades
man's Daughter.
Dear Miss,
It is impossible for words to describe the tortures that 1
daily undergo, on being deprived of the sight of the loveliest
pf her sex. Oh! my dear Fanny, did you but know tho


LOVE, COURTSHIP, Jdffr MARRIAGE. 2*
miserable state of a despairing lover, surely you could not
hesitate one moment, but fly into the arm3 of him whose life
is entirely devoted to love and you.
Perhaps, at this very moment, my dearest girl may b*
forced fir ever from my sight, and obliged, by the cruelty if
an unrelenting parent, to give her hand to my most detested
rival. Dreadful idea! If that fatal event has not already
happened, let me conjure my amiable girl, with all the ten-
derest eloquence of a most passionate admirer, to relieve
me from this most dreadful suspense, by flying instantly
from impending ruin; and rely on the proiectioa of hirn who
is ready to sacrifice his life for her sake.
I tlat'er myself, my dear, that you are already convinced
my views are wholly disinterested, as fortune has amply pro-
vided for our future support: then why should we waste a
moment of our time, by deferring a happy union of souls so
perfectly formed for each other? The plan, my dear, I have
adopted for your deliverance and my happiness, is of such a
nature as cannot fail of success; and however unkind your
father may at present appear, I have no doubt but a little
time will convince him of his error, and remove the prcju
dices he has unhappily conceived against me. Grant then,
my love, a favourable answer to my wishes, and thereby per-
fect the happiness of your most faithful Admirer,
Valentine Truelove.

The Lady's Answer,.
Sir,
Notwithstanding I acknowledge the very favourab e
cpinion I entertain of you, and what is still more, that you
are the only man with whom I could be happy; yet, Sir, the
obligations I am under to my parents, for their tender care
of me from my infancy to the present time, are so many,
and of such a nature, that nothing ever shall induce me to
swerve from my duty, though at the expence of my own
happiness. My father, cruel as I now think him. in endea-
vouring to force my hand to the man I mosl abhor, will, I
hope, in time relent, and pity his unhappy daugh'-r.
As, Sir, I have now declared my determined resolution,
never to make my parents unhappy by a neglect of the duty
I owe them, consequently I cannot by any means consent
to your scheme of elopement; therefore must entreat you
not to say any more on that subject; but as I am at present
denied the pleasure of seeing you, I hope you will embrace


SO COMPLETE INSTRUCTIONS CONCERNING
every opportunity that offers of writing, and which you may
depend shall not be neglected on my side.
This is the only consolation I can possibly expect or enjoy
in my unhappy situation, and even this must be managed
with the utmost prudence and caution; as, should a loiter
once be intercepted, it would probably not only increase my
present misery, by a closer confinement, but utterly prevent
our future correspondence.
And now, Sir, let me prevail on you to reconcile yourself
to your present situation, indulging yourself with the pleas-
ing hopes of the time coming, when we shall yet be happy.
Of this you may be assured, that though I never will be in-
strumental to my parents unhappiness, by marrying, contrary
to their inclination, the man they shall disapprove; yet, on
the other hand, no power on earth shall ever force me to a
union with the man I detest; that I will ever remain a
stranger to the happiness of a married state, or enjoy the
object of my choice; and finally, that no man but yourself
shall ever receive the hand or heart of
Fanny Pleasant.
From a Young Gentleman, on a Quarrel which had happened
with a Lady to whom he had long paid his Jtddresses.
Madam,
Avter the long and agreeable intimacy which had sub-
sisted, between us, how my unlucky stars created a breach
last night I know not; but when I awaked this morning, and
reflected on the transactions of the preceding evening, how
was I shocked at the very idea of offending the dear girl I
adore!
Stung with the keenest remorse for my past offences, I
determined instantly to expiate my fault by a candid confes-
sion of it, and a sincere repentance.
Accept then, dear Madam, this confession as an atone-
ment for the enormity of my crimes, and admit the future
zeal and devotion at the shrine of your beauty to obtain my
pardon; so shall I hope hereafter to be made partaker of
such joys as the warmest language but faintly can express.
Deign then, thou Goddess of my idolatry, to hear my
earnest prayers and supplications, and relieve me from the
excruciating pangs I now feel, by absolving all past offences,
and thereby restoring to happiness the now miserable
Timothy Teeltrvth


LOVE, COURTSHIP, AND MARRIAGE. 31
Sir,
The Lady's Reply.
As the only method to obtain forgiveness for our sir.s, is
by an open confession and true repentance, I know not how
•*ar I might be led to forgive, could I believe your repentance
uincere; but, Sir, I much fear, that you finding forgiveness
so easily obtained, might shortly be tempted to fall into the
same errors agam, and thereby become ruined irretrievably.
Therefore, Sir, as I have a sort of regard for you still
left, I think it most prudent to defer granting an absolute
pardon 'till your future behaviour has proclaimed you worthy
of it. If then you think my forgiveness worth procuring,
you will instantly set about a reformation, which, once per-
fected, will be sure to obtain a general pardon, and total ob-
livion for all past offences committed against
From a Young Gentleman of Fortune, to an amiable Young
Widow in Ike same Neighbourhood, who, a short lime since,
had been released from a Life of Misery, by the Death of
a most dissolute and abandoned Husband.
Madam,
From my connexions in the neighbourhood of your resi
donee, you cannot suppose me quite ignorant of the many
amiable virtues you possess, nor of the charms of your per-
son. Those charms, Madam, have attracted my admiration
a thousand times, and I have cursed the wretch who was
possessed of such a jewel without knowing the value of it:
but Heaven has at length thought fit to remove him, and left
you, the brightest gem in the creation, as a blessing to some
more deserving object.
Permit me, Madam, with the utmost respect, to subscribe
my name in the list of your admirers, and should I be so
happy as to be thought an .object worthy of your regard, I
should deem myself the happiest of mortals.
Elato with such a heavenly prospect, suffer rne, Madam,
to tender you a heart which has long languished for you, who
are the sole object of my love. Deign then to pity your de-
voted slave, and grant him the privilege of visiting your
adored person; when, if I do not convince you of the pu-
rity of my passion, discard me for ever from your sight, and'
thereby render me the most miserable of the human race.
In auxious suspense, I wait to receive my doom from your
fair hand; till when, suffer me to subscribe myself, your
Sabina Lopti


t 32 )
FORMS OF ADDRESS
FOR PERSONS IN LOVE.
To this Division of our little Volume, it may be proper *»
premise, that nothing is so diffident as genuine Love: We
therefore give the following detached sentences, that memory
may fully supply proper phrases in cases where unassisted
courage might be wanting.
Miss Jackson cannot but know that I have long had a
partiality in her favour. If 1 have never yet expressed my
sentiments, she must attribute it to the warmth of those feel-
ings which it is not in language to describe. -
I snould have long before now, Madam, declared my pas-
sion, if I had been able to express the generous feelings of
an honest heart.
Dear Clarinda, allow me to hope that the ardour with
which I have long addressed you, and the repeated proofs I
have given of the fervency of my passion, may plead in my
behalf, and that I may at length presume so far on your good-
ness, as to expect the reward of all my sufferings. When
will you name the happy day t When shall I" prepare the
licence and the ring?
I should never suppose that a Girl of my Betsey's deli-
cacy could listen for a moment to the addresses of that odi-
ous (i I am sure she never could entertain a thought
so low: and I will therefore flatter myself that I stand w ell
in her opinion.
Animated by the sincerest passion that ever warmed the
human breast, permit me to make a full declaration of my
Love, in terms as ardent as that Love is sincere: and M
mo not pray in vain, while I most earnestly solicit a return
of your affection; of which I beg you will give me some
convincing proof.
If I have offended, I most sincerely ask your naroor. •
but it was impossible to behold those poutmg lips, ana not
wish to press them :—but if I h'ive offended, I will not offend
for noming—this recond kiss shall at once confirm my lovo.
and seal my pardon.


FORMS OF ADDRESS, &C.
33
Trust me, Harriot, I am in earnest—I must have an ex-
plicit answer—My passion is so fervent that it will no longer
bear the pretty triflings of your sex. My sufferings have
been extreme Let your generosity put a period to them.
What can I say, Madam? The more proofs I give of my
Ijcve, the more you seem to despise me. Is there never to
be a period to my woes?
No man ever loved a woman as I love you. Reciproca-
lity of affection can alone ensure our mutual happiness. If
marriage be vour view, as it is mine; say so at once, and let
us be happy.
Though your fortune, my Charmer, is superior to mine;
yet will I endeavour to repair the deficiency by every tender
proof that I can give, that I prefer the happiness of my
Charmer to my own.
Life without Love wouid be a burden: but to love, and
not know that we are loved again, produces the most insup-
portable anxiety. Give me, then, some assurance that I am
not wholly indifferent to you, and you will ease my breast of
a thousand tortures.
Dearest of Girls, be assured, that large as my fortune is,
if it were ten times larger, I would with pride lay it at your
feet. Take me, then, for life, and mould me to your wishes.
—I shall never be happy till I can call you mine.
Open and frank as your nature is to every one else, why
will you act with reserve to me alone ?—Is it because I love
you beyond all women, that I am to be treated with more
severity than any other man I
The diffidence attending genuine Love has hitherto pre-
vented a declaration of my passion; but the long-smothered
flame will burst forth; and I must obtain my Amelia's con-
sent to make me happy, or miserable for life.
In a word, my ever charming Letitia, I love you beyond
all expression; but I would not make this free declaration of
my passion, till I had obtained your father's consent:—On
your decree, then, depends my future fate.


31
FORMS OF REPLY.
I havca favour to ask of. you, Madam, that demands your
private ear. Will you walk with me to the woodbine alcove,
and I will explain myself more fully.
Ravished as my heart first was by your beauty, I am now
still more charmed with your virtues. Your character rises
on me every moment. An union with you, then, my loved
Eliza, as it is the first wish of my heart, so it is the only
'mode by which that heart can-be made happy. %Yecept my
vows, and my life shall always be devoted to the promotion
of your happiness. ,
We honest Tars, Nancy, speak our minds. If you will
have me, say so. I will range the wide world to bring home
treasure for my lovely Girl.
PROPER FORMS OF REPLY
TO BE USED BY THE FEMALE SEX. *
You talk like a man of honour and a gentleman; and
therefore you have my consent to speak on this subject to
my father.
There is so much of extravagance in your professions,
that I really imagine, Sir, you mean to make me an object of
ridicule. I insist that you affront me no more, and* assure
you that I will never consent to admit your addresses.
I have no doubt, Sir, of your expectations in life being'
/ery favourable; but wealth cannot give happiness to those
whose minds do not accord. Our tempers are so opposite
that wo could scarcely avoid disagreements on the most
trilii.ig occasions: to be connected in marriage, therefore,-
would give no prospect of content to either, but be produc-
tive of eternal remoise. t^j-
You say you will explain yourself. I wish for no expla-
nation on the subject you have introduced. I shall continue
to esteem you as a common acquaintance, but desire you
will avoid attempting to engage me hereafter in a particular
conversation; for I am determined to give no countenance
So your addresses.
\ •



FORMS O* REPLY. 35
I am entirely at a loss. Sir, in what manner to reply.
C ould I be assured of your sincerity, I would not hesitate—
but time must prove whether vou deserve to be considered
as such an adherent to truln as you represent yourself to be.
I cannot promise what you desire, without being guilty of
manifest ingratitude and indiscretion. It is both my incli-
nation and duty to consult my^riends on all matters of con-
sequence. However, I will acknowledge, that your greatest
difficulty will be ia obtaining their concurrence: for you will
not be very obstinately opposed by me.
* •
Tour politeness, Sir, is more conspicuous than your sin-
cerity; and I cannot imagine that I possess any of those
charms which you arc pleased to attribute to me.
I have learnt from unquestionable authority, that you are
already under engagements to Miss Johnson; and am
amazed at your effrontery in addressing me on this subject
I am determined to see you no more; and if we may here-
after meet by accident, an unwillingness to attract observa-
tion only, will prevent my immediately withdrawing.
Be assured, Sir, that I will never engage in a clandestine
correspondence: and your endeavouring to persuade me
irto so imprudent a measure, has given me no favourable
opinion of your intentions.
I cannot fix the day; for I fear the day you refer to will
never arrive. Notwithstanding the fervency of. your decla-
ration, I have but too much reason to doubt your fidelity.
Indeed, my dear Harry, I am concerned that you should
suppose the unhappy change of your fortune would alter my
affoction. No; I am convinced of your integrity; and to-
morrow shall give you possession of your Harriot, and a
greater fortune than you ever expected she woujjt'have the
happiness of bestowing upon him she thinks the most de-
serving of his sex.
I cannot comply with your request; but hope you will not
think I mean to affront you, Sir, when I declare, tnat I am
prepossessed in favour of another.
Your behaviour, Sir, is extremely candid. As to y°u*i
qunstiop- respecting the licence and the nng, I confess u*'


36 FORMS OF RP.PT.T.
are necessary preliminaries; but you know, if they are pro-
cured to-night, it does not follow, that I must be precipitated
into the confines of marriage to-morrow.
As to the particular church, Sir, I am indifferent: though
I must confess, that I wish not the ceremony to be made
public; therefore, I would rather have the knot tied at some
distance from town; in one of the places where your resi-
dence has been long enough to give you the title of an inha-
bitant
I have unfortunately countenanced your pretensions', which
I now sincerely regret, and must insist that you decline your
visits; for your general character is too bad to admit of ex-
cuse or palliation; and I fear you act from a confirmed ha-
bit of vice, rather than fall into casual indiscretions.
Your conduct since I have had the happiness of your ac-
quaintance, has been unexceptionable in every respect: and
if I decline a positive declaration of love, be assured that
you are not indifferent to me.
I am sorry, Sir, to say any thing that I suppose will give
you uneasiness; but my father has, for reasons known, he
says, only to himself, forbid die continuance of your visits
I consent, Sir, to receive your addresses, on the condition
{hat you obtain my Aunt's concurrence.


*


THE ALVENTURES
BARON MUNCHAUSEN.
Some years before my beard announced approaching man-
hood, I expressed a strong desire of seeing the world, from
which [ was discouraged by my parents. A cousin, by my
mother's side, took u liking to me, and was much inclined to
gratily my curiosity. His eloquence had more effect then mine j
for my father consented to my accompanying him in a voyage to
the island of Ceylon, where his uncle had resided as go.e.-
nor many years.
We sailed from Amsterdam with despatches from their High
Mightinesses the States of Holland. The only circumstance
which happened on our voyage worth relating, was the won-
derful effects of a storm, which had torn up by the roots a great
number of trees of enormous bulk, that had been carried by the
wind so high, that they appeared like the feathers of small birds
floating in the air; for they were at least five miles above the
earth; however, as soon as the storm subsided, they all fell
perpendicularly into their respective places, and took root
again, except the largest, which happened when it was blown
into the air, to have a man and his wife on its branches, gath
ering cucumbers, which here grow on trees; the weight of this
couple, as the tree descended, overbalanced the trun!t; and
brought it down in a horizontal positon; it fell upon the chid
man of the island, and killed him on the spot, to the great joy
of the inhabitants.
In about six weeks, we arrived at Ceylon, where we were
received with great marks of friendship and politeness. One
day, being out on a shooting party, I lost my companion, in
passing through a wood. Having reached the banks of a large
piece of water, I heard a rustling noise behind; on turning
about, I was almost petrified at the sight of a lion, evidently
approaching with an intention of satisfying his appetite on me.
What was to he done in this horrible dilemma? My piece was
only filled wun swan shot, and I had no other about me; how-
ever, though I could have no idea of killing such an animal
with that weak kind of ammunition, yet I had some hopes of.
frightening him by the report, and perhaps of wounding; him, I
immediately let fly; but the report did only enrage him, for he
now quickened his pace, and seemed to approach me full speed.
I attempted to escape; but the moment I turned about, I found
i large crocodile, with his mouth extended, almost ready to ret
live me. In short, I gave myself up as lost j for the lion
_


BARON MUNCHAUSEN.
*
J»ws, dawn his throat- tt gave him pain, and made hi m
turn about, so thai I could level the second at his rear, which
I did with wonderful success; for it flew in. met the first flint
in the stomach, struck lire, mid blew U|> the hear with a terrihle
explosion. Though I came safe off, jet I should not wish to.
try the experiment again, or venture against hears with no other
ammunition. However, another day, a frightful wolf rushed
Upon me so suddenly, thai I could do nothing hut follow me-
chanical instinct, and thrust my fist into his moulh. I pushed
on, til) my arm was fairly in up to the shoulder. How should
I disengage myself.' If 1 withdrew my arm, then the animal
would fly the more furiously upon me ; this I saw in his flaming
eyes. I laid hold of his entrails, turned him inside out like a
glove, and flung him to the ground.
All these narrow escapes were chances turned to advantage,
by presence of mind and vigorous exertions, which, taken to-
gether, make the fortunate sportsman, sailor, and soldier: hut
he would be a very imprudent, sportsman, admiral, or general,
-who would always depend on chance, without providing the
very best implements, which secure success. I was not hlame-
ble in this way; for I have always been as remarkable for
the excellence of my horses, dogs, guns, and swords, as for
the proper manner of using them. I shall not enter here into
any detail of my stables, kennel, or armory; but a favourite
bitch of mine, I cannot help mentioning to you—a greyhound;
and I never had or saw a "better. She ran so fast, so much
and so long, in my service, that she actually ran off her legs:
so that in the latter part of her life, I was under the necessity
of working and using her only as a turnspit, in which quality
she still served me many years. Coursing one day a very large
hare, I pitied my poor bitch, being big with pups, yet she
would run as fast as ever. I could follow her on horseback
only at a distance. At once I heard a cry, as it were, of a
pack of hounds; but so weak and faint, that I hardly knew
what to make of it. Coming up, I was astonished. The hare
had littered in running; the same had happened to my bitch in
coursing; and there was as many leverets as pups. By instinct,
the former ran, the latter followed; and thus I found myself
in possession at once of six hares and as many dogs, at the
end of a course, which had only began with one of each.
I was not always successful. I had once the misfortune to
be taken prisoner by the Turks; and, what was wofse, was
sold for H slave by my conquerors. My da.ly task was to at-
tend the sultan's bees. One evening I raisseJ a bee, and soon
observed that two bears- had fallen upon her, to tear her to
pieces for the honey she carried. L had in my hands only the
silver hatchet, which is the badge of the sultan s gardeners and
Burners. I threw it at the robbers, with an intention to fright-
en them away, and set the poor bee at liberty; but by an un-
lucky turn of my arm, it flew upwards, and continued rising till
it reached the moon. How should I recover it? how fetcu it
A 3


THE ADVENTURES Ot
down again? I recollected that a species of Turkey-beans grows
very quick, and runs up to an astonishing height. I planted
one immediately; it grew, and actually fastened itself to one of
the moon's horns. I had now only to ciimb up by it into the
moon, where I safely arrived; but had a troublesome piece of
business, before 1 could find my hatchet; at last, however, I
found it in a heap of chaff and chopped straw. I was now for
returning; but, alas! the heat of the sun bad dried up my bean;
so 1 fell to work, and twisted me a rope of the chopped straw, as
long and as well as I could. This I fastened to one of the moon's
horns, and slid down to the end of it. Here 1 held myself fast
with the left hand: and, with the hatchet in the right, I cut the
long, now useless end of the upper part, which, when tied to the
lower end, brought me a good deal farther down, but when I
was four or five miles from the earth at least, it broke: I fell to
the ground with such amazing violence, that I found myself
stur.ined, and in a hole nine fathoms deep, made by the weight
of my body falling from so great a height: to get out, I dug
steps with my nails, and at last accomplished it.
Peace was soon after concluded with the Turks; and gaining
my liberty, I left St. Petersburgh. The winter was then un-
commonly severe all over Europe. I travelled post, and find-
ing myself in a narrow lane, bade the postillion give a signal
with his horn, that other travellers might not meet us in the
narrow passage. He blew with all his might, but his endea-
vours were in vain, he could not make the horn sound; which was
unaccountable, and rather unfortunate; for soon after we found
another coach coming the other way: there was no proceed-
ing; however, I got out of my carriage, and being pretty strong,
placed it, wheels and all, on my head; I then jumped over a
hedge about nine feet high (which considering the weight of the
coach, was rather difficult) into a field, and cams out again by
another jump into the road beyond the other carriage. I then
went back for the horses, and placing one on my head, and the
other under my left arm, by the same means brought them to
my coach, put to, and proceeded to an inn at the end of our
stage. After we had arrived at the inn, my postillion and I
refreshed ourselves ; he hung his horn on a peg near the kitch-
en fire ; I sat on the other side.
Suddenly we heard a tereng ! tereng! teng! teng! We looked
round, and now found the reason the postillion had not been
able to sound his horn; his tunes were frozen up in it, and came
out now by thawi.ig, plain enough, and much to the credit of
the driver, so tliat the honest fellow entertained us for some
time with a successive variety of tunes, without putting hft
mouth to the horn.
I wasonce in great danger of.being lost in a most singular
manner in the Mediterranncan. I was bathing near Marseilles
one summer's afternoon, when I discovered a very large fish
approaching me with the greatest velocity; there was no time
to be lost, nor could I possibly avoid him. 1 immediately re-


BARON MUNCHAUSEN.
7
dnceil myself to as small a size as possible, by closing my feet,
and placing my hands also near my sides, in which position 1
passed directly between his jaws, and into his stomach, where
I remained some time in total darkness; but at last it occurred
to me, that, by giving him pain, he would be glad to get rid of
me: and, as I had plenty of room, I played my pranks, such as
tumbling, hop, step, and jump, &c. but nothing seemed to dis-
turb him so much as the motion of my feet in attempting
to dance a hornpipe: he roared horridly, and stood up almost
perpendicular in the water, with his head and shoulders expos-
ed, by which he was discovered by the people on board an In-
dian trader, then sailing by, who harpooned him. As soon as he
-was brought on board, the crew began to cut him up, by open-
ing the bottom of his belly. As soon as I perceived a glim-
mering of light, [ called out lustily, to be released from a
situation in which I was almost suffocated. It is impossible
for me to do justice to the astonishment which sat on every
countenance at hearing a human voice issue from a fish, but
more so at seeing a naked man walk upright out of his body:
-in short, I told them the whole story, as I have done you, whilst*
amazement struck them dumb. Indeed this circumstance ap-
pears so incredible, that I should hardly venture to recount it,
but that the whole crew of the Indian vessel are living witnesses
of its truth.
During the celebrated siege of Gibraltar, I went with a pro-
vision Re-t. under lord Rodney's command, to see my old friend
General Elliott, who had, by his distinguished defence of that
place, acquired never fading laurels. After the usual expres-
sions of joy which generally attend the meeting-of old friends,
I went to examine the state of the garrison, and view the ope-
rations of the enemy. I found the enemy were going to dis-
charge a thirty-six pounder at the very spot where we stood. I
told the general what they were about; he looked through the
glass also, and found my conjectures right. I immediately, hy
bis permission, ordered a forty-eight pounder to be brought
from a neighbouring battery, which I placed with so much ex-
actness, that I was sure of my mark.
I continued watching the enemy, till I saw the match placed
at the touch-hole of their piece; at that instant I gave the sig-
nal for our gun to be fired also. About midway between the
two pieces of cannon, the halls struek each other with amazing
force, and the effect was astonishing! The enemy's ball recoil-
ed with such violence, as to kill the man who had discharged it,
carrying^ his head fairly off, with sixteen others, which it met
with in its progress to the Bai hary coast; where its force, after
passing through three masts of vessels thai ther lay in a lme
behind each other in the harbour, was so much syent that it
only broke through the roof of a poor labourer's hut, about two
hundred yards inland, and destroyed the few remaining teeth of
an old woman, who lay asleep on her back with her mouth open.
The ball lodged in her throat. Her husband soon a'fter came


THE ADVENTURES OF
home, anil endeavoured to extract it; but finding that impracti
Cable, he forced it into her stomach, whence it was discharged
downwards in a natural way. Our ball did excellent service;
for it not only repelled the other in a manner just described,
but proceeding as 1 intended it should, it dismounted tlie very
piece of cannon that had been just employed against us, and
forced it into the hold of the ship, where it fell with so much
force, as to'break lis way through the bottom. The ship im
mediately tilled, and sunk with about a thousand Spanish sail
ors on hoard, besides a considerable number of soldiers.
As 1 am very partial to the English, 1 determined not to take
my leave of the garrison till I had rendered them another piece
of service. 1 dressed myself in the habit of a Polish priest, and
about one o'clock in the. morning, stole out of the garrison,
passed the enemy's lines, and arrived in the middle of llieir
camp, where 1 entered the tent in which the Prince d'Axlois
was, with the commander in chief, and several other officers, in
deep council, concerning a plan to storm the garrison next mor-
ning. My disguise was my protection; they suffered me to
continue there, hearing every thing that passed, till they went
to their several beds. When 1 found the whole camp, and even
the sentinels, were .wrapped up in the arms of Morpheus, I
began my work, which was that of dismounting all their can-
non, (above 800 pieces,) from forty-eight to twenty-lour poun-
ders, and throwing them three leagues into the sea. Having
no assistance, I found this one of the hardest tasks I ever
undertook. 1 then piled all their carriages together in the
centre of the camp, and a noble appearance they made, as high
at least as the rock of Gibraltar. 1 applied a lighted match; I
had laid the combustibles at the bottom so judiciously, that the
whole was in a blaze in a moment. To prevent suspicion, I
was one of the first to express my surprise. But this fact I
have never divulged before, (though 1 alone saved Gibraltar by
that night's business,) not even to General Elliott. The Count
d'Artois, and all his attendants, ran away in their fright, and
never stopped on the road till they reached Paris, which they
did in about a fortnight. <
About two months after, by means of the sling with which
David killed Goliah, and which was luckily in my pocket, I
threw a shell among a number of the enemy, which did good
service indeed. They were just a going to hang two English
officers, one a general, the other a major, both my particular
friends, who had been detected as spies. The shell burst, and
killed every individual except the two culprits, who were for-
tunately raised above the rest, in order to be turned off. You
may easily conceive their astonishment, as well as their grati-
tude, for so-unlooked-for a deliverance.
I made a balloon of such extensive dimensions, that an ac-
count of the silk it contained, would exceed all credibility;
'•very mercer's shop, and weavt-r's stock, in London, West-
Sster, and Spital fields, contributed to it: with this balloon,
X' •


v . ^JARON MUNCHAUSEN. 9
anrt my slirig, which had almost miraculous powers, I played
mniiy tricks, such as taking one house from its station, and
placing another in its stead, without disturbing the inhabitants.
VVhen the sentinel at Windsor Castle heard St. Paul's clock
Strike thirteen, it was through my dexterity; 1 brought Ihe
buildings nearly together that night, by placing Windsor Castle
jjp St. George's Fields, and carried it hack again before dny-
'light, without waking any of the inhabitants.
On the 80th of September, when the College of Physicians
choose their annual officers, and dine sumptuously together, I
filled my balloon, brought it over the dome of the buildh:g,
clapped ihe sling round the golden ball at the top, fastened the
other end of it to the balloon, and immediately ascended with
the whole college to an immense height, where 1 kept them
upwards of throe months. You will naturally inquire what
they did for food such a length of lime? To this 1 answer,
had ' kept them suspended twice the lime, they would.have
experienced no inconvenience on that account, so amply had
they spread their table for that day's feasting.
Though this was meant as an innocent frolic, it was produc-
tive of much mischief to several respectable characters among
the clergy, undertakers, sextons, and grave diggers; for it is a
well known fact, that during the three months the college was
suspended in the air, no deaths happened, except a few who
fell before the scythe of father Time, and those who, in the
absence of the physicians, received the aid of the apothecaries.
We all remember Lord Mulgrave's voyage of discovery to
the North. I accompanied the captain, not as an officer, but
a private friend. When we arrived in a high northern latitude,
I was viewing the objects around me'with aiy telescope. I
thought I saw two large white bears in violent action on a body
of ice, at about half a league distance. I immediately e,ok
my earbine, slung it across my shoulder, and ascended the ice.
As I approached near enough to reach them, I found they were
only at play. I immediately began to calculate the value of
their skins; unfortunately, at the very instant I was prest-nting
my carbine, my right foot slipped, I fell on my back and the
violence of the blow deprived me totally of my senses for nrar
half an hour; however, when I recovered, judge of my sur-
prise at finding one of those large animals had turned me on
my face, and was just laying hold of the waistband of my
breeches, when I took my clasp-knife out of my pocket, made
a chop at one of his hind feet, and cut oft' three of his toes;
he immediately let me drop, and roared most horribly. I look
up my carbine, and fired at him as he ran off; he fell immedi-
ately. The noise of the piece mused several thousands of
these white bears, who were asleep on the ice. A most for-
tunate thought popped into my pericranium just al that instant.
I took ofTthe skin and head of Ihe dead hear, and wrapped
self in it, placing my own head directly under Bruin's;
whole herd came round ine immediately, smelling,


10
THE ADVENTURES OP
dently took me for a brother. After they had all smelt rae.
we seemed very sociable, and I found I could mimic all their
actions tolerably well; but at growling, roaring, or hugging,
they were quite my masters. 1 began now to think how 1
might turn the general confidence which I had created amongst
these animals, to my advantage. 1 had heard that a wound in
the spine was instant death. I now determined to try the expe-
riment, and had again recourse to my knife, with which I struck
the largest in the back of the neck, near the shoulders, but under
great apprehensions, not doubting but the creature would, if he
survived the stab, tear me to pieces. However, I was remark-
ably fortunate; he fell dead at my feet, without making any
noise. I resolved, therefore, to demolish them every one
in the same manner, which I accomplished without the least
difficulty; for though they saw their companions fall, they had
no suspicion of either the cause or the effect. To make short
of the story, I went back to the ship, and borrowed part of the
crew to assist me in skinning them, and carrying the hams on
board, which we did in a few hours, and loaded the ship with
them. The bear-skins I sent to the Empress of Russia, to
clothe her Majesty and her court in the winter, for which she
wrote me a letter of thanks with her own hand, and sent it by an
ambassador extraordinary, inviting me to share the honours of
her bed and crown; but as I never was ambitious of royal dig-
nity, I declined her Majesty's favour in the politest terms. What
the fair sex see in me, 1 cannot conceive; but the Empress is
not the only female sovereign who has offered me her hand.
Lord Mulgrave has since often expressed a dissatisfaction that
he had no share in the honours of that day, which he emphati-
cally called the bear-skin-day. He had also been very desirous
of knowing by what art I destroyed so many thousands, without
fatigue or danger to myself; indeed he is so ambitious of di-
viding the glory with me, that we have actually quarreled about
it, anil we are not now on speaking terms.
You remember the circumstance Baron de Tott boasts of,
having on the banks of Simois fired a Turkish cannon, loaded
with 330 pounds weight of gunpowder, and a marble ball of
1100 pounds weight; the firing caused a shock like an earth-
quake; burst the ball into three pieces; the fragments crossed
Ilie Strait, rebounded on the opposite mountain, and left the
surface of the water all of a foam, through the whole breadth
of the channel.
Now, when I was there not long since, the anecdote of Tott's
firing this tremendous piece was mentioned as a proof of that
gentleman's extraordinary courage. *
I was determined not to be outdone by a Frenchman; there-
fore, took this very piece on my shoulder, and, after balancing
it properly, jumped into the sea with it, and swam to the oppo-
site shore, where I unfortunately attempted to throw it back into
the former place; for it slipt a little in my hand, just as I was
going to discharge it, and fell into the middle of the channel,


BARON MUNCHAUSEN.
where it now lies, without a prospect of ever recovermg it, and
notwithstanding the high favour I was in with the Grand Seign
nr, as before mentioned, this cruel Turk, as soon as he heard ot
t lie loss of this famous piece of ordnance, issued an order to cut
oft" my head. 1 was immediately informed oT it by one of the
Sultanas, with whom T was become a great favourite, and that
very night 1 made my escape on board a vessel bound to Venice,
which was then weighing anchor to proceed on her voyage.
On my return from Gibraltar, I travelled by way of Kranee
to England. I found in the harbour of Calais, a ship just ar-
rived with a number of English sailors, prisoners of war. 1 im-
mediately conceived an idea of giving these, brave fellows their
liberty, which 1 accomplished as follows. After forming a pair
ol large wings, each of them forty yards long, and fourteen wide,
and annexing them to myself, i mounted at break of day, when
every creature, even the watch upon deck, was fast asleep. As
I hovered over the ship, I fastened the grappling-irons to the
tops of the three masts, with my sling, and fairly lifted her se-
veral yards out of the water, and proceeded across to Dover,
where 1 arrived in half an hour! The wings I made a present
of to the governor of Dover Castle, where they are now exhi-
bited to the curious. As to the prisoners and the Frenchmen
who guarded Ihem. they did not awake till they had been two
hours on Dover pier. The moment the Englishmen understood
their situation, they changed places with their guard, and took
back what they had been plundered of, and got a good booty
besides, 'i'hey generously offered nie salvage, but 1 on my part
was too disinterested to accept their offer.
In a voyage 1 made to the East Indies with Captain Hamil
ton, I took a favourite pointer with me; a dog worth his weight
in gold. It happened one day, when we were at least three
hundred leagues from the land, my dog pointed; I observed
hiui for near an hour with astonishment, and mentioned the
circumstance to the captain, asserting that we must be near
land, for my dog smelt game. This occasioned a general laugh;
but that did not alter in the least the good opinion I had of my
dog. After much conversation pro and con, I boldly told the
captain, 1 placed more confidence in Tray's nose, than 1 did in
the eyes of every seaman on board; and boldly proposed laying
100 guinea* that he would find game within half an hour. The
captain laughed heartily, and desired Mr. Crawford, the surgeon,
who was present, to feel my pulse: he did so, and reported me
in perfect health. The captain being incredulous, took my
was;er. Done! and done! were scarcely said on both sides,
wlien some sailors, who were fishing in the long-boat, which
was made fast to the stern of the ship, harpooned a large
■hark, which they brought on board, and began to cut up for
the purpose of barrelling the oil, when, behold! they found no
less than six large brace of partridges in the animal's stomach!
They had been so long in this situation, that one of the bens


THE ADVENTURES OF
to be fitly limes at least as capacious as the Devil's Punch-
Bowl, near Petersfield, on the Portsmouth road, but not so
Droad at the bottom, as in that part it resembles the contracted
part of a funnel, more than a punch-bowl. At last, having
made up my mind, in 1 sprang. Guess, gentlemen, my asto-
nishment, when 1 found myself in the company of Vulcan and
his Cyclops. Vulcan ordered Venus to shew me every indul-
gence which my situation required. To describe the apart-
ment, and the couch on which I reposed, is totally impossi-
ble; therefore I will not attempt it: let it suffice to say, it ex-
ceeds the' power of language to do it justice, or speak of that
Kind-hearted goddess in any terms equal to her merit.
I should have continued here as an humble attendant o.i Ma-
dam Venus; hut some busy tattiers, who deliglit in mischief,
whispered a tale in Vulcan's ear, which roused him to a fit of
jealousy. Without the least previous notice, he took me one
morning under his arm, and carried me to an apartment 1 had
never before seen, in which there was, to all appearance, a
well, with a wide mouth; over this he held me at aims length,
and saying, " Ungrateful mortal, return to the world from
whence you came," without giving me the least opportunity of
reply, dropping me in the centre. I found myself descending
with an increasing rapidity, till the horror of my mind deprived
me of all reflection. 1 suppose I fell into a trance; from which
I Was suddenly roused by plunging into a large body of water,
illuminated by the rays of the sun! I could, from my infancy,
swim well, and play tricks in the water. After looking about
me some time, I could discover nothing but an expansive sea,
extending beyond the eye in every direction; I also found it
very cold, a different climate from Master Vulcan's shop. At
last I observed, at some distance, a body of amazing magnitude,
like a huge rock, approaching me: 1 soon discovered it to be
a piece of floating ice: I swam round it, till I found a place
where I could ascend to the top. Still I was out of sight of
land, and despair returned with double force; however, before
night came on, I saw a sail: I flung myself into the sea, and,
they threw out a rope, by which I was taken on board. I en-
quired where we were,'and was informed, in the great South
ern Ocean; this opened a valuable discovery. It was now
evident that I had passed from Mount Mtna, through the cen-
tre of the earth, to the South Seas; a much shorter cut than
going round the world, and which no man has accomplished, or
ever attempted, but myself. The Dutch are a very rude sort of
people; I related the JStna passage to the officers, exactly as I
have done to you; and some of them, particularly the captain,
seemed, by his grimace, and half sentences, to doubt my ve-
racity; however, I pocketed the affront
We were now exactly in Captain Cook's first track, and ar-
rlie next morning in Botany Bay. We staid here but
days; the fourth after our departure, a mdfet dreadfu]
arose, which in a few hours destroyed all our sails, splin*


BARON MUNCHAUSEN. 15
tereil our bowsprit, and brought down our topmast; it fell di-
rectly upon llie box that enclosed our compass, which with the
compass was lirokrn to pieces. We now were at a loss where
to steer. At length the storm abated, which v.as followed by
a steady brisk gale, that carried us at least forty knots an hour,
for six months! when we began to observe an amazing change
in every thing about us; our spirits be.-ame light; our noses
were regaled with the most Aromatic effluvia imaginable; the
sea also had changed its cnui| I X on. anil from green became
while! ^oon after these wondertuJ alterations, we saw land,
anil not at any great distance, an inlet, which sailed tip near
sixty leagues, and found it wide and deep, flowing with milk
of the most delicious taste. Here we landed, and soon found
it was an island, consisting of one large cheese: we discovered
this by one of the company fainting away as soon as be landed:
this man always Via I an aversion tu cheese. Upon examination,
we found him perfectly right; for the w hole island, as before
observ: <1, was nothing but a cheese of immense magnitude!
On this the inhabitants principally maintain themselves. On i
this island of cheese grows great plenty of corn, the ears of
which produce loaves of bread, ready made, of a round form
tike mushrooms. We discovered, in our rambles over this
cheese, seventeen rivers of milk, and ten of wine. After thir-
ty-eigh^ days' journey, we arrived on Ilie opposite side to tliat
on which we landed; here we found some blue mould; as the
cheese-eaters call it, whence spring all kinds of rich fruit: in-
stead of breeding mites, it produced peaches, nectarines, apri-
cots, and a thousand other delicious fruits. In these trees,
which are of an am«zing size, were plenty of bird's-nests:
among others was a kingfisher's, of prodigious magnitude; it
was at least twice the circumference of the dome of St. Paul's
Church, in Loudon: on inspection, this nest was made of huge
trees, curiously joined together! there were, let me see, (for I
make it a rule always to speak wit Kin con.inss.) there were
upwards of five hundred eggs in this nest, and each of them was
as large as four common hogsheads, or eight barrels, and yve
cnnld not only see, but beat the young birds chirping within.
Having with great fatigue, cut open one of these eggs, we let
out a young one, unfeathered, considerably larger than twenty
full grown vultures. By what we could learn of this cheese,
it w as considerably larger than the continent of all Eti'Ope!
After sailing three months we knew not where, being still
without compass, we arrived in a sea which appeared to he al-
most black; on tasting it, we found it most excelfent wine,
and haif great difficulty to keep the sailors from getting drunk
with it; however, in a few hours, we found ourselves sur-
rounded by whales, and other animals of an immense magni-
tude: one of which drew our ship, with all her masts standing,
and sails bent, by suction into its piouth, between its teeth,
which were nraeli larger and taller than the mast of a first-rate
man of war. After we had been in bis mouth some time, i*


16
THE ADVENTURES Of
opened it pretty wide, took in an immense quantity of water,
and floated our vessel, which was at least three hundred tons
burthen, into its stomach; here we lay as quiet as at anchor in
a dead calm. The air, to be sure, was rather warm, and very
offensive. We were all generally afloat and aground twice a
day: whenever he drank, it became high-watei with as; and
when he evacuated, we found ourselves aground: on a mode-
rate computation, he took in more water at a single draught,
than is generally to be found in the Lake of Geneva. On the
second day of our confinement in these regions of darkness, I
ventured, at low water, as we called it, when the ship was
aground, to ramble with the captain, and a few of the other of-
ficers, with lights in our hands: we met with people of all na-
tions to the amount of ten thousand; they were going to hold
tx council how to recover their liberty; some of them having
lived in this animal's stomach several years. Just as the chair-
man was going to inform us of the business upon which we
were assembled, this plaguy fish becoming thirsty, drank in his
usual manner: the water poured in with such impetuosity, that
we were all obliged to retreat to our respective ships immedi-
ately, or run the risk of bein• drowned; some were obliged to
swim for it, and with difficulty saved their lives. In a few hours
after, we were more fortunate: we met again just after the
monster had evacuated. I was chosen chairman; and the first
thing I did, was to propose splicing two main-masts together;
and the next time he opened his mouth, to be ready to wedge
them in, so as to prevent his shutting it. It was unanimously
approved. One hundred men were chosen upon this service.
We had scarcely got our masts properly prepared, when an
opportunity offered; the monster opened his mouth, immedi-
ately the top of the masts were placed against the roof, and the
other end pierced his tongue, which effectually prevented him
from shutting his mouth. As soon as every thing in his sto-
mach was afloat, we manned a few boats, who rowed them-
selves and us into the world. The daylight, after, as near as
we could judge, three months' confinement in total darkness,
cheered our spirits exceedingly. Our first object was to learn
in what part of the world we were, this we were for some time
at a loss to ascertain: at last I found, from former observations,
that we were in the Caspian Sea! How we came here, it was
impossible to conceive, as this sea has no communication with
any other. One of the inhabitants of the Cheese Island, whom
I had brought with me, accounted for it thus: That the mon-
ster, in whose stomaeh we had b^en so long confined, had car-
ried us bete through some subterraneous passage: however,
we pushed to shore, and I was the first who landed. Thence I
travelled up to St. Petersburgh a second .time. Here my old
friend, Major Grose, gave me a most excellent pointer, descen-
ded from the famous bitch before mentioned, that littered while
she was hunting a hare. I had the misfortune to have him shot
soon after by a blundering huntsman, who fired at him instead


BARON MUNCHAUSEN. 17
»-' - rovey oi partridges which he had just set. Of this crea-
ture s skin I had a waistcoat made, which always leads me in-
voluntarily to game, if J walk in the fields in the proper season;;
anil when I come within shot, one of the buttons constantly flies
off, and lodges upon the spot where the sport is; and, as the
birds rise, being always primed and cocked, I never miss them.
There are now but three buttons left. I shall have a new set
sewed on against the shooting season commences.
About the beginning of his late Britannic Majesty's reign, I
bad some business with a distant relation, who then lived on
the Isle of Thanet; it was a family dispute, and not likely to
be finished soon. I made it a practice, during my residence
there, the weather being fine, to walk out every morning. After
a few of these excursions, 1 observed an object on n great emi-
nence, about three miles distant; I extended my walk to it, and
found the ruins of an ancient temple: on the eastern end were
the remains of a lofty tower, nearly forty feet high, overgrown
with ivy, the top apparently flat. I surveyed it on every side
very minutely, thinking iff could gain the summit, J should en-
joy the most delightful prospect of the circumjacent country.
Animated by this hope, 1 resolved, if possible, to gain the sum-
mit; which I at length effected by means of the ivy, though not
without great difficulty and danger. The top I found covered
with this evergreen, except a large chasm in the middle. Curi-
osity prompted me to sound the opening, in order to ascertain
its depth, as I entertained a suspicion that it might probably
communicate with some unexplored subterranean cavern in the
hill; but having no line, I was at a loss how to proceed. After
revolving the matter in my thoughts for some time, I resolved
to drop a stone down, and listen to the echo; which I had no
sooner done, than I heard a rustling below, and suddenly a
monstrous eagle put up its head right opposite my face; and
rising up with irresistible force, carried me away, seated on ilu
shoulders. I instantly grarped it round* the neck, which was
large enough to fill my arms; and its wings, when extended,
were ten yards from one extremity to the other. As it arose
with a regular ascent, my seat was perfectly easy; and I en-
joyed the prospect below with inexpressible pleasure. It ho-
vered over Margate for some time, then directed its cvurse to
Dover Cliff, where it alighted, and I thought of dismounting,
but was prevented by a sudden discharge of musketry, from a
party of marines that were exercising on the beach. It instant-
ly reascended, and flew over the sea towards Calais; hut so
very high, that the Channel seemed to be no broader than the
Thames, at London Bridge. In a quarter of an hour, I found
myself over a thick wood in France, where the eagle descended
very rapidly, which caused me to slip down to the back part
of its head; but alighting on a large tree, and raising its head,
I recovered my seat as before, but saw no possibility of disen-
gaging myself without the danger of being killed by th? fall 8
so I determined to sit fast. After resting a few minutes, it toe


THE ADVENTURES Of
«i/ig, and proceeded. In three days I saw the rock of Gibral-
tar very distinctly. The day heini clear, notwithstanding my
degree of elevation, the earth's surface appeared just like a
Diap, where land, sea, lakes, rivers, mounlains, and tbe like
were perfectly distinguishable; and having some knowledge of
feography, I was at no loss to determine what part of the globe
was in. My eagle, however, proceeded, and looking before
me with inexpressible pleasure, I observed that he was prepar-
ing to alight on the Peak of Teneriffe; he descended on the
top of a stook; but seeing no possibility of escaping, if f dis-
mounted, I determined to remain w here I was, and I fell fast
asleep. In the cool of the evening, when the son had retired
below the horizon, I was roused from sleep by the eagle moving
under me; and having stretched myself along its back. I sat up,
and resuming my travelling position, when he took wing, and
having placed myself as before, directed his course to South
America. The moon shining bright during the whole night, I
had a fine view of all the islands in those seas.
About the Weak of day we reached the great eontinent of
America, that part called Terra Firma, and descended on the
top of a very high mountain. At this time, the moon, far dis-
tant in the west, and obscured by dark clouds, but just afforded
light sufficient to discover a kind of shrubbery all around, hear-
ing fruit something like cabbages, which the eagle began to feed
on very eagerly. I endeavoured to discover my situation, but
toss and passing clouds involved me in the thickest daikness.
When daylight began lo appear, I thought of examining the
fruit which I saw the eagle eat; and as something was hanging
which I could easily come at, I took out my knife, and cut a
slice; but how great was my surprise to see that it had all the
appearance of true English roast beef. I tasted it, an I found it
well flavoured and delicious; then cut several large pieces and
Cut in my pocket, where I found a crust of bread which I
rought from Margale. I made a hearty meal of bread and cold
beef fruit. I then cut down two of the largest that grew near
me, and tying them together with one of my garters, hung them
over the eagle's neck fur another occasion, filling my pockets
at the same time. WhHe I -was settli g these affairs, I ob-
served a large fruit like an inflated bladder, which I wished to.
try an experiment upon; and strikmg my kpife into one of
them, a fine pure liquor like gin gushed out.
By this time the e«gle began to stagger against the shrubs, I
endeavoured to keep my seat. but was soon thrown to some dis
tance among the bushes. In attempting to rise, I pnt my hand
on a large hedgehog, which happened to lie anion.; the grass
upon its back; it instantly closed round my han I, so that I
found it impossible to shake it off. I struck it several times
against the ground without effect; but while I was tl us cio-
floyed, I heard a rustling among the shrubbery, and looking upj
saw a huge animal within three yards of me; I could.make
no defence, but held out both my hands, when it rushed on me*


BARON MUNCHAUSEN.
19
and seized that on which the hedgehos was" fixed My hard
being soon relieved, ! nip to some distance, where 1 saw the
creatine suddenly drop down and expire, with the hedgehog in
its throat. When the danger was passed, I went to view the
eagle, and found him lying on the glass, fast asleep, along with
another, hoth intoxicated with the liquor they had drank. In-
every thing quiet, I began to search for some moie, which 1
found; and having cut down two lar^e bladders, about n gallon
each, I tied them together, and.hung them over the neck of the
other eagle; and two smaller ones round my own waist. Hav-
ing secured a good stock ol provisions, and perceiving ti c ea-
gles begin t" recover, 1 a«ain took my seat. In half an hour,
they arose ru -jestical y from the place, without taking the least
notice of their incumbrance. Directing their course to the
northward, they crossed the Gulf of Mexico, entered North
America, anil steered directly for the polar regions; which
gave me 'he finest opportunity of viewing tl.is vast continent,
that can possibly be imagined. When we entered the frigid
zone, the cold began to aarct me; hut piercing one of my blad-
ders, I took a drau ht, and found that it could m,ike no impres-
sion on me afterwards
In these cold climates, I observed that the eagles flew with
grealttssrapidily, in order, I s,ti| posed, to keep their blond in
circulation. While 1 was surveying these wonders of natute, it
occurred to me that this was a good opportunity to discovenhe
northwest passage. But while my thoughts were abhorben in
this pleasmg reverie, I was alarmed by ti e first eagle striking
his head against a solid transparent substance; and in a mo-
ment, that which I ro-le experienced the same fate: and both
fell down seemmgly dead.
Here our lives must mevitablv have terminated had not a
sense of danger inspired me w ith a degree of i-kill and dexterity,
which enabled us to fall near two miles | erpendicular, w ith as
little inconveniency as if we had been lei town wilh a ro\ip; for
no sooner did 1 perceive the eagles strike ugainsl a frozen eloud,
which is very common near the pole*, than I laid myself along
the back of tlie foremost, and took hold of Us wings to keep
them extended, at the same lime stretching out my legs behind,
to support the wings of the other. This- had the desire,t effect;
and we descended very safe on a mountain of ice, wl ich 1 sup-
posed to he about three miles above the level olMhe sea. I dis-
mounted, and unloaded the eagles; but suddenly a monstrous
bear be-ian to roar he; ind me, with a voice like thunder. I
turned round, and seeing the creature just ready to devour me,
having the bladder of liquor in my hands, through fear, [
squeezed it so hard that it burst, and the lirpior flying in the
eves of the animal, totally deprived it of si^ht. It instantly
turned from me, ran away in a state of distraction, and soon fen
over a precipice of ice i'do the sea.
The danger being over, 1 again turned my attention to my


THE ADVENTURES OF
eagles, whom I found in a fair way of recovery; and suspecting
they were faint for want of victuals, I took one of the beef fruits,
cut it into small slices, and presented them with it, which they
devoured with avidity. Having given them plenty to eat and
drink, and disposed of the remainder of my provision, I took my
seat as before. In a few hours I saw the Western Isles; and
soon after had the inexpressible pleasure of seeing Old England.
The eagles descended gradually as they drew near the shore,
to alight. I once more looked down upon the earth; when, to
my inexpressible joy, I saw Margate at a little distance, and the
eagles descended on an old lower. They no sooner came down,
than I threw myself off, happy to find that I was once more n;
stored to the world. The eagles flew away in a few minute«,
and 1 sat down to compose my fluttering spirits, which 1 did m
a few hours.
Having passed some time in England, I began to revolve in
my mind what a prodigious field of discovery must be in the in-
terior part of Africa. 1 could not sleep with the thoughts of it;
I therefore determined to gain every proper assistance from
government, to penetrate the source of the Njie, and assume
the viceroyship of the interior kingdoms of Africa, or at least
the great realm of Monomotapa. Happily, I had one most
po verful friend at court, whom I shall call the illustrious Hilaro
Frt sticos. I hastened to his levee, and having mentioned my
inte.ition, with all the vigour of fancy he gave my plan the
wannest applause.
I look my passage in an Indiaman; we met nothing particu-
lar, until we arrived upon the coast of Guinea, where, to our
utter astonishment, we perceived a great hill, seemingly of glass,
advancing against us in the open sea. The rays of the sun were
reflected from it with such splendour, that it was extremely dif-
ficult to gaze at the phenomenon. I immediately knew it to be
an island of ice; and though in so warm a latitude, determined
to make all possible sail from such horrible danger: but all in
vain ^ for about eleven o'clock at night, blowing a very hard
gale, and exceedingly dark, we struck on the island. Nothing
could equal the distraction, the shrieks, and despair of the
whole crew, until I, knowing there was not a moment to lose,
cheered up their spirits, and bade them not despair, but do as l-
should require them. In a few minutes the vessel was half full
of water; and the enormous castle of ice that seemed to hem
us on every side, in some places falling in hideous fragments
upon the deck, killed the one half of the crew, upon which, get-
ting on the summit of the mast, I contrived to make it fast to a
great promontory oftne ice, and calling to the remainder of the
crew to follow me, we all escaped from the wreck and got on
the island. The rising sun soon gave us a dreadful prospect of
our situation, and the loss of the vessel; for being closed in on
every side with castles of ice durmg the night, she was abso-
lutely frozen over, and buried in s.ich a manner, that we could
behold her under our feet in the centre of the island. Having

J


BARON MUNCHAUSEN.
91
debated what was best to be done, we immediately cut down
through the ice, and got up some of the cables of the vesse.,
and the boats, which making fast to the island, we towed itwitn
all our might, determined to bring home island and all, or perish
in the attempt. On the summit of the island we placed what
oakum and dregs of every kind we could get from the vessel,
which, in the space of a few hours, on account of the liquifying
of the ice, and the warmth of the sun, were transformed into a
very fine manure; and, as I had some seeds of exotic vegeta-
bles in my pocket, we very shortly had a sufficiency of fruits
and roots growing on the island to supply the whole crew; es-
pecially (he bread-fruit tree, a few plants of which had been in
the vessel; and iinother tree which bore plum-pudding3, so very
hot, and with such exquisite proportion of sugar, fruit, fcc. that
we all acknowledged it was not possible to taste any thing of
the kind more delicious in England. Though the scurvy had
made dreadful progress among the crew, before our striking
upon the ice, the supply of vegetables, and especially the bread-
fruit and pudding-fruit, put an almost immediate stop to the
distemper.
After incredible fatigues, we reached the warmer climates,
where the beat of the sun gradually dissolved the island of ice,
and we again found ourselves on water in our ship, and we pro-
ceeded to the Cape.
I next set about a work of immense magnitude. This was
no other than a cast-iron bridge, of a single arch, to reach from
Africa to Great Britain. The whole nation went heartily to the
business, to build an edifice such as was never seen in any other
country. The tower of Babylon, which, according to Hemo-
gastricus, was seven miles high, or the Chinese wall, was a
mere trifle, in comparison to this stupendous edifice, which was
completed in a ve^y short space of time.
It was of an immense height, far beyond any thing that ever
had been before erected; and of such gentle ascent, that a regi-
ment of cavalry, with a train of cannon, could ascend it with
perfect facility. It seemed like a rainbow in the heavens, the
base of which appeared to rise in the centre of Africa, and the
other extremity seemed to stop in Great Britain,
The building being completed, I caused an inscription to be
engraved, in the most magnificent style, on the summit of the
arch, in large letters, so great and luminous, that all vessels
sailing to the East or West Indies might read them. An easy
intercourse being thus established between Great Britain and
the centre of Africa, numbers travelled continually to and from
both countries; and at my request, mail coaches were ordered
to run on the bridge between both empires. After some time,
having settled the government perfectly to my satisfaction, I re-
quested permission to return to Old England, and accordingly
set out on my journey, covered with applause and general ad-
miration. We advanced at a great rate along the bridge, which
was so very extensive, that we could scarce perceive the ascent^


22
THE ADVENTURES Of
but insensibly, until we arrived on the centre of the arch. The
view thence was glnrious beyond conception; we saw all the
kingdom of the earth. At last, after a most delighlfu! journey
of two months anJ Ihirteen days, we reached very near to tlie
enast of England, when ihere ha(iprned a most tremendous
earthquake, occasioned by Ihe French resolution, which in one
moment des rayed the gra id bridge, and I was precipitated into
the sea, from a height of about fifteen leagues. Had I fallen
one hundred yard< to the easi ward, I must inevitably have been
das'ied Io pieces on the Rocks of Sicily. As it was, I only got
a good sousing. Bein.' a most expert swhu ner, I resolved to
proceed *o London by water; and in the course of my voyage
up the Channel, I was so fort unite as to save a number of valu-
able lives. A frigate was nearly overturned by a sudden squall.
I was just below her, and sel.-interest, I must confess, more
than pal riot ism, induced me t /exert my-elf to prevent her from
falling over me, and, perhaps, crushing me lo atoms. I there-
Sire laid hold of a mast that happened to be floating past me;
and with all my force pressed it against the side of the f.igale
just below the gunwale, and held in that position till the crew
was able to right her. The gratitude of all on hoard towards
me fir :his act, I shall never forget. The * aptain, although he
was bound to the West Indies with despatches, immediately
changed his course, in order to convey me to London, there to
lay before the Lords of the Admiralty the incredible service t
had performed. Their Lordships thanked me, and promised
me lavge rewards; '-nt e vy of my merit must have had a bane-
ful effect; for not only did I never receive any recompense, but
this extraordinary preservation of one of bis Majesty's Ships
was never even mentioned in the London Gazette.
I shall not trespass on you with an account of all my advn>-
tures. I cannot, however, for'ie.ir mentioning one, in which I
ran greater risk than ever I did. Having gone to make disco-
veries in the interior of North America. I penetrated the friglu-
fnI deserts an I gloomy wools beyond the source of the Ohio,
through countries utterly unknown before. 1 frequently took
Hie diversion of sl.ooting in the woo Is, and one day that 1 hap-
pened, with three attendants, to wander far from our troop, we
were suddenly set upon by a number of savages. As we hail
expended our powder and shot, anil happened to have no side
ar hs, it was in vai i to make any resistance a :ainst hundreds of
enemies. In shirt, they bound us, anil made us walk before
them to a gloomy cavern in rock, where they feasteJ on what
game they hail killed; but which not heW sufficient, they took
my th-ee u if trtnuate companions, and myself, an I s-alped us.
The pain of losiiu the llesh Cro n my head was most horrible;
it made me leap in agonies, and roar like a bull. They then
tied us to stakes, and making great fires round us. began to
dance in a circle, sinjing with much distortion and barbarity,
anil at times seuin - up the war-whoop. As they had on that
•lay also made n prize of wine and soirits belonging to our troop,


BAltOH MUNCHAUSEN.
these barbarians finding it delicious, and unconscious of its in-
toxicating quality, be«an to dri. k it in prolusion, while they be-
held us roasting; and in a very short lime they were all cum.
Eletely drunk, and fell asleep round the fites. Perceiving some
opes, I used most astonishing efforts to extricate myself liom
the cords with which I was lied, and at length succeeded.
I immediately unbound my companions, and though hall'roast-
ed, they still had power enough to «alk. We sou. lit about
for our scalps, and immediately adapted Ihein to our bloody
heads, sticking them on with a kin I of glue, of a soveieign qua-
lity, that flows from a ticc in that country, and the parts united.,
and healed in a few hours. We took care to revenge ourselves
on the savages, and with tbeir own buebcls j-ut every one of
them to death. We .-.wt; retu.i,-i t« cst trvK>p, who had
given us up for lost; '-ar. tie,' ffiade gW: rejc;.cings on our
return.
We proceeded to it i.s^z ffoamy -"'Stic, surrounded with
strong ramparts, and a brand ditth, wh«* we were received hy
the governor in a manner wbich shows til age of chivalry is
still extant in the wilds of America In ,short, we entered the
castle. The governor sat with our company at table, surroun-
ded by l is friends, of a very fierce and wa;'ike appearance.
They spoke but Hide, and seemed very austere and reserved.
We dined; and after dinner, ihe governor forced the company
to push the boitle about with alacrity, and to excess. He in-
formed us, that lie was the Nareskin in Rouskimow raowsky,
who had retted amidst these wilds, disgusted with the court of
St. Peteisburgh I was rejoiced to nietthin.; I recollected
irv old friend, whom I had known at tlie court of Russia, when
I rejected the hand of the Empress. Nareskin, with aii his
knights companions, drank to an astonishing degree, and we all
set off upon hobby-horses in full cry out of the castle. Never
was there seen such a cavalcade before. Having got into the
woods, the Nareskin called me ;.side, and told me I must give
him satisfaction for having refused the hand of his sovereign.
An enormous bear at the same lime attacked me; but I ran my
hand down his throat, and tore up bis tongue by the roots. I
then seized his carcase by the hind legs, and whirling it over
my head, gave the Nareskin such a blow with the bear, as evi-
dently stunned him. I repeated the blows, knocking the bear's
head against the Nareskin's skull, until, by one happy blow, I
got bis bead into the bear's jaws, and the creature being some-
what alive and convulsive, the teeth closed on him like nut-
crackers. I threw the bear from me ; but the Nareskin remain-
ed sprawling, unable to extricate his head from the bear's jaw,
imploring for mercy. I gave the wretch his life: 'a lion preys
not upon carcases.'
After this. I set off post for France, as I thought I should be
of essential service in Paris during the frequent executions, as,
inconsequence of my surgical skill, I could so easily h-'e re-
placed the beads of persons guillotined, and by restoring t"'51


*H THE ADVEKTUBES OF BARON ttUNCHAOSEH.
to society, would doubtless have conciliated the esteem of DUSS-
bers. On inquiry, however, finding that many of those pat to
death were very bad men, I resolved to leave them to theit
fate; and one evening, about sun-set, fixing on my wings, 1
took my flight, and sailing with a fine breeze, arrived at St.
James' Park, in London, just as the guard was relieved at tbe
Palace.
Thus I have related the most interesting part of my adven-
tures; and shall now conclude, with drinking his Majesty's
health: and may his enemies undergo all my difficulties aed
dangers without hopes of relief.


THE .LIFE
or
BARON TRENCK, THE PRUSSIAN.
i was born the 16th of February, 1726, at Koenigsberg, in Prussia.
My father, who descended from one of the most ancient families in the,
country, was General of Cavalry. My father sent me at tne age ol
thirteen to the university of Koenigsberg, where I marie a rapid progress
in myeducation.
Soon after this, my grandfather, admiring my spirit, took me away and
placed me under a private tutor, who loved me like his own son, and often
sat up till midnight to give me instruction?
In the month of November, 1742, Baron Lottum, the King's Adjutant
General, who was a relation of my mother, was sent by his Miijestv to
Koenigsberg. He dined at my grandfather's, chatted a good deal with
me, and, after having sounded me by a variety of quest iqns, aaked me in
a laughing way, if I should not be tempted to accompany him tc Beth£,
to serve iny country, as my ancestors had always done:'I felt the most
ardent desire to signalize myself, and accepted his proposal without
hesitation. A few days after we set off for Potzdam.
The day after my arrival, I was presented to the King, and immediately
obtained permission to enter in the Life Guards, in quality of Cadet, witji
promises of speedy promotion. «
The Life Guards were at lliat time the pattern and school of all the
Prussian Cavalry. They consisisted of only one squadron of men, chosen
from the whole army. Their uniform was the most brilliant .n Europe;
the dress and accoutrement* of an officer costing two thousand crowns.
The cuirass, which was covered with silver, its appendages, and the horse
furniture, amounting alone to seven hundred.
I had been scarcely three weeks Cadet, when one day, after the
parade, the King took me aside, examined me for near haif an hour,
on a variety of subjects, and finally promoted me to the rank of
Cornet.
I was then a Cadet only three weeks; and few people in my country .
and in the reiim of the great Frederick, can boasl m* the same gooi';
fortune.
When thus made an officer, the King gave me as a present twe horses
from his own stables, and a thousand crowns to assist in purchas ng rey
arms, uniform, and accoutrements


4
We passed the winter, as I have said before, in garrison at Berlin,
and u iujdv p isaed Lne Uim? ul court in a mo:e agreeable maimer than
myself.
Till ihi:n I was a stranger lo love! I lie shocking spectacle of the hospi-
tal id Po ztan made me dread 'Ui illusions; but 1 firs now engaged the
ai&clion of a lady of rank, who in a fett d.ns made me the happest man
in Berlin. I' "as on buth sid. - lh'i first Ir bu e paid iu love. Her afltc-
tion for me was without bounds, and while 1 exist 1 shall never forgei her
kindness; but ine secret of our intimacy is one of Lno»e ihat 1 will carry
truh nve to Uie grave.
I lived happy and respected at Berlin. The King on every oetBsica.
gave i ne murks of favour; my lair mistress supplied me willl more money
than I could spend, and my appearance was soon more brilliant iliau that
of any officer of the corps.
No o re ever passed the first years of his youth in n more agreeable or
more happy manner ihan I did mine at Berlin. I could fill a voIuikc if I
chose to relate all thai happened o mc, and all I lie s1t:te affairs in which
I was concerned. But my own adventures will take up room enough,
without a mixture of any Ihiiitf foreign to them, and it would ill heroine
me to insert in the sad history of my life, anecdotes worth* of a roma< ce.
I is my wish lo show myself to all Eu ope such as 1 am. ti is my wish
to g-ve a g eat example, and waken ens bJit,, by I he reci al of my mis-
fortunes, and to show how my faial destiny has depr ved my children of an
immense fortune.
In September, 1744, war was declared between Prussia and Austria.
We marcned towards Prague, and passed through Saxctiy, without op-
position, The King's army invested Prague on the 14th of September:
fceoeral tlarsch capitals ed and surrendered after twelve davs iCPMt
aixe. Eighteen thousaud men were made prisoners of war; the number
of the garrison k.lled and wounded during the siege not exceeding five
hundred.
So far we met with no obstacle: hut Prince Charles'armed troops,
being three limes as numerous as ours, prevented our foiag ng. Famine
and want, therefore, (.bilged us to retreat, having no rehef 1o hope for
from the country behind us, which we had laid enlirefv waste on our
march. The severity ul the season in I he month of November, occasioned
the loss of forty-two thousand men, either bv sickness or desertion.
alarms, though they ncer came within reach of on: cannon.
I was charged for six weeks to provide the necessary forage for head-
quarters. As the Xing allowed me only to take six volunteers of the
Gna d for this lasl purpose, I was under the necessity of reinforcing them
with Hussars and Rangers on horseback, with whom I was continually in
motion. ,
-Iu this campaign I passed few nights in my lent; and my indpfati-
gnb'.s activity procured me the favour and entire confidence of the KiittLr.
frothing contributed so much to keep up my emulation, as ll.e public
praises I received, when I returned to hcad-quarters with sixty oi eighty
wairgons loaded, while the other foragers came hack empty. No. ody
dared to stir out of the camp, not withstanding our necessities, on account
of the numerous bodies of Hussars and Pandours, w-o *,vmr~m- 
m
country.
1 was sent one dav from Bennwc^fu, on a foragm* imnv, w*i - At-
tachment of flirty Hussars and tw" ; Rangers. I posted my Huscars tn
a co .vent, and went with the Ruieer* tn a gentleman's seat, to procure a
sufficient number of waggons to bring off hay and straw from an adjacent


THE PRUSSIAN. O
farm. But a lieutenant of Austrian Hussars who lay concealed in a wood
wit' thirty-six horsev having remarked tl.c weakness ofinv escort, tuuk
advantage of the moment when my peopse were emploveh ill loading the
Waggons, a u surprising my sentinel, fell suddenh i.p n lhen-, and took
the whole party prisoners in the fann-yaid. 1 was silling qu.eily at ilie
gentleman's Neat, witii the mistress of the house, and saw front the window
what had happened.
I was afflicted beyond measure, and ashamed at my neul'gcnce; and the
good lady was proposing lo hide me, wliett I hi-ard n Cuing at the iWiti.
T.ie Hussars, whom I had posted at the convent, had been told by a pea-
sant, ihat there was an Austrian detachment in the wood. They saw us
from a distance go into the farm'house, hastened lo our assistance, and
came up a few minutes after the surprise. I is impossible to express lite
pleasure with which I joined them. Some of the enemy's Hussars e*ca ped
by the back-door; however, we made twenty two prisoners, among whura
'Was a Lieuenant. Thev had two men killed, and one wounded; ai d I
lost on my side two Rangers, who were killed in the hay-loft where
thev were at work. Af er this renc mu cr, and having laid the convent
under contribution LO the amount of a hundred and fifty ducats, which I
distributed among my soldiers to purchase their silence, we set off to re-
join the army pursued by more than eight hundred Pandours a id Hus-
sars over tiie plain. I therefore made a ciicui'mis retreat, aim arrived
sate at Head Quarters with my prisoners, and live and twenty loaded
waggons.
Tiic instant I came in, the King asked me if I returned alone. 'No,
sire,1 answered I, 'I bring with me five and twenty waggons loaded with
forage, and twenty-two prisoners, with their officers and horses.''
The King immediately made we sit down, and some minutes afer he
rose fnw« table, cast his eves on the.prisoners, and putting the Order of
Merit round my neck, ordered me to go and rest myself.
As I was not without money, 1 gave each non-cmumissioned officer
twenty ducats, and each private soldier a ducat, to induce them to be si-
lent. "I determined, however to embrace the fi st opportunity-of making
the King acquainted with the truth, and found a convenient one two davs
after. We were on a march, and in quality of Cornet, I was at the head
of the troop. The King rode on before the kettle drums, beckoning to me
to come to him, and addressed ate in these words; 'Now, Trends, 'ell
me the particulars of your late success/ When I heard this question I d d
not do.; bl my being betrayed; but the King asked it with such apparent
good humor, that I recollected myself immediately,'and related the mat-
ter exactly it had passed. I observed marks of astonishment in Ids
countenance, but I saw at thesam% time that he was not displeased wit h my
sincerity. He talked with me half an hour, more like a faiher than a
Kinsr, praised mv candour, and concluded with these words, 'Depend
upoii me, and follow my advice, and 1 will make a man of you.' From
thai moment I had no other desire than to live and die for him. „
The sama winter I received gratuities to the amount of more than five
hundred ducats. So much good fortune could not fail to awaken iealousv,
which began to make its appearance in all quarters. I was loo frank, and
my disposition too ingenuous to make a good courtier.
About the middle ol December ve arrived at Berlin, where I was re-
ceived with open a'.ros. 1 was tess nrudent than in the former years, and
perhaps more observed. A lieutenant in ih*1 fnoVi?pia»'d? jpsti' g indecently
on tltc secret of my amours, I drew upon him, and wounded him in the
face. The Sunday af er I w ent lo pav my court to the Kine: 'Sir, said he,
* toe muihfer roars, and if you do not lake care, may fall upon your head.'
There the matter dropaed.
?*

i


BARON TRENCK,
Some time after I came a few minutes too late to the parade; the King
/emarked it, and sent me under arrest to Potzdam. I had been there a
fortnight, wnen Colonel YVarteslaben came to see me, and advised me to
ask pardon, but I complained with much warmth, of my being so long
deprived of my liberty, for a fault which was generally punished by three
or four days' confinement. I continued under arrest eight days longer;
and did not recover my liberty till three days before our departure for Si-
lesia; towards which wc marched in the month of May, to begin our se-
cond campaign. 1 will here relate an incident that happened to mc this
winter, which became the source of all my misfortunes.
Francis, Baron Trenck,* who commanded the Pandours in the service
of Austria, having been dangerously wounded in Bavaria in the year 1743,
*vrote lo my mother to tell her it was his intention lo make me Ins heir.
To this letter, at first, being so well contented with -the marks of favour
shewn nie by the King, I returned no answer; but Captain Isachinizki,
Comandant of the Life-guards, insidiously urged me to it. 'Write,
said he, and desire him to send you some handsome Hungarian horses for
chargers. Give me your letter, and I will have it safely oeliveredt on con-
dition that you give me one of the horses. This correspondence is afami-
ly concern,"and not an affair of State: besides I wiil take the whole upon
me, &c.' I sat down to write immediately, in comphance wifh the advice
of my commanding officer. I gave my letter open to Isachintzki; he seal-
ed it himself, and sent it away. From hence occasion was taken to re-
present me as a traitor, corresponding with the enemy, which at length
effected my downfall.
I am drawing near the epoch when all my misfortunes commenced. A
few day* after the batilc of Sorau, the postman brought me a letter. It
was from my cousin Trenck, Colonel of Pandours, dated from Essek, and
written four months before. The following is a copy.
'I perceived with pleasure, in the last campaign that the Prussian Trenck
was a good soldier. As a proof of my attachment, I send you back your
horses, which my people had taken. But if you want Hungarian horses,
try next campaign.
This letter I showed to Colonel Isachintzki, commandant of the corps,
on condition that he should not speak of it; but the villain maKciously
showed it to the l^ine; who without consenting to hear my defence, or to
try me by a Court-Martial, confined me as a criminal in the citadel of
Glatz.
It is easy to conceive how much a man of so ardent a disposition must
have suffered on seeing himself stopped short in the midst of the most
brilliant career.
I wrote to the King, and demanded a Court-Martial, offering to submit
lo any punishment whatever, provided I should be found guilty. So de-
termined a style in so young a man did not please him, and I received no
answer. This made me despair, and induced me to use all possible means
to obtain my deliverance. The first I employed was, by the assistance of
an officer, to establish a correspondence with my female friend at Berlin.
Sheblamtd the King's unjust suspicions and hasty judgment, promised
me speedy assistance, and sent me a thousand ducats.

* This Trenck was the son of the brother of our hero's father, and con-
sequently his first cousin. His adventures, which together with those of
Baron Trenck's, form a complete history of these two celebrated men,
are published, and may be purchased for sixpence at the place l'
book was bought.


,THE PRUSSIAN. *
,i had been five months in prison; the King had returned to his capital,
and mv commission in the guards had been given away, when a Lie.uuMa-
ant of the regiment of FiTJtvirt, Jf l5l - 'i ,',, • of Piascnky, and Ensign
Reitz, both of whom often n.oj.i.cd gj-rJ atr me, proposed to me t0
make my escape in compat.y with them. My situation grew every day
more disagreeable, and I consented—There was then at Glalz another
prisoner, of the name of Manget, a Swiss Captain. I spoke to him on
the subject; he accepted the proposal, and every thing was prepared.
But the scoundrel was no sooner acquainted with our projecl than he
went and discovered all, and obtained as a reward both pardon and
liberty.
I was then very closely confined to my room, for l aving endeavoured
to corrupt the King's Officers, and was guarded with greater vigilance than
before.
To return to the order of events. My situation at Glatz was become
much more disagreeable; the King's suspicions were strengthened, and
he was additionally irritated at mv attempt to escape.
Thus left to myself, I \ooked on my destiny in the most gloomy point
of view, and all my thoughts were directed towards death or a speedy de-
liverance.
I had found means to conciliate the whole garrison. It could not be
otherwise. The first attempt I made was this:
^1 was confined in a tower which overlooked the city, and my window
was about thirty yards from the ground. It was therefore impossible to
escape without passing through the town. One of the officers undertook
to procure me one, and persuaded an honest washerman to receive me. I
cut through three monstrous iron bars with a pen knife, which I had con-
verted into a saw; but this being a tedious operation, as it was necessary
to remove eight bars from the window, before I could find room to pass
another officer furnished me with a file. I was obliged, in making use of
it, to take great care not to be overheard by the sentinels. Then I cut my
leathern portmanteau into thongs, sewed them together, and with the ad-
dition of my sheets, got safe to the ground.
It rained, the night was dark, and every thing went well. But I was
obliged to pass through the ditch, which was full of mud, in my way to the
town. I sunk up to the knees in the mire, and after having struggled a
long while, and made the greatest efforts to get out, I found myself grow
weak, and was obliged to call to the sentinel, and desire him ho acquaint
the Commandant with my situation.
I was carried back to my confinement, and for a whole day was refused
water to wash myself. Worn out with fatigue, and covered with mud,
mv situation was such as would.have excited pity, but it was not till the
following day that two prisoners were permitted to assist me in clearing
myself. The rigour of my imprisonment grew infinitely more severe; but
I had fortunately saved eighty louis d'ors, which I afterwards found of
essential service.
Eight days after this unsuccessful attempt, Major Doo and others came
to see me. After having examined every corner of my room, he turned
at last to me, called me a traitor, and said my confinement depended on
the King's pleasure. At that very moment I snatched his sword, darted out
of the door, and threw the sentinel from the top to the bottom of the
stairs. I then passed before the guard-house, where the soldiers were un-
der arms to stop me; rushed upon them sword in hand, distributed my
blows to the right and left, to open a passage, and wounded four men.
The rest .were afraid, and gave way. At length I reached the rampart, and
jumped without hesitation into the ditch. Lvtkilv I did not receive the


8
BARON TBENCR,
least hurt, arid still kept the sword m my hand. None of the fire
ami- being I mud, ami nobody choosing io take ti e same adveiitorott*
leap in pursuit of tt e, it « necessary for them tu make a circuit in pa*s-
tt17 through l he town ; and before any one could have reached lhe gate, I
stiouhi already huve been half an hour on my nay.
In the mean Lime a sentinel in anarrow pa'sage, advanced to oppose my
escaue; hut though he hud his bayonet fixed, I sunn disarmed and « ovnd-
ed htm I he face. Another sentinel came up at the same moment, and
attempted lo attack me behind: but I peiceived his intention, and leaped
P'ecipitatelv over the palbsades, to which unfortunately I hung by one <>(
feei. I l hen received a wound with a bayonet in my upper lip, and
the sentinel held me by the feet 'ill some other soldiers came lo his a-sisr-
anee. As I made a desperae defence, I was exceedingly ill l rented, anil
car: ied ba-k to prison half dead. It is however certain that if I had leap-
ed over the pallisades w\ h more address, 1 should have had time lo reach
the mountain*, before any one could have overtaken me.
The rash design I had formed for my escape not having succpede*!, I
lost all hope. I was now more closely confined than ever: a non-com-
missioned tfficer and two privates were shut up wiin hte in my apartment,
ami they were guarded Iheu^elves by seti'inels poshd vtilhnm. I was ter-
ribly bruised by the many blmw I had received ; my right foot was sprain-
ed, I spit blood, and it was more than a mouth before mv wounds were
healed.*
I was hen once more brought back lo my prison, where t aorn medita-
led new projects for making my escape, 1 had money and in a short lime
I persuaded Uiirty-lno men to exreme at the first word, whaterl might
Monk p-oper to command. They d-d mil know one another, except in-
deed (wo or three, so.thnt they eon Id not all be bet rated together. I chose
a non-commissioned officer, of the name of Nicolia, lo command them.
AH was ready, ai d mv companions, armed with pis'ols and sword-, lay
concealed l11 an oven in my prison. Our design was lo set all the prison-
ers ut liberty, a d to retire with drums beating to Bohemia.
Onfurinnatelv an Austrian deserter, whom Nicolia had let into the se
crel, discovered our plot, but Nicolia, after trying in vain to force the
iron d'tor of mv dungeon, escaped w* t uiiieteeeu others, ami got safe lo
Buh''-vi* »
After his escape a variety of evils were accumulated on mv head. U
was proposed to try me. for seducing the King's officers and soldiers, ai4
I was required to name those w ho had not been able lo make their escape;
but I refused.
Every kind of precaution was used to prevent mv escape, except put-
ting nie in irons, because in Prussia a gentleman, or an officer, cannot he
fet.te.ed, before he ha* been delivered over to the public executioner for
some crime, which was not my case.
A Lieutenant of the name of Bach, by birth a Dane, moan ted guard
every fourth day, and was the terror of the garrison. Being an pKrrHefit
fences lie was constantly seeking occasion to quarrel with the other officers,
and almosl always wounded them. One day, when he was sitting beside

* On this occasion 1 learned, for Ihe first time, that the Kine had ontjr
condemned me lo a year** imprisonment. I n as unfortunately fonnrant of
Ant, and at Glal* it was repotted 'hat I was confined for life.1-I had con
WKiei.Uvonly three week - louver to wait, ut obtain my liberty wilhhoaoar,
when I made this desperate attempt.


THE PRUSSIAN. 9
me on my bed, be told me that, the evening be fee, he had wounded a
Lieutenant, of the name of Scu ll, in the arm. I answered loug^ing.
* If I were at liberty you would not find it easy to nerve me the same, for I
don't fence amiss.* He look fire, in a moment, we made a pair of worn!en
f'r.!:., which we split off an o!d door thai served me for a lable, and ihe
Tery first tltrust, I hit him on the breast. He left llie room in the greatest
confusion, and returned with two soldiers'swords concealed under his
coat. He fruve me one: 'Now,' said he, 'great talker, let us see what
you can do.1 I endeavoured iO find an excuse, but in vain; he rushed on
hie like a madman, and I was obliged in my defence to wound him in the
sword-arm. He then threw away his sword, embraced me, and exclaim-
ed, 'Friend, you are mv master! you shall opiaiu your liberty bv means
of ni", and thal as certainly as my name is Bach.' We boiincl up his
wounds as well as we were able, sent seeretK for a' surgeon to dress his
arm, and he returned to see me the same evening. He then lold me Ihat it
was impossible fur me to escape, unless the Officer of the Guard accompa-
nied mv flight: that he would lose his life loserya Oie with pleasure; but
that he could not bear the thought of doing a thing so very opposite to his
dutv, as deserting while on guard : thai, however, he would bring me in
n few days such a mail as I wanted, and favour my escape by every
means in his power. The same evening he came t0 see me again, ana*
b ought with him Lieutenant Schell, saying, 'Here is your men.*
Sehell embraced me, gave me his word of honour, and the affair was
concluded.
We then began to deliberate on the means ofp'i'ling our project in exe-#
cation, and agreed to p-epare everv thing on Scneil's first guard, and on
the next carry our project into execution.
Some of the officers being observed to visit me, a suspicion aro'e;
and on the day Schell mounted guard, an officer whom I had gair.ed over
to mv interest, came to him, and cried nut, 'Escape while you can , att is
discovered; and in an instant you will be taken into custody V
Schell could easily have provided for his safe'y, by fleeing alone: for
Schrorder offered 16 furnish him with horses, and io accompany him to
Bohemia. Bu' the reader will see what was this brave man's conduct in
such perilous circumstances.
He came hastily into my prison, and tnok a corporal's sabre from under
his coat. 'My friend,' said he,' we are betrayed. Follow rue, and all I
begis, thal you will not let me fall alive into the hands of my enemies.
Believe me, we have not a minute io lose.' I waited only to pill on a
coat and draw on my boo's, not having even lime to take the little money
1 had left. On going ou1, Schell said to the sen'iucl, 'The prisoner ii, iro-
ing with me io the officer's guard-room ; stay where vou are.' We. en'er-
. ed the guard-room, but a moment after1 we went out of the oppose door.
We had hardly advanced a hundred yard*, when we met Major Quaadt,
wi'h the Adjutant. Schell started back, ran up the rampart, which was
not very steep in thai part, and jumped into the ditch. I followed him,
and came safe to the ground with onlv a few brui'es. But niv poor friend
was not so fortunate; he dhdocah'd his foot. Immediattlv he drew his
sword, presented it to me, and begged me lo kill him, and then make my
escape ; tie was a very weaklv little man. Far from comp'ving with his
request. I look him round Ihe waist, threw him iwer the palii.*t*des, and
then taking hfan on my back, ran off, without even well knowing whither
1 was going.
The sun hid j-ts' set, when we took nur flight; we were hardly at a
huneVed pace* d'stant: when we heard the alarm guns fire. Arming Ihe
Oncers ordered to pmsue us were two of my In'imale friends. Ther
•tcriook us on the frontiers of Bohemia, and called out; t' My friend.


THE PRUSSIAN. 11
Friend Schell. Now this trifling sum was all we had to provide for all our
iv ants.
After a stay of three weeks at Braunau, my friend recovered the use of
his leg,- Butto defray the expences of the cure, we were obliged to sell
my watch, and his sash and gorget; and when all was paid, we found wt
had only four florins remaining.
I then resolved to go on fool to my mother, who was in Prussia, and to
endeavour to ob'ain some assistance from her, to enable me to enter into
the Russian service. Schell, whose destiny was so closely connected
with mine, refused to abandon me.
We set out from Braunau, on the I8th of January, and after suffering
severely from hunger, fatigue, and cold, we arrived at Exenstokova on
the 5th"of the following m Jnih. We passed the night at an alehouse: the
landlord, whose name was Luzare, was a very honest man; he had been
a Lieutenant in the Austrian service, had met with many misfortunes, and
ivris reduced to the situation of a poor alehouse-keeper in Poland. As we
had not a single grosh remaining, we asked him for a bit of bread, but the
generous man made us sit down to table. I then tcld him who we were
and made him acquainted with the motives of our journey. Scaicely
had we finished our supper, when a carriage drove to the house with three
persons m it, who had the appearance of merchants. They had their own
horses with them, and were attended by a footman and coachman. They
came to pass the night at. the alehouse, were very civ;l to us, and said
but little. We went to bed, but soon after our good landlord came to
Wake us, and told us, that these gentlemen were people in disguise, who
were sent from Prussia to take us; that thev had offered him at first fifty,
and then a hundred ducats, for his permission to take us in the house- and
to fetter and carry us to Silesia; but that he had obstinately refused to
agree to their proposal.
We then saw plainly that they were officers and non-commissioned
officers, sent after us by General' Fouque,— but could not conjecture by
what means they had discovered our rout. When I her.rd this infamous
piece'of treacherv, I warn ed to take mv pistols, and attack my enemies in
their chamber; but Laxare and Schell prevented me. The former even
begged me, with the greatest earnestness, to stay at his honst till I receiv-
ed money from my mother, to enable me to continue my journey, with
less danger, and more convenience. But all his entreaties were in vain:
I was resolved to speak to her in person, not knowing whether my lcter
might have any effect. These gentlemen set off early in the morning,
and took the road to Warsaw.
We wished to set off also; but Lazare kept us two days at his house,
almost bv forcea ind gave us the six ducals he had received from the Prus-
sians. VVe men took leave of our good landlord, after having embraced
him affectionately, and thanked him for the important service he had
done us.
We set out on the 6th, and on the 7th, took the road to Parsemichi;
but had sca-ce walked a league, when we percfived a carriage on the
road. We advanced, and discovered it to be that of our enemies, seem-
infflv interrupted by the snow. The gen'-Jemen were standing round
it and when they saw us approach, called out to us, to come and assist
them. Schell was by no means strong, the whole party would have
fallen on me at once and have taken us with ease; for they had orders to
take-us alive.
We therefore retired about thirty paces from the path, and answered
that we had not time to assist them. On hearing this, they all jumped
imo the carriage, took their pistols, and began to drive ufier us, crying
out; Halt! scoundrels, slop! We at first made off; but turning suddenly


THE PRUSSIAN. '13
returned to a wood, which was only at a hundred yards dis'ance from
the house, dying with hunger, fatigued, ;n d ufnud to jto nearanv house,
because we were in the dominions of Brandenburg)!. We uulked all
iiiirM tit the soon and ruin, and at the dawn of duv found ourselves at
Litiel.
It is incumbent on me to declare here that my sister was not at nil con-
cerned in the iufnihous treatment I experienced. Her rich mid hard-
hearted husband iiluue was to blame. Afterwards, when a widow, she
gave me but loo many proofs of tenderness and a flee 1 ion, since they
cost her part of her fortune and her life.
Not having obtained from my brother-in-law the assistance I had nnppd
for, I was obliged to change my plan, and resolved to pav n vLii to
my mother, who lived in Pruss a, nine miles on the other side of Kocu-
■ii gs burgh.
SUH journeying on sad and wearily for several days, we arrived at Ra-
ffosin. We had uoi a farthing Io pay for beds, anil were turned oui ot
doors by the Jew who kept the alehon.-e; uoi knowing what lc do, and
dying willi hunger, we were oblige I to walk all night, and ai the dawn of
day we found we hud wandered two miles out of our road.
We went into a peasant's house, where an old woman was drawing
the bread out of the oven. As we had not. wherewithal to boy anv,
1 sold my musket for a ducal. Then, indeed, we ate to our heart's
content.
When I arrived at Thorne, I prevailed on a good woman to lake care
of poor Sehell, while I advanced alone towards lhe residence of my
mother. One night, while I was on my j wrnev, I slept on straw with
several waggoners, who robbed me of my pistols and 'he little morey
I had in my pocket, and decamped. What was lo be done? The land-
lord had perhaps assisted in the theft. My score amounted to eighteen
Polish groshen, wh.eh I was under the necessity of paying: the land-
, lord being insuleu1, and. pretend ng to believe lhat I had come penny-
less to his house, 1 was therefore obliged to give him the only spare
shirt 1 possessed, and a silk handkerchief, of which the old woman at
Thorne had made me a present; and set off withoul a farthing in my
pocket.
At. length, after walking two hundred and sixty-seven English miles, and
enduring the greatesl distress, I arrived at my mother** at Elbing. Great
indeed was Ibe pleasure I felt on seeing so tei der a parent, whose head
and heart were equally excellent. She put me in the way to write to my
female friend at Berlin, who soon afi«r senl me a bill of exchange on
DuiUz'ek, of four hundred ducats. My mother, io addition lo this, gave
me a thousand crovns, and a diantoi d cross, worth half that sum. She
slaved a fortnight with me, and prevailed on me, spite of my repugnance,
to jro and push my fortune ai Vienna. She then bade me farewell, and I
never saw her more.
After 1 had provided all I was in want of, I took the road to Thorne
with all possible speed, to rejoin my worthv Sehell.—The old woman had
taken <he greatest care of hi.n: and was all amazement, when she saw me
Come in d-essed uniform, and accompanied by iivu footmen. I recom-
pensed her generously for her trouble; and soon after set forward for
Vienna.
I arrived at Vienna in Ihe month of April, 1747. After having paid
travelling expenses, and purchased every thing necessary for myself ana
my friend Sehell, I found 1 had three hundred ducats remaining in my
purse, which I shared "iLh him. He made only a month's stay at Vienna,
when he set off for ItaK, to join Ih? regiment of Pallavicini, having ob-
tained a Lieutenancy in that coips.


14 BARON TRENCK,
I found at Vienna my cousin Baron Francis Trenck, in prison at the
arsenal. I obtained permission to visit him, and to procure him all ho
stood in need of. I interested myself in his favour, and should without
doubt have obtained his liberty; but discovering that he had acted basely
towards me, I at length left him to his fate.
I now entered the Russian service and remained in it till the year after
the death of mv cousin, who died at Spielberg, on the 4th of October,
1749. Bv his will he made me heir general; in consequence of this in-
formation, I set out for Vienna; but I repented having quitted Russia; for
mv cousin's hatred to me had out-lived his death; his will was so full of
contradictory clauses, that 1 not only never obtained the least part of it,
but it at length ended in my ruin.
That no endeavours on my part might be wanting to obtain from the
holders of my cousin's fortune my just rights, I went to Dautzick, where I
expected to meet with my brothers and sisters. My enemies at Vienna,
however, wishing to keep possession of my valuable inheritance, fabri-
cated a letter to the King of Prussia, cautioning him against me, and
bidding him beware of me, as I had set out for Dantzick for the purpose
of laying wait for an opportunity to attempt h^s life, as he passed by that
place on his way to the camp.
This was the horrid plot imputed to me by my enemies, who wished
to rid themselves of me for ever. How it succeeded, the sequel will
best tell.
My brothers and sister came to see me at Dantzick. We passed a
fortnight together, and shared my mother's fortune. My sister cleared
herself of all blame, in regard to the bad reception she had been compelled
to give me, when 1 went to ask her assistance; and we vowed unalterable
affection.
As soon as my relatives had embarked I determined to embark for Rus-
sia; hut a man whom I thought my friend, of the name of Abramson
deceived and betrayed me into the hands of Frederick's agents. I had just
got into bed, when'I heard a knock at my door. It was not locked, and
in a moment two commissaries of the town, and twenty grenadiers, en-
tered my apartment, seized me, and conveyed me in silence to the prison
of Dantzick, where 1 remained four and twenty hours; I was then strip-
ped of my property, and sent under an escort to Lavenburg, and from
thence to Berlin.
Nothing could exceed my indignation at finding myself thus basely
betrayed into the hands of him who I well knew regarded me as his
most inveterate enemy. I was, however, in his power, and I could only
be silent.
I remained two days at Berlin, after which I was carried under a
strong guard to Magdeburg.* There the officer who accompanied me
delivered me to the town Major; and he immediately conducted me to a
dungeon which had been prepared on purpose. Then and not till then, a
miniature picture of a female friend whom I had seen and loved while
.n Russia, and which I had concealed under mv shirt, was found, and
taken from me!
The dungeon was built in a casement, ten feet long and six broad.
The doors shut close on each other, and there was a third at the en-
trance of the casement. The light came through a window at the open-
ing °f,the arch of the vaulted roof, and went through a wall seven
feet thick. On the inside and outside of this window were bars of iron,
and in the substance of the wall between them a gate of wire, worked
so close together, that it was impossible to distinguish anv object either
within or without. Besides all this, the window was uarded with palli-


TSE PRUSSIAN.
15
sades on. tne outside, to prevent the sentinels from approaching, and
giving me any assistance. My furniture in this horrible abode, consisted
of a bedstead, fastened to the floor, for fear I should remove, it to the
window, and get upon it, a matlrass, a small stove, and near the stove a
box, fixed against the wall, and intended to serve me for a seat. I wu
not permitted to have any instrument of iron, and my allowance for four
and twenty hours, war a pound and a half of ammunition bread, and a
jug of water. .
1 suffered much from hunger the eleven long months that I lived on
this involuntary regimen: for I should have required at least six
pounds of bread a day to satisfy my appetite. I had no sooner received
and devoured my allowance, than I felt again the attacks of huntrer. I
was, however, obliged to wait the revolution of the twenty-four hours,
before I could hope for relief. How willingly would I have given a bill
of exchange for a thousand ducats,'on the money I had at Vienna,, to
satisfy my appetite for once with dry bread' Hunger seldom permitted
me to sleep; and when it did, I dreamed that 1 was sitting at a table co-
vered with the most delicious viands, and that I was devouring them with
the greatest voracity.
The three doors were shut, and I was left to myself—my bread and
water were brought me every day about noon; the keys were depo-
sited at the commandant's, who, once a week, accompanied by a Ma-
jor, came to visit it, after it had been previously cleaned by one of the
prisoners.
Perceiving that this regular order was invariably observed -for two
months, and being convinced that no body would ctHife at any other time,
I began a work, of which I had often thought. A part of the floor was
paved with brick, and extended from the sill of the door and the stove,, to
the wall that separated my prison from the neighbouring casement, which,
fortunately, was uninhabited. As there was a sentinel before my window,
I soon found two worthy fellows, who, notwithstanding their orders to the
contrary, consented to speak to me, and made me acquainted with the si-
tuation of my wretched abode.
I judged from tbence that it would not be difficult to escape, if I could
make my way into the casement, the door of which .was open. Nothing
could then remain but to pass the Elbe, and make for the frontiers of
Saxony, which were only at a mile's distance.
I began by loosening the iron bars that held down the sill of the door;
they were near eighteen inches long, and were nailed to the box with
three nails, which I drew out, and of which I preserved the heads that
I might put them in their places, at the stated times, when my prison
was visited. . ».-••'• *
Having thus obtained the means of making a breach, I took up the
bricks of the floor, and found earth underneath. I then determined to pe-
netrate through the wall behind the box, where it was seven feet thick.
The first lining was of brick, but I came afterwards to large hewn stones.
I counted the number of bricks I had removed both from the floor and the
wall, that I might replace them, so as to avoid suspicion; and when I was
sure of succeeding, continued my work. The evening before the visit of
my prison every thing was in its place.
I had already demolished a portion of the wall, a foot in height; but I
took care to place the bricks as they were before, and to fill the interstices
with the dust of the mortar, which I wet ted for that purpose. I scraped
the walls that had perhaps been white washen a hundred times; made a
brush of my hair, employed it to whiten the bricks that I had replaced,
and dried them with the heat of my body. The iron woik was also re-


16 BARON TFENCK,
piiced in audi a manner that n was impossible to percehe the
kilt ruiurn.
]• wa« necessarv to demise means lo get rid of a pari vi the ma^rnst
for *U was impossible lo replace ihe whole. I scattered lite ear h anon-
my rui.m, and »Hlked on it nil it was reduced to dual. This dust
placed on the fore part of the window. I Ihen wailed for uimlv wenthcr
and wheu it blew during the nigjH, av.ilcd myself of the opportunity tc
dis-ipnte it enlirely. By this and other expedients, I got rid of al.nos
all the dirt
It is difficult to conceive the trouble I met with, when I had once worked
two leel iw'o the stone uall. The iron-woik that 1 hud token front tlte
atep of the door, ojmi frtMii my bedstead- composed mv on!y tools, except
indeed, an old ramrod, and u ht le Unit; ujfh a wooden 'lafi, which were
given me by a chariluhle sentinel, and which did me (rood service. The
Taller e-pecia'lv was pLrticulatly useful to me. Afer .six months' inces-
sant labour 1 found means to pierce ihe nail, and open a passage lo Ihe
adjoining casement..
During 11 .is time I had opportunities of speaking to several sentinels,
among whom nan an old grenadier of ihe name of Gefhard. I learned
from him the exact situation of my dungeon, and the measures proper to
be lakeu lo make my c-cape.
Being noiv in want of some moitev, I wrote to my sister, beggring her
to send me three hundred crowns, as X hoped soon to make my escape from
prison. I de<-palched the letter, together witlt ano'her lo the Austrian Mi-
nister at Berlin, containing a hill of exchange for one thousand florins
payable out of my effects then at Vienna, by a Jewess named E-ther, whose
father wits then a prisoner, and had been ret fund -everal \pars. This
worthy girl the fiiitnful Gefhard had gittned over to my interest. She took
the letters; set off for Berlin, and arrived there in safety. The Austrian
minister engaged, with other affairs, referred the payment of mv h II to
his Secretary, who afterward* proved a traitor, and was then actmg as*
spy in the service of Prussia. This infamous wretch no sooner discovered
from rm' messenger how I was situated, than he betrayed me, thai he
might keep the thousand florins to himself. The consequence was, that
one of the sentinels was hanged; another severely tlogged; the Jewess's
fnttier bea'eu lilt he died, because he would not reveal what he kneitd
the plot - and my sister, my unfortunate sister, had all her properly coa
fiscal id, and appropriated lb the building a dungeon in which I was con-
Cned for more than nine years I ke a beast. Her children were hegnrared,
her fortune reduced to nothing; and she died, broken-hearted, m Uie
thirty-third year of her age!
As for me, while I was making preparations for my escape, I heard a
carriage slup before my prison. Mv doors and locks were Middeulv open-
ed, with much noise; and I Lad only time to hide mv knife, as a )asl re-
source, when the T'uvu Major, the Major of the day,' and a Captain with
two hmt horns, entered, sayintr, * Dres*. yourself.* This was soon done.
Fetters were given me, which I was obliged to fasten mvself on my hands
and feel. The Town Mxjor tied a bandage over my eves, took me under
the arm, and conducted me to the carriage.
Al length I was led to mv new dungeon. There, bv the light of several
candles, the bandage thai covered mv eves was taken offf But, good
Heaven! what did I perceive? Two focfesmilhs wilh their hammers and
anvil, and the whole floor covered with chains.
They went immediately lo work. Mv feet were fastened with enormous
chams to a ring stuck in Ihe wall, at about Ihree feet from the ground, so
thai I could only lake two or three steps on each aide. Thev then ffirt
my naked body with a broad iron girlie, from which descended a chain.


THE PRUSSIAN. IT
_J at the other extremity to a bag of iron, two feet long. At each
- <-t,i ol (his bar was a handcuff, that confined my hands, as is represented
fin the frontispiece—The collar was not added till the vear 1716.
As soon as the work was completed, every body retired in silence, and
1 heard the dreadful creaking of four doors, which shut close upon on*
another.
The night passed away in the midst of painful reflections, and the day
came, but my'abode die) not partake of its splendour. In this imperfect
darkness, however, I could distinguish the form of my dungeon. It was
ten feet long, and eight broad; m one corner was a kind of bench of
brick, intended for a seat; and opposite the place where I was chained,
was a window of semicircular form, which was opened through a wall six
feet thick: it was one foot in height, and two feet in breadth.
My tomb was very dark. After some time, however, my eyes became
so accustomed to it, that I could see a mouse run along the floor; but in
the winter, when the sun was not risible, I might be truly said to lire in
eternal night. A wooden chair, which was taken away the next day,
was also given me, and a jug of water.
The name ofTrenck had been inerusted on the wall with red bricks, at
the time it was built, and under my feet was a tomb intended for me, on
which were also my name, and a death's head.
When"the clock struck twelve, my tomb was opened for the first time.
Pity and commiseration were pamted on the faces of my keepers; but the
profound silence they observed, and the time they employed in opening
the doors, to the locks and bolts of which they were not accustomed, in-
spired terror.
My chair was removed, and a bedstead, with a mattress, and a good
blanket, put in its place. A whole ammunition loaf was given me,
weighing six pounds. A jug of water, containing about four quarts,
was also given me; and then the doors were shut, and every body dis-
appeared.
It would be difficult to describe the excess of my joy, on thinking that I
was going to satisfy my appetite, after having for eleven months suffered
the torments of hunger. Never did a tiger, thirsting after blood, throw
himself with more fury on his prey, than I upon my bread. I ate; I de-
voured; now and then I stopped"for a moment, that I might the better
savour my pleasure; and then I ate again; I thought my fate less hard; I
wept for joy: I swallowed one bit after another, and before the evening
came, the whole loaf was devoured.
When my keepers opened my prison door the day after, they were sur-
prised at my appetite, and gave me another loaf. The following day,
when the four doors of my prison were opened, I observed that they were
only of wood, and the idea struck me, that it might perhaps be possible to
take off the locks with the knife I had brought from the citadel: and that,
at any rate, if my project did not succeed, it would not still be too late
to die. I then tried to get rid of my fetters. I freed my right hand from
the lundcuff without much difficulty, but was at more trouble to extricate
the left: I at last succeeded in drawing it out, and set my other hand
at liberty.
As to the iron hoop I had about my body, it was only fastened to the
chain by a bit of twisted iron: I put my feet against the wall, and by a
sudden exertion forced it to give way. I went immediately to work with
my knife, and making a little hole at the bottom of the door, found that ii
was only an inch thick, and that I should perhaps be able to force open
all the four in the same day.


16
BARON TRENCK,
in the mean lime, noon, which was the' hour of visiting my prison, ap-
?roached, and I replaced my iruna so exactly that nothing was perceived,
'he visit was scarcely over, when I threw aside my chains, and began to
work with my knife at tne first door. 1 soon forced three doors, and
hasted to attack the fourth, but when half the work was over, tike blade
of the knife broke, and part of it fell outside of the door. Heavens!
what were mv feelings at this cruel moment!—It was a beauCil moon-
light night— I looked through the window with my eyes fixed on heaven;
fell on in v knees, and recommended myself to the Sovereign Arbiter of
death: then risir.g again, 1 seized the remaining part of my knife, opened
the veins of my arm and left foot, and sitting down quietly in a corner ol
my prison, lot my blood flow. Soon after a deep sleep look possession
ol my senses. How long I remained in this happy and peaceful stale I
know not; but on a sudden I heard myself called by my name: 1 waked;
and the voice cried out a second time, ' Baron Trenck!' I answered;
'Who goes there!' And who should it be but my faithful friend lief-
hard, Die grenadier, who had promised me his assistance, when I was at
the citadel.
This charitable man had stole to the rampart, whicfroverlooked my pri-
son, to console me.
He asked me how I did. When I heard his name, I answered, t I am
swimming in my blood; and to-morrow you will find me dead. 'How!'
replied he, * dead? It is much easier to make your escape from hence,
than from the citadel. Uet out of your prison, and leave the rest to me.
Do not despair; God will assist you: take my word for it.' 'After this
short conversation, I felt my courage revive. 1 instantly tore my shirt to
pieces, bound up my wounds, and wailed for the day.
After a little reflection, I took the following resolution, which luckily
succeeded, contrary to all probability.
I demolished the brick seat with the bar of iron that was fastened to my
chains, and heaped up Uie ruins in the middle of my prison. The inner
door was wide open, and I barricaded the second in such a manner, that,
it was impossible for any one to enter. When noon came, and the ouler -
door was opened, the Major was astonished to see the miters open and
perceive me at the inner door of my prison, in the most terrible siluation,
with my cloves covered with blood, and looking like a madman. I had
a brick in one hand, and the remaining half of mv knife in the other.
'Keep back, Major!' cried I, 'keep back! go, and'tell '.he Commandant
that lam determined to live no longer in fetters. Nobody shall enter-
here • I will kill fifty men, before one shall force his way. This knife is
my last resource. I am determined to die; and I set your power at
defiance.'
The Major was frightened: 'and sent to the commandant an account of
what was going on.
A moment after General Brock arrived and several other officers: he
came into the entry, but retreated, as soon as lie saw me ready to hurl a
brick at him. He then ordered the grenadiers to force a passage. The
•nlry was hardly six feet wide; therefore not moie than one or two at
nost, could advance a-breast; and as soon as they saw me lift up my arm
.0 throw my bricks, they all started back.
The Commandant ordered another attack. But the first grenadier that
advanced was instantly knocked down, and the others fled, to avoid the
same late.
The Major then made his appearance and promised that if I would sur-
render, I should not be ill-treated, nor loaded with heavier irons.


20 BARON TRENCK,
sufferings, that three of them offered me their assistance in making my
escape. It was not long before I felt the benefit of having gained their
friendship; for the accumulated sufferings I had endured, together with
the loss of my bed, threw me into a dangerous fever; and I should doubt-
less have fallen a victim to the disease, had not the friendly officers .pro-
cured me all the assistance in their power; which at length restored me
to health.
At length my tyrant keeper issued an order to prevent me from sleeping,
by waking me every quarter of an hour. This new species of torture ap-
peared ,to me insupportable at first, but I became at length so acccustomed
to it, that I answered in my sleep. He was succeeded by Colonel Riech-
man, one of the best men in the world, he permitted the officers appointed
to inspect my prison to leave the two first doors open for an hour or two,
that 1 might enjoy fresh air and day-light.
The day-light I enjoyed gave birth to the idea of amusing myself by en
graving satires, and little drawings, with the point of a nail, on the tin cup
out of which I drank; and 1 soon brought this art to so much perfection,
that my cups were considered as very valuable things.
One of these cups fell by chance into the hands of Prince Augustus Lob-
fcowitz, who was then prisoner of war at Magdeburg. At his return to
Vienna, he made a- present of it to the late emperor Francis. I had en-
graved on it the representation of a vineyard, in which several husband-
men were at work, and underneath was written:
My vineyard flourished by my toil and care,
I hop'd, as my reward, the fruits to share.
Says Jezebel, " That vineyard must be mine."
Naboth was slain: another drank his wine.
The august Maria Theresa, on reading these verses, was so struck with
the relation she marked between the passage ot the bible, and the unworthy
treatment I had met with at Vienna, that she immediately ordered her
Minister to employ all his influence at the Court of Berlin, to procure my
enlargement.
On the same cup was another drawing, representing a bird in a cage,
which a Turk held in his hand.
My misfortunes, my fortitude, and my talents, inspired the Landgrave
of Hesse Cassel with so much concern for my situation, that the humane
prince had a stove fixed in the entry to my prison. He likewise ordered
the collar to be taken off my neck, and pens and paper to be given me, 1
then wrote down the different pieces I had composed by heart, and as I
had no ink, I supplied the want of it with my blood, which I drew out oc-
casionally, i
I tamed a mouse so perfectly, that the little animal was continually play*
ing with me, and used to eat out of my mouth. One night it skipped
about so much, that the sentinels heard a noise, and made their report to
th* Officer of the guard, who sent to inform the Commanding Officer, that
semething extraordinary was going on in my prison: the town Major
arrived in consequence early in the morning, accompanied by locksmiths
and masons. Finding all in order, they asked me the cause of the last
evening's bustle. I had heard the mouse myself, and told them frankly by
what it had been occasioned. They desired me to call my little favourite;
I whistled, and the mouse immediately leaped upon my shoulder. I so-
licited its pai'don, but the Officer of the guard took it into his possession,
promising however on his word of honour, to give it to a lady who would
lake great care of it. Turning it afterwards loose in his chamber, the


THE PRUSSIAN. 21
mouse, who kaew nobody but me, soon disappeared, and I id itself in a
bole,
At the usual hour of visiting my prison, when the Officers were just
going away, the poor little animal darted in, climbed up my legs, seated
itself on my shoulder, and played a thousand tricks, to express the joy it
felt on seeing me again.
Every one was astonished and wished to hare it The Major, to termi-
nate the dispute, carried it away, gave it to his wife, who had a light cage
made foi it; but the mouse refused to eat, and a few days after was found
dead.
At length the joyful news of my deliverance arrived. It was brought
by Count Schlieben, Lieutenant in the Guards, who came to Magdeburg
at the hour of the parade. The King's order imported that I should be
set at liberty immediately.
Upon this, my irons were ordered to be taken off; after which I was
conducted to the officer's apartment in the guard-house, where 1 found a
number of persons waiting to congratulate me on my deliverance. I next
searched mv cell for what money 1 had left; found severity ducats, part
of which I divided amongst the soldiers who had been most kind to me;
the remainder I gave to the wife of honest Gefhard. He, poor fellow!
was dead.
On the following day I received a visit from all the field officers of the
garrison. By noon I was completely equipped from head to foot, and was
so overwhelmed with compliments, that I cannot recollect any cireum
stances but those I have related.
I was now again at liberty ; I had passed the best part of my youth in
prison j but my troubles were not yet over: for 1 was conducted as a pri-
soner to Vienna, where my enemies would nave confined me as a madman
and a prodigal. This was all done by the intrigues of those who held my
prbperty. But by means of Count Alto, I was released, and admitted to
the presence of the Emperor.
I was now compelled to sign articles that in effect robbed me of my
estates, and the brevet rank of Major was the only compensation I received
for all my losses.
Soon afterwards I married Miss Brae, a young lady, beautiful, virtuous,
and of a charming disposition. She made me the happy father of eleven
children. I lived at Alx la Chappelle sixteen vears. and afterwards settled
at a small estate 1 purchased in Austria. I lived here in peace, working
with my hands and pen, till I heard of the death of the great Frederick.
His successor, who had been one of the witnesses of my misfortunes and
sufferings, immediately granted me a passport to return to .Berlin, and re-
stored to me my confiscated estates. t
This information, and hearing that a rich brother of m,ine who resided
in Prussia, had chosen my children for his heirs, determined me at once to
return to my native land, from whence I had been banished forty-two
years. I did so, and arrived at B^jn in safety. There I met again my
friends, my relations, and those atto who kneiv me in adversity. I was
presented to his Majesty soon after my arrival, who received me most
graciously.
After stopping at Vienna, in my way, I set off the 5th of January, ITS*
for Berlin, accompanied bv my second son. In passing througn Prague,
I met with his eldest borther, who serves with lionoui, as Lieutenant in
tbe second regiment of Carabinners.
On the road I met with the most flattering masks of attention and W


BARON TRENCK,
rord. Mr works had been my forerunners, and I will venture to say, tint
Uiev had mspired so much enthusiasm, thai I found il d.fficult to make
saj'jbie answers to all the kind things that were said to me. Great and
•mall, men and women,~every body wished to see me, and to hear ray
story; and I learned on this occasion, thai virtue is s.ill dear to mankind;
since they show so much respect for its followers.
As soon as I arrived at Berlin, I was presented to the Kins and Royal
familv, who received me in the most gracious manner : .the Noblemen of
the Court, among; whom there were still seven that I had served with in
the Guards, took me by the hand, and embraced me; while the Monarch,
with benevolence pictured in his countenance, enjoyed the greatest of
pleasure* for a good prince—that of doing justice to an innocent man.
The Foreign Ministers seemed astonished, at seeing so extraordinary a re-
ception given to a man, who was no more than a Major. Frederick Wil-
liam granted me several private audiences, in which he made nie relate a
part ofmv misfortunes, though he was alreadv well acquainted with litem,
not only f>v the perusal of my book, and the relations given him by eye wit-
nesses still alive, but by what he had learnt himself at Magdeburg, at the
time of my confinement. In one of these audiences, 1 had the honour of
presenting my secoi d son to his Majesty, who was pleased to give him a
Lieutenancy in Pusodowisky's Regiment of Dragoons, and to promise him
his protection.
I found likewise at Berlin my faithful female friend, and met with the
handsomest reception from Count Kerlzbcrg, Minister of foreign Affairs,
whose kindness I can never sufficiently acknowledge.
His Prussian Majesty not contented with restoring my estate, called
Scharlack, which the Great Frederick had "confiscated, and which is novr
worth four times as much as it was then, gave orders, likewise, that the
rent of this piece of laud, which 1 had not enjoyed for forty-two years,
should be refunded; he granted me, also, a privilege for my book) that,
sanctioned by his name, il might serve as an eternal and authentic proof oi*
my innocence and misfortunes.
I do not think it nlthogel her useless to observe, that His Imperial Majesty
has done me the same favour in his dominions.
The lime of my departure from Berlm drew near : I was impatient to go
to Prussia to visit my relations, from whom I had been so many vears ac
sent. The last evening but one before! set off, I had the happiness of
passmg two hours with her Royal Highness the princess Amelia, sister,
friend, and confidante of the Great rrtde.ick. I am mdebted for my de-
liverance, in a great measure, to this generous Princess, who never aban-
doned me. The favours with which she loaded me, found their wav even
to my p-ison ;. and her influence with the late King was, perhaps, the sole
cause that determined him to set me at liberty. During mvstav at Berlin
■he did not receive me like a Foreign Officer, but like a countryman, end
I wiil venture to say, a friend. Sh ordered me to write immediate!)- to my
wife, and to desire her to being my two eldest daugnters lo Berlin in the
month of June ; promising to take care of them, and eren not to forget
the eldest in her will.
"On taking leave of her Royal Highness, she asked me, in the most af-
fectionate lone of voice, if I had sufficient moncv for mv journev. I an-
swered yes; that as to myself, I was in want of nothing, but that I re-
commended my children lo her protection. She evinced that she under-
stood my meaning, took me by the hand; "Mv friend,' said she, ' make
haste and return, I must insist on seeing you again.' The tears stood in
my eves I tore myself from her presence, and went awav. I had, with-
out doubt, a secret foreboding of what was to happen; but n


THE PRUSSIAN.
prevented my listening to it. Five davs after, I heard of this great Princeie'e
death, and with her my children and myself lost our firmest support
On the 20th of March. I set off for Koenigsberg, visited all my (rienia
and relations on the road, and was received with a kindness that 1 snail
never forget. I arrived there the 4ih of April, and found my brother waiting
for me with the greatest impatience. 1 staid with him near two months,
sometimes at his town, and sometimes at his country house; I then deter-
mined to join my wife and children in Austria, that 1 might wear peace-
fully away, in the bosom of my family, the remains of alife, which, alas!
has been a constant state of warfare. Be this as it will, I have no reason
to regret having undertaken the journey; my brother is become my
friend, and a father to my children: one of my sons is in the service of his
Prussian Majesty, who nas assured him of his protection: my honour U
vindicated in my native country, my possessions restored to me, and in
Prussia, at least, I have surmounted my ill misfortune.
Virtuous reader! wish me happiness, and learn by the history of my life,
and even at the lowest pitch of misfortune, there are comforts within the
teach of that man who knows how to sek them. At 'ht age of nineteen
I had already lost all that a man can lose in this world, except my honour,
and an intrepid heart, of which no human power sould deprive me. I was
robbed of my fortune for two and forty years: I experienced extreme po-
verty without ever committing a mean action, and though often deceived,
I never vet deceived any bodv. Those who shared my great estates in
Sclavonla, are obliged to hold down their heads in my presence, while,
blest with a clear conscience, I dare the eyes of all the world. The trutlui
I write are severe and undisguised : 1 do not spare the persons who have
injured me; and yet mv works are not only tolerated, out appear with a
privilege from the two Monarchs in whose dominions I was persecuted. I
was despised, slighted, and condemned j and notwithstandmg all this, I
acquired (even when m a dungeon, and m the lowest state of abasement
to which a human creature can be reduced) the universal respect and good
will of all virtuous men.
I was ill-created by sovereigns, because unknown; but when truth gain-
ed the ascendancy, they granted em access to their persons, protection,
honours, and justice.
O God 1 Eternal Arbiter of our destinies, who brought me safe info port
in spite of the tempest, receive the thanks of a grateful heart; preserve
all my fellow creatures from so hard a fate as mme: but if it be ihe lot of
any individual, give him at least the arms with which you enabled me to


4
'.Y


UNFORTUNATE STRANGER.
IN th° yoor.1/63, a person arrived in the city of New-
York from Europe. His uuie was Ardcn, -nder thirty
years of age, unrecommended, unknown to any one. He
became acquainted with one Mr. Brudenel, who grew,
much attached to the stranger, took him into his house,
found him destitute of visible means of support, and shar-
ed with him his confidence. He found him modest, re-
served, serious in deportment, endowed with much know-
ledge of men and; of books. In short, Brudenel, his
wife, and his whole family became extremely attached to
hirn. He let them but little into hi3 past life, but they
were not suspicious or. inqusitive, and always readv to'
exCiise him from disclosing what, when he chose to dis-
close, iriey were always eager to hear.
He wanted some employment; and a Mr. Finch, a
gentleman of large fortune, needing some intelligent per-
son, of humble views and good character, to instruct
thfe'echijdren in J'rengh and Latin, Brudenel proposed .
the'omce to'Ardepj'who gladly acquiesced; and Fihcri
consented to take him 'upon this recommendation;' He
took lodgings a mile or two from towti, and walked' in
and out every day, during four months 'of-the first winter,
dunng which ,he discharged his new functions in MK
Finch's family), „ ..,e .
Mr. Finch hud built a house, and laid out grourids on^
the bank's of the Hudson, about niie miles from 'the f.i*y 1
Thiti;i;r lie intended to retire and oass the rest of his life,


9
by a neighbouring farmer, accidently passing that way,
coming from the thicket which surrounded the ruck in
which the grotto was hollowed. Uis gesture and ooun.
tenance were observed to denote anxiety and fear. His
voice, when answering the farmer's "good evening, sir,"
was hurried and fauitering.
The same appearances were observed.on his entering
the house. He went to his chamber, and after" remain-
ing shut up till nine o'clock, he came out, ordered his
horse, and rode away to the city. Early next morning
he went to Mr. Finch's lodgings, and, with evident reluc-
tance and embarrassment, informed him of his resolution
t«t leave his service.
No precise answers were returned to Finch's questi-
ons as to the cause of this sudden resolution. He could
state nothing in the treatment which he had received,
adapted to displease him. He was willing that his design
should seem unreasonable and unaccountable, but repel-
led all Finch's importunities to give up the scheme.—
Neither would he give him any account of his future mo-
tions. He designed directly to leave the city, but whi-
ther he should retire, he professed not yet to have re-
solved. During their interview it was plain that some
weight hung heavily on A rden's thoughts; his counte
nance was troubled and his accent sorrowful.
At this conversation was present a young man by the
name of Wingate. The families of Finch and Wingate
were very opulent, and, with a spirit very comman with
the rich at that time, they sought to increase their wealth
by an alliance between young Wingate, an only child
and Harriet Finch. Wingate had passed some years in
Europe, and was returned expresly to solemnize the
marriage.
The young lady, however, would not consent, much to
the surprize and chagrin of her father and lover, who
strove, the one by soothing, and the other by authority,
to conquer her reluctance; a reluctance to them unac-
countable, as they had been designed IV^m their infancy
for each other; as they had parted with the mutual be-
lief of their being betrothed, and Harriet had always
appeared contented with her destiny.
a2


10
The father's suspicions, and the lover's jealously, na-
turally imagined to themslves a rival; and the youth,
dignified deportment, and mental accomplishments of Ar-
den, could scarcely escape surmises on this occasion.
Arden and Harriet had lived for months, in the same
house; the young lady never concealed her respect for
the tutor; they were oftner together, under pretence,
however, of something to be learned, than rigid discre-
tion would permit.
They were both interrogated by Mr. Finch. Arden'a
averments were clear and satisfactory, and laid at rest all
doubts of his integrity in the mind of Finch. Harriet
was equally explicit in disclaming any passion contrary
to her father's wishes. Not assigning, however, any
good reason for breaking off, or .postponing the match,
she was importuned, without mercy or intermission, to
comply. . At length this compliance was promised, and
all parties were somewhat- at ease.
Wingate, however, had still reason to complain of cold-
ness in his spouse-elect.. Her consent to marry .was un-
attended by any proofs of love, and Wingate soon re laps-
ed into discontent, upbraiding and suspicion. His suspi-
cions, however, had no object; for Harriet, from the
time her promise was given,. broke off all intercourse
with Arden, and carefully shuned private and unwitness-
ed interviews. Her death happened obout a month after
tljia new arrangment, and about a week before the day
fijed for her nuptials.,
'W.hUe Wingate and- Finch were comparing their,
thoughts as to the motives of Arden's behaviour in the
interview |n town, a messenger arrived, informing
tn<em of Harriet's disappearance. It instantly occurred
to Wingate, that Arden and the young lady had eloped >
togejher; and while Finch returned home to search anew
for his daughter, and to gaj# intelligence from his house.
hoJd,; Wjngato was dispatched after, Arden..
den was soon found to have embarked,, on thftxivev
'"' e.; whetbjB£,(in,cornpany with Harriet was
I the discoye.ry, of Jaer .murdered corpse uv>
'IP'0'008 of elopement were instantly-
f murder,, and. a swift sailing pilot,.


13
gested no favourable conclusion: at least it afforded no
proof of his innocence. Brudenel's curiosity and affec-
tion led him to visit Arden, in his dungeon, more than
once. Their interview was deeply affecting. He was
not earnest in asserting his innocence. He seemed fully
aware of the irresistible force of the evidence against
him, and to yield, without an effort to his fate.
Yet, on being interrogated by him, and by the court
upon his trial, he declared himself, with a steadfast coun-
tenance and manner, not guilty. Nothing confounded ob
servers more, than the sedateness of the man, but such
were thesingularcircumstarto.es in which he was placed,
that it was impossible to determine the cause of his se-
dateness—whether it arose from consciousness of inno-
cence, or contempt of-death, or of infamy, or from pure
obduracy.
He had no one to defend him, for he sought no one's
patronage. When called upon to defend himself, he
complied with apparent reluctance; but when he open-
ed his mouth at the bar, averred his purity with astonish-
ing collectiveness and fervency; while, at. the same
time, he declared his hopelessness of acquittal, his ac-
quiescence in his fate, and his forgiveness of his per-
secutors.
Nothing of consequence, came out as to his past life.
He was now, indeed, recognized by some wno knew him
in London, but their knowledge was vague, neither be-
neficial to his cause not hurtful to it. They merely knew
no good, and no ill of him. He himself preserved a ri-
gorous silence upon that subject.
The cause was heard. A score of witnesses examin
ed. Finch, Wingate, visitants, servants and neighbours,
all concurred in furnishing strength to the presumption
against him. Clandestine and mysterious interviews be-
tween the accused and the lady; her aversion to Win-
gate coming into birth and keeping pace with .her know-
ledge of, and intercourse with Arden; his disturbance of
mind; his visible consciousness of wrong at the interro-
gations and reproaches of Wingate; his deportment tifter
Harriet's compliance with her father's wishes, more
gloomv and dissatisfied than ever: his almost unobserv-


15
one astonished, when, to the usual question the fore-
man answered—We cannot agree.
The judges were perplexed. They renewed their
declarations of belief in the prisoner's guilt, and the jury
v/ere once more sent out. This interval was longer and
more impatient than the other. Thirty hours were
spent, as it soon appeared, in the efforts of eleven of the
number, whose verdict was Guilty, to conquer the obsti-
nacy of one, who declared that he would perish with
famine, before he would pronounce the prisoner's con-
demnation. Finding this man invincible, the rest, to
the unspeakable mortification of the court, and the as-
tonishnent of all mankind, concurred in the verdict of
acquittal. The verdict was legal, was unanimous, was
positive and persisted in, in spite of reasonings and re-
bukes. The prisoner, therefore, instead of being re-
mitted to his dungeon, and reserved for the gallows, was
at full liberty, and dismissed from the bar.
But it appeared in this instance, that mankind will not
always allow their judgments to be superseded by the
law. The popular decree is precipitate and sanguinary,
and Arden, in withdrawing from the bar, fell into the
hands of judges less scrupulous and formal. As soon as
he came forth he was set upon by an exasperated mob,
and escaped with the most imminent risk of his life from
their hands.
Having shaken off the most forward assailants, the un-
happy man (fear of death adding wings to his speed) be-
took himself to flight. Exhausted and on the point of
being seized by his pursuers, he rushed into an obscure
house, whose door happened to be open. Hundreds fol-
lowed, ransacked every nook of the mansion, and exa-
mined every closet and chimney, but in vain. Either
he escaped by some unperceived avenue behind, or
found some effectual concealment within the house.
The popular rage thus eluded by the chief offender,
recoiled opon the jury who acquitted him. They were
indiscriminately pelted and insulted in their way to their
own houses: but the wish to exculpate themselves, and
transfer resentment to its true object, made the condemn-
ing number to betray Loveden, the refractory acquittcr,


17
Arden, buUwere merely rumours. Great discoveries
were likewise pretended to be made respecting him. It
was said that lie was a Jesuit in disguise ; that he had
been a spy in London, for the Catholic powers, during
the late war ; that he had fled to America, and changed
his name, under the apprehension of being punished.—
This, and other defamatory tales, were current for some
time, till at length, new objects succeeded to engross the
popular attention, and Arden ceased to be mentioned till
a new event occurred to revive his memory, and set this
affair in a new light.
About twelve months after the death of Harriet Finch,
a fellow was detected at Albany, attempting to pass false
money. Being apprehended and imprisoned, he was
soon discovered to have perpetrated other villanies. A
house in the neighbourhood of New-York had bfjen at.
lacked and plundered at night, two months before, by a
gang of villains, the leader of whom, though carefully
disguised, was now recognised in the person of this cri-
minal. He was brought down to the city, tried for the
burglary, convicted, and sentenced to be hanged.
Mayo, while under condemnation, disclosed the par-
ticulars of his past life. Fifteen years, it now appeared,
from his confession, had been spent by him in a series of
frauds and iniquities, seldom to be paralleled. Europe
had heen for a long time the theatre of his crimes; but
at length he withdrew to America, as to a now scene.
Here, having money in his purse, he advanced very
high pretensions, and figured away in the most brilliant
style, He formed some acquaintance with Finch, and
being specious and addressful, insinuated himself into
Finch's confidence. He was impudent enough to aspire
to the daughter's favour ; and this, joined with some sor-
did pranks in which he chanced to-be at the same time
detected, ruined him in the estimation of this family, and
of the world. He sunk into contempt and insignificance,
and was forgotten till he re-appeared at Albany.
He now confessed himself to be the murderer of Har-
riet, and to have been instigated to that act by malice and
revenge. The tale related by him, with all its circum.
stances, is too horrid to be repeated . -
2


18
The wretch was inured to every species of giiilt.—
He was the slave of flagitious passions, and longed for
nothing so much as for revenge on Finch, who had frus-
trated his most daring hopes, and treated him indignantly
and scornfully, and had spared no pains tohlasthis cha-
racter. The poor girl, though less culpable, came in for
a share in his hatred, on her own account, and was expo-
sed the more to injury, as any evil to her was a two-fold
evil to the father, whose happiness was wrapped up in
the welfare of this darling child.
About the period of her death, Mayo, in gratification
of a capricious humor, had taken lodgings at a farmhouse
close to the shore of New-Jersey, and almost opposite to
Mr. Finch's demesne, which stretched along the shore of
Manhattan. Mayo's strongest and most harmless pro-
pensities were hunting and fishing. I call them the most
harmless, because, while thus employed, his plans of
higher mischief were suspended. While spoiling and
murdering the scaly and feathered kind, the lives and
properties of men were safe from his violence.
In fine weather he used to put off into the river, in a
small skiff, with hooks and lines, and anchoring in some
quiet and shaded cove, pursue his favorite sport for half
a day. Unhappily that part of Manhattan shore bounding
Mr. Finch's property was higher and more precipitous
than elsewhere, and retired into chasms and recesses,
where the stream subsided into clear, deep, unruffled ba-
sins, shadowed by the rock above, and by the trees grow-
ing on it, and thus very happily adapted for fishing.
One of these basins was directly opposite the grotto
before mentioned, the floor of which was very little above
the level of the stream. This grotto was the coolest,
gloomiest, stillest, and most sequestered spot imaginable,
and very likely to be sought by a girl of a romantic tem-
per, as Miss Finch was known to be.
At the close, of one benign summer's day, as Mayo was
fishing beneath the shadow of this rock, he unhappily
spied Harriet's nymph-like form passing through the pines
and bushes in a direction apparently leading to this grotto.
He immediately perceived who it was, and conjectured
whither she was going. The demons of malice, revenge,


20
This woman's character was very singular. She was
deeply tinctured with piety. A temper remarkably en-
thusiastic, and a heart alive to the tenderest sympathies,
appeared absorbed in devotion, and in the practice of
moral duties. She had no external attractions, was re-
served, timid in company, and backward to converse.
Undisposed to form numerous connexions, she kept her-
self at home, shared domestic comforts and employments
with her mother, and mantained a very neat household
on a very frugal competence. ,
Brudenel's father had left one son and three daughters,
and small property. The son resigned this property to
his sisters and surviving parent. The two eldest daugh-
ters died, leaving only Anna to lighten the evils of sick-
ness and age to their disconsolate mother.
Anna's heart was the most sympathetic and impassioned
in the world. At an early age she found a youth who de-
served and obtained all her love. He went on a mercan
tile adventure to the West-Indies and died. This ca-
lamity had hardly ceased to be a burden on her spirits,
when a much-loved friend, and her two sisters, succes-
sively fell victims to a lingering malady. These being
the chief ties which held her affections to earth, she
thenceforth became more lonely and recluse, and more
devoted to the cultivation of her understanding. She was
upwards of thirty years of age when Arden became known
to her, and had properly dismissed every thought of
forming a conjugal attachment.
That tranquil resignation and indifference which, for
some years, had distinguished her, utterly vanished, when
Arden's life was put into hazard, and was succeeded by
impatience, by terror, and by agony. The passion her
brother thought extinct, had gathered strength in secret,
and it was plain, that for the sake of this man, all dangers
and all evils would be cheerfully encountered.
Brudenel loved his sister too well not to feel this reverse
with acute pain. For her sake he was willing to exert
himself to rescue the accused from the threatened fate,
but he could do nothing. He could not weaken the evi.
dence against him; he could not persuade judges or juries
to lenity; he could not vanquish his own belief of Ar-


24
situation had permitted, would have hastened to reward
her love, and secure her happiness, by binding, himself
for ever to so deserving a woman; but there was little
prospect of ever accomplishing this. Meanwhile, his
sensibility to Harriet's charms made the task which he
imposed upon himself, of withdrawing from her favour,
the more difficult.
Wingate's arrival, the renewal of his claims, Mr.
Finch's importunity', brought matters to a crisis sooner
than would othe'rwise have happened. Her aversion
to her father's scheme, and the cause of that aversion,
were soon disclosed to Arden. His pity, his honour, his
affection, were all engaged on her side. His objections,
drawn from her own condition, from her dependence on
her father for the means of subsistence, from the lowli-
ness and indigence of his condition, were stated in their
strongest colours.
She was unconvinced by his arguments. Poverty was
not to be dreaded, for she possessed a sufficiency, in her
own right, from the bequest of her uncle. The father's
choice was not hers, and in this case she only was enti-
tled to judge of the means of her happiness. She con.
fided, likewise, in her father's love, to make him acquiesce
in what his power could not prevent or disannul. A pri-
vate marriage would reconcile her duty to her inclina-
tion, since then there would necessarily be an end of
Wingate's hopes and importunities: and if her family
should prove irreconcilable, still union with Arden would
be the least evil of the two. -
Arden fluctuated, wavered; in one mood he promised
compliance with Harriet's wishes, and afterwards, when
solitude and deliberation had time to sway him, he re-
tracted those premises. He was unhappy, undetermin-
ed, and changeful. At length he wrought himself up
to the resolution of making her his wife. To this he was
chiefly influenced by the, security which time had given
him, respecting dangers connected with his former ad
Ventures, and by public information of the death of a cer-
tain person in Europe, whose existence was the chief
source of his peril.


26
walks and paths, but ineffectually, and concluded that she
hal gone to visit the infirm old woman before mentioned.
Having searched every place but the grotto, he con-
ceived it possible that she had gone thither, having had
some interviews with her in that very spot. He went
to it, looked in, saw no one, and returned. This inter-
val afforded time for his former resolution to revive with
new force, and his conduct during the subsequent hours
has already been described.
Such were the incidents communicated by Arden to
Miss Brudenel, in a copious correspondence. Such was
the intelligence imparted by Miss Brudenel to her bro-
ther, and these, added to information respecting his ad-
ventures before his arrival in America, were the basis
on which she had reared her conviction of his innocence.
These adventures, however, she would not permit her-
self to disclose.
After his acquittal and escape from the hands of a san-
guinary mob, he disappeared to all eyes but those of Miss
Brudenel. The correspondence between them conti-
nued. He retired to the country, and led by a mixture
of accident and design, made his dwelling at the house of
a Dutch farmer, within a small distance of Harriet Finch's
demesne. He lighted on this abode in his obscure pil-
grimage through by-paths and uncultivated spaces, and
abided there, on account of its remarkable seclusion, the
profound ignorance of the aged couple, who inhabited it,
and the consequent improbability of his retreat ever be-
ing known. His board and lodging he was able to pur-
chase from his gains reserved from the payments of
Finch, for twelve or eighteen months to come.
The detection, confession, and punishment of Mayo,
gave a new turn to Arden's affairs. Mankind in gene-
ral, were as eager to repair, as they had formerly been to
inflict the wrongs which he had suffered. Finch, in par-
ticular, publicly declared his sorrow for the part which he
had taken in the persecution, and disclosed a circumstance
which had till then been carefully suppressed.
In examining his daughter Harriet's papers, after her
decease, there was found, drawn up in legal form, a wil


27
in which she had bequeathed all her property, real and
personal, to Arden. This paper was written after the
period when a secret marriage was agreed upon between
them; and made, according to her own words, in consi-
deration of the uncertainty of life, and of the benefit*
which her understanding had received from Arden's in-
structions.
This will, though fairly written, and signed and sealed
by herself, was without witnesses. That she had never
gotten it attested* nor published, rose, no doubt, from the
difficulty attending such a ceremony, and from the oppo-
sition which she could not but expect from her relations
to a design of this kind. The instrument being, conse-
quently, invalid, its existence being known only to her
father, and Arden falling under such atrocious suspicions,
and afterwards disappearing, the will was of course un-
mentioned and unexecuted.
Now, however, such were the probity and generosity
if Finch, such his zeal to atone for past injuries, that he
declared his resolution of complying, in its Rill extent,
with his daughter's will, and offered to transfer her pro-
perty, entire, to Arden. Arden received, from his faith-
ful friend, speedy intelligence of these events, and, re.
turning to New-York, was kindly and respectfully re.
ceivcd by Finch, as well as by his early friend Brudenel.
Harriet's will was punctually executed, and gratitude,
joined to the removal of so many inconveniences of po-
verty and persecution which had hitherto beset him, in-
duced him to tender himself in marriage to Anna Brude-
nel, and the happiness of that generous and exalted wo-
man, though so long delayed, was at length completed
by union with the object of her most ardent affections.
While Arden was a fugitive, Brudenel was apprized of
his sister's correspondence with him, but remonstrated
against it in vain. Let what would come, she never
would abandon a friend in adversity, and one of whose
innocence she had proofs sufficient. These proofs being
connected with hrs exploits in Europe, no menace, no
entreaty, no artifice could prevail on her to disclose.
After their marriage they retired to the farm, now


ADVERTISEMENT.
THE Manuscript, of which the follow tug is a
translation, was obtained out of Bonaparte's Ca-
binet of Curiosites, at Leipsic, during the confu-
sion which reigned there after the defeat of the
French army.
It was held by him as a sacred treasure, and is
said to have been a stimulus to many of his spe-
culations, he being known to consult it on manv
occasions. R is supposed to be the only copy iu
the world, being written in uie German language
nearly 500 years ago. The translator has se-
veral times consult?? It f*T 'wn amusement;
and however increaiD.-e it may nonpar, he found
:is answers to correspond with the truth, as they
xfterwards came to pass.
On a visit to England, a short time since, and
submitting the work to the inspection of some lite-
rary friends, it was thought to be so extremely cu-
rious, that he was prevailed on to deposit the Ori-
ginal in the College of Oxford; first having trans-
lated a copy, which, for valuable considerations,
he has handed over to the Printer and Publisher
hereof, for his sole benefit
The Printer and Publisher feels it necessary to
state, that, for the better security of his property
in this curious Work, he has entered the same at
Statirmcrs' Hall and Hu Majesty's Stamp Office.


OF WORKING THE QUESTIONS.
Suppose you wish to obtain an answer to the
seventh question, viz.
"Will my friend be true to me in his dealings."
you make your marks in the following manner,
either more or less in a line, it is of no conse-
quence :—
I
I I
I I
I I
u
I 1
i i
11
111
/1
0
0 0
0
O 0
0
0
0 0
«
0
This done, you begin to reckon the number of marks in
each line, from left to right, and if the number is odd, you
mark down one cypher thus, (0,) and if even, two cyphers
(00,) as in the above example.
N. B. When the number of marks in any line are more
than nine, the overplus only are to be taken notice of.
The number of marks in 1st line of the foregoing ex
ample being 12, which is above 9 by S, you throw out 9
and reckon only the 3, which being odd, you mark down
one cypher,
thus - -- -- -- -- - 0 00
the 2d also odd, having exactly 9, 0 0
the 3d odd, having 1 above 9, 0 0 0
the 4th even, being 2 above 9, 0 0 0
The 5th even, being 2 above 9, set down two cyphers in
second column, as above.
The 6th being 1 above 9. set down the odd cypher.
The 7th being only 8, which is even, set down two cy
pheia.


-

The 8th line having 10 marks, which is one above 9, set
down one cypher, as above.
The two columns of cyphers, as found, must now be re-
duced to one column, by reckoning the number of cypher!
10 each line of the two columns in the following manner,
viz. the number of cyphers, as found in the first line of
the two columns, being S, you set down one cypher for
being odd, as the foregoing 0
the number of second 2, which is even 0 0
the number of third 3, which is odd 0
the number of fourth 3, also is odd 0
Now to obtain the answer to your question, you mi
fer to the Table, called the
ORACULUM;
at the top of which you will find a column of cyphers ex
achy similar to those you have produced. You must then
guide your eye down the same column, until you come to
the letter which ranges with the figure, the number of the
question you are trying; you must now refer to the pages
having the same letter at the top, where you will again
find cyphers to correspond with yours, the opposite to
which is the answer to your question.
The following are UNLUCKY DAYS, on which none
of the Questions should be worked, nor any Adven-
ture undertaken.
January the 1st, 3d, 4th, 6th, 11th, 12th, 20th. Fe-
bruary the 1st, 17th, 18th. March the 14th, 16th. April
the 10th, 17th, 18th. May the 7th, 8th. June the 17th.
July the 17th, 21st August the 20th, 31st. September
the 10th, 18th. October the 6th. Novemba^the 6th,
10th. December the 6th, 11th, and 15th.
Note.—It is not right to try any question twice on the
same day. •
This book not to be lent or borrowed—the purchasers
may work a question gratis for any person they please.
A S


* ORACULUM.


QUESTIONS.
1. Shall I obtain what I wish Tor?
; 2. Shall I have success in my undertaking
S. Shall 1 gain or lose (in any cause ?)
4. Shall I have to live in foreign parts?
5. Will the stranger return from abroad?
6. Shall I recover my property stolen J-
7. Will my friend be true to me in his dealings I
8. Shall I have to travel?
9. Does the person love and regard me?
10. Will the marriage be prosperous?
11. What sort of a wife (or a husband) is or-
dained for me?
12. Will she have a son or a daughter?
13. Will the patient recover from his illness?
14. Will the prisoner be released from his con-
finement?
15. Shall I be lucky or unlucky on this day?
16. What does wy dream signify?





• o
•
o
0
0 D
•
00
T»
0
What you wish for you will shortly obtain.
Signifies trouble and sorrow.
t o
e o
o
'JBc very cautious what you do on this day,
lest troubles befall you.
o o|
o
o
o o
o o
• o'
0 0
0
o o|
o o|
0
001
o o!
0
0
0_
."ol
80° If you marry this peison, you will have
*_ enemies where you little expect,
o
o
o o
0 0
0
0
0
0 o
0 o
0
0 0
O_0
0
oo
0 0
o e[
|Tbe prisoner dies, and is regretted by his
friends.
Life will be spared this time, that you may
prepare for death.
A very handsome daughter, but a painful
birth.
I You will have a virtuous and religious woman
for your wift *
I You had better decline this love, for it is nei-
ther constant nor true
Decline 'your travels, tor tney will not be to
your advantage.
(There is a true and sincere friendship be-
tween you both.
You will not recover the stolen property again.
|You wilt not remove from where you are at
present.
o^The Lord will support you in afood cause.
t
; •(You arenot mcky. pray to God that hei may
help you.
* The awren to 11th qnettkm mar be applied to husband and wife


D
•
0
0
•
0 0
[This person has a great fortune in
country.
[Venture freely, you will have double gain.
o ol
God will change your misfortunes into good
luck and happiness.
•"IAlter your intentions, else you may meet with
poverty and distress.
You bare many hindrances to the accomplish-
ment of your pursuits.
Whatever may be your thoughts this day,
abandon them.
The prisoner will get free again this time.
0 B
0 0
0 0
0 0
0
11
0 0
0 0
0 0
0
•
.•
0 0
•'
0
0
0_0
• 0
8
0 0
• 0
•
0 0
00
0
0 0
0 0
£
■?
0
0 0
•
0 0
0
o o
o o
The patient's illness will be lingering and
doubtful.
jshe will have a very dutiful and handsome son.
-
The person will be of low circumstances, but
very honest hearted.
A marriage that will add to your welfare and
prosperity.
You love a person who does not speak well
of you.
Your travels will be prosperous, if you are
guided by prudence.
He means not as he says, for his heart is false
With some trouble and expense you may re-
gain your property.
J o jYou must not ezpeet to see the stranerer again
o o


E
The stranger will not return so speedily as
you expect.
'Remain among your friends, and you will do
'well.
'You will hereafter gain what you seek for.
You have no luck; pray to God, and strive ho-
nestly.
You will obtain your wishes through the
means of a friend.
Beware, an enemy is endeavouring to bring
you strife and uneasiness.
You have enemies who will endeavour to ruin
you and make you unhappy.
The prisoner's sorrow and anxiety is great,
and his return uncertain.
The patient will soon recover; there is no
danger.
She will have a daughter that will be honored
and respected.
Your partner will be very fond of liquor, and
debase himself thereby.
This marriage will bring you to poverty, be
therefore discreet;
This love is false to you, and true to others.
Decline your travels at present, for it would
be dangerous.
This person is sincere and true, and deserves
to be respected.
You will not recorer the property you hare
lost.
B


0
0
0
_0
0 0
0
0 a
o
~f
o o
o
o
0 0:
0
0
t)0
Co
00
9 0
0
00
00
a
oj»
> o
0
(I
0
(To
1 0
0
0
V
o
0 l1
0 0
'0
0
0
00
0 0
0
0 0
00
0
0 0
0 0
00
,sn
0 0
0 0
0_
0
— o
c<
f
V
9 0
0
on
0"0
o o
• 0
By persevering you will recover your pro-
perty.
It is out of the stranger's power to 'return.
You will gain, and be successful in foreign
parts:
There is great hindrance to your success at
present,
A great fortune is ordained for you ; wait with
patience.
Your wishes are in vain at present.
Signifies that there is sorrow and danger before
you.
This day is unlucky, therefore alter your in-
tentions.
The patient will be restored to health and vi-
gour.
The patient's recovery is doubtful.
She will have a very fine son.
A worthy person, and of good fortune.
Your intentions would destroy your rest and
peace.
This love is true and constant, forsake it not -
Proceed on your travels or journey, and you'll
not have cause to regret.
If you trust this friend, you may have cause:
sorrow.
0 0


G
This friend exceeds all others in every respect
o
~~o
• You will not recover your property again.
"
The stranger will return again unexpected.
o
0
vo
0
CO
o
0
0.0
0 0
0 0
0
all
oo
o
9 0
6"u1
0
0
0
0 u
-0 8
0
0
0
o
o o
0 0
0
0
oo
9 0
o
oo
00
o
oo
oo
0.0
0
o o
0 0
o
0
0
Oi
0.
0
oo
o
0 0
JTl
10
• o
0 0
Remain at home among your friends, and you
will escape mistortune.
You will meet with no jrain in your pursuits.
Ill luck awaits you; it will be difficult for yon
to escape it.
You must bear your loss with fortitude.
Heaven will bestow its blessings on yoa.
You will shortly be out of the power of your
enemies.
The prisoner will be released by death only
By the blessing of God the patient will recover.
IA Daughter she will have, but a sickly consti-
tution.
You will get an honest, young and handsome
partner.
Decline this marriage, else it will be to your
sorrow.
|Avoid this love.
The traveller is confined by sickness at this
moment.


t
•
0
0
0
o o
t
• 0
• 0
•
s
ool
0
i"o
8
• 0
■ •
t 0
o
r
[8_
0 0
• 0
•
0
•
0
o o
•_•
0
o
gr
oo
6 o
o
0 o
00
1 0
ol.
• 0
0
• 0
The love is great, but it will cause great jea-
lousy.
It will be in vain for you to travel.
Your friend is as sincere as you cou.d wish
him to be.
|You will recover the stolen property, through
a cunning person.
The traveller will soon return with joy.
You would neither be prosperous nof fortu-
nate in foreign parts.
(Place your trust in God, for he is the disposer
of all happiness.
Your fortune will shortly change into misfor
tune.
You will succeed as you desire.
• o
o
CO
0 o I
t 0
0 0
to
|The misfortune which threatens you will be
prevented.
Beware of your enemies, they seek to do you
harm.
After a short time your anxiety for the pri-
soner will cease. •
Go. will give the patient health and strength
again.
|She will have a very fine daughter.
You will marry a person with whom you will
have but little comfort.
The marriage will not answer your expecta-
tions.


K
After much misfortune you will be comfortable
and happy.
A sincere love from an upright heart.
You will be prosperous in your journey.
Do not rely on the friendship of this person.
The property is lost for ever, but the thief will
be punished.
o
0
0
B
0 0
•
t
T
I*
•
t
0 0
oo|
• t
o S|The traveller will be absent for some time.
■•
0
0 0
•
0
0
•
1 0
» 0
V
1
0 0
0 0
n
• 0
• 0
T*
OJI
5*
• o
u
0 0
10
•
f
o
t •
o
e
o o
•
• e
© 0
• 0
0 0
a o
You will, and meet with luck and happiness
from a stranger.
You will have no success at present.
Be reconciled, your circumstances will short
ly mend.
Change your intentions, and you'll do welL
Signifies that there are rogues at hand.
You will succeed in your undertaking.
The prisoner will be released. J
The patient will depart from this world.
She will have a son.
It will be difficult fo>" vou to get a partner, 


M
'•
0
0
•
ool
0 0
0
ool
•
OOj
0 0
0 0
0 0
c
rs
00
o a
•
n
o
o o
•
• i
•_•
t
0
0
• •
b o
00
00
T
• o
■
0
0
0 0
•
T
0 •
0
0 0
Ishc will have a son, who will gain great weaha
and hoDour.
|You will get a partner with
ing and much money.
The marriage will be prosperous.
jShe wishes to be jour's at I
Tour journey will be advantageous.
j
Place no great trust in that person.
Tou will find your property at a certain time.
The traveller's conduct has rendered his re-
turn doubtful.
Yon will succeed greatly in foreign parti.
Expect no land of gain, it will be in rain.
You will have no occasion to complain of your
luck.
V/lictcver your desires are, you will speedily
obtain them.
Signifies that you will be asked to a wedding;
You will have more lock than you expect.
Some one will pity the prisoner, and release
him.
o o The patient's recovery is unlikely.
• •I


J 'This clay brings you an increase of happiness.
o
0 0
n°0 The prisoner will quit the power of his ene-
o mies.
o o The patient recovers again, and will live long.
u
°o° She will have two daughters,
o
o o
o 5
o n
o o
o
o o
0 0
0
0 0
0 0
0
0
0
• 0
• e
o
0
0
0
o a
oo
o
o
o
o o
00
0
o a
oo
o
o o
• o
o o
o
0 0
0 0
o
o
0
oo
o
0
00
0
00
ou
o e
0 a
1 o
A rich young person will be your partner.
Hasten the celebration of your marriage, it
will bring you happiness.
The person love3 you sincerely.
You will not prosper from home.
This friend is more valuable than gold.
You will never recover your goods.
He is dangerously ill, and cannot yet return
Depend on your own industry.
Be joyful, for future prosperity is ordained for
you.
Depend not too much on your good luck.
What you hope for will be granted to you.
he very carelul on this day lest any accident
befall you.


0
0
0
0
10
_0_
0
0 0
0
Signifies much joy and happiness between
friends.
This day is not very lucky, but rather the re-
verse.
Recovery is very doubtful, therefore prepare
for the worst.
She will have a son, who will prove froward.
You may expect some evil is designing against
you.
By wedding this person you will ensure your-
self happiness.
The person has great love for you, but wishes
to conceal it.
You may proceed on your journey without
fear.
Trust him not, he is Inconstant and deceitful.
In a very singular manner you will recover
your property.
The stranger will return very soon.
You will dwell abroad in comfort and happi-
ness.
If you deal fair, you will surely prosper.
You will yet live in splendour and plenty.
Make yourself contented with your oresen*
fortune-.


VALENTINE WRITER
Falenltne to a Man of FaskUn.
Most Hashing sir. with quizzing eh.'s
And heels, like asses', shod,
That make a clattering as you pass,
So whimsical and odd.
Tust like a porcupine, the wig.
That decks your empty head;
Your whiskers, they look fierce ana big
And of a fiery red:
Yet you're a coward at the he-rt
Your boasting is but trash;
Si> dash along, and keep it up,
Till you have spent your caib. ,
And then in prison you may pit e.
Your spendthrift life, my Valei tiaJ
To a Lady.
Ugliest of the fair creation
Dingy maid of saffron hue,
Face dt roid of animation,
Lips that are not red—but bint.
Your form devoid of shape and g M< .
Has charms for this poor heavt tf t-nf,
For if I wed, I shall be sure.
To have no rival Valentine.
Answer.
I really think, without dispute,
You are a most ill-natur'd brut*
To write to me in such a style,
With such my lips I would not (ad.
One may soon trace in every feattis,
The exact 'semblance of ill-nalarfc
That I am ugl-, is most true,
But I am fair, cornpar'd to yon;
Look in the glass, your face thsra ia«
You'll find 'tis foolish to mock me j
For every fault yon find in mine,
At least in you 1 r€ :kon nine;
And so my Valentir e farewell,
You of all fools the wont excel.


THE QUIZZICAL
Clown's Valentine.
Excellent mistress, brighter than the moon,
Than scowerd pewter, or the silver spoon;
Fairer than Phoebus, or the morning star,
Damty, fair mistress, by my troth you are,
As far exceeding Diana ami her nymphs,
As lobsters, crawfish, and as crawfish, shrimps
Thine eye?, like diamonds, do shine most clearly,
As I'm an honest man, 1 love thee dearly.
Valentine.
I met with you, my dear, one night,
(Women shine best by candle-light,)
*Twat at a ball, u you remember,
I dane'd with you—you won my heart,
That night I did the same impart --
I was accepted as your lover,
But my next visit did discover,
Ycu were made up of paint and patch,
Your eyes do not in colour match:
I'm off the bargain, Valentine,
Wedlock with you I must resign.
Valentine.
I'm a comical fellow, and that you'll allow,
I've no mind to stand shilly shally;
If you'll have me at all, you may as well now,
So an answer pray send, my dear Sally ;-
No letter I want, but merely a line,
Saying Yes, or else No, to you"1 Valentine.
Answer.
I really think, sir, your manner is queer,
Yet may be, 'tis no worse for that';
Perhaps 'tis your method when you're most sincere
And therefore I'll answer, Yes, pat.
Valentme.
I weep—the hasty world believes I'm sad.
I laugh—and they as fast believe me glad;
You are the cause of all this joy and sorrow -
But if you'll have me—tell me so to-morrow


THE QUIZZICAL
To an Old Maid.
Hail! spotless virgin, free from sic,
My antique maiden, hail 1
To gain whose person, lank and thin,
None e'er could yet prevail.
In flowing numbers, fain would I
Your wond'rous praises sing
And let imagination fly,
On Fancy's soaring wing.
With crabbed looks and sour grimace,
You mope like owl or bat;
And with a most enchanting grace,
Purr, like your tabby cat.
Your meagre face, drawn up so prim,
Holds every heart secure;
And should you chance but once to grin,
'Tis death beyond all cure.
Your mopstick arms (from flesh quite free^
I view with sweet delight;
Your waist—as thin as thin can be,
Enchants my wond'ring sight.
Sneaking alone, oft-times you sit
At once both old and tough;
With dog in lap, or fav'rite tit,
And nose all grim'd with snuff.
But here I stop, for my poor brain
Allows the task too hard.;
To celebrate your vestal train,
Requires the ablest bard.
To a Blackamoor.
My dingy dear, when you appear
My heart goes pit-a-pat;
So black your face, your lips to grace,
And nose so very flat.
Your woolly hair, I do declare.
Appears- to me divine;
Then stray no more, sweet Blackamoor,
But be my Valentine.


VALENTINE WRITER.
'o a Young J.Mtdy who frowned on being Kitsci.
Fie, Betsey, why. so gravely look,
Because a kiss or two I took?
Those luscious lifts might thousands grant,
Rich rogues that never feel the want.
So little in the kiss I see,
A hundred thou may'st take of me.
But since, like misers of their store..
Thou hat'st to give, though running oVr,
I scorn to cause the slightest pain.
So pr'ythee taka them back again!
Nay, with good int'rest be it done,
Thou'rt welcome to take ten for one.
To a. Fain Old Lady.
Forbear to paint, forbear to patch,
Leave off your borrow'd charms;
Believe me, you're too old to catch
A young man in your arms.
In vain you try to hide your age,
Sixty at once appears—
Some pious thoughts ought to engage
A lady of your years—
Then seek not for a Valentine—
I'll your grand-daughter have for mine.
To a Conceited- Young Man.
Too rail at marriage, saucy swain,
I know the reason why;
Your follies are so very plain,
No fair one will comply.
I own, I'd sooner die a maid,—
But pray restrain your mirth;
If apes I'm dootn'd to lead ic hell,
I won't lead one on earth.
She that weds you sure must lead one,
But I my thoughts incline
Unto a very different youth;
Farewell, my Valentine.


VALENTINE WRITER.
Valentine.
Yea, I think I once heard of an amorous youth,
Who was caught in his grandmother's bod;
But I own i ne'er had such a liquorish tooth,
As to wish to be there in his stead.
'Tis for you, my dear madam, such conquests to make,
Antiquarians may value you high!
But I swear I can't love for antiqui.y's sake,
Such a poor virtuosi am I,
I have seen many ruins all gilded with care,
But the cracks are still plain to the eye;
And I ne'er felt a passion to enter in there,
But turn'd up my nose, and pass'd by.
I perhaps might have sigh'd in your magical chain,
When your lips had more freshness to deck it;
But I hate even Diana herself in the wane,
And would as soon be enraptur'd with Hecate.
No, no! 'tis a damsel luxuriant and fresh,
That my passion with ecstasy owns;
For indeed, my old lady, though fond of the flesh,
1 never was partial to bones.
To an affected Gentleman. „
From Polito's you did escape,
If ou so resemble his large ape;
And rigg'd yourself in those gay clothes,
In mimicry of our poor beaux,
Who ogle at the handsome lasses,
With am'rous hearts and quizzing glasses,
And thus expose their want of sense,
By giving modesty offence ,
You're One of these 1 plainly see,
. So you will never do for me.
To laugh at you I do incline,
Adieu! my monkey Valentine.
With emblematical Hearts and Dove*
This heart was mine, which now is thine,
And is not that a wonder,
That you should boast a heart of mine,
And be so far asunder.


THE QUIZZICAL
To a Bar-Maid.
Sweet nymph, with teeth of pearl, and dimpled chin,
And roses tnat would tempt a saint to sin,
Daily to thee so constant I return,
Whose smile improves the coffee's ev'ry drop,
Gives tenderness to ev'ry steak and chop,
And bids our pockets at expenses spurn.
Nymph of the roguish smile, which thousands seek,
Give me another, and another steak,
A kingdom for another steak, but giv'n
By thy fair hand, that shames the snow of heav'n.
Give me a glass of punch, O, smiling lass!
And let thy luscious lip embalm the glass:
Touch it, and spread a charm around the brim,
Health to thy beauties, Nancy, and may time
Ne'er meddle with thy present healthful prime,
Thy ringlets spoil, and eyes of diamonds dim.
Tell me, O nymph divine, whose happy arms
Are doom'd for life to circle those bright charms,
And to that bosom give both girls and boys?
That luckly lot, alas! will ne'er be mine;
A gaze, a squeeze, perchance a kiss divine,
Must form the bounds, O Nancy! of my joys
Yet if rich favours, far beyond a smile,
So kind, thy poet's moments to beguile,
Thou wishest to bestow, in Love's name give 'em
And thankful, on my knees, I will receive 'em.
To a Coxcomb, with a Drawing.
Say, little foolish fluttering thing,
Why your trinkets thus you bring,
Perfumes, and all such trifles?
Believe me, you prove put a pest
To me, as well as all the rest,—
Your nostrum almost trifles.
Then turn your mind to nobler things,
Disgrace avoid which meaning brings,
Assume the name of man ,
Then with decorum, suited best,
Your conduct still may stand the test,
Use reason, if you can


VALENTINE WRITER.
To a vain Old Gentleman, with a Caricature.
Dear Sir, your picture here, you see,
A pretty match, forsooth, for me,
What vanity came in your heuil
To iLiuk with you 1 e'er should wed.
Your stature, ither large nor small,
In shape is like a cooler's awl;
With limbs so awkward—and your clothes
Look like a scare to frighten rrows.
Your nose so red—so wide—so long,
'Twould make the subject of a song;
Your mouth so large—your teeth unclean,
Oh! let them ever be unseen!
Then eyes so dead to all expression,
To love such eyes .vo.ild be transgression:
Your mind loo ia so well supply'd
With meanness and with haughty pride.
.Thus have I summ'd them both together,
Nuw let me briskly ask you whether
Such charms my heart can ever gain?
Alas 1 alas! you strive in vain.
From a Soldier.
Sweet maid, I'm a soldier, to fight is my dtfry,
From conquest 1 came, though conquer'd by beauty;
Though Virtue stands sentry, why there let her stay,
A sum to the parson soon drives her.away.
My spirits beat high, sound, sound the alarms,
To the field < I'll not yield, but die in your arms.
Answer.
A soldier is to honour true,
So I incline my heart to you;
When foes advance, you are a guard,
And beauty shall be vour reward
C 2


VALENTINE WRITER.
From a Fishmonger.
Thou art a dish
Of dainty fish,
Better than soals or whiting,
Your eyes are bright,
As sprats by night,
Like smelts, your breath's delighting;
You've slipt, I feel,
Just like an eel,
Quite through this heart of mine,
No flounder that
I caught so flat,
As I, sweet Valentine.
Answer.
Good, Mr. Fish,
You're not the fish,
That's fitted to nay mind •
'Tis a plain case,
I am no plaise,
Nor yet a trout, you'll find;
A gudgeon you
Are to my view,
Which easily I draw;
Should you be mine,
Crab Valentine,
Beware a lobster's claw.
From an Old Bachelor to an Old Maid
Pray, Mrs. Stuff,
Do not take huff,
At what by some is said;
Each girl and flirt,
So fine and pert,
Declare you an old maid.
Old Bachelor, the saucy crew
At forty-eight will call me too,
At that I shan't repine,
If you, good toothless, will agree,
In love to join with me,
And be my Valentine.


THE Q.UIZZICAL
Jhuver.
You saury got, go mind your pot.
And drink your ale or wine;
You a'e too old. also too cold,
To oe my Valentine;
For, though I'm a nwilen near fifty-nine
A young man shall be my Valentine.
Valentine.
Because, young man, you're stout and tall,
Good humour'd too (the uest of all,)
It pleases now this heart of mine
To choose you for my Valentine.
Valentine with a pair of Shear*.
On St. Valentine's Day,
My love to display,
I have sent you a pair of shears,
Which if you incline,
My sweet Valentine, .
With them you may cut off your ears.
Anmer.
Your shears I receiv'd.
And* am not at all griev'd,
That you gave me no more of your wheedle t
A paper I've sent,
'Twill give me content
If yeu stick in your bum ev'ry needle.
From a Sailor. .'
Dear Miss, I'm- a tar, just arrir'd from afar.
But now cruising about for a wife;
You're young, I am able, let's instant cut cable.
And sail through the ocean of life.
Answer.
I'd sooner wed a tailor, than marry-a sailor,
The reason I give shall be plain;
For the tailor he'd stay with me night and day.
Whilst the sailor he's tost on the main.


VALENTINE WRITER.
Valentine.
My dear, your eyes they shine so bright,
They're like dead whitings in the night:
Your arms are brawny, brown, ami lough;
Their skin, like any hog's hack, rough;
Your voice the screech-owl docs excel,
Your breath, a pole-cat's is us well;
Your mouth, a sparrow's is, my dear,
It roaches but from ear to car;
In you such charms at once combine,
I choose you for my Valentine.
Answer.
Your wit is pert, like an oyster-knife,
The bluntest I ever beheld in my life;
It hows mid it harks at a terrible rate.
And is a jnet emblem of your addle pate ,
So lake my advice and the honour decline,
For you never, 1 vow, shall be my Valentin*
Valentine.
Dear Betsy, oft you've Known me stop,
When you've been trundling of your mop,
Your rosy checks, and arms so plump,
M-ike my poor heart go thump-a-thump;
Then, dearest Hetty, now incline
Unto your faithful VaJentaic.
Anncen
Friend Skip, you are not to my mind,
I tell the truth, and so you'll find;
So all your courtship now is done,
I've giv'n my tit-art to butler John;
To him alone I do incline.
So you can't be my i'uleutine.
Another Anrxtr.
Tour Valentine is short and sweet,
But to the pur|>ose quite complete;
And to its wishes I incline,
So come, and fetch your Valentine.


The llortda firats.
Intermingled with disgust.'! » execration?. Several disputes
look place, in the course of which the parties struck each
Mher, and wrestled together; but their companions neither
endeavoured to separate them, nor paid any attention to the
affrays.
When it was near midnight, the captain, whose name was
M time), conducted me to the cabin, and made many inquiries,
which evidently had for their object to discover if I really mu
what I professed to be. His doubts being removed, he point-
ed to a birth, and told me 1 might occupy it whenever I chests,
and went upon deck ag.iin. 1 extinguished the lijjit, and lay
down in bed. My anticipation respecting the lile I was now
to lead, were gloomy and revolting. I scarcely dared to look
forward to the termination of the entei prize in which 1 had
embarked; but when 1 considered what would have been my
fite had I remained on shore, I could not condemn my choice.
Contempt, nbject poverty, and the horrors of want, were the
evils I fled from—tyranny, danger, and an ignominious death,
formed those towards which I was perhaps hastening.
Next morning Captain Manuel desired me to write an order
for iny portmanteau, that he might send one of his men to bring
it on board. Shortly after the messenger returned we put to
sea with light wind, and gradually receded from the shores
of the island.
I breakfasted in th cabin with Manuel. His manner was
chilly and supercilious; and he had more dignity about him
than any negro I h id ever before seen. The want of his right
hand made his person very striking, and he seemed aware of
this lor when he observed me gazing on his mutilated arm,
he frowned, and enveloped it in the folds of the table-cloth.
We lost ight of land in a few hours, but I knfew not where
We were bound, and Manuel's reserved behaviour prevented
me from making any inquiry. He walked upon deck all day
with Girted arms, and scarcely ever raised his eyes, except to
look at the compass, or give directions to the helmsman.
The schooner, which was named the Esparanr.a, was about
one hundred and twenty tons burden, carried six guns, and
had forty-three men on board of her, and several boys.—>
There appeared lo be very little discipline among the crcv,
ail of whom amused themselves in any way, and in any place
they chose, except when the working of the vessel required
their attention. The presence of the captain did not impose
any restraint upon them; imd one, who was called the mate


The Florida Pirate.
6
snatched a chart unceremoniously from his hand, and told
him he did not know what he was about, without receiving
any reproof for his insolence.
A number of the negroes lay round the fire, roasting ears of
Indian corn, which were eagerly snatched off the embers the
moment they wer? ready. 1 could distinguish the marks of the
whip on the'shoulders of some of them. The limbs of others
had been distorted by the weight anil galling of fetters, as was
evident from the indentations exhibited by their flesh.
In the course of three days, we came in sight of the north
shore of Cuba; but to my great satisfaction had not met with,
a single vessel of any description. Manuel hourly became
less reserved, and we often had long conversations together;
and one evening he promised to relate his history to me, the
first favourable opportunity.
Alter cruising about for a week, we cast anchor at the mouth
of the Xibara harbour. Our object in doing so was to obtain
• supply of firewood. Manuel requested me to accompany
the party destined for this purpose, as he was to command it;
and at a late hour one night, we set out,in a boat along with
seven of the crew. The weather was clear, calm, and de-
lightful; and we soon entered the river, and rowed slowly up
its windings. The banks were for the most part thickly cover-
ed with tree*, which over arched us completely, and rendered
it so dark, that Manuel could scarcely see to steer the boat. I
sat in the stern beside him, but neither of us spoke a word.
When we had got about two miles above the mouth of the
river, the men disembarked, and began to cut wood at a little
distance from us. "I believe my people are out of hearing,"
6aid Manuel, after a pause, "and while we wait for their re-
turn, 1 shall tell you something of my past life."
"1 need not give you a minute account of my early years,
ns they were not r'-stinguished by any thing remarkable. Mj
mother came from the coast of Africa, but 1 was born in South
Carolina, where my master had a large estate, in the cultiva-
tion of which more than one hundred negroes were employed.
My mother being a house servant, was exempted from many
of the hardships and privations to which the other slaves were
exposed, but she owed the comparative comfort of her situa-
tion, entirely to her capability as a cook, as Mr. Sexton was
much addicted to the pleasures of the table. He gave orders
that I should be brought up within doors, as he intended me
for a waiting man..


8
The Fnrida Pirate.
was doing. I told him J was reading, lie struck me a violent
blow on the he;id, with his cine, ami said lie would order me
forty lashes ifl everagiin looked at a book ornewspiper. i t a
soon discovered that the old negro had been my teacher, and
immediately sent him oil' the est ite, not being able to indict any
other punishment, in consequence of his having pui chased hit
freedom-
'* As my ideas expanded, my situation gradually became
more intolerable. I h id ao oik; to whom 1 could communi-
cate my thoughts. My fellow slaves were so ignorant and de-
graded, that I could hardly look at them without pity and <as-
gust. 1 used to watch tliem when they assembled to receive
their weekly allowance of provisions. Worn out by fitigne,
clad in r igs, and branded with lashes, they would wait for their
respective portions with eager greediness, and then hurry
avvay in a state of tumultuous delight, which was sc ircely re-
pressed by the cracking of the overseer's whip behind thtm.
They had sunk so low that they seemed willing to accept life
upon any terms.
"In the midst of my misery, I became attai ned to a young
girl named Sabrina.. She was a slave upon the adjoining es-
tate, and therefore we seldom had an opportunity of seeing
each other except by stealth. I used to leave my master's
bouse at midnight, when every one was in bed, and go across
the plantation to the hut in which Sabrina and her mother
lived. But Mr. Sexton once awoke during my absence on one of
these nocturnal visits, and the whole affair was soon discovered.
He flogged me severely and ordered me to remain at home in
future; and the proprietor of the adjoining estate, to whom he
made compliant, caused Sabrin i's hut to be burnt to the
ground, that it might no longer rtfford us a place of meeting.
I became half maddened with r age and misery. However, my
feelings were unnoticed or disregarded by Mr. Sexton, - who,
like other American planters, did not believe that negroes
were susceptible of love or sorrow.
"Mr. Sexton had a d mghter, who resided in the house
with him, and took charge of his domestic affairs. The pro-
prietor of the adjoining estate, whose name was Lusher, loved
her, and wished to m rry her, but Mr. Sexton would not con-
sent to their union, and prohibited all correspondence between
them. However notwithstanding this, they sometimes met in
secret, and often wrote to each other. Miss Sexton privately
employed me to carry her letters to Mr. Lusher, promising


The Florida Pirate. 13
•nbtnit to any kind of discipline, beyonri what mutual security
and self-preservation render necessary. But I value and en-
dure them only in so fir. as they are the means of forwarding
my views. I should consider it an insult to be classed with
such desperadoes"
Here Manuel ceased spe iking. I did not venture to make
any comment upon his story, and we sat in silence till the men
came to the side of the river with a large quantity of (ire-wood.
Wo immediately took it on board .the boat, and rowed down the
stream, and reached the schooner a short time before dawn.
At sun-rise we weighed anchor, and put to sea again.
Next day, while walking the deck, I heard one negro say
to another, "Mark, what was that yon was telling me about
Caesar h.iving been hanged at B dtimore?" "Why, only that
he was hmged, (replied Mirk.) When I was last ashore. I
heard so from one who had re id it in a newspaper."—" What
did they make him swing for? (inquired the first, whose name
was Mendez.) Did he look sulky at his master, break a wine-
glass, or brin^ him a knife when he wanted a fork?" "No,
no, he did nothing so bad as that, (replied Mark, laughing.)
He was a cruiser like our captain, and meeting with a vessel,
he went on board, and helping himself to some biscuit und rum,
and a little hard cash. Her crew wished to put him on short
allowance, but he took what he wanted in spite of them all.
1 le was afterwards caught by n yankee ship of war, and carried
to Baltimore. The folks there found him guilty of piracy, and
hanged him and some of his crew besides."
"Why, I think, (said Mendez,) he had a right to taste the
rum, if he had helped to m ike as much of it as you and I havf
done. We nigers have a pretty time- of it. They won't let us
live by land or by water. I wonder if we could please ourmas-
ters by flying in the air? Why, now, wasn't Caesar hanged for
what we've been doing ?"—" To he sure he was, (returned
Mark;) "we must keep a sharp look out. 1 guess our best plan
will be to hiuderanyone of them from ever becoming a witness
against us." "How can we manage that V demanded Mendez.-
"Why, by pinking a hole in the bottom of our prizes, and
making those on board of them drink our healths in salt water,
(said Mark.) Dead men tell no tales, you know." "Well, 1
conclude it in our only way, (replied Mendez,) though 1 should
feel a Tittle strange about sending a crew of white men to hell
in a moment." "Why they must all go there at last, yon *Viol,


The Florida Pirate.
15
shouting to each other, and hurrying through their respective
duties with a vioience and e igerness which showed how
congenial the prospect of bloodshed, oppression, and plunder,
was to their feelings. They soon began to converse gayly and
anil unconcernedly. One talked of the resistance we should
proh ibly meet with from the vessel we were in chase of; ano-
ther jestingly said "he wished to write his will," and men-
tioned what articles he intended bequeathing to his compan-
ions, should he perish in the conflict; a third complained of
tlie detective state of their wardrobe, and enumerated the ad-
ditions he hoped to make to it, vvhen the anticipated .prize fell
into our hands.M auuel walked anxiously about the deck,
sometimes looking through his glass, and sometimes giving di-
m ctions to the helmsman.
1 alone remained unoccupied and unattended to amidst the
general activity. The quiescent and monotonous life I had
led since 1 came on board the schooner, had lulled me into a
forgetfulness of my real situation, all the horrors of which, now
burst upon my mind, with appalling force. I had outlawed
myself from society. I was surrounded with wretches, with
whom 1 could h ive no community of feeling. I was soon to
become, as it were an accomplice in the work of rapine and
bloodshed. We might, perhaps, be overpowerd by those
whom we proposed to attack, and 1 should be seized and clas-
hed with pirates. There was no one to testify my innocence,
to prove that I had no connexion with the guilty, or to save me
from ao ighominous death.
We soon discovered1 that the object of our pursuit was a
brig of about two hundred tons burden. She seemed to sus-
pect what we were, for she made all sail, and began to go large,
although she had kept very close hauled before perceiving us;
but our schooner being very fast, and to the windward of her,
gained upon her every moment.
About mid-day, we came within shot of the brig, and
Manuel ordered a gun to be fired, as a signal for her to
heave to. She paid no attention to it, and her crew seemed
to he preparing for defence. He then pointed a cannon him-
self, and sent a ball through the lower part of her mainsail;
but this not being what we wanted, he aimed again, and disa-
bled her rudder.
She was now completely in our power, and we came within
thirty yards of her. The boat being lowered down, Manuel, and
fifteen of his crew under arms, embarked, and rowed along


16
The Ftoridn Pirate.
ride of the brig, and ascended her gangway without meeting
with any resistance. The captain immediately advanced and
said, " What right have you to stop me on the high seas!''
"Right! right 1" returned Manuel; " none that I know of-—only
Tm stronger than you: but show me your manifest." "That
1 cannot do," cried the captain, "unless you promise"—
* I'll promise nothing." interrupted Manuel; "yes, yes, one
thing: none of you shall be maltreated, unless you offer lo
oppose my orders." "Fine conditions, indeed!" exclaimed
the captain; "be pleased to tell me what you want here!"
"Bring me your manifest, (replied Manuel.) and then I'll in
form you. 1 mean to take whatever part of your cargo 1
choose, and likewise all the specie that is on board. Come
down to the cabin, I must not be detained."
They now both went below, and the negroes, having receir
ed a signal from Manuel, ranged themselves on each side o
the companion. They had scarcely done this,.when a voice
requested them to make way, and a gentleman, with a young
lady leaning on his arm, and followed by a mulatto woman,
came upon deck. They looked around them with an expies
sion of terror and astonishment. The young lady, on seeing
the blacks, turned pale, and clung tremblingly to her protec-
tor's arm, and said something to him, but in such a low tone of
voice, that nothing but the word "father" was distinguishable.
A dead silence prevailed upon deck for some time; but the
countenances of the different parties who occupied it, express--
ed more than words could have done. The females betrayed
marks of deadening fear; the crew of the brig evidently strug-
gled to resist the impulses of indignation, and the negroes
seemed full of hope and impatience.
The young lady wore a beautiful Indian shawl, and one of
the blacks, smiling to his companions, stepped forward, md
pulled it off her shoulders. Her father, furious at this insult,
seized a block that lay near him, and struck the daring wretch
upon the face with so much violence, that he staggered back,
and nearly fell in the hold. However he quickly recovered
himself, and rushing forwards, plunged his cutlass into the side
of his antagonist, who dropped apparently lifeless, upon deck.
The seamen belonging to the brig could no longer restrain
themselves; a loud cry burst from them, and they hastily seiz-
ed the murderer, and threw hi-n overboard; but, be'ing an
oxpert swimmer, he soon gained the surface of the water, and
we lunously towards the vest's side, with flashing eves


The Florida Pirate..
17
and loud curses. The noise of the affray brought the Captain
and Manuel from the cabin, and the first object that struck the
eyes of the 1 itter, was the wounded man, weltering in his blood,
and supported in the arms of his d aughter. Who did this!"
cried Manuel, with a voice half suffocated with emotion. The
assassin was st mding upon thr: chains, and ende ivouring to climb
over the bulwarks, when some me pointed him out. Manuel
drew a pistol from bis belt, and fired at the negro's head. The
b ill took efffct. Its victim lost hold of the rigging, sprung con-
vulsively upwards, and fell lie idlong into the sea. A murmur of
applause proceeded from the crew; but the blacks shrunk
away, frowning upon Manuel, who turning to the captain, said
haughtily, " this is my discipline!" and 'then took a paper out
of his pocket and beg in to re id.
Tlrs young lady's father was conveyed to the cabin, and ac-
companied by his daughter and her attendant, the mul .tto wo-
man. Manuel then ordered his man to lift the hatches, and
descended through one of them into the hold. After a little
time he returned, and pointed out the articles he wished to
have brought upon deck. The negroes set to work, and pre-
sently every part of the vessel was covered with bales, casks,
and pack iges, and he walked coolly among them, and selected
such as he thought most useful and valu ible. His men would
evidently have begun to plunder privately, had they not been
restrained by fear; but the instance of their leader's seve-
rity which they had just witnessed, seemed to dwell upon
their minds, for, while occupied in getting out the cargo, they
muttered threats, and viewed him with scowling aud wrathful
looks.
Manuel, h iving collected together all the articles he wanted,
ordered them to be handed into the boat, which he sent off with
part of his men to the schooner. He retained in his hand a
big of specie, and several other things. The boat being un-
loaded, they returned to take him on board his own vessel;
and as he was descending the gingway of the brig, he bowed
to her captain, and said—" I wish you a good voyage, sir."
On retching the schooner, Manuel ordered the crew to hoist
op the boat, and to bear away: however, the wind was light
and baffling, an 1 we made but little progress. 1 fixed my eyes
upon the brig as we gradually receded from her, and reflected
upon the unhappy situation of Mr. R and his daughter, in
both of whom I felt powerfully interested. 1 had several limes
bccu on the point of entreating Manuel to allow me to ussis'


i6 2'fte Florida Pirate.
the wounded man; but he always turned away, as if aware »
what I intended, and unwil' ng to render himself cliargeable
with inhumanity, by refusing to grant my request. 1 now ven-
tured to address him on the uibject. "We cannot part with
yon, (said he,) if we did, it r ight ruin us all. He who become*
a pirate, must llie a pirate; 'here is no middle course. 1 fer-
vently hope Mr. R may recover.- t have at least executed
justice upon his murderer. Perhaps you may think me a
murderer myself, hut I did no more than was necessary. My
crew are not to lie* restrained but by very terrible means. And
yet," (continued he, starting,) in my anxiety to save others, I
h ive, perhaps, brought destruction upon myself. 1 am guilty
of murder; there are plenty of witnesses to prove it. Oil that
both my hands had been cutoff, then 1 could not have commit-
ted this rash act, which at once puts me on a level with my
crew. Good night, good night. Go to sleep."
About two hours alter sunset I retired to my birlh; but the
events of the day had made such a strong impression that I
could not sleep, and I rose at midnight and went upon deck. It
was clear moonlight, and perfci tly calm. On looking for the
brig, 1 perceived, to my astonishment, that she lay within a
mile of us, and had heeled over so much, that she seemed al-
most on her beam ends. I immediately informed Manuel of
Ibis, and he looked through his night-glass, and said she was
aground upon a sand-bank. "What is to be done ?" cried 1;
"you surely will not allow those on board to perish?" "To-
morrow's dawn shall determine that," returned he.
At day bre :k' we found that the brig was still in the situ-
ation already described, and Manuel, accompanied by me and
several of the crew, went towards her in the boat. The Cap-
tain informed us that his vessel having become quite unma-
nageable, in consequence of the loss of her rudder, had drifted
away towards a sand-bank, and run hard aground the preceding
night. We soon ascertained that her bottom was a good denl
damaged, and that she could not be got off. "This brig will
go to pieces the first time there is a heavy sea," said Manuel
to the Captain; "and those who remain in her must perish
1 will take you all.on board my schooner, and put you ashore
about forty miles above Matanzas, seeking no compensation but
part of the cargo, which you of course have no means of pre-
serving." After some deliberation, this proposal was acceded
to by all parties, and Manuel's crew again began to unload the
brig.


20
"Hie Florida Pirate
people; but wh it will necome of my parent, if yon send 'is
away? 1 have no more money to give you, but perhaps—"
Here she covered her f ice with her hands, and sobbed so vio-
lently that her whole frame trembled.
Manuel hegan to pace about the cabin; I saw that he was af-
fected, and therefore did not venture to spe ak. "Well, lady,
'said he altera pause,) you m ly rem lin here. 1 will protect
you and yourfather—yes, even though I should bring myself
into difficulty by doing so.'' He then went upon deck and or-
dered the Captain and his crew, who had already seateu them-
selves in the boat, to row away.
In the course of the evening, Manuel asked me if I thought
Mr. K—would recover from his wound. 1 told him that I
feared he would soon be relieved from the inconvenience of
having such a passenger on hoard.'' "So 1 suspect, (returned
he ;) but what is to become of his daughter and the mulatto
woman? 1 wish 1 had sent them off in a boat to-night." "It
would have been unmerciful (said 1 ;) perhaps the seamen
themselves may perish." "Don't fear, don't fear, (cried he)
I treated them very generously. Some pirates would have lew
the whole party to drown in the brig, and been .glad of such aa
opportunity of getting them out of the way. 1 gave them •»
good boat and plenty of provisions; they will easily reach Ma
tanzas. My crew are enraged at my conduct in this affair, i
must be on my guard; and, listen tome, be you also on yours."
A short time before midnight, Mr. 1\ Complained ofths
oppressive closeness of the cabin, and be^ed to be lifted upon
deck. We immediately complied with, his wishes, and spread
a mattress for him near the stern of the vessel.
Elizabeth, his daughter, seated herself beside his couch, and
the mulatto woman waited behind. 1 threw myself upon a
ceroon at a little distance, and felt so fatigued, that I soon began
to slumber, although within hearing of the sick man's groans.
1 was suddenly awakened by the sound of light footsteps.—
I opened my eyes, and saw Elizabeth. '• My .father is"— She
could say no more. 1 rose and followed her. Mr. R lay
upon his back, with half-closed eyes, and seemed scarcely sen-
sible of our approach; but in a little while he turned his face
towards me, and tried to smile. He then took hold of his
daughter's hand, and attempt; d to greet her in the same way,
but it was impossible; his lips trembled, and some tears rush-
ed down bis cheeks. None of us uttered a single word, or
even ventured to sigh.


The Florida Pirate.
It was the finest moonlight, and the whole heavens were co-
vered with one continuous expanse of dappled white clouds.
'J "he calm wns such that our sails scarcely flapped upon the
masts, and our vessel lay as still as if she had been imbedded
in a field of crystal.
Elizabeth knoll silently beside her father, with clasped hands,
Mid had that frozen l"ok of condensed despair, w hich is almost
t«•o terrible for an inhabitant of this world. Her face and lips
colourless , and she seemed like a spirit waiting for a de-
parting soul. None of us knew the exact moment at which
Mr. K died. I soon after to.ik his daughter by the hand,
and conducted her to the cabin. She neither spoke a word
nor made the least resistance, and I began to fear that gi icf had
bewildered her perceptions. Her attendant followed us, and
I left hem together.
1 did not attempt to sleep any that night. I was occupied in
thinking of Elizabeth, who hud soon awakened to a full sense
of her misery, and whose sobs haunted my ears wherever 1
went. In the morning she sunk into <i gentle slumber, which
alter continuing (wo hours, left her in a state of comparative
ration Jity and composure. I request! d to see her, and we bad
an interview. I ottered myself as a protector, anil promised
to do every thing in my power to extricate her from her'pre-
sent unhappy situation, and said 1 would escort her to a place
of safety, whenever I had the good fortune to effect this. I
then told who I was, and related the circumstances that had
induced me to seek an asylum among the pirates. In return,
she tli nk-rcl me fur my unremitting attention to her father, and
defined tint she I illy ]believed me to be what I professed.
The calm continued during the whole of that day, and Ma-
nuel exhibited many si^ns of impatience at its long duration;
and the mure so, i s the current was gradually carryit.g us to-
w nls Matanzas, a place w hich ho wished anxiously to avoid.
Next morning a gentle breeze sprung up, and wc had scarcely
begun to profit by it, when we discovered a small brig of war,
with American colours, bearing towards us under full sail. Ma-
nuel ordered his men to crowd all canvass, and tried various
nautical manoeuvres, in the hope of escaping her; but she
gained upon us every moment.
The negroes, when they perceived that Wc could not get
out of her reach, were thrown into a state of consternation,
and totally neglected their They assembled togothur if
groups, and conversed with ^^rageous looks and violent gc»