A COLLECTION OF NOVELS: VIZ. The Secret History of the Earl of Essex and Queen Elizabeth. The Happy Slave. And, The Double Cuckold. To which is added, The Art of Pleasing in Conversation. By Cardinal Richlieu. LONDON, Printed for R. Wellington, at the Lute in St. Paul's Churchyard: And E. Rumball, at the Posthouse in Russel-street, , MDCXCIX. THE BOOK SELLER TO THE READER. THE Following Histories and Novels have already found so kind a Reception in the World, that it would be needless to Commend them. The frequent Demands for them upon the Account of their Scarcity, encouraged the Re-printing them. In the former Editions they were Published singly, whereas now they are compiled into a Volume, which is portable and cheap: And if this Volume meets with a quick Sale, I will oblige the Ladies with a Second, which shall contain the Subscribed Novels. In the mean time I wish them much Diversion in the Perusal of this, and remain their Humble Servant. Novels to be Inserted in the Second Volume, viz. THE Heroine Musketeer. Incognita: Or, Love and Duty Reconciled. By Mr. Congreve. The Pilgrim. Both Parts. Neapolitan: Or, The Defender of his Mistress. By Mr. Ferrand Spence. THE ART OF PLEASING IN CONVERSATION. Written by the Famous Cardinal Richlieu. Translated out of French. LONDON, Printed for R. Wellington at the Lute in St. Paul's Churchyard: And E. Rumball at the Posthouse in , 1699. THE CONTENTS. ENtertainment I. Page 1 Entertainment II. Page 9 That one must be civil, yet without falling into incommodious Ceremonies. Entertainment III. Page 22 Of Polite Language, and the manner of telling a Story, Entertainment iv Page 38 Of the Conversation of Ladies, and how far the Complaisance we may have for them will permit us to flatter them. Page 43 Entertainment V Page 43 Of Decent Behaviour at Table. Entertainment VI Page 50 Against great Talkers. Entertainment VII. Page 59 That it is not possible for a Man, who is generally esteemed a Liar, to please in Conversation. Entertainment VIII. Page 67 That a Detractor is generrlly hated, and that he cannot please any other than envious and malicious Persons. Entertainment IX. Page 77 How one may insert Commendations in Conversation. Entertainment X. Page 91 That to please in Conversation, one must be discreet, and keep an exact Decorum. Entertainment XI. Page 98 What Care must be taken in Raillery. Entertainment XII. Page 113 Of witty Say and Repartees. Entertainment XIII. Page 128 Whether it be fit to reprehend any one in Conversation. Entertainment XIV. Page 136 Of the Air it is fit we should have in Conversation. Entertainment XV. Page 141 Whether it be good to prepare ourselves for common Conversations. Entertainment XVI. Page 146 That to please in Conversation, a Man must be Master of his own Humour. Entertainment XVII. Page 156 That we must speak Reverently of Holy Things. Entertainment XVIII. 161 That State Affairs must be discoursed of with great Reservedness. Entertainment XIX. Page 167 That to speak justly of the Passions, of Vices and Virtues, we should ordinarily descend from a general Discourse into particular Distinctions. Entertainment XX. Page 177 After what manner we should tell News. THE ART OF Pleasing in Conversation. ENTERTAINMENT I. HOW glad I am to see you, my dear Nephew (cried Dorante, in embracing Lisidor) and how farther joyful should I be, could I prove serviceable to you in this Town? Lisidor. You know, Sir, the occasion of my coming, was, because you was here; had it not been for this, those that have the care of me, would never have consented to this journey. After these words Dorante made Lisidor enter into an Apartment he had provided for him, and having ordered the Collation to be brought in, he desired him to sit down, and thus continued the discourse. Dorante. I do not at all wonder, you have so greatly desired to come into this Town. All young people desire the same; for one may say, that Pairs is not only the Capital of a flourishing Monarchy, but is even respected as the predominant City of all Europe. People come here from all parts, some to polish themselves, others to get Employments, others to see the finest Court in the World, and the greatest King on Earth. However, to be well acquainted with Paris requires time. Strangers are surprised in not finding immediately all the varieties they have been told of it; they seek them, and discover only the least part of them, as long as they see only the Streets and Buildings. But how great is their admiration afterwards, when they enter into the Houses, and view the magnificence of the Furniture? If they be admitted into the Company of Persons of Wit and Merit which at certain hours meet together? Lysidor. I profess, Sir, that I love Paris the more for that reason, and above all things wish I were capable of making one in these Conversations; but I am sensible how unfit I am for it. I want natural parts to second the care you will take of me. Dorante. You have no reason to complain against Nature, you have been better used by her than I expect you will tell me; and were I as able, as she has been favourable to you, my Counsels, and your Talents, would make you go very fast and far in the way you desire to enter. However, I doubt not of the success, notwithstanding the smallness of my assistance. Lisidor. I know, Sir, how great a Master you are in the Art I would learn; and all the World knows that your Age, which has yielded you Experience, has taken nothing from you of that agreableness, which makes the Charms of Conversation. Dorante. As I am naturally complaisant, and that I love Company, you may hear something in my commendation, and therefore I shall not by an unseasonable modesty oppose my Friend's opinion of me, seeing it may make you to receive the advice I am desired to give you with greater relish. It is at your Father's request, Sir, that I have undertaken this Province, who is the dearest of my Relations, and therefore you may easily imagine I shall use my utmost endeavours to satisfy both you and him. I much approve of your design; for nothing is more important in the commerce of life, than to please in Conversation; and if men are born for Society, one may say that it is Conversation which is the Bond of Friendship. But I know not if before we enter into matters which we should treat of, I should not ask you what you understand by the word Conversation? Lisidor. I am not at all displeased, Sir, you ask me this, seeing it will cost you an explication; for I confess, that although I comprehend what a Conversation is, yet I should be perplexed, should you require a proper definition of it. Dorante. I am not at all surprised at what you say; I have seen in the same pain, persons more experienced than you can be at your age. There are a great many distinctions to make hereupon, and every time several persons speak in these Assemblies, they form not what we call Conversation. Obscure Sciences and great Affairs must have a less share in their discourses, than agreeableness and diversion. For in a fine, let a man treat gravely of important matters, in a Council of State or War, in a Lawsuit or Distemper; where a Physician shall banter you with hard words, and a Lawyer cramp you with Precedents; all this is no more a Conversation, than the Brawling in public Disputes, or the Scolding of Fish Women. Lisidor. What then, Sir, must there be no mention of Sciences, of the Court, of War, or Politics, in the discourses you mean. Dorante. So for am I from banishing the subjects you speak of, that I affirm they serve to uphold Conversation, and to render it more instructive. The Palace or pleading places, have now and then such Causes as furnish the best Companies with entertainmnet. There are great Subornations, contested Marriages, and Divorces, which give occasion to some to Moralise, and to others to utter a thousand witty Reflections. However a Man would prove very troublesome, if, to make himself admired, he should enter on particularising an important Subject, and discourse of nothing else all the day long. It is variety which makes any thing agreeable, an air easy and remote from affectation, which is never tiresome; whereas should a man discourse on a sublime Subject with affected expressions, you could not hearken long to him, without falling asleep. Yet great Interests, and extraordinary events may find their place in most Conversations; provided they enter naturally, and be treated of with that capacity and modesty they require. Particularly one is assured to please, if there be News wanting, and you be the first that relates a considerable Marriage, the birth of a Prince, the gaining of a Battle, or the taking of a place. Men are generally pleased at the recital of Regulations which relate to the People's welfare, or the beautifying of Towns, and Fortifying of places. Add that we harken with pleasure to one who comes from Court, if she describes a Magnificent Entertainment, or a Fashion that is not as yet known in Town. Yet those recitals must not be long, the particulars must only be touched on, wherein the chief of the Company may be concerned; and the most important advice I can give you, is to consider always before whom you speak. Without this precaution you'll be in danger of offending Persons whom you would please; and therefore if you will believe me, you will never act the Philosopher before young People, who desire only to talk of Plays and fine Women; neither must you appear severe in a Ball before Ladies, who think of nothing but dancing and diverting themselves. In fine, you must consult Reason, which being your guide, I see few matters, but may be Subjects of Conversation. It's true one ought to speak less of one's self than any thing else. For what can we say of ourselves; We shall make ourselves ridiculous in displaying the good qualities we possess. And can we have the Imprudence to publish our defects? Or shall we deaden the Entertainment in speaking indifferent and ordinary things of ourselves? Extend this Rule, if you please, to Domestics: An Husband must speak little and modestly of his Wife; a Mother would little divert, should she give an account of the cry of her Children, and the care which the Nurses take of them; we must be no less retentive in citing the faults of our Servants. What matter is it to the Company, if we have a lame Footman, or a slovenly Cook, or a Steward that makes us pay dear for that which he buys cheap? We should always observe what diverts, and what tires; and that it is easier to avoid a fault, than to acquire a perfection: Examine we presently what may render a man troublesome, and we shall soon perceive how to make a Spirit of gaiety and politeness reign in Conversation. You have seen an agreeable representation of these importunate people in the Comedy of the Troublesoms, and I doubt not but you have read the Conversations of a person who is generally esteemed. Lysidor. I have observed with pleasure, in that Comedy, after what sort one becomes troublesome in making long discourses, void of agreeableness, wherein the Company takes no part. I cannot endure that Man who pretends that his Prince should recompense him with a Vessel which he has lost. He tells you, without any Man's offer to ask him, the Reasons whereon his pretensions are grounded, and what may be alleged against them, and the replies he can make thereto. He at length names those who built his Ship, and describes all the parts of a Vessel, to show that his was very fine and costly. Dorante. However here is something to be learned in this narration, but what profit can we draw from a dry and tedious genealogy, wherein we are not at all concerned. I am not much interested to know that in a Family which is unknown to me, that Thiband was the Son of Enguerrand, and that Enguerrand had Guy for his Father. I find more diverting that Brave in the Comedy of George Andin, who tells us, that one of his Predecessors, named John Giles of Sotenville, had heretofore leave to sell all his Goods to go beyond Sea. Lysidor. I confess these Genealogical recitals are very tiresome; yet methinks not altogether so vexatious as those Relations of tragical Events heaped up one upon another, especially being recounted with a lamentable tone, as if designed to make us bewail all the sad accidents which have happened since the beginning of the world. Dorante. I grant you that nothing is more troublesome than these doleful Relations; but when a Man is about making them, you will not, I suppose, advise him to speak fecetiously of them. Not that I think it always necessary to accommodate one's Words and Countenance to the Matter treated of. On the contrary, a Man cannot more easily raise a fit of Laughter, than in relating some pleasant passage with a cold and serious air. There is likewise a certain turn of Language which requires one to speak highly big of mean things, and to give a plain and simple relation of great and noble Subjects. You may easily perceive the Reason, for these latter bear up themselves, and others have need of props. I suppose this is enough for this bout, having given you these general Advices, whereunto I may add, that in all sorts of Entertainments, you must be sure to avoid whatever may favour of Formality and Affectation. Lisidor. I protest, Sir, you have already given me such a clearness of understanding, that if you continue to instruct me, perhaps you will perceive such success, as will hinder you from repenting it. Dorante. I can assure you my counsels will be of little use to you, unless you mix therewith the frequenting of Company, and making close and constant Observations thereupon. The Maxims of the greatest Masters are not of themselves able to make a complete Gentlemen: A man becomes not a Painter, but by using the Pencil, how great a Judge soever he may be of good Pieces; and therefore I will not give you any Maxims for the world, unless you intent to see it. These instructions will be fruitless to a Solitary; he can never acquire the facility of using them. The best Precepts and choicest Morals will never take from him the perplexed countenante which he brings from his Desert. We can never take off that dust and melancholy air of his Cell. But on the contrary, we may say, that advice gives great Assistance to persons that take care to practise it. An hours reading is more profitable to these, than a whole year can be to contemplative persons who keep always in their Studies. A Man must practise immediately as soon as he is furnished, with good Rules; and it is useful for a Man ever and anon to examine these Precepts, when he enters into Company. This Precaution makes known the faults wherein one may fall; and there are some of such a nature, as to make a Man ridiculous for his whole life time, the first time he commits them. So that a Man cannot be too much cautioned against them. Dorante had no sooner said these words, but he observed the Collation bringing in, which he made him proceed no farther in that discourse. They went both of 'em into a Garden which Dorante had taken care of embellishing. Lisidor viewed the Flowers, a small Fountain, and some Statues; and being afterwards fat down with Dorante in a pleasant Arbour, this last reassumed his discourse, and began this second Entertainment. ENTERTAINMENT II. That one of must be civil, yet without falling into incommodious Ceremonies. Dorante. BEfore we reassume our discourse, you are desirous, I suppose, dear Nephew, that we should say something touching the being handsomely clothed before you appear in the Companies wherein I pretend to bring you. I do not think you have made you before your departure, nor that you esteem your Tailors so as to prefer them to ours. We will go to morrow morning, if you think fitting, to find out what is most modish and proper for a person of your years and condition. You know we must not neglect the outside. We should always so order it, that the first impressions turn to our advantage, and dispose people the better to relish the Sentiments of our mind, and the agreeable products of our Fancies. That which does farther contribute to these favourable dispositions, is a certain manner of behaviour and speech that is soft and polished, which gives the name of civil to those which commonly use them. You know what are the Qualities which that which we call Civility requires; and you have observed without doubt, That that of our French, and the Urbanity of the Ancient Romans, draw their original from two words which signify City and Villa. And we almost ever see that the persons who have been brought up in Cities, have an handsome behaviour opposite to that which we call Rusticity in Country People. Lisidor. If you please, Sir, tell me in what manner one may practise this civility, and wherein it consists? Dorante. The most important Rule which I would give in this matter, were I fit to be consulted, should be, that a Man who would gain on affections, should carry tokens of Modesty in his countenance and behaviour. He cannot draw envy, unless he appears possessed in a good opinion of himself; and on the contrary, he cannot but be pleasing to Company, if, instead of appearing fierce and positive, he gives them marks of esteem and submission. I would have one also to observe exactly a decent behaviour, according to the Sex, Age, and Quality of the person you converse with, with regard likewise both to time and place. In effect, a Lady would be but little charming, should she appear with the blustering mien of a Soldier; neither would a Captain look well, if he affected to speak soft and fine, like a Sir Courtly Nice; and an old Man would be ridiculous, should he look on his Toes, and ever and anon throw back the locks of his Peruke, like a young Beau of eighteen. Now to come to another kind of men; would you speak to a great Prelate, or to a grave Magistrate, with as mimic an Air as to a Chamber-fellow in the Academy? We must allow that Decency requires that we not only behave ourselves respectfully with persons of a distink Rank, but even not so much as to speak of them in any manner which savours of equality. I do not believe that a person who has been of the Retinue of an Ambassador in his Travels, will be so ridiculous as to say in his ordinary Discourse, When my Lord the Duke d'Estree and I went to Rome together: Yet there are People, who speaking to a great Lord, observe so little distance as to say; You remember, Sir, what befell us when we set out for Lions; whereas they should have mentioned only the Lord's name, and barely have said, When my Lord Duke d'Esstree went to Rome; and as to the second expression, When your Lordship parted. I do not tell you that there are an infinite number of other Rules to be followed by a Man that would appear like a Gentlemann. You know that we must not only give the right hand and the wall to persons of Quality, but likewise yield them generally whatever seems most commodious. Your own Reason will show you what is fitting in these matters, without my advice. However it is good to use most of these little Maxims with an address so much the greater, in that it must not be perceived. All must appear natural in a Gentleman, and nothing must savour of Art and Affectation. I might moreover insert some one of these precepts in our Entertainments: Should I collect them all at present, you would be perhaps disgusted at them. Let us first consider those which are to be observed in entering into Company. When you go to see a person of a Rank above yours, you know, without doubt, that it is to use too much familiarity, to enter with your Coach or Chair into the Court of his house. Civility requires we come out of them to enter on foot, unless the Porter, by his Master's order, opens the great Gate, and entreats you to enter more commodiously. If you be not known, and your name be asked, you are only barely to mention it, without adding thereto your Title of Marquis, or Sir John. You likewise are not to be taught, that when we find the Chamber door fastened, it's not civil to knock loudly with your stick, but rather softly with your knuckles, or scratching the door. This fashion came from the doors of the Lovure, and is now gotten to those of the Ministers and Grandees of the Court, and I doubt not but it will get by degrees to all Houses where there is any Quality. But when a Man first presents himself, commonly he whose office is to introduce persons, takes care of levelling these little difficulties. Lisidor. However there is one; for when we find persons already at the door, or there come any before it be opened, Civility requires one to withdraw, to let them first enter who came before us, and offer the door even unto those who came after, if they appear to be persons of any Consideration. However this does not free me from my perplexity; for if I be not known to those Persons; how far am I obliged to carry on my Civility, or, to speak better, this kind of Ceremony? Dorante. There is on the Countenance and Behaviour, certain Characters which may make us guests at the Condition of Persons; and which determins us to treat them with more or less Civility, according as our Conjectures shall direct us. But when a Man that wants Experience, and Penetration, finds himself in the Uncertainty you speak of, he must take the surest side, which is, to pay more respects than we think are due, seeing it is better that People who are not worthy of them, should be obliged to us for 'em, than to expose ourselves to disoblige Persons who merit more Civility than we have paid them. Yet we must not fall into those Ceremonies which were so incommodious in the former Court. They have been long since banished, and we can hardly believe Men should make it an Art to torture themselves and others. Lisidor. I know, Sir, there was never any Comedy more pleasant than was one of those Contests whereon they fell every time two or three met at a Gate I have heard say, that they added strange Contentions to their Compliments; that they step back, to advance again immediately, and to push forward with Violence towards the Passage, those Persons to whom they would give place. Dorante. The Eloquent Expressions which were studied and spoke with great Deliberation, were no less ridiculous, than the Postures they made; and methinks I see a Viscount and a Baron of those Times thus contesting it with one another. The Viscount. No, no, Sir; say and do what you will, I'll pass no farther, and stir no more from hence, than London-Bridge does to Whitehall. The Baron. And for my part, Sir, let one word be as good as a thousand, I will not enter; I'll as soon lie here all Night in this Corner, where the knowledge of your Merit has made me withdraw. In fine, Sir, I protest if it lay in the power of my Wishes, I would choose rather to dwell eternally here, than to suffer your Civility to supplant my Duty. The Viscount. No mention of Duty, good Sir, for that belongs to me; and were there another Judge than your Modesty to decide our Differences, I should soon gain my Cause. Fie on this Modesty, it is not equitable enough to be our Arbitrator, she will take what is due from you, and give me that which does not belong to me. I hope she will be sooner tired than your Reason; and you must yield to me, in permitting me to yield to you. The Baron. However I shall do nothing, unless you command me to do any thing. The Viscount. Well then I command you; That I may obey you. The Baron. In this case, my Obedience will excuse my Fault; and I may now say, that we shall go in Procession; where the Principals march the last. The Peace had no sooner ended this Conflict, but at a new Door, new Phrases and new Strive. Lisidor. I think the young People happy in being born in a time wherein they are delivered from these tiresome Fashions: But, Sir, pray whence came they, and how came they to be received in a Country, where Franchisement has given the Name to the Nation therein established. Dorante. It's true, one would wonder how we could relish them, for the French are too mercurial to remain whole hours in a state of complementing. But the Italians, on the contrary, more patiented and more at lesure, and of more pliant Spirits, perhaps have introduced this manner among us. However the famous Monsieur de la Care tells us, that the Ceremonies passed from Spain to Italy; but supposing this were true, and that the Spaniards have taken them from the Moors of Granade, as well as their Gallantry, yet I must still believe, that they rather come from Italy, than from any other Nation. I have ever imagined that the Italians have made a kind of Art of them, and keep as it were a Register of them, which one may term their Ceremonial. Lisidor. I suppose the word Ceremony is not ancient; and that it may have come from that given to respectful Actions which Churchmen make use of to denote the Honour they give to God, or to Holy Things. Dorante. I am of the same Opinion as you: We have extended in process of time the signification of this Term. It has been thought fit to apply it to the Reverences which men make to one another, in bowing down, in uncovering the Head, and by accompanying these Actions with an hundred other Grimaces, the more to testify our Submission. This Custom is but the shadow of what it was, and it is well for us it is so. However it is not so much abased, but that it endeavours to raise up its Head. But those Persons as know the World, retrench all these Superfluities, and observe only what Decency requires. Hereby they fall not into fruitless Excess of Words, and Submissions, which are seldom taken for sincere. And therefore they be commonly used to flatter in appearance such Persons as we do in effect despise. To proceed farther; all these Ceremonies, and these Protestations of Amity, would not only be looked upon as so many Dissimulations, but one might look upon them as Crimes and Treacheries; if those Terms, which are at every turn used, had not lost their first Validity through long Custom. But we are wont no longer to take these in a strict sense. We see every day People embrace one another, kiss, and make a thousand offers, as if they were the best Friends in the world; and who, a moment afterwards acknowledge, without Hesitation, that they scarce knew one another. However we must follow this Custom, instead of attempting to change it. It is less our Fault than the Fault of our Age; and all that wise People can do, is, to use it with moderation and discretion. When all the world falls into a Fault, no body can be blamed; and how extravagant soever a Mode may be, a Man would yet be still more extravagant, if he refused to comply with it. Should he alone offer to withstand the general Consent of his Country. Let us grant therefore, that there are Ceremonies of Duty from which we cannot fairly excuse ourselves, but offend Persons who will imagine we pay 'em not their Deuce. So that the Authority of Custom may do all things in point of Ceremony; and therefore it must be regarded as a kind of Law. Let not a Man examine whether this Law be good or bad, it is sufficient it has obtained, whereby we are obliged to obey it; and therefore it's necessary to know after what manner we should carry ourselves, and what terms we should use in receiving Visits, how to return them, and to salute according to the Custom of the Country. Great is the variety of expression in these rencounters: Among us Civility requires we should use the plural in speaking to a single person; perhaps to signify to him, that we esteem him as much as many others. Addressing ourselves to a Person of ordinary rank, yet we accost him with, I pray you, Sir; whereas the ancient Romans said, I pray thee. Which way of speaking is still amongst some Nations. The Turks, who are so submissive to their Sovereigns, whose mean Slaves they term themselves, yet use these kind of expressions when they speak to him, If thy Highness commands it, etc. And heretofore in Spain, Amirante used the word thou in speaking to the King of Arragon; and we see that the Subjects of most Princes speak in a quite different manner: Amirante followed the Custom of his Country, and we ought to obey the Custom of ours. Lisidor. I have observed in a Relation 〈◊〉 Court of Spain, that there is still practised 〈◊〉 very strange, which is, That a Lover 〈◊〉 his Mistress in the Queen's presence 〈…〉 her with the same liberty which he might elsewhere. Nay, he takes that of being covered, without offence; his passion excuses all; it must be supposed to be too violent to permit him to think of good manners. The more faults it makes him commit, the more it appears obliging to the person he loves. Dorante. I know not whether you have observed in the same Book one thing which is no less surprising. Which is, That the young Gentlemen who make love to the Queen's Maids, send them openly dishes of meat, and without any scruple, at every meal. But we shall go too far, should we examine the difference there is between our manner of carriage and those of other Nations. Let it content us in saying that among us we must salute persons, accost them, or receive them in the manner in use. A French man who would scruple to say, I am your most humble Servant, because he felt in his Soul that there was no such thing, would pass for a ridiculous Misanthropos. Men do not take these words strictly; and we commonly use them without thinking on what they signify; and whatever harshness there is in them, it is softened by long Custom. The exactest probity permits us to use them, and when a Man asks me how I do, I may aswer, That I am in good health, and ready to do him service; without being obliged to attend him at that very moment; and follow him 〈◊〉 ●is house like his Servant. 〈…〉 ●●at which Reason enjoins us in these occa●●●… 〈…〉 to use distinctions in the Civilities which 〈…〉 obliges us to pay. We must have regard 〈…〉 and the condition of persons, and the state wherein they are; and if we find them sick or busy, the more ceremonies we use, the more incommodious we make ourselves. We must cut short, and show our sentiments, rather by some respectful Action, than by tedious Compliments. This proceeding shows that we know the World, and he that shall do otherwise, will pass for an imprudent person. Moreover our civilities ought to be different according to the difference of Places and Persons. We see in the Palace Royal a politeness not to be met with in St. Dennis-street; and in St. Dennis-street we hear not the Quodlibets with which the Lawyers offend our ears. The Officers of an Army, nor Magistrates, do not love we should make 'em lose time in fruitless Ceremonies; and a great Lord would not much relish the compliments made him by a Tradesman, no more than a Master would be pleased with his Servants offers of service to him. Lisidor. It seems that the instruction I may draw hence, is, That in matter of Ceremonies, we must be neither sparing nor prodigal. If we make too few, we may pass for uncivil; and we become troublesome, if we fall into the contrary extreme. Dorante. In the difficulty there is of observing always a just Medium, I think we should do better, if Ceremonies were entirely suppressed, our Fathers passed well enough without them, and so should we likewise; but it is a contagious Distemper which our Neighbours have introduced among us as well as others. We cannot, as I have already said, be dispensed from being subject— them. It's true, we must never pass the bounds prescribed by Custom. This were to proceed to such a Superfluity as Reason forbids, and which Persons will not endure that hate to be fed with smoke and appearances. Lisidor. Although Men take pleasure to receive Respects, yet they would be without doubt disgusted at those paid them that savoured of Design or Artifice. I suppose likewise that excessive praises cannot please. Those who give them us, have a strange opinion of us. They take us for vain or credulous Persons, and easy to be deceived. Dorante. I now told you, that Persons of great leisure made more Ceremonies than People who are busied: So that you will not be surprised, when you shall see Ladies, knowing enough in this Art, to read Lessons to others. They make Reverences to certain Persons, Smiles to others, and make their Servants keep an exact Register of the different Seats they must offer, high and low Seats, Chairs with and without Arms. Dorante had no sooner ended these words, but he was interrupted by the noise of a Coach which entered into his Court. Here's Erastus, said he, with joy. You have heard he is the dearest of my Friends; for you know all my concerns, as well as I know yours. And therefore have I not asked you any news of your Family. As for Erastus, notwithstanding the inequality there is in our Age, yet we are, I say, the best Friends in the World. You'll see a man of excellent humour, and I can assure you he will be no small help to you in the Companies whereinto you will go with him. Lisidor. But how know you so precisely that it is Erastus? Dorante. Because he enters without any notice given me, and it is only he that claims that privilege of me. Immediately Erastus appeared at the Garden door, and, addressing himself to Dorante, said: Reckon not (said he to him) this visit made to you, it is wholly to Lisidor; suffer me to embrace him, and to demand his Friendship. In ending these words he addressed himself to the young Gentleman, who had advanced towards him; and having held him some small time in his Arms, they spoke both of them in few words what Civility requires at a first interview. I doubt not, said Erastus, but that you were on some agreeable matter of Conversation, pray take it up again, I need it to cure me of the headache, which a very different Entertainment has given me; I prepare, myself to hearken to you. Dorante. How, to hearken! You shall speak more than we, if you please; and therein we shall find our advantage. Erastus. I know how I shall find mine; I come to sup with Lisidor, I shall leave him as little as possible; and if it be not fair that I should take him from you to night; I hope you'll not deny me that happiness to morrow; for he shall dine with me then. Dorante. Not so hasty, good Sir, when my Nephew knows that your House is a kind of polished Court, he will not be in such haste to go thither: Judge a little, Lisidor, arriving from one end of the Kingdom to Paris, the first time, whether you find yourself presently in a condition to visit a Lady, whose wit and beauty— At these words Erastus interrupting Dorante: Do not believe him (said he to Lisidor) he has perhaps his Reasons to hinder you from seeing my Wife; but she will be revenged on him, and will come and see you; let's talk no more of it; it's a thing agreed; think only of renewing the Conversation which I have so unseasonably interrupted. Dorante. We were discoursing of the Ceremonies which Custom may approve, and of those which are incommodious, and of the ridiculous Compliments which heretofore attended them. Erastus. I would willingly hear how you have condemned these Ceremonies and these Compliments: But instead of continuing to make Remarks on these defects, I had rather you would tell me, how one may speak agreeably. Dorante. Another than myself would tell you that one must speak like you; but is it just you should expect this sweetness from a Man you come from offending? I also see you pretend to edge me on; and engage me to make a discourse wherein I shall find more difficulty than you imagine. It's true, that I shall not be alone in the perplexity; if I be hard put to it in treating of this matter, you will have no less trouble in harkening to me. ENTERTAINMENT III. Of polite Language, and the manner of telling a Story. Dorante. IT seems that the most important Maxim is, To take care of the Subject of Conversation, and to choose requisite thoughts and expressions. We must lay aside whatever may seem light or trifling when we should be serious. Neither must we affect to appear Philosophers, where the company are all disposed to be free and cheerful. A Man that would prove any thing by undeniable arguments, would not much divert young Ladies, whom the only word Argument is enough to scare out of their wits. Others moreover would please less, if to show themselves unseasonable Wits, they set upon retailing jokes before Persons in affliction. As to the choice of words, we must observe what is in use and approved of by able and refined Persons; as when we dress ourselves, we cannot do better, than to apply ourselves to the Modes which Gentlemen of the best fancies do follow. Erastus. I read yesterday that it is no less ridiculous to make use of words that are obsolete, than to wear Steeple crowned Hats, although these words may be brought in pleasantly enough in Raillery. Dorante. You may have observed in the same Book, that if Prudence requires we should omit words which are no longer in use; she forbids us likewise to hunt after terms which the Ear is not accustomed to. We must leave these Novelties to young People, seeing they affect them, and that Boldness is natural to them. Lisidor. But must not a Language, that loses words on one hand, not only recover them on the other, but also enrich itself? Dorante. I grant it; but it is not every body's Province to enrich it: it belongs to learned and refined Persons to bring in new words; as it belongs to Persons of the Court, that are well made, Richest, and of the best Fancies, to invent Fashions for . However it is not enough to have chosen words which Use approves. We must prefer those which are properest to give the Idea of things which we would express; we ought also to seek with care words which please the Ear, and which have Sweetness, or Magnificence, according as the Matters require. As for Quibbles, Puns, and fulsome Jokes, we should leave them to the common People, as being suitable only to men of their Rank. Lisidor. I would willingly know why figurative Expressions are more graceful than others, and how they make up the Ornament of a Discourse? Dorante. We may say they affect more, because we are less accustomed to them, but especially because they attribute more to things whereto they are joined, than do the Proper and Natural Terms. They even enliven that which is inanimate. I could cite an infinite number of Examples. You hear Men say every day; What a sad Place is this old Castle! How I love this Meadow! How every thing smiles there! Erastus. For my part, I am for an Irony; and an Hyperbole; these are my two Favourites; and I have an hundred times observed the Conversation would be asleep, did not these two Figures ever anon keep it waking. Had Dorante ever so little wit, or learning, he would do me the greatest pleasure in the World in discoursing of them. Lysidor. Methinks you cannot more pleasingly begin this discourse, but by this Example of an Irony. Dorante. Do not you see that Erastus imagines he can disengage himself, by thus smoothing me up; but he is mistaken, for I shall not quit him thus. He must entertain us on this Subject. I am sure he is a perfect Master of it, seeing these two Figures are so dear to him; and that he is a Man not apt to fall in love where he is not well acquainted. Erastus. As to an Irony I am willing to say all I can on that Subject, but I'll warrant you I shall take heed of speaking of the Hyperbole; for the report is among the Wits, that you married her, when she was in mourning for Mounsieur de Balsac her first Husband. So that it belongs to you to inform us of her good Qualities: For I will not believe my Friend's Wife has any bad one. Dorante. I confess, that to do me honour, two or three of my Friends have said that I had a strict Union with the Widow of this Illustrious deceased; but you may have observed, that if my Conversation shows she pleases me; I appeared less affected in what I wrote. However seeing you are pleased that I should entertain you about her, I will do it, and instead of respecting her as my Wife, I shall only consider her as a Figure, to the end you may love her without any scruple. An Hyperbole has commonly only excessive expressions, she augments or distinguishes things in excess; but if it be permitted her to go beyond the bounds of Truth, yet she must never pass those of resemblance to truth. You know how I have treated of this elsewhere; and Lisidor, not having seen the passage I speak of, I need only repeat what the Idea which I still retain will furnish me with. I cannot forget a bold stroke I gave, which perhaps will never be pardoned me. I said that Virgil went too far, when he set forth the lightness of Camilla; and that I knew not whether in so great a Poem, one might make a Princess run over the tops of Corn without bending them, and over the Waves of the Sea, without wetting the soles of her Feet. These are in truth glistering expressions, but I think 'em not so well placed in a serious stile, as they would be in a light Poem. There are also Authors, who think they carry not their Exageration far enough, if they do not heap Hyperbole upon Hyperbole. Now although there are infinite Hyperboles in the Writings of witty Men, who are pleased to sport ingeniously with them, yet we must not think this Figure ought to be only used in raillery, and that it cannot well be seen in the most serious matters. One of our Authors praising Cardinal Richlieu, addresses himself to him in these Terms, in an Epistle Dedicatory. But my Lord, as there was heretofore a Valiant Man who could not receive any wounds, but on the fears of those he had already received, so you cannot be praised, but by Repetitions; seeing that truth, which has its bounds, has said for you, whatever falsehood, which knows none, has invented for others. I may add, that Hyperboles make a great impression in a Tragical Subject. This Monster having not sufficiently glutted his Cruelty; and being not satisfied with the Rivers of Blood, which he made run down this desolate City, put all to Fire and Sword before him. He foamed with Rage, and his Eyes more ardent and dismal than two Comets, etc. But before we end, methinks we should not forget Voiture, who is so full of agreeable Hyperboles. Have you not observed, How many Towns he discovers, which are in no Maps? How many Mountains, which Geographers know nothing of; How many Terras Incognita's; and how many Rivers, and Seas, which the World never before heard of. He ingenuously confesses in another Letter, that he makes use of the Figure we speak of: He makes the description of a Feast, and says, if I be not mistaken, That the Sky appeared on Fire, that all the places round about shined like Stars, and that it seemed as if the whole Universe was turning into a flame. He afterwards coldly adds, that these are 3 Hyperboles, which reduced to their just value, are just worth nothing. I know not, Erastus, whether what I now said satisfies you: You, I say, to whom the Hyperbole was so familiar before you had espoused Cleonice. Perhaps you have not as yet forgot how you set this Figure at work, when you came to find me, to impart to me your Joy, or relate to me your Griefs. It is not above six Months since, That one minute without seeing Cleonice, was an Age of Trouble to you; and I am certain, that if you could Entertain her an Age, you would look on this Age but as a Moment. Erastus. I confess in those days I made more often use of the Hyperbole, than the Irony; but seeing I find myself at present in a calmer condition, I should be more disposed to Gaiety than the Figure requires, which you would have me speak of. You know better than I, what a great relish she yields to Raillery, and I believe that Lisidor is not to be taught that an Irony consists in learning neatly to be understood, the contrary of what we say. I saw yesterday at a Lady of Quality's a Marquis, who this day was to set out for his Province, where he goes to confine himself. He came to Paris on occasion of a Law suit, and I believe he returns less out of humour for having parted with a great deal of money to Solicitors, and Lawyers, than to have remained three or four Months from his Seat and his Farms. He took a great delight in recounting how he busied himself in the Country; and being my near Kinsman, I could no more suffer what he said, than his manner of living. A Lady of the Company took notice of the Pain I was in, and represented, to the Marquis; That in France a Person of Quality thought it more becoming him to serve in the Wars, than to amuse himself in feeding Ducks and Pigeons. Our Country Gentleman smiled, and shown by his answer, That he pitied those Persons that served in the Wars. I could not then forbear speaking, and directing my discourse to this Lady, My Lord has reason (said I to her a little roughly) and I assure you that the Conde's, the Turenne's, and the Crequis, are to be blamed for not following his Example. Their lives would have been Glorious far from Armies; whereas they determined to spend them in beating their Enemies, gaining Battles, and taking Cities. I know not what they thought in embracing a profession which so greatly lessens their Memory. It's true, they had the mishap of not consulting a Wit so solid as that of my Lord the Marquis. I uttered these words with a serious Air, the Company smiled, and my Kinsman lost his Countenance, and could not get it again all the Dinner time. I do not doubt but Lisidor knows, That we comprehend the sense of an Irony, either by a tone of Pronunciation which discovers that we are not in earnest, or by the apparent opposition there is between the words and the thing spoken of. It was by this last means that I was understood; for they saw nothing but what was serious in my Discourse and on my Countenance. But seeing that you have cited Authors, methinks it is lawful for me to say, That an Irony glisters throughout all the Works of Voiture and Saracen. You are not surprised at this, but I am, in seeing in Malherbe's Letters a Raillery ingeniously turned, which I may take for a kind of Irony. I was so content with several passages of this famous Author's Rhyme, that I dared not read his Prose, so greatly was I afraid of losing the Esteem I would preserve for him. Lisidor will not be displeased in hearing how ingeniously Malherbe relates the News of the Siege of Virtue. The Spaniards are always before Verve, it's a place that is a little more worth than Chaliot; but is far from being so good as Lagny. However the Duke de Feria lies starving there with cold, notwithstanding the Dog-days. The Marshal de Crequi has lodged himself between the Besieged and the Besiegers, and does wonders, according as he is went. If you ask me what I expect, I believe that the Spaniards will see the Steeples and Chimneys of this Town; but as for the Streets of it, they must get their notices of them in the Map. I would advise them, if they pretend still to the Universal Monarchy, either that they would proceed more quick in their work, or beg of Heaven to put a stop to the end of the World, that they may have time enough to finish it, etc. I shall not expatiate any longer on this matter; I find it large, and I like it; I am afraid lest it should carry me too far. Dorante. You ought not to have the same fear of the Antithesis. I have ever heard you say, That you could not endure it. However, the opposition of words and thoughts, may give great lustre to a discourse. But I am of your mind, that he that uses this Figure, must be an Enemy to all Affectation, and not so much consult the sporting with Words, as the uttering good Sense. Erastus. Let us leave here these Matters; for they require too great Application, and I am for diverting the Conversation. Lisidor. I demand Quarter for the description. It is agreeable, it renders the Assembly attentive, and I see nothing more necessary than to know how to paint well the things we would represent. We may find ourselves every moment obliged to make use of this Figure; sometimes in describing a pleasant prospect, a fine House; otherwhiles a Shipwreck or a Battle. Especially if I came from seeing a Stranger of great Quality, or a beautiful Princess lately arrived, and I were asked what I thought of one, and the other, should not I be glad to make a Portraiture of them so like, as might place before their eyes the Persons I would speak of. Erastus. What you say makes without doubt the principal Beauty of what one relates; but here is in what Terms Dorante has explained himself in one of his Books touching Portraitures, which every one undertakes to draw after his Fancy. There are a great many People who set forth their Friends; There are others who set forth themselves, and who retail out their Defects and their Virtues, without concerning themselves at what the public will judge of them. In fine, every body takes the Pencil in hand; but I know not whether there be many Apelles 's among this great number of Painters. Yet it is certain, that a Mediocrity is not excusable in these sort of works, for labouring therein less through necessity, than for Ornament, every thing should glister therein, and nothing should appear languishing. One may describe or make a Recital in two different manners; The first Natural, Simple, and Succinct; The other more Extenssive and Flourishing. If the dispute be touching the Waters of a River, as to the right which may be pretended for the watering of Meadows, or turning of Mills; a Man need only relate precisely the circumstances, which may serve to give light into the dispute. But if I speak not of this River, but to describe a delicate place, I may then expatiate, and say, That its Crystal Water's wind themselves about a delightful Valley, either to water it in the more places, or to show that they are pleased with it, and leave it with regret. It is in these occasions that Poetry may triumph, provided she uses, with a lively Fancy, and a solid Judgement, the privilege she has of showing herself bolder, and less reserved than in Prose. And therefore, in this last manner of making a description, or a recital, I should forget none of the Circumstances which may give any relish to what I undertook to recount. If it were an History, or some adventure of those great Fables which have diverted our Nation, under the name of Romance, I would endeavour to paint my Hero's in a most exact manner. Those who were to hear me representing them, should make, if I may so say, such a kind of acquaintance with them, as would engage them to hearken to me, and induce them at the same time to take part in whatever regards the Persons I should entertain them with. Lisidor. I assure you, that in reading the works of Calprenede, I have always interested myself in whatever happened to his Hero's and Ladies; and when I saw in Faramond all those Kings. Dorante. Perhaps you saw too many of them. The Author, you speak of, has gathered together as many on the the banks of the Rhine, as the Marquis d'Urfe did Shepherds on the banks of Lignon: However you may easily judge there are something fewer Kings than Shepherds, yet we may justify Calprenede in some sort. The Romances he set forth were like Epic Poems in Prose. They had more of the Illiad and Enead than the Theagenes and Astrea. Moreover the Age of Faramond permitted him to mention those great number of Sovereigns. It was after the death of the great Theodosius; and as his Children succeeded not in his Valour, and that they weakened the Empire in sharing it, so an infinite number of Barbarous Nations took that time to settle themselves in better Countries than their own. These Nations marched under Leaders who were Kings, or to whom one might give this Title, which Homer has so prodigally bestowed on so many Greeks. As for the Characters, I confess they are a little too uniform in the writings of Calprenede. We find none therein but brave and fierce Blades; whereas there should be variety, to give relish to a Recital, and to render it more probable. Erastus. I believe likewise we are obliged to observe a greater resemblance to truth in what we invent, than in the true Facts which we mix with some adventure: for we commonly believe what is true; and when it should not be believed, by reason of its little resemblance, we shall not be Vouchers, as in things which come from us. Dorante. It seems to me, that to make things probable; besides the truths which we ought dextrously to insert, it is good to set forth Persons such as they should be, to execute what we make them undertake. As for a bold Action, we should describe a strong Man, brought up in the Wars, of an assured Countenance, and a grim Aspect. But if I may again speak of the Expressions which we should use, I would say they must be Natural, without Flatness, a kind of Nobleness and Elevation in them; according as the matters require, but nothing flatulent or forced. A Man should banish Equivocal Terms and Tranpositions, and use only Parentheses through Necessity and with Judgement; and retrench all those Circumstances which serve neither to instruct nor delight. Erastus. Speaking freely, as we do in these matters, we may add something as to the choice of words. It is not enough to use those which are properest to give the Idea of what we would represent, we must also know the Terms which belong to Arts, whether our Recital relates to matters concerning Painting or Sculpture, War or Navigation. This Remark brings to my remembrance a brisk Answer which an Officer of our Fleet made to a young Gentleman of this Town, who made one Campaign on his Vessel. The Parisian walking one night on the Bridge to take the Air; Pray, Sir, says he, let's be gone, the wind is very high, etc. Sir, says the Officer, know that for a Seaman to say, The wind is very high, is a very great absurdity; seeing the term is, It is foul, or hard weather. Although we must use terms proper to Arts, yet it is not necessary to be so scrupulous as a Physician of my acquaintance was the other day. Having called to him a Chirurgeon who was in the Sick Man's Chamber: You must not fail, says he, to Phlebotomise the Gentleman to morrow morning. I will never suffer it, (cried out the Sick Man in a fright) and I am not, continued he, in so bad a condition to have recourse to so dreadful an operation. The Chirurgeon replying immediately thereupon (that he might not lose his little profit,) Sir, said he to the sick Gentleman, be not troubled, the Doctor only order a bleeding. Ah for bleeding, replied he, I matter it little, but for the rest, I will as soon die as endure it. Dorante. Do you think it enough to have spoken of words which signify precisely what we have to say, or which are proper to Arts? Is it not also fitting to find Terms which may neatly enclose the things which we would have understood, and which modesty will not permit us to express openly; Should I not do better in saying, There is a secret Correspondence between the Marquis of— and the Countess of— than to explain myself too grossy on the manner of their Commerce? It is also fitting in these occasions to heed the tone of the voice, and certain smiles, which may make us too well understood, and transgress those polished manners which a well-bred Man should never forget. I find likewise that there are expressions which Gentlemen should use when there happens some contest between them. If any one should make me repeat some circumstance of a Recital, and he should tell me he did not hear me, I would not answer him; That it is your fault, not mine; I speak plain enough, but I cannot make myself be heard when I am not harkened to. Politeness requires softer terms, Perhaps, Sir, I am mistaken; let's see, if you please, whether I did not say that, etc. Civility likewise requires that we make not too vehement reproaches, nor too precise, whenever one has failed of his word given. So that instead of complaining against one, that has not performed his promise, I should choose to say; That I hoped he would do it; but that I supposed he either forgot his promise, or met with more difficulty in the thing than he foresaw. Erastus. Can you suffer a Man who domineers in Conversation, who continually talks, or criticises with the tone of a Master, whatever others say? Dorante. I find this more intolerable than People who deign not to speak, and who seem to testify, by a slighting silence, that it is not in such company as this, where they will utter what they know. Erastus. I know some who are for appearing too knowing: I saw one the other day who perplexed himself with speaking with a Stranger the Language of his Country; and having not sufficiently studied it to use it freely, he fell into such confusion, as gave great trouble to one part of the Company, and set the other a laughing, according as they were differently inclined. Lysidor. This is commonly the fault of young people: But they commit a far greater, when they laugh at a Stranger who does not speak our Language well; or run down in his presence the Vices of his Nation. Dorante. Neither ought one to scoff at certain defects before persons who have the like; and likewise a polished Man does not directly praise the persons to whom he speaks. He does it delicately; whereas people, that know not the world, give praises with so little address, and with so great excess, that they perplex and put to the blush those they think to oblige. Whereunto we may add, That a Man who excels in his profession, must not presently speak of it; and when he does, it must be with great modesty, and when the Conversation turns on that hinge. In fine, There are several things requisite to form this Politeness, which makes the chief agreeableness of Conversation. And there needs no fewer to make a recital which may draw the attention, and please, and even (as it were) enchant those who harken to it. Besides what we have said touching the choice, and placing of words, beauty of expressions, and lively descriptions to be inserted; it is necessary there should be novelty, or something marvellous in what we recount; that we should have ready in our Memories, not only the main of the story, but also the names of persons and places, lest we hesitate in searching them. There are Authors, who find it advantageous to make a relation of a Person known by the defect we reprehend: as of a covetous Man known by his Covetousness. I acknowledge, that those who harken have more pleasure, when we cite a Person of their acquaintance, because they represent him such as he is; but I should always choose to be less diverting, and more civil, and deny myself and others that pleasure, than to disoblige any one. So that it is better to invent names for the Persons who are to be concerned in a Recital, and even to lay the Scene of the adventure in another Town, than where we dwell. Dorante could not continue his Discourse: One came to speak with Erastus, and told him that a young Sister of Cleonice was just arrived. Erastus. Ah, Dorante, this haps very well, Lisidor and Lindamire arrive both of them the same day at Paris. There is without doubt an assignation or destiny in this affair: However we have reason to rejoice at it; the world already praises the growing charms of my Sister-in-Law; and if Lisidor and Lindamire come to be smitten with one another, the desire of Pleasing will do more in their hearts, than all our Remonstrances can make impressions on their minds: We shall soon see a change; they will have a better Air, more Sweetness and Complaisance; and I profess I much wish it, for the advantage of Lindamire. Dorante. You know that which Lisidor will find. Erastus. Adieu; I expect him to morrow at Dinner, bring him to me; and seeing he must be new Rigged as well as Lindamire, Cleonice will take care of both. She has good Skill in choosing Stuffs, as you have in giving good advice. Erastus' departed in ending these words, and Dorante and Lisidor walked till they had notice Supper was served in. ENTERTAINMENT iv Of the Conversation of Ladies, and how far the Complaisance we may have for them will permit us to flatter them. DOrante and Lisidor had no sooner supped, but the first began the discourse in this manner. We cannot be excused from going to morrow to Erastus; but although I use freedom with him, yet we will discourse to night of certain polished and respectful manners with which it is fit to appear before Ladies. You know, without doubt, that nothing makes a young Gentleman so much valued, as the approbation of a Lady of merit; and that nothing more hinders Persons of your Age from falling into irregularities, than the visiting Persons whose sentiments incline ordinarily to Virtue. In the mean time, speak we of the precautions it is necessary you be furnished with for this visit; and let me begin by an advice which perhaps you little expect, which is on the manner of making an honour. You are persuaded, without doubt, That your Dancing Master has omitted nothing he aught to tell you hereupon; and I am likewise willing to believe you salute with a better Grace than he that taught you to salute. I know that most Masters are too formal in these matters; They bow down, and raise themselves up by rule only. Every thing is starched in them, all savours of Art, and scarcely have they ended their Reverence, but they seem to promise the beginning of a Courant or Minuet. Persons of Quality on the contrary, salute with a better Air, and in a more natural manner. If you feel still any kind of constraint, you must get rid of it as soon as you can, and give to your countenance and action all requisite liberty. Remember then, if you please, That we must always endeavour to do with a good grace what may draw the first respects of Persons we address ourselves to. Nothing afterwards renders us more agreeable than Complaisance: It is this which makes up the Charms of Society; without it we must neither expect friendship among Men, nor a diverting Conversation in Company, nor any part at play, or in a walk, or any other diversion. But when I say we must be complaisant, I do not mean, That base and servile Complaisance which Juvenal attributes to certain Greeks of his time, who made their Court at Rome. It must be acknowledged, says he, that this Nation is very comical. Do you say it is hot, they wipe the Sweat off their Forehead. Do you complain it is cold; they call for their furred Gown. There are then several complaisances which one must not have. It is not lawful to betray our sentiments in essential things, nor to favour Vice in any occasion whatever. One may show the respect we have for great Persons and Ladies, but we must never show them a Complaisance which may be prejudicial to them. They will no sooner perceive it, but they will hate and despise us. Lisidor. I conceive that Complaisance is good in a thousand particulars, and that no Conversation could be kept up long without it. However I know not whether Conversation would not die, if Complaisance reigned too absolutely in a Company, and every body willed the same thing; whereas it becomes lively and instructive, as soon as an ingenious debate encourages us to maintain different opinions. So that I would willingly know in what bounds one may include a commendable Complaisance, imagining that it consists in a Medium, between two vicious extremes, like other Virtues. Dorante. We may without fear of being blamed, prefer, through Complaisance, one pleasure to another, as play before walking, and of Plays the choice of that which shall best please the Person for whom we have a deference. However our Complaisance must not turn to our notable prejudice, nor be prejudicial to Persons for whom we must not have so much Complaisance, as to play at a play which a Person of great Quality may like, without any Skill in it, seeing our Complaisance might be suspected of Interest. It will be generous, if we know not so well the Game as the Person of Quality who engages us to play; however we must never expose ourselves to the undergoing a loss, which may incommode us; for this last Complaisance will be liable to be ridiculed. The best effect of Complaisance is to make us endure the weakness of a Friend, and not to yield to Anger when he is disordered by it. Far from provoking him, by earnestly withstanding what he desires, we should immediately seem to yield to him, and oppose only Sentiments full of Sweetness to the violence of his Passion. But there are several Complaisances which I can never approve of: We may observe one, which may be called Universal, which makes Men say, Yes, to all sorts of things, without distinction; and this appears to me to be such a sorry Humour, that I should like better to be sharply contested with. I find no less incommodious that which the Citizens have one for another. It is ordinarily attended with long Compliments, and never ending Ceremonies. Lisidor. The Complaisances you mention, may displease; but they deceive no body; whereas those of the Court serve commonly only to make one take false Measures. A great Lord promises all, and a quarter of an hour after, he does not so much as remember that he made any Promise. So that all we get by these fair words, is the vexation of renouncing the Hopes we were made to conceive. Dorante. The Complaisance which one has for Backbiters is yet more pernicious; for this is a sacrificing those who are absent, and the upholding a Vice which all generous Persons detest. I find this Complaisance so mean, so criminal, that I think it needless to say any thing more against it; being persuaded you can never be capable of falling into it. Let us rather return to the Subject which has cast us on this matter, and let us say, That the Complaisance which we ought to have for Ladies has Bounds large enough. You know that Men are weak, but with respect which we own to Women: we may say they are yet weaker, and more credulous than we. As they are ordinarily prepossessed with a good Opinion of themselves, so they, like those who flatter this Self love, and cannot bear with any body that shall disabuse them. A solid Friend who should undertake to open their Eyes, will soon be cast off for a Friend; and I have found it more than once, That they put a sincere Person on very vexatious Trials. Not that I would be so scrupulous to contradict them in matters of small moment. On the contrary, I would give to the Defects which they might have, the Names of the Virtues which come nearest them: I would call Covetousness, Frugality: I would commend in a lean Lady the liberty of her Shape; and I would endeavour to commend the ample Corpulency of Madam Bouville (a great fat Woman in Scarron 's Comical Romance) by saying she was in good plight. Sometimes one must declare himself smitten with the golden Colour of Red, otherwhiles with the Brown, and Black, all being to be commended, according to the Companies wherein a Man shall find himself. If it be permitted to have this flattering Complaisance for Ladies, you judge you must not fail to practise, when with them, the Precept of never speaking of a Defect before Persons who may have the like. To speak all in two words, let's say in general, That to be complaisant, it is good to consult the Countenance and Humour of the Person whom we would please, and that we do in such a manner conform ourselves thereto, that she may not doubt of the part we take in what concerns her. I think we have talked enough of these matters for to day: it is late, and you have need of Rest. ENTERTAINMENT V Of Decent Behaviour at Table. THE next morning, Dorante and Lisidor walked out together to pay their devoi●s of Piety, which ought to be never omitted in the beginning of the Day. Scarce were they returned from Church, but Dorante turned himself to Lisidor, saying, I know that Erastus keeps a very good Table, but you are young, and they always dine late where Women are, and therefore let's advise you to take a Breakfast. After that Lisidor had followed Dorante's Counsel; this last reassumed the discourse in these terms. Although I am certain that Cleonice will excuse your faults, if you commit any, however it will not be amiss to give you some little advices which respect the Table. This matter, perhaps, may not appear to you very important: yet is it not permitted a Gentleman to be ignorant. You know that amongst civilised Nations, there were ever diverting or instructive Conversations at Festivals. The Banquet of the seven Wisemen, and the Table-Talk in Plutarch, do sufficiently show it. But perhaps you will not believe me, when I shall tell you that our Fathers, maugre the ignorance of their time, respected the Tables of great Lords, as Assemblies wherein was much to be learned. A Proverb of those times makes me judge as much: [Good Table, a good School.] Lisidor. To ascend higher, and to come up to the Ancients; besides what the works you have cited do discover to us; we may conjecture, that at the Table of great Persons the Conversation made one part of the Regale. In effect, the Parasites, for to be there suffered, were not contented in being complaisant even to the meanest flatteries, but they studied likewise to say something witty, to divert those who furnished the Feast. Dorante. I agree with you in what you say; but must tell you farther, that these Parisites were more contemptible than diverting. Their profession was to be pleasant; and you know what we have already said, That nothing can be pleasing where there appears affectation. But let us leave these Wretches, and return to the little advices which I am willing to give you. Being to dine at a Friend's, I make no mention to you of certain Ceremonies touching washing with Persons of great Rank. He must be very ignorant of the World, who shall draw near to the Basin at the same time a Prince or great Man shall dine in the same company. You must stay till he entreats you to advance, or by taking you by the hand, or by some sign denoting he intends you this honour. Then you are to show, by a respectful bowing of the body, that it is only out of obedience to his commands that you offer to wash with him; but in washing at Erastus', the Servants come not immediately to take the Towel, Civility requires you hold it till the Officer be present, or Erastus himself takes it out of your hands. It is his part not to suffer you in this posture. You may stay till Cleonice places you; but I believe it will be more neat for you to place yourself at the lower end of the Table, to avoid Ceremonies. Have you never reflected on the different ways used in these occasions? Lisidor. I have observed it an hundred times in my life, though I am not very old. I have seen People cast their eyes greedily on the meat, as it were to devour it before they came to it; and scarce were the sat down, but they snatched up what they liked. They reached over their hands into the farthest dishes, without minding whether they ought to stretch their arms over other meats, and before Persons to whom they owed respect. I have also observed, that in the beginning of the repast, there are some who bend themselves over their Plates, as it were, to keep them in their fight, or to eat there with their Eyes, what they cannot hand up quick enough to their Mouths. These are a sort of People who bow continually, who excite others to eat and drink, and who endeavour to change the Mirth of a Feast into Fury. They put all into Disorder; they imagine to bring greater Honour to the Treat, and the more trouble and confusion they cause, the more they think the Master of the House is obliged to them. I have known others, who disdain to make use of Spoons and Forks, as much as if they were not made for their use: Their Knuckles are indifferently in every Dish, and by this means they quickly make their Fingers and Napkins loathsome to the sight of the Company. Dorante. Seeing you have made these little Observations, and that it is chief the things which regard an Entertainment that we have chosen to examine: I will tell you, that at Treats Men commonly fall into two contrary Faults, which are equally to be avoided; which is to praise with excess the Dishes before you, or to say nothing at all, but look coldly on the Delicacies and abundance of a Feast. By the first Defect a Man shows himself little accustomed to good Tables, or too greedy of the good Cheer; and by the other, he seems to despise whatever Obligations the Master of the Feast intends to lay on him. Neither would I have a Man to speak with great earnestness of the Meat he loves best, or those which he cannot endure; there are certain affected Relishes, which are only tolerable in Women. Lisidor. I imagine likewise that it is a great Indiscretion, not to appear content with the manner of seasoning certain Dishes. One cannot find fault, without provoking the Master of the House against his Servants, and making him threaten the turning them away, and putting him all the time out of humour; and the whole Company into a mournful silence. Dorante. I am very glad you have made this Remark, it will hinder you from appearing uneasy, and passionate against your People, whenever you make an Entertainment. I hope too you will not fall into a Fault which I think an intolerable one in Gentlemen; which is to drink hard yourself, or make others do it. Do you judge whether these Excesses are agreeable to the Politeness we discourse of; and whether a Man whose Reason is drowned in Wine, can have an agreeable Conversation? Is it not a shame to make it a point of Honour, to empty more Bottles than the rest of the Company, without considering that in this ridiculous Contest, the gallantest Man of the Court, cannot excel a Porter or Carman? You know the Lacedæmonians took a particular Care to inspire an Aversion to Drunkenness. They exposed their Slaves full of Wine to the sight of their Children, and found nothing more likely to make this Intemperance odious, than the side-long steps, the extravagancies, and nauseous belches whereto Drunkenness subjects us. Let not any one tell me, that a Man is willing to show that he has a strong Head: It is in other sort of occasions we should give Proof of that; and not weaken our Heads, when all that is required of us, is only to be cheerful, and observe Moderation. Let's draw a Consequence which relates to our subject, and affirm that a Conversation cannot be agreeable during a Repast, nor immediately after, if we introduce excessive Drinking, and a tumultuous Noise. Dorante could say no more, Erastus came and carried him, together with Lisidor, to his House; where they found a lovely Woman called Belise, a near Kinswoman of Cleonice: Lisidor was received by these Ladies with all the Marks of Friendship, and it was observable that he saluted young Lindamire with some emotion on his Countenance: However gay this Company was, yet no jocose Remarks was made thereupon, lest he should be put out of Countenance as well as Lindamire: On the contrary, Erastus turned the Discourse on another Subject, and spoke to Dorante with his wont Facetiousness. Erastus. You see what care I have taken to content you. We are six, which is just what needs: You told me the other Day, That at Table the number should never exceed that of the Muses, nor be under the number of the Graces; and now here we are equally distant from one and the other. Cleonice. We shall come nearer the number of the Muses than you are ware of, Belise expects Philemon who is to come from Versailles; and word is left at his House to send him as soon as he comes home. Dorante. I am very glad of it; it is near eight days since I saw him. Belise. I question whether he will come this morning, seeing he is not already arrived: but let's talk of the two numbers about which Erastus seems to be so precise. Dorante. I said it was the Fancy of an Ancient, not to be well-pleased at a Banquet, where there was more than nine Persons, nor in another where there was less than three. Let Erastus now joke if he will, provided the rest of the Company finds he has reason; for my part I cannot see it easy to avoid Confusion, where so many Persons eat together; and we observe on the other hand, that when there is but two at Table, the Conversation often flags for want of Variety. I refer myself to Cleonice if you— Erastus. Pray, Sir, excuse me; I'll not part with my right so. Dorante. It is certain, that a Gentleman of your age, that disputes against me that am very young, should not expect the Ladies to be very favourable to him. Erastus. No mention of Ages, I entreat you: I confess I am younger than you, but you know I am married. Cleonice. He has reason. Whilst they were smiling at these passages; Philemon entered; and Belise, affecting to appear a little astonished, made him this kind of reproach. Belise. How happens it that you come when I did not expect you; I flattered myself with the thoughts of being without an husband at this Regale? Philemon. Before I answer you, I must salute an amiable Person, who pleases me as much; as a young Gentleman, whom I shall afterwards embrace, can be agreeable to you. After these words, he offered to Lindamire and Lisidor all the civilities usual in these occasions: And Cleonice in a low voice bidding Dinner to be brought in, the Company sat down, and Philemon reassumed the discourse. Philemon. I had been here an hour sooner, had not my misfortune brought to me the greatest Babbler that ever was. He fell upon the news of Hungary, and the Morea; and not contented to retail out the Progress of the Imperialists and Venetians, he has extended their Conquests according to his humour. He has made two or three Treaties of Peace, which he has broken. He has elevated to the Throne five or six Bassa's, in their Governments; and in fine, regulated the affairs of the two Empires, without my so much as once opening my mouth; being willing to let the discourse fall, and be gone. ENTERTAINMENT VI Against great Talkers. I Find nothing more troublesome, than a Man that always talks, who hears no body but himself, and interrupts those who begin to speak, as if they usurped a privilege which belonged only to him. It is very difficult for such a one to speak things weighty enough to draw the attention of the auditory, and to express them in a pleasing exactness. Erastus. Some Men indeed cannot bear with these great praters. However, as for my part, I shift well enough with them; for without troubling myself with harkening to them, or speaking in my turn, I think on my own affairs, and leave the field open to 'em. Cleonice. You can then excuse these Troublesomes, who hinder able People from entertaining the company to better purpose. Erastus. I am very glad, Madam, that for the interest of your Sex, you undertake to impose silence on ours; and indeed it is not to be expected that Men should speak much, seeing there are Women in the World. Clonice. I am perhaps less a woman in this matter, than you think I am; and I profess sincerely, that a prating Gossip is the more intolerable. Women have commonly their minds less cultivated than Men. They speak fewer things with more words, and leave a greater Vacuum in a discourse. To prove this, I need only tell you what a Chagrin I had at a visit I received yesterday; it was Arpalice that gave it me. She entered into my Chamber, with a languishing Air, and complained immediately of an oppression at her Stomach, which she said filled her with boding apprehensions; so that, continued she, you'll pardon a poor infirm Creature, who is forbid to speak, if she endeavours to testify to you the joy she has to see young Lindamire is truly worthy to be your Sister. I protest, adds she again, that it is only in this occasion that I am glad to dispense with a silence, which I take pleasure in observing in every other Rencounter. I am far from the humour of those Women who will talk on continually; when there's one that gins a discourse, the rest of the company must be silent till night; but, in fine, what can she talk of all this while? would it not be better to take breath a little, and let others have their turns? When she has showed her Petticoat, and made the colour be approved of, what matter is it to the Company that she bought the Stuff at the Crown or Blackamore's-head; That this Stuff has cost 4 Guineas more, or 4 less than the just Price. Must this prating Gossip show her Commode, and make the Company guess what it cost, and where she bought it? How happy am I who have been never tempted to prejudice my health by much speaking, and to deafen the Assembly. I had rather go into a Cloister, than to be troublesome as these everlasting Praters are, Dorince, Arcione, Bellamire, Armasia, and Cleonne: You know they give the headache from morning till night to those who have the mishap to meet with them in Company. Where do they gather up all this trash? For among us, they are no more knowing than an infinite of women who talk less. Should one forbid them to speak of their Accoutrements; you reduce them to a profound silence. As to myself, were I minded to entertain you of these things, I would desire you to take notice of the Gown I have now on, which I may say, without vanity, is the finest in Paris. Pray observe it, view it well; The more you observe it, the bet-you'll like it. It was gazed at with admiration yesterday at the Princess'; the Duchess of Mazarine took Coach immediately to buy the rest of the Piece, and the Marchioness of Carnarvan was greatly afflicted 'twas all gone. I'll not tell you it cost me a Farthing more or less than it really did; I leave these Fooleries to Parthenissa, and Melinta. Is it not strange women should be so vain in these occasions; for my part I will not say this Stuff cost me so dear as Berenice would say it cost her; This woman is strangely extravagant in these matters. Does she think to draw more esteem, by having it imagined, that her Petticoat cost more than another's? Has she not reason to apprehend on the contrary, that she will pass for a Fool, in giving more for things than their value? Neither would I have you, Madam, to imagine that I am about to tell you my Gown stood me in less than it was worth; No, no, I pretend not to set up for a great housewife, thereby to get an Husband. I have one already that I would be loath to part with. You cannot imagine how complaisant he is to me, he brings me home ever and anon a thousand knick-knacks; There can be no Opera, but I must be at it; and the same it is for walks; and I do not remember that for two years We have been together, that he once spoke of my Conduct, but to approve it. It is true, I give him no cause; I never bring home any of those Gallants, or Vagabond Sparks, that walk from Street to Street, casting up their Foppish Countenances at every Window, and now and then step and strut, like a Crow in a gutter who never want fine say for all Complexions. Perhaps it may be judged I am not handsome enough to attract them; but I see on the contrary every day a thousand homely Pugs, who have no more charms than I, and yet are continually surrounded with crowds of Idolisers. I dare scarce add, what I was told yesterday at the Princess Demaratas, whom I lately mentioned to you. However I was almost as much out of order then as I am now, and you know with what disadventage a woman is looked upon then. Yet a certain Spark would needs persuade me I was the finest woman. I thought I had now a good opportunity of speaking, imagining Arpalise would not refuse to hear me in the occasion she offered me of praising her. Yet she interrupted me at the first word I began to speak, and continued on talking till night, with that rapidity, that I had not so much as time to thank her for her visit. At length I had a deliverance, but I heard her tongue run all the way she went down Stairs, ask my Servants questions, and answering them herself, and I cannot tell but she may be yet talking whilst I am relating this to you. Dorante. Here's the most pleasant satire that can be made of a prating Gossip; I have heard it with no small satisfaction, although it hinders me from complaining of the vexatious hours I have had from these everlasting talkers; for what can one say after Cleonice? Erastus. I fancy she puts upon us, and makes Arpalise speak thus, only that she might have occasion to speak much herself. Cleonice. To speak the truth freely, you deserve no less than that I should become as talkative as you accuse me to be. However I'll refer my revenge to Arpalice, whereby you shall know what it is to affront a woman. Erastus. O ho, You would fright me, would you; know that I am not so easily scared; let this Torrent of words wherewith you have threatened come, I have prepared a Dike, wherein Arpalice will not find her Reckoning. If she entertain me about her Coiffing, I'll talk to her about my Hat, and with that quickness of speech, and will suffer myself to be so little interrupted, that I shall not fear her attacks the second time. Cleonice. But what can you— Erastus. I'll tell her I bought my Hat on London-Bridge. I'll tell her how this Bridge is built on woolsacks, in what King's Reign it was built I'll tell her how many Arches it stands upon— Belise. But— Erastus. Do you think, Madam, I'll stop here on this Bridge, no I'll be hanged first; I'll travel out of sight immediately; I'll pass over into America, Dialogue with the wild Indian who trucked the Skin of the Castor, whose hair was mixed with the wool of which my Hat was made; I'll recount what trinkets were given in exchange for the Castor's Skin; and afterwards fall on the several Commodities which go off well at America. Philemon. This is something— Erastus. I'll insist on the two parts of this new World, Northern and Southern; I'll forget none of the great Rivers, nor golden Mines, nor Rocks, nor Mountains; whereunto I will add a Philosophical description of the Fruits, Trees, Flowers, Plants, and Animals of these several Islands. Dorante. Proceed. Erastus. I'll embark my Castor Skin on a Vessel, I'll raise a storm against this poor Ship; I'll make a large and most Poetical description of this Tempest; I'll represent the Vessel as the Tennis Ball of the Northern blasts and Southern too, as most irreconciliable Enemies. But do you think I can forget our old friend Christopher Columbus the first discoverer, and Americ Vespuce, who gave his name to this great Country. I will make the first come to the Court of France, where he shall be received as a Dreamer; I'll carry him afterwards over into Spain, where Ferdinand and Isabel give him a favourable hearing; I will recount the famous Marriage which united so many Kingdoms in joining Arragon to Castille; and if I must accompany these Recitals with considerable revolutions, Mariana, whom I have lately read, will supply me with matter. Belise. Pray be not so confident with your Mariana; these Historical Events will sooner end than the prattles of these Gossips. Erastus. Pray, Madam, you do not observe I have a Feather in my Hat; Cannot I coast Africa whence we have our Plumes, and passing by Tunis, can I forget Carthage? Let a whole dozen of Gossips come after this, I'll in serious tones set forth to 'em the famous War of the two stately Republics who contended for the Empire of the Universe; I'll cite the Scipio's, Fabius' Flaminius', Marcellus', Emilius', Varro's, Hamilear's, Hannibal's, the Syphax, and Massinisses. If my Companions dare open their mouths, I'll ascend to the foundation of Carthage; recount the amours of Dido; and if this will not do, I'll have a Virgil ready, which I will read in a sad Tone before my Arpalises, to the last Verse of his Aeneads. Cleonice. That which I approve of best in your Rhapsody, is, that you mix a great deal of true History among your Bantering. Dorante. A Man must deal in this manner with this sort of People, to make 'em more ridiculous. Philemon. These kind of Folks in their relations heap up a thousand circumstances which relate no more to their subject, than the foundation of Carthage to Erastus' Hat and Feather. Belise. It is strange to me people should take so great delight in prating: for without doubt these Persons are not senseless, and it is the vivacity of spirit which transports them beyond the matter they treat of: Whence is it then, that this same vivacity does not show them what they trouble those who hear them, and disturb even those who do not hearken to 'em? Philemon. They are like those Horses who see nothing during the swiftness of their course; who pass the bounds of their career, and who stop not till they are beyond it, in running their heads against a wall which beats them backwards. Cleonice. I believe there are few of these Animals that are so fierce; whereas one half of the World consists of great talkers. Dorante. If this were so, the other half would find itself very unhappy, and I know not what you would have it do. Cleonice. It need only hold its Peace. Philemon. This is like receiving several Blows in a Combat, and returning none: However, Madam, I dare believe that there are great Talkers, who in several occasions imagine they have a real kindness for us, and are many times punctual in their Promises. Erastus. For my part, I love a Woman better that should speak a little too much, than a Man that should not speak enough. But I had like to have forgot to tell you, that we have left our young Folks a great while in silence, they have not opened their Mouths, for fear of falling into the Fault we now reprehended; I would fain therefore hear what Lisidor will say on this Subject. Lisidor. That in a Company as this is, he ought to hear much and speak little. Erastus. I know not whether this Answer be as wise as it seems to be: For young People must speak to acquire the facility of speaking; and they can not where better make trial, than before their Friends, who will make it a matter of Duty to correct them. But seeing I have spoken sententiously, I must proceed and interrogate Lindamire. How comes it, that being witty, young, and gay, you have said nothing? Were there but three Persons of your Humour in this Chamber, the Discourse would quickly be at an end. Lindamire. I can assure you, Sir, it is not that I would keep it up; though to speak again it should cost you a second Voyage to America. Dorante. Very well hit, for a Girl of Fourteen; we come to see Lindamire, and we find another Cleonice. No sooner was this said, but the Person Dorante named saw the Dishes bringing up; and being moreover very glad to break off a Discourse, which might tend to her praise, she reassumed the Discourse in these Terms. Cleonice. Methinks for People who blame great Talkers, we have enlarged enough in this Conversation. Belise. Before we end it, I would declare the Instruction which a certain Lady not far, has made me draw hence, which is, that to be never accused of speaking much, one should speak as she does; and one had need only to see her often, to accustom one's self to speak little, through the pleasure a body may have in harkening to her. Erastus. It is yourself, Madam, who now speak too much, and you are now about being recompensed for your Flattery. The Lady perhaps whom you would have us to understand, will be far from applying it to herself; and to punish you again in another sort, I believe she will make you but very ill Cheer. At these Words the Company arose, Dorante gave his Hand to Belise, Philemon to Cleonice, and Lisidor his to the young Lindamire. They withdrew into a little Parlour, where they washed without Ceremony, and after the same manner sat down at Table. Although this was only a Treat for Friends, yet every thing was proper and neat: Scarce had they dined, when they returned into Cleonice's Chamber, where they sat down, and talked only of indifferent things, till Erastus began to speak to enliven the Conversation. Erastus. Lindamire will perhaps be astonished if she hears me speak again without setting forth for America, where she would again send me. So long a Voyage does not seem to me absolutely necessary, for the reassuming of the Discourse we left off. I need only tell you, that among the Defects of great Talkers, we have not, I think, made any mention of Lying, which yet is the Vice wherewith such Persons are commonly reproached. ENTERTAINMENT VII. That it is not possible for a Man, who is generally esteemed a Liar, to please in Conversation. Dorante. Erastus' has thought of a thing, which we ought very willingly to examine, seeing it regards no less the main businesses of Life, as all manner of Conversation. Cleonice. Before we enter on so considerable a matter, I would entreat you to tell me punctually what it is to lie. It appears to me at first to be very easy to comprehend; however I believe the matter will admit of many Distinctions, and I would very gladly learn them. Dorante. Seeing you would have me undertake this Task, I will tell you, Madam, that we lie as oft as we betray our sentiments, and that our words do not agree with our thoughts. Thus I may add slandering to lying; should I say that Timocrates, basely ran away in a Fight, wherein yet I saw him behave himself most valiantly. But I know not whether you will not be surprised, when I shall show you, that one may lie in telling the truth. Chance sometimes makes a thing to happen which at first seems strange. Let us, if you please, suppose I give you a visit in a time when your affairs oblige you to go out, and that as soon as I have left you, you go forth in effect, without my knowing it. I meet immediately after with Theagenes; he asks me if you are at home, and through a humour, which you shall call what you please, I answer, you are just gone out. Thus in speaking the truth, I speak against my own thoughts, which tell me you are still in the room where I left you. Erastus. I believe I do not find all my reckoning in this Example, and that you may well give another. Cleonice. Neither was it for you that it was given, no more interruptions, and do not enter where you are not called. Continue, if you please, Dorante, and tell me whether I am to blame, when I imagine that the whole World is full of Liars. Dorante. You are not at all mistaken; one part of Men use all their Industry to deceive the other, and to disguise the Truth; in War, Craft, Ambuscades, false Marches, false Alarms, and false Attacks, are Proofs of it; and if these Artifices are employed in a Profession wherein is seen so much generosity, what is there not practised in others? Philemon. I am persuaded there is ever something that is mean and low in lying and dissimulation. There have been great Captains who would never have recourse to Stratagems, they would win a Victory, not steal one. Dorante. I confess this is a generous Sentiment, and it is observable, that only weak Animals endeavour to supply by craft, the defects of strength, which Nature has not given them. Erastus. If Cleonice will give me leave to speak when Dorante has done, I would say, that if there be any sincerity in the World, it is to be found among Ambassadors. Belise. But Ambassadors may, without scruple, disguise the truth. Having received their instructions, it is not permitted them not to follow 'em; this would be to betray their Master, and to fall into an unpardonable Crime. Philemon. What may we not say of Lovers? They lie continually in the protestations they make; and their Mistresses are no less dextrous at dissimulations: In fine, they torment themselves, they groan, they die; and yet are scarcely got out of their Mistress' sight, but they make a party in the divertisement with the first friend they meet. Belise. These light words you speak of are so common, that they cannot be condemned as lies, when there is no design mixed with them of deceiving: A Lady who hears her eyes praised, of her mouth, looks on this piece of Gallantry, only as a gaiety of Fancy which Custom has authorised. But what Liars should we not find, should we run through the different professions of Men, from the highest to the lowest? Cleonice. We should have too much to speak of, should we enter on each particular; and if on the other hand we should examine the falsities wherewith the Arts deceive our Senses, either agreeably, or with horror. Erastus. We are not now to moralise on the Vices of Men, nor on the Marvels of the Optic: We treat only of Conversation, and it is sufficient to show, that a Liar cannot please in a serious Entertainment. Dorante. We are agreed that we would have such a one be silent, for we are soon weary of hearing what we do not believe. We so greatly love truth, that those who never speak it, are very willing that others should not disguise it from them; and I believe there are only Romances and Poetry, wherein fiction can divert. And here a resemblance to truth is required; and a relation that wants it, would not draw much attention. So when a Man has a design to please by his discourse, he should mix, methinks, a Character of sincerity to the agreableness of his expressions and behaviour. It is hereby that a discourse pleases and insinuates itself; on the contrary, we hear with uneasiness (as I said before) what we do not believe. Philemon. But how will you distinguish an effective sincerity, from that which is only so in appearances? You know that they are ordinarily only persons of Wit who dissemble; and you cannot doubt but they use all their Art to disguise the truth. Dorante. I confess they are more capable of dissembling than your gross dull people; and therefore it is we see less sincerity at Court than in the Country; and we see a subtilised sort of People in a Neighbouring State whose words are not greatly relied on. However, it is not impossible to make the distinction you speak of, provided a Man has a piercing and discerning judgement. A man that would appear sincere, without being so in effect, does oftentimes discover himself, even by the care he takes to conceal himself. He forgets nothing to attain his ends, but it is not so hard as you imagine to perceive certain efforts he makes to persuade. The earnestness which he shows, and the turn which he gives to his expressions are observable. Frankness guides itself in a direct contrary manner, it tends plainly where it would go: It has a more open Air, appears in the eyes, in the gesture, and all the countenance. In stead of having recourse to Ornaments of Language, it rejects them as fruitless, it is an enemy of ostentation, and neglects the appearing wholly and fully what it is. It speaks without Art, and with Confidence, and yet never fails of making a soft impression. Whereas scarce have we perceived the artifices of a dissembling Person; but so far are we from being pleased in hearing him, that we are at a defiance with him, as imagining he is always ready to deceive us. An ingenious carriage produces different effects, agreably insinuates itself, and according to the intentions it may have, it sets our hearts at rest, or moves our affections. Belise. However it is to be considered how far sincerity should proceed; for I find nothing so ridiculous in Conversation, nor nothing more incommodious in the occasions of life, than for a man to speak whatever comes into his head. Dorante. You know, Madam, that sincerity has its bounds, as well as all other Virtues; and I do not think we are obliged to imitate the simplicity of a Country Lover, who declared his Passion in a manner which I think was very pleasant. He swore to his Mistress that he was desperately in love with her, and yet he could not consent to marry her. How, said she in a Rage, can you pretend you find me such a one as you like, and yet not willing we should spend our Days together? To speak ingeniously, replied he, I can love you as my Friend, but I am of the Humour of my Father, who would never marry. Erastus. Though he declared himself very ingeniously a Bastard, yet he hurt thereby no body but himself, whereas there are Simplicities which perplex a whole Company. And of this I have an Instance in the beginning of the last Month, when the Court was at Fontain-Bleau. We were together in the Country, Timante and I, and we visited in our Journey honest Merigenes, to whose Politeness and Capacity I suppose you are no Stranger. Cleonice seemed shy of travelling with two Men, and therefore took one of her Friends along with her, called Melicerte. I cannot tell whether you know her, but I can truly say, that if she be not handsome, she is young and witty. She was of so an agreeable Humour the first Night we supped at Merigenes', that the Good Man showed himself really smitten with her, and addressing himself on a sudden to Timante, I wonder, said he to him, you should reckon Melicerte homely; I find you but a bad Judge of Beauty, and I'll never trust you in these matters again. Consider, I pray you, into what Confusion this Simplicity cast us. Timante did what he could to repair the Fault he had committed in speaking, without doubt, too freely to a Person of Merigenes' Humour. Remember more punctually my words, answered he; I told you that Melicerte was a very amiable Person, and yet the Charms of her Face were not wholly comparable to the excellency of her Humour. Acknowledge, Timante, (replied Melicerte, endeavouring to smile) That you are less sincere now, than you was when you spoke of me before, and yield that Merigenes is incomparably more than you. It is true, Madam (replied immediately the honest Man) you do me Justice; I protest I always speak what I think is the Truth. I perceive it, said she with a cold Air, and being not able to dissemble her resentment. I began to talk, to turn the discourse on another subject. My endeavours were vain, a solid peace could not be made, and the end of the Feast answered not the beginning. Dorante. I saw Merigenes some days after, and found him as knowing, as he appeared to you dissimulative. He is as excellent a Geographer as he who looked for Democracy in the Map, because we therein find Dalmatia. In entertaining ourselves on the the conquests of the Imperialists, and those of the Venetians, we pleased ourselves in enlarging on the Morea, that ancient Peloponese where was the famous Lacedemonia, which the Modern Misistra does but imperfectly represent. Merigenes was ravished at the great success we mentioned; and in the transports, which made him lift up his eyes to Heaven, he interrupted us to tell us, he could not believe the Country of the Moors was so good as we made it. He began again to speak very pertinently when we entered into the particular relation of what was done in Hungary, he much wondered the Turks should build the most famous Bridges in the world. That of Essek, said he, must needs be a very great and strong one, seeing two great Armies have long since fought to get and keep possession of it. Yet I cannot imagine it is comparable to Pont-Euxin, for it is not above four or five years that I hear talk of that of Essek, but I have heard all my life time, admirable relations of the other. We could not forbear smiling at the exact Geography of Merigenes, and we better informed him in the sequel, lest the resemblance of names should make him confound again such different things. Cleonice. I am very glad this Conversation is ended, for you know that Belise and I are to go and choose Stuffs for Lisidor and Lindamire. Erastus. I think it were fit your Servants should eat their Dinners before they put their Horses in the Coach; you have time enough. Cleonice. Choose then another subject of discourse, in speaking against Liars we are insensibly brought to detraction. Belise. There is no body has more aversion to detraction than I have; however I believe there's no harm in making little Recitals for Diversion, provided we wrong not the reputation of people: Do you think you wrong Arpalise, in saying she talks much? Why may you not call a woman a great talker? Do you not every day say, that the Crow is Black, and that a Swan is White? Erastus. If what Belise now said satisfies you not, we are ready to speak against detraction. Cleonice. You cannot do me a greater pleasure. ENTERTAINMENT VIII. That a Detractor is generally hated, and that he cannot please, any other than envious and malicious Persons. Philemon. I Wonder there are so many Detractors. All the World hates them, they are respected as fierce Beasts; they are feared, and yet we do not avoid them, as we eat Tigers and Panthers. It is they on the contrary who shine most in Companies, they are harkened to, and even applauded, whether out of fear of provoking them, or that Men are naturally pleased with Detraction. Erastus. I should be sooner surprised, at their being driven out of Societies. Let's not flatter ourselves, most Men had rather hear four Satyrs than one Panegyric. Cleonice. You have a strange opinion of Mankind; if what you say were true, there would be a great many Misanthropos' in the World. Dorante. And indeed there are more than you think, but they better disguise their sentiments, than Timon of Athens did heretofore, and the Alcestus of Moliere at Paris now. Cleonice. But whence can proceed so malicious an inclination? Dorante. From self-love. If we have defects, and we are sensible of them; we are pleased in hearing there are greater than ours: If on the contrary, we can sufficiently flatter ourselves, to believe we have great Virtues, we have the satisfaction of seeing that we are lifted up above the people whose faults are related to us. Belise. Do not you find that the most dangerous Detractor is, he that gins by praises; seeing by this Artifice he may persuade he speaks sincerely, and without aversion. Philemon. What you say brings to my remembrance an adventure, which diverted the other day a great company at the Princess Demeratas; they seemed to be astonished there should be such a strict tye of friendship between Celanire, to whom one may give thirty years, without being too liberal; and Dorinice, who has never yet seen eighteen. However there was no doubt made but each might find his reckoning in this Society; it was said that Celanire, being less virtuous than she appeared to be, found not disrelish in sharing in the voluptuousness of a young person, whom Lovers and Pleasures every where attended. That Dorinice on her side might receive good advice from an experienced friend; and even that she might veil her wanton Air under the pretended modesty of Celanire. Scarce were these words ended when Celanire entered, and a while after was told, that they had been just talking of the friendship she had for Dorinice. I am not the only person that loves her, replied she; it must be allowed she appears very amiable, when one does not throughly examine her. It may be truly said she has a delicate Complexion, and fire in her eyes; but I think she seems too affected in her carriage, and too greedy of applause. I love her sincerely, I wish she would lay aside those little humours, and endeavour as much to get reputation as new admirers; I would not be thought to admire her defects; for we had like to have broke off for the Gown she has worn for these four days. The Stuff is so rich, and so remarkable, that every one will judge that Timocrates bought it. I was not wanting in advertising Dorinice of it; I told her what was whispered abroad of it, and that this report might become more public, and probably it might be added, that a Woman who accepts of presents, will grant favours. Dorinice appeared to me surprised; and answered me, that Timocrates was not so well at ease as was imagined, and that instead of making presents, he was scarce able to satisfy his Creditors; that she had much ado to get an hundred Guineas of him which she had won at Basset, even before this play was forbid; that, in short, she was forced to make him take up this Stuff on credit to pay her. That, as to the rest, she never made it her study to shut people's mouths. That she knew very well Calumny spared no body; and that to have one's mind at rest, it was sufficient that one had nothing to reproach's one's self withal. I made show as if I believed what she said, and I replied coldly to her; That I wished the World was convinced of the truth of what she now told me. And thus did Celanire testify the sincere respects she had for Dorinice; and as if it had been a decree of Fate that we should see the end of the Comedy; Celanire was no sooner gone from Demaratas, but Dorinice entered, set forth in the, magnificient Gown so much discoursed of. Every body set forth the richness of the Stuff, some praised it sincerely, others added roguishly, that what they liked it best for, was, that Dorinice had not put her hand in her Purse for it. At least, pursued Dorilas, if we may believe what Celanire now told us. I know not (replied Dorinice colouring) what she may be pleased to say; but I suppose she has said no harm of me. But if any spark of Envy has induced her to pour venom in her relations, I could utter such Truths as would not be very advantageous to her. Dorilas, whose humour you know would not let pass this occasion of diverting us, and pretending to be in the interests of Dorinice, whom he thought fit to edge on; I know not (said he with a feigned ingenuity) whether Celanire has a good way of setting off her Friends; however, I must say, she has no good way of covering their defects. Why should she come with her circumstances, the relations of which we never called for; what are we concerned with her Timocrates, that she should bring him into a relation, when the discourse was only about a Gown or Petticoat. I would willingly know (replied Dorinice all in an heat) what she could say of Timocrates, and whether she has had the malice to empoison— You are to blame in complaining (said Dorilas, interrupting her coldly) she has only fairly related the opinions which the World has, when a Man buys a rich piece of Stuff, which is afterwards observed to be carried to a fair Lady; and after all, who can say, that Celanire will speak of it any where else? What she has said here signifies nothing; here was not in this room above four or five Men, and seven or eight Women. We could not forbear laughing at this pleasant passage, which Dorinice observing, she appeared moved with it, and was ready to fly upon Dorilas. However she bethought herself not to disoblige any body, in a company which she was glad to make favourable to her; and, dissembling her resentment, she discovered only her passion against Celanire. I cannot comprehend, said she, how this Woman could have the imprudence to speak against me. Certainly she must be Mistress of a great stock of Calumny, and very fertile invention. Besides, she should never have used these to offend a Person who has long since learned to hold her tongue, but who can now break silence in a terrible manner for her. However, Madam, replied Dorilas, whatever she said, she spoke with an assured tone, and I am much mistaken if you can dismay her. Is it that she is persuaded, replied Dorinice, that her Knight is redoubtable enough to stop the mouths of the World? I would advise her to have less presumption, if it be only this which renders her so bold. I am no more afraid of Timante than Celanire, and I have an hundred times told them both, that I was ashamed of their conduct. It's well known that Timante has not above two hundred pound a year to live on, and yet keeps his fine Coach, and three Lackeys. It's true he is young, and well shaped, and is never from Celanire, whose old Husband has immense riches. I suppose one may draw from these particularities, such consequences as will not be much to Celanire's advantage: but instead of stopping at conjectures, I can find effects which will not tend to the justifying of her conduct. It's not three months since she gave money to a Person of Quality who went into Flanders, and entreated him to buy her some of that Country's Horses. The Commission was executed, the Horses came, but not into Celanire's Stable. They draw every day Timante in his visits to Court and other Walks. The Coach they draw is a very fine one, and the Master of it knows no more than I, what it cost. After this, shall a Woman so liberal as she find fault with Timocrates' paying me what he owes me? Cleonice. This Comedy is pleasant enough, although the matter of it be neither new nor rare; these are Farces we see every day acted; but I would willingly know whether the Divertisement you had, hindered you from feeling some Indignation. Can you like that the desire of detracting should break off a real Friendship, or make one renounce Civility, and the Consideration one should have for the appearance of Friendship? Philemon. Observe all the Particularities which concur in this Detraction. It is Indignation which makes Celanire declaim first, she disgorges herself against a Person younger and handsomer, to whom she sees Lovers run as soon as they are together, to the neglect of herself. Belise. Is not the itch of talking to be at all regarded? Dorante. The ease which a Woman may expect when she reveals a Secret that lies like a weight on her heart, occasions these Disorders. Cleonice. As well as the pleasure of showing that she sees to the end of the Intrigue. Erastus. Let us not forget the Honour which Celanire does herself, when she says she always gives good Advice to Dorinice. Dorante. Pass on farther, and confess we, that when Detraction has no real Causes, she forms imaginary ones; she disguises every thing, and imposes what Names she pleases; she calls the Prudence of a General of an Army that retreats, Cowardice; she terms Valour, Stupidity; and speaks of an Heroic Constancy, as brutish Obstinacy. She spares least of all Women, because they are less in a condition to revenge themselves, however great their Desire may be to it. Detraction will speak the gallant Air of Arsinoe to be the mere Affectation of a Wanton: The easy Temper of Amasie, to proceed from cold Temper and want of Spirits: And if Partenice, who is naturally very handsome, should wear a fine Gown, Detraction will not fail to accuse her of a Pride capable of ruining her Family. You shall hear Praises given only to authorize Detraction. It's said that Timocrates has Wit, when it is only to persuade that he is crafty and designing: And Dorinice is painted young, and handsome, only to render her more probable light and wanton. Erastus. It is true, that we see every day Detraction spares nothing; but leave we to others what concerns Manners; and let's see, whether we cannot draw some strokes of satire which may serve to exhilerate Conversation, without offending Persons. Dorante. One may observe from the Air and Behaviour of those who speak, whether the Exaggerations they make tend only to divert the Company. Then their Discourse is only to be regarded as a mere Jollity, which I would not condemn: but I would not like they should fall into an effective Detraction. So far ought we to be from mixing Malice, and citing Crimes, that we should never touch seriously on the faults we would describe. If this be observed, I can freely share in the Diversion. A famous Author speaking of a Pleader, made use of such Expressions as seem to me more pleasant than injurious. I am tormented, said he, by the most famous Pettifogger of our Province, and I believe Normandy never bore a more dreadful one; his only Name makes Widows tremble, and makes Orphans run away: There is not a piece of Glebe or Meadow, within three Leagues of him, that is safe from him. He shows great favour to Children, when he is content to share with them in their Paternal Inheritance. Belise. I have an Aunt who has so great an Aversion to Women who seek only to draw Praises, that she was pleased heretofore to set forth herself in such a manner, as furnishes us with those Strokes of satire we mentioned, and here's part of the Terms she used. I myself will give you my Picture to the life; and first represent you with a low wrinkled Forehead, great Cheeks, and a picked Chin, which put together make none of the most agreeable Figure. My Eyes are small, round, and melancholic; they speak nothing, and my Mouth says as little. It has made a perpetual Divorce with Smiles and Pleasanties. There is seen such a Colour on my Skin, as will not displease those who love variety. My Shape is like Madam Bouvillon 's in the Comical Romance, and I may say I am as well qualified for Conversation. I never dispute, being no ways concerned in what is said, and they would be to blame who should complain that I interrupt People, seeing I always keep Silence. Curiosity which is natural to my Sex, has no Power over my Spirit: I know nothing, I have learned nothing, and I have no mind to learn any thing. Erastus. I must represent to you a Cavalier, whom the Lady you speak of was not willing to make your Uncle. His Size is low, and there is seen I know not what of ill boding on his Countenance; his Eyes are so small, and so sunk in his Forehead, that no body to this hour can tell whether they be black or grey; the Hair of his Eyelids cover them, and were the Hair of his Head as long, he would not need to wear a Peruke; he has a straight and pointed Forehead, great Lips, hollow Cheeks, and a tawny Complexion; I say nothing of his Teeth, they are so few, that they are not worth mentioning. The Qualities of his Soul answer those of his Body, he is of a Chagrin Humour, restless and contrarying, nothing pleases him but what displeases others, and he finds nothing agreeable but what the world disapproves: Envy and Hatred are his predominant Passions, he is never more out of Humour, than when he can do no Mischief, and when he finds an occasion to do it, he embraces it with joy. He has learned all sorts of Languages, the better to deceive all sorts of People; he imagines the Cheats which are made, denote a Superiority of Spirit with which he is charmed. Judge whether his Conversation be profitable and agreeable: He stutters, and cannot utter four words distinctly; the Difficulty which he has in speaking would make him avoid Company, did he not frequent it to provoke and disturb it. Yet it's said he is in Love; but if we believe him capable of being so, 'tis only to disappoint a Rival, and give perpetual Trouble to a Mistress. As Erastus ended these words, Cleonice was told that the Horses were in the Coach, the Company arose, and Belise began in these words. Belise. We have no reason to complain for our being interrupted; for we have said enough of Detraction. We know it diverts but too much, and is but too much in use. But I could wish we would treat of another Subject of Conversation very different, and which I have a mind to propose. I would willingly hear how a Person might be handsomely praised in Company without putting him to the Blush, or disobliging others whom we do not praise. Dorante. This is a nice Point, and we may examine it to Night. Lisidor makes signs to me that he will treat us at Supper, and carry you to his House; and therefore you may take your Measures accordingly. Cleonice. You being the chief of our little Society, we must be ruled by you. I ought indeed to be gladder than the rest of the Company, because the good Supper we shall have, will make amends for the course Dinner I gave you. Dorante. Good, Madam, do not thus impose on a Man of my Years; you think to engage me by this Address to give you a Regale? Do you not see on the contrary that I entreat you to sup with me, because two Feasts are not to be expected on the same Day? After these words, the Ladies were led to Cleonice's Chariot to prosecute their Affairs. At Night the Company came to Dorante's, and Belise, whilst Supper was making ready, claimed the Promise had been made her. ENTERTAINMENT IX. How one may insert Commendations in Conversation. Dorante. IT will be easier for us to speak of the Maxims which are ordinarily observed in Praising, than to say with what tenderness we may season Praises, to make them agreeable. What a turn ought we to give, and what Novelties must we not speak to please in these occasions? If our commendations be but mean, the Person to whom we direct them, owes us less thanks than spite; and the rest of the Company will scarce vouchsafe to hear us. If on the contrary, we praise with excess, we cast into confusion, those whom we endeavour to exalt to a pitch they do not deserve, and we are despised by others, as pitiful flatterers. Philemon. I am persuaded that it is less difficult to use the precepts which serve to make a Panegyric, than to find the address of agreeably insinuating praises in an Entertainment. And therefore the Ladies shall permit, if they please, that I relate what my memory furnishes me withal, in respect of great Praises, and I will leave to Dorante and Erastus the improving of this subject, with a better and more delicate Air. Beginning commonly, as we do by birth, I'll tell you first what I have read heretofore on that of a great Monarch. He was born in Purple, the Throne was his Cradle, and if it were possible to find an Infancy in so glorious and rational a life, we should find that he could only play with Sceptres and Crowns. Expect not I should enter on the particulars of what we may find praiseworthy in a person whom we would commend. You know better than I, that one may respect the Gifts which he may have received from Nature; as an elevated Soul, an upright Heart, constant and generous, a sublime Spirit, vast and penetrant; an happy Memory, a solid Judgement, and delicate Discernment. As for the gifts of the Body, all the World immediately declares itself for the Beauty of Women, and the good Mien of Men, and for my particular, I prefer Health and a noble and free Air in all manner of Behaviour. We forget not the Favours which we hold of Fortune. It is she which gives Riches and Honours. And I dare even affirm she often contributes to our Glory, in conducting us as it were by the Hand, into conjunctures, which become happy to us. But say we, in few Words, that true Merit consists chief in the good use we make of the different advantages we now mentioned. I will follow the Custom we have to refer this discussion to Morality, without charging our Conversation with it. However I cannot but say something of Valour and Liberty, which are my two favourite Virtues. It is certain, that to be charmed with 'em, I would have them be in all their purity, without mixture. That Valour lead us to brave Actions, without proceeding to Rashness; that it be accompanied with a prudence which may make us fear the ill Success which may be attributed to us; in a word, that it marches to glory through perils, without Ostentation. I likewise require that it have no need of any assistance to render itself worthy our admiration. That it be not sustained either by Ambition, nor Anger, nor Revenge. That in a Battle Emulation, Shouts, and Cries make it go neither farther nor with more earnestness, than if it saw itself alone and disarmed. Neither do I know whether I should give it the name of Virtue, how blazing soever it were, if it appeared to me unjust. Belise. There are then few Conquerors whom you esteem, and I believe you spare neither the reputation of Caesar, nor the glory of Alexander. Philemon. I confess I would have Equity reign every where. So that I would not condemn those who reproach Caesar for having oppressed the Liberty of his Country; and who cannot bear with Alexander's carrying Fire and Sword into Countries where they never so much as heard of him. Let's instance, for Example, a great Monarch who makes only lawful Conquests. Here's what I read this Morning of it: Has he ever attacked any place without winning it? Has he ever given Battle without vanquishing? Were ever better disciplined Troops seen, Troops more zealous, more ready to fight and signalise themselves? What Conqueror, surrounded with warlike Nations, has stretched the limits of his Conquests so far, in so short a time? What Warrior has triumphed over such puissant Confederates, and ever rendered his Dominions more redoutable and flourishing? Here's what was said heretofore of an Illustrious Warrior, whose Valour raised him to the Empire. He practices himself alone all the Military Virtues, and it is an admirable thing, that being above all Corrivals, he contends for glory with himself; he endeavours to ravish it from his first actions by others still more glorious. As to what concerns Liberality, I would have it no less exempt from Ostenation than Valour. I would have it readily showed, in a grateful manner, and the most seemly as is possible, when it is to relieve persons who want necessaries for their Subsistance. But I require, on the contrary, that one give in the sight of as many People as is possible, when the gift is the recompense of Merit. In a Word I would have a liberal Person to do as one of my Friends, did whose liberality is thus mentioned. His Liberality equals that of a magnificent Prince in the greatness of Presents, and surpasses it in the choice of Persons. Those who receive his Benefits, are the only Persons that can speak of 'em. In fine, his generosity would be more universally admired, if it were not so great, because more Persons would comprehend it, in an Age wherein this Virtue is so rarely practised in its perfection. Loving as I do extremely this beneficent humour, you would have me speak more of it, and enlarge myself a little on the bounty of a great King. One cannot speak more advantageously of a private Person, than to say that he has the spirit of a Prince; and one cannot better praise a great Potentate, than in saying he has the goodness of a private Person: That in a condition which permits him every thing, he endeavours only to satisfy others. Was ever seen in a mean fortune so much goodness as he shows in the midst of his greatness? Whilst all Europe lies prostrate at his feet, imploring his protection, or redoubting his prowess; it seems as if he had need of the least of his Subjects; so sensible is he of their afflictions, so earnest is he to offer 'em remedies, so favourable an ear does he lend to their supplications. This incomparable goodness extends itself to all conditions; the great receive every day Testimonies of it, the People every minute bless it, the domestics are charmed with it, and strangers admire it. Of the two parts of Justice, he leaves to the Parliament that which disposes of the Punishment of Crimes, reserving only that which distributes Recompenses. He uses his Authority only to restore, to repeal, to pardon. In fine, his power appears without bounds, when he is to do good; and it seems, as if it were without Authority, when it is to punish. The Refusal of a favour is a Language unknown to him, and his Closet as well as his Heart, is always open to the remonstrances which is made him in behalf of the miserable. Belise. I take notice in the praises you now made, you have spoken only to the advantage of Men, and not one Word of Commendation to those of my Sex. I believe it is I that hinder you, but if I shut your mouth herein, methinks Cleonice should open it. Philemon. Well then, for the love of her I will open it. I'll Praise a celebrated Beauty whom all the Court admires; and Cleonice will have the pleasure to see one part of her Charms, in the piece which I shall set forth. Yet Dorante could better than I acquit himself in this affair, he knows the Author that drew the Picture; and the Lady for whom he wrought. But what ought I not to undertake to recover your favours? I will satisfy you then, Madam, and recite Word for Word the little work I promised, provided my Memory will give me leave. Here's in what terms the Painter addresses himself to the Beautiful Lady whose Picture he drew. You know, Madam, that ordinary Beauties go only to the Painters to seek some new Charms, or to get rid of some Defects. You only, Madam, are above Arts which flatter and embellish. They have never wrought you on but unfortunately, and in making you lose as many advantages, as they are wont to bestow on Persons less accomplished than you. But if you are little obliged to Painting, you are less to Dresses. You own nothing to the Science of others, nor to your own Industry, and you may securely remit yourself to Nature, she having taken such excessive Care of you. Most Women are handsome only from the Dresses they use. What they put on serves to hid their Defects, whereas on the contrary, whatever you put off discovers some new Charm. I shall not give you any general and common Praise. The Sun will no more furnish me with a Comparison for your Eyes, than the Flowers for your Complexion. I might speak of the regularity of your Face, and symmetry of every part of your Body. But I perceive, beyond the observations I have made, there are a thousand things to think, which cannot be expressed, and a thousand things which are better self than thought on. You have collected in yourself the divers Charms of different Beauties. That which surprises, which pleases, which flatters, which touches, which sharpens. Such a one has resisted a disdainful Beauty, which has yielded to a delicate one; and delicacy may give disgust to Lovers who like only to submit to disdainfulness. You only, Madam, know how to charm all the World: The passionate find in you the Subject of their transports. Different Spirits, divers Humours, contrary Tempers, all are subject to your Empire. The Charms of your Conversation are not a whit inferior to those of your Face. One is no less affected with hearing you than seeing you. You can create a passion for you, though veiled. Never was so much Politness seen as in your discourses, nothing so lively, nothing so just, nothing so happily thought. In fine, Madam, what one may say, after one has examined you, is, That there is nothing so unfortunate as to love you, nor nothing so difficult as not to love you. Having ended this Recital, Philemon continued to speak in this manner. I see that Erastus is ready to die with Impatience to insult over me. His Eyes tell me, that what I now gave out for a Picture, represents nothing in particular, the whole being but a general Description, an heap of Expressions which an Author would have pass for exquisite ones. Erastus. Fear not that I shall complain for not having seen in this Description, a certain resemblance which you made me hope for: It belongs less to me, than the Lady who expected it to make you reproaches. Had you been as good as your word, Cleonice would have had the pleasure of believing herself handsomer than she is, and I the vexation of finding her more disdainful. This is a business that is between you and her. Philemon. It is plainly seen you would set us at odds; but Cleonice may easily distinguish in my Recital, The Regularity of her Face, and Symmetry of every part of her Body. Moreover I would fain know to whom may be better applied, what I said of Conversation, and Politeness? Must I declare openly that it was of Cleonice that I spoke? Cleonice. I would advise you not to do it, because no body will believe you. Belise. You understood him well enough, he need not explain himself; and I wonder my Husband should tell you such fine things in my Presence. Let him protest if he will, that this is only to practise the Maxim we speak of, and that he inserted these indirect Commendations, only to praise in an ingenious manner. It belongs to Erastus to see whether he will agree in it. Erastus. I'll agree to nothing to day. I have a controlling Humour in my Head, and it is Timagenes who gave it me by his Obstinacy. Dorante. You have been in a Dispute then; let's know whence arose your Difference, and what has caused the Heat you seem still to be in. Erastus. It is observed, that of late, Timagenes has a particular Love for Berenice. He was notably set upon for it at Celysire's, even to the putting him almost out of Countenance. But in fine, being ashamed of his Confusion, he took Courage, and with an assured Tone thus spoke: Is it any marvel, says he, that I should love a most amiable Lady? Show me any Snow whiter, or any Rose of a more lovely Colour than her Complexion? Berenice's Eyes are black, great, well set, and tempered with such Sweetness, and yet so sparkling, that the Room she sits in seems to be on fire with 'em. Her Mouth is small, well shaped, her Lips scarlet, which as soon as a smile opens them, you see the finest Teeth in the World. I added immediately, that nothing could be truer than what Timagenes had said of Belise. Of Belise, said he briskly, the resemblance of the names deceive you, it is of Berenice that I speak. So much the worse for your Eyes, replied I, with a tone of assurance, it is not the conformity of names, it is the Praises you give to Berenice, which have made me believe you rendered justice to Belise. Belise. I would not interrupt you as soon as I ought. The Company it seems must remark after what manner you give Praises, whether true or false; besides I have not the strength to make you silent immediately, for I am a Woman, and you give me fine Words. Cleonice. I shall never hear any discourse of Praising, but I shall remember an Elogium which a Friend of Dorante's made for the King. Two Shepherds spoke therein, one an Italian, whom I shall call Thirsis; the other a Germane, to whom I shall give the Name of Menalca. Their Character was as different as the Genius of their Nation. Thirsis loved ingenious Arts and Rest. Menalca's inclinations lay only for War; and his greatest delight was in a tumultuous Life. They came to France only to see a King who filled all the Earth with his Name. After they had considered him with great admiration, they looked on one another, and immediately knowing one another to be strangers, they accosted, and enquired the occasion of their Travels. They had no sooner understood it, but this conformity of design made 'em continue their Conversation: But I know not whether I should make them to relate in wretched Prose, what they most ingenuously expressed in Verse. Dorante. Your Prose is well worth my Friend's Poetry; only go on. Cleonice. I will tell you then in few words; that Thirsis was astonished how the King could so easily govern a great Kingdom, as a Father of a Family rules his House. He admired the Kingdom should be so flourishing, and in so good order, even as Menalca admired the Discipline observed in the Armies. When the Italian acknowledged that Paris exceeded Rome for fine Arts and Painting, Buildings and Music; the Germane was charmed to see with what exactness all that respected the Military Art was observed. He said there were never any braver Troops, never any better picked Men, better clad, better armed, and more willing to serve. If Thirsis mused at Court on a King extraordinary well shaped, Equitable, Magnificient, Wise, Merciful; Menalca could not be tired in Praising the Armies of a Vigilant Prince, Indefatigable and Intrepid. In fine, not to engage myself farther into a discourse, whence I cannot, perhaps, easily extricate my self, I shall content myself in telling you, that the two Shepherds obstinately disputed; that they could not agree, and that in their contest, they published all the King's Virtues both Civil and Military. Belise. I do not doubt but you expect that I should Praise in my turn, and instead of excusing myself through modesty, I am willing to do it, provided my memory furnishes me with the Subject and Expressions. It is then the Elogium of a Victorious Prince which I undertake, with the assistance of a delicate Wit, whose Works to my great misfortue you too well know, to thank me for what I recite out of 'em. This Author writes to the Prince after the winning of a considerable Battle, and makes him certain reproaches, and forms a kind of Quarrel, in a manner, infinitely more agreeable than the most regular Congratulation. You may judge by several passages which I remember. Hue joyful I am, my Lord, to be at a distance from your Highness, that I may the better say what I have long since thought of you. I dared not declare it, lest I should fall into the inconveniencies, wherein I have beheld Persons who had taken the like Liberties. But, my Lord, you do too much to be passed over in silence, and you will be unjust, if performing the Actions you do, it remained there, and no mention were made to you of 'em. If you knew in what manner all the World talks of you, you would be astonished to see with how little fear of displeasing you they speak of what you have done. In truth, my Lord, I know not what you have thought of, for it was a great boldness in you to have at your Age topped two or three old Captains, whom you ought to respect, if it were only for their Age. To have taken sixteen pieces of Cannon which belonged to a Prince who is the King's Uncle, and the Queen's Brother, with whom too you never had any difference. To have put into disorder the best Spanish Troops who so kindly let you pass. All this is contrary to good manners, and matter enough, I think, for your Confessor. I have heard indeed that you were obstinate, and that it was not good contending with you, but I did not think you would have been transported so far, and if you continue, you will render yourself insupportable to all Europe. Neither the Emperor nor King of Spain will have any thing to do with you. You know the Letter is longer, but the Author speaking openly what he pleases in the rest of it, I confess I would not charge my memory with it. Cleonice. I have the same relish, and I had rather a thousand times know how to praise in this lusory manner, than to be able to compose those long and serious Panegyrics, which are very laborious to those that make them, and very troublesome to those who are obliged to hear them. Philemon. I wonder that Dorante has said nothing yet. Does he think to be quit for having given us a Supper? Let him not be mistaken; we have now praised a valiant Man; let him make an Elogium of a liberal one. Dorante. I shall recount to you the tour of a gallant Man, whose inclinations, you'll find, led him to liberality. I doubt not but you have heard that Voiture was a great Gamester, and that he lost in one Day 1400 Lewis' at the deceased Monsieurs, where he had the Office of introducer of Ambassadors. Being an Honest Man as well as a Man of Wit, he would send away the next morning the Sum he had lost; and finding at home only 1200 Lewis', he sent to demand 200 of Costar his intimate Friend. Send them to me speedily, wrote he to him, you know I play no less on your credit than mine own. If you have them not, borrow 'em: If you find no body that will lend 'em you, sell all that you have, even to your good Friend Monsieur Pauquet. For I must not fail of having 200 Pistols. You see with what imperiousness my Friendship speaks, the reason is because it is vehement. Yours would say, I entreat you to lend me 200 Lewis', if you can, without putting yourself to any inconvenience; I beg your pardon that I should be so free with you. Costar sent the 200 Pistols, and answered, he never believed he could have so much pleasure for so little Money. Seeing you play on my credit, says he, I will always keep a stock to preserve it. I can moreover assure you that a near Kinsman of mine has always a 1000 Lewis' as much at my diposal as if they were in your Coffer. However I would not here by expose you to any considerable loss. One of my neighbours told one yesterday, that his lost Pecunia would have proved the best Friend in the World to him, could he have kept him by him, and I advise you to keep yours. I send you back your Note, but am surprised you should deal thus with me, having taken such a different course with Monsieur Balsac. I will add then, that Balsac having need of Money, sent to entreat Voiture to lend him 1200 Livers, and charged the Porter to give him a Note for the like Sum; Voiture told the Money, and took the Note, wherein were these words. I underwritten confess to owe to Monsieur Voiture the Sum of 400 Crowns which he has lent me for, etc. Voiture taketh the Note, and subscribes these Words. I underwritten confess to owe to Monsieur de Balsac, the Sum of 800 Crowns, for the pleasure he has done me in borrowing of me 400. After this, he gives the Note to Mr. Balsac's Valet de Chambre to carry to his Master. The Company was very well satisfied with this Recital, and could not but entertain themselves with it all the Supper time. Scarce were they risen ftom Table, but Cleonice reassumed the discourse; I am charmed, said she, with the contents of Voiture's Obligation written under that which Balsac sent him. Belise. I like very well too the manner after which he sent for 200 Pistols, grounding this sort of boldness on the firmness of this Friendship. Philemon. Nothing but a strict familiarity could authorize this liberty; without this there had been neither discretion nor civility in this proceeding; and you know what would become of Societies without these two so necessary qualities. Cleonice. They are so necessary; that we cannot better spend our time, than in treating of them. ENTERTAINMENT X. That to please in Conversation, one must be discreet, and keep an exact decorum. Philemon. HAve you not observed, that it is not young people who generally please in Conversation, whatever agreeableness their youth may give them? Dorante. I do not wonder at it, for besides that they have not a sufficient stock of experiences for Conversation, they be commonly too hot in speaking, and show in what they say more impetuosity than reservedness: But that which is most considerable, is, that they seldom consider what they are, and before whom they speak. Lisidor. I beseech you to show 'em no favour for my sake, for I acknowledge they are for the most part little discreet, and greatly conceited; they speak with a blustering Air, interrupt, and interrogate after the same manner; they speak what they please, without considering whether it may not displease others. Erastus. We shall not accuse you of these defects; for so far are you from interrupting, and questioning, that you have said little, but to the purpose: But let's hear what Lindamire will say in her turn. Lindamire. That Girls of my Age are less obliged to speak than to hold their Tongues; and that it is easy for me to observe a modesty, which might be of different use to a Person of Wit. Philemon. Men have less moderation than those of your Sex, and the heat they have ordinarily when they come into the World, makes 'em to speak and act only in a blustering way. Dorante. That which I like worst in most of them is, that they never think of correcting themselves, and never reflect on what good manners require. Lisidor. But wherein consists this Decorum you speak so much of? Dorante. I know not whether we have not already sufficiently explained it. However, seeing our conduct is so greatly concerned in it, we will further deliver our opinion about it. I think that to speak with a due Decorum, is to utter only things precisely which are suitable to times, places, and persons; such as are fit for him that speaks, and those who hear. Cleonice. Do you think it easy to know what we are, and of what humour the Persons are before whom we speak; to know what is proper for us, and what may please the rest of the Company? Dorante. I acknowledge it's hard to judge of the disposition wherein the Persons are that compose an assembly. The greatest part of Mankind makes it a kind of Merit to be always on its Guard, and to conceal its intentions. Besides, Mens Humours change; Health is not always the same; Ambition, Love, and different Interests inspire different Inclinations. But, Madam, it is not necessary that our knowledge should reach to the Hearts of Persons, and that we sound into the depths of their Souls, whether they be such in effect as they appear to be. It is sufficient we know what their rank is, that we may have the deference for 'em that is due; and that we consider what their capacity is; that we may not speak too boldly before abler Folks than ourselves. It's true, that these reflections are not sufficient, we are obliged to remember ourselves. What would you think, if a little young Gentleman, tho' born in Wales, should draw his Chair, and sit jig by joul with a Duke or Marquis; or interrogate in a familiar tone with a Marshal of France? Erastus. To pass over what refers to Persons of Quality. I say there are things which are truly ingenious, and yet which lose their relish in the Mouth of a Man that is not of the profession. You have perhaps heard of a neighbouring Prince entertaining one day his chief Minister, on the most subtle parts of Natural Philosophy: His Favourite heard him with impatience, and being desirous his Master would rather apply himself to the Study of the Art of Reigning, than Physical Questions. Sir, (said he to him, in interrupting him discontentedly) are you not ashamed to be so well versed in these matters? Philemon. If a Man of a moderate capacity, not knowing himself, should take on him to speak great, would he not deserve to be told with an Ancient, My Friend, you seem to me to strive to speak beyond your Ability? Erastus. There are People whom another sort of Vanity blinds. You knew Clitandre, he was the Son of a mean Citizen, and an Office which he held under the King, was not more considerable than his Extraction. Yet he was well enough received by Persons of the greatest Quality, and it was his Conversation that procured him this admittance. I may likeways say, that he would have extremely pleased, had he but remembered what he was: But he showed more Vanity than Wit in his discourses and behaviour. One day being at a Princesses, where there were none but Persons of great Rank, he addressed himself to some old Lords, who were Governors of Provinces, or the King's Lieutenants of Countries, and talked to them of Versailes, as one would speak of Japan to Persons that had never seen the Map. You cannot believe, said he to them, how great the Charms are which fix us to the Court, maugre the fatigues and perils we may meet there. I profess our Life is a real Navigation, that we are tossed about, behold every Day wracks, and are uncertain whether the Waves will drive us into Port, or run us on a Rock. Judge in what astonishment was the Company. They looked on one another, they smiled, and failed not to demand of Clitandre news from Versailes, with as much earnestness, as when our Ambassador arrived from Siam. In fine, his presumption so blinded him, that the Company grew weary of hearing him, and bearing with him any longer. Cleonice. I have a Neighbour that is no ways inferior to your Celintandre? She is Wife to an Officer under the King, whose place is too mean to be known: This Neighbour comes often to work with some Work-women whom I have employed to work me a Bed. Some four Months passed I found her more melancholy than ordinary, and I asked her the reason. How, Madam, said she, with the greatest surprise imaginable, do not you know that the King sets out to Morrow for Luxembourg, and that my Husband is obliged to follow him. To speak freely, added she sighing, the Women of the Court are very unhappy, they pay dear in certain occasions, for the honour they have in others. I saw yesterday enter into your Apartment a Judge's Lady, whose Countenance seemed very Serene. I protest sincerely, that in my affliction I wished to have a Husband of the same profession, that I might spend my days with less hurry. Philemon. There are an infinite number of Clitandre's in the world, and we may say every day, that a Man who thus forgets himself, is the common Laughingstock of Companies. Cleonice. But is it so difficult a matter for one to know one's self? Do we not feel ourselves? Can we believe that we should conceal our Sentiments from ourselves, as we dissemble 'em to others? Erastus. Yes, Madam, we take pleasure to deceive ourselves. It so seldom happens that our opinions be as just as they ought to be; that our Hearts are therewith irritated, and makes us secret reproaches of it. And therefore it is that we dare not m●ke too sincere reflections on the things which put us out of humour; and if on the contrary, we be so satisfied with ourselves to set cheerfully on this examination, we fall into a Vanity which is more intolerable than the Ignorance of ourselves can be. Cleonice. But why so much subtilizing to know exactly what we are, and the Persons before whom we are obliged to speak; when the matter concerns only the due Decorum we ought to observe to one another. If we meet with Persons of a considerable Rank, or extraordinary Merit, do we not naturally fear to displease them? And does not this fear lead us to testify to 'em the deference we own them? Do we feel any repugnance in yielding them the most Honourable or commodious Place? In stopping to let them go in or out, in directing our words to them before the rest of the Company, in showing Complaisance for their Sentiments, or at leastwise in not directly opposing them, if they prove contrary to ours? Belise. I imagine that it is more easy to keep this Decorum and Character of Discretion with Persons that are our Inferiors, than with those to whom we are obliged to submit. Our Hearts are imperious, they suffer not over patiently that any Law should be imposed on them; but perhaps they are generous enough to lay only easy ones. Cleonice. Do you believe all People's hearts have the generosity of yours? You are very favourable to 'em, if you have this opinion of 'em. Many Servants who are continually ill used, will not consent to what you say, That they have only a light Yoke laid on them. Dorante. It is true, most Masters are very unjust, and far from that discretion we speak of. Those who find themselves constrained to serve, are they not unfortunate enough, without increasing the Misery of their condition, by Injuries and a Tyranny which comes near Inhumanity? Erastus. That which I cannot comprehend, is, That in the Army most young Gentlemen fly upon their Servants and misuse them, without considering the need they may chance to have of them. You know how many occasions there are wherein the Life of a Master may depend on the fidelity of a Servant. Philemon. Shall we say nothing of our equals? And whatever familiarity we may have with them, shall we not observe a Character of Respect in our deal with them? That which contributes most to preserve Friendship, to speak properly, is only the effect of Discretion and the Civility we speak of. These two Qualities are so necessary, that a Man cannot well pass through the World without them; and it is impossible that Pleasure and Politeness should riegn in a Conversation where these are omitted to be practised. Cleonice. And this Discretion and Decorum, which you so much commend; do they hinder us from mixing some Railleries' in our discourses? Philemon. No, Madam, but they hinder our joking in such a manner as may give offence. Belise. It would not be amiss to examine within what bounds our Raillery should be included; but it is late, and it is better to defer this discourse till to Morrow, when the Company comes to dine at Philemon's, who entreats it. Cleonice. This entreaty savours of Ceremony. Have you any Lindamire come, whose arrival you would celebrate, as Dorante and Erastus have done for that of a Nephew, and Sister in Law? Belise. I find you little equitable, in that you would not let me have my part in this joy; and profiting so much by this Conversation, it is no marvel if I endeavour to renew it. The Company consented to Belise's desire, and met at her House next Morning, where they dined after the same manner as they did at Erastus' and Dorante's: They afterwards passed into Belise's Chamber, and began the discourse after this manner. ENTERTAINMENT XI. What care must be taken in Raillery. Dorante. RAillery has been always respected, as Salt which seasons Conversation, and renders it agreeable, by a little sharp relish that it gives it. A Discourse that is not enlivend with it, will appear no less flat and insipid than Meat without Salt. It's true, we cannot suffer Meat that is too salt, and a Raillery too picquant is more intolerable. Belise. Nothing is more certain, than that Ragouts are so far from preserving of Health, that they ruin it. Yet the ravage they make in our Bodies, is less hurtful, than the disorder that Raillery causes in a Society. It introduces division, and breaks those Friendships which appear to be the most solidly established. Erastus. Why, would you have a little Mirth to destroy a Society, unless it be composed of ill natured People? Supposing an assembly of ingenious Persons do meet, their minds being agreeable, and well turned, they will understand Raillery, and divert one another, instead of falling foul on each other, and quarrelling. Belise. Believe me, Erastus, the Persons you speak of, who seem to take all in good part, and understand Raillery, yet keep a secret grudge against these Railers. They revenge themselves as oft as they meet with an occasion, and it is well if they can disguise the Subject of their Revenge. Cleonice. I acknowledge my humour leads towards Raillery, but I resist the inclination, when I consider the consequences. I find we ordinarily transgress therein the Rules of Civility and Discretion, and expose ourselves to the danger of offending Persons whom we should not disoblige. In a Word, if there be less Pleasure in refraining from Raillery, yet without doubt there is more safety; as I find more in walking in a broad Path, than in dancing on Flowers on the brink of a Precipice. Erastus. For my part, I am persuaded that there are Raileries which does no more offend, than effectual injuries. When we utter injuries, it's anger which transports us against Persons that we hate; but it oft happens, that we despise so much those whom we jeer, that we disdain to put ourselves into a Passion against them. Belise. The more I search what Persons one may innocently rally, the fewer I find. Let's examine particulars, and Dorante will afterwards tell us, whether there be Persons that we may lawfully Rally. I will begin by Friends; I would have them spared, and Friendship respected as a Sacred thing. Moreover are we not obliged for our Interest, to conceal their defects, that we may not give occasion to be reproached for having made an ill choice? Cleonice. For my part, I shall think less of rallying my Enemies; and if I loved Revenge, Raillery would appear to me too weak a means to satisfy me. Philemon. Persons of Merit should be still more remote from our Raillery, when even we can distinguish some defect among their Virtues. Do we not consider, that there is nothing perfect, and that we are bound to take every thing in the most favourable sense we can? Belise. I find moreover, that Persons without Merit are too contemptible to be rallyed, and I would not so much as spend one breath about them. Cleonice. It must be granted too, that Raillery is too weak to use to an ill Man. Erastus. But what will Lisidor and Lindamire tell us? They must speak their opinions, and intermix in our Conversations. Lisidor. I would not have young People rallied, lest they be discouraged to enter into Company; the small Experience they have, requires they should be indulged, and their first faults pardoned. And it being not fit I should speak only for my interest, I could wish likewise that instead of rallying Old People, they should have all Respect shown them. I have heard say, that Nations who had the power of choosing Magistrates, took them always from among Ancient Persons. But why should we jeer Old Men? Is it because they have lived long, is this their fault? If it be, it is a Crime which every one is desirous to be guilty of. Erastus. It's your turn now, Lindamire, to speak. Lindamire. I would not have Women rallied, but that Men should have a Complaisance for them, mixed with Respect, as is observable in the behaviour of polite Gentlemen. However, to be no less equitable than Lisidor, I would not be more partial towards my Sex, than he has showed himself for the interests of his Age. And I acknowledge I like worse that Women should undertake to rally Men, for they expose themselves thereby to blunt Repartrees, and bring Men out of the bands of Respect and Civility wherein they should always keep. Philemon. And I for my part add, that we must not let Lindamire nor Lisidor speak, or resolve to hold our tongues. I doubt not but Cleonice and Dorante are very glad to see the manner after which they enter into our Conversations; but Belise and I who have not the same interest, cannot be expected to like that young Persons should show themselves more able than we. Cleonice. He make no answer to a Person who will regale after several manners; it were better to renew our discourse, that I seek still farther for Persons whom it is not fit to rally. It is not to be doubted but the unfortunate are of that number, and that we ought to show our compassion to their misfortune, far from making it a Subject of Raillery. Belise. There is also a kind of inhumanity at laughing at deformed Persons, whether Lame or Crookt-backed. This Man not having made himself, why should I reproach him with his defects, as one might do a Carver for an ill proportioned Statue? Erastus. I find no less injustice in mocking of a Stranger, in that he speaks not well our Language, or that his Bonnet pleases us less than a Hat. Philemon. For my part I pardon one who rallies the first on some slight fault, but I cannot suffer he should make a Jest of a considerable failing. Lupo d'Uberti, according to the report of a modern Author, increased his shame instead of excusing his Cowardice, when he himself made a Jest, grounded on the allusions of his Name. Having surrendered a Castle which he might defend, he contented himself with saying, That Wolf's did not like to be shut up. But let's see whether Dorante can cite many Persons whom it is permitted to rally. Dorante. Pray then tell me, if you please, whether I may not rally People who are full of themselves, who are conceited of their own merit; in a word, who are ridiculous, or intolerable, through the extravagancy of their presumption. Can you greatly blame me, if I inquire seriously of an hectoring Bully, whether he has killed no body to day; and entreat him to tell me what Captain is to be esteemed most after himself, Caesar, or Alexander? Shall I spare an infinite number of People, who carry the Fortune of the World in their Hands, who promise employs, dispose of places at Court, help Maids to Husbands, and Bachelors to rich Wives; who can tell what-passes in all places; know what the King whispered the other morning in the Queen's Ear; who talk only of Lords, Dukes, and Earls, and look upon it as a great condescension to so much as cite the name of a Knight or ordinary Gentleman? Will you spare those who step first into all Fashions, and distinguish themselves by the magnificent Guadiness of their , being but of ordinary Birth; and as mean Fortune? May I not seem to admire the Points and Ribbons of one of these Gallants, and to make exclamtions on every thing that I see? May I not affirm that his Cloth is too good to have been made in Europe? That his Peruke is longer by a Finger's breadth, than that of such a Lord's, and of a better colour, and sits better on him than that of the Count de— does on him? Will you forbidden me to tell him in his ear, that there is a most rich Stuff made in such a Place, and that only the King and his Royal Brother have any of it yet; and that I esteem myself happy in having so luckily met with him before this Wear becomes common? Shall I not laugh at those Persons who think they are full of Science, who approve of nothing, who condemn every thing, who speak all Sentences, and explain sometimes English into Greek to make it better understood; as he that pronounced gravely these words; It is with reason that we call Man a little World; that is to say, a Microcosm? Will you not suffer me to deride a Covetous Miser, whom an insatiable Greediness makes starve with Cold and Hunger in the midst of abundance? May I not tell him, that his Money is no more his than mine, seeing he makes no more use of it? Would you have me love an odious Person, who contributes to the Public Misery; who keeps locked up a Treasure which would be useful in Trades, and who takes a secret pleasure in seeing the poor suffer, that he may make the better Market of what he keeps in his Barns? Cleonice. I confess the gentlest Treatment which Covetous Men can expect is to be rallied; and I think it is with these sort of People that one diverts one's self most. Philemon: You have, perhaps, heard a story of a Man of this stamp, who was more covetous than Plauto's Euclio. It is said that he had a prodigious heap of Corn, whence he pretended to draw a most considerable Profit; when of a sudden the Rain which was much wanted came and destroyed his Hopes. He would needs live no longer after this misfortune; he fitted a Rope to his Neck, and fastened it to a Beam of his Chamber, and throwing himself in a Fury off the Chair he stood on, by mishap he threw that down, which made such a Noise, that the People underneath came running up and beheld this Spectacle, and a Neighbour cut the Rope, to save, if possible, this Wretch's Life. In fine, he was so carefully plied with proper Remedies, that his Life was recovered against his Will. Endeavours were also used to compose his Mind, and a certain Almanac was produced that promised such Storms of Hail as would destroy all the Corn in the Fields. But he fell again into disquiet, when he was told in what manner he was preserved. Nothing would serve his turn but that his Rope should be paid for, and knowing that his Neighbour laughed at his Folly, he got a Warrant for him to bring him before a Justice to satisfy for the Damage he did him in cutting his Rope. Erastus. I have a Kinsman who has not hanged himself yet, although his Covetousness is no wise inferior to your Usurer's. My Kinsman is young, he has Birth, and Courage; and yet a base Humour blemishes whatever otherwise is praise worthy in him: I persuaded him to serve in the Wars, and the better to prevail with him, I set before him, that if he lived, he would be recompensed; and that if he happened to die, he would find— You believe, perhaps, I told him that he would find Honour; not at all, but that he would find an end of his Expenses, which a Man is obliged to make during the course of his Life. Our Miser resolved upon it; but when he was to buy Horses, and provide the rest of his Equipage, he soon renounced War; he told me he had rather retire to an Estate he had near Paris, and that he could subsist on a hundred things, whence Farmers draw a Profit, which he pretended not to let them have. To turn him from this Design, I offered to make a Campaign with him at Sea, if he were willing to go; and he needed no Horses nor Tents for this; and the Captain's Table being at his Service, he consented thereto, and we set out. It's not necessary to relate to you what our Naval Army did, I shall only tell you, that at our Return, we found ourselves at Provence in the beginning of Winter. We would needs enjoy the fine time of that Country, and therefore made a Match of walking out with Ladies. One day as we walked in a Path, separated from a Meadow by a Ditch; we thought that this Separation was not great enough to hinder us from leaping to the other side, and enjoying a nearer Conversation with the Ladies. Our Miser, being accustomed to sparing, was so sparing of his Strength, that he leaped into the Ditch. The Ladies burst out into a Fit of Laughter, and I made what haste I could to assist my Kinsman. I stooped as low as I could to draw him out thence, bidding him only give me his Hand: This Word affrighted him more than his Fall; and looking earnestly upon me, What would you, answered he immediately, have me to give you? At these words I observed the Fault I had committed, and explaining myself in a manner more conformable to his Inclination; Cousin, replied I, shall I give you my Hand? With all my Heart, answered he, dear Cousin; and having offered his, I drew him out of the Ditch, where I believe he would have still lain, had I not changed the Expression. The Company having laughed at Erastus his Relation, they prosecuted their Discourse. Dorante. You acknowledge then that one may deride a covetous Man, and I suppose you will as easily grant, that we may jeer those Persons who imagine they are always sick, who are continually taking Medicines, and who yet sleep well, and eat better. Belise. I know a Woman who has a great deal of Wit, and talks well when there is no mention of Sickness or Remedies. But she gives very good diversion, as soon as the Conversation turns on matters relating to Health. I was saying something to her yesterday about her Husband, who is a very honest Gentleman, and after she had allowed his good qualities, she aded, that he had one bad one, which she could not cure him of; which is, says she, that he is so obstinate, that he will take no Remedies? But why should he take any, replied I, if he be well? How, said she, do you think it enough to be in Health, without taking Remedies for preventing Distempers which you may fear? In fine, when this imaginary sick Body takes Medicines, she tastes it then, and says there is too much Sena in one, too much Rhubarb in another; just as we find fault with Broths being too hot or too cold. Her Physician in ordinary died not long ago, and her Friends fixed another on her of a Humour so frank and brisk, that instead of prescribing Remedies to her, he did her the Displeasure to tell her, that she was in good Health. She fell into a Passion, and answered smartly to this honest Doctor, That if he would order her nothing, she knew where to find out others that would. The next morning she chose one, who Regales her every morning with different Medicines to her Content. It's not above three or four days ago that I was at her House, and diverted myself with hearing her talk of the several sort of Diseases she feared, and their particular Remedies. Her Friends do never fail to send to know of her Health; and a Lackey of Amasia's being come on the same Errand, You may tell your Lady, answered she, with a languishing Air, that I thank her for her mindfulness of me, but that my Health is lost, there falling a cold humour on my left shoulder which puts me to grievous pain. This Lackey was no sooner gone, but we saw the Princess Demaratas Gentleman enter; he made such another sort of Compliment, but he had a different answer made him. I pray you, Sir, said our fanciful Lady, to let the Princess know how sensibly I find myself obliged to her, tell her that a grievous pain in my head has hindered me ever since yesterday from taking any rest. As soon as ever this Gentleman was gone, I looked on the pretended sick body with amazement. Is your distemper gotten up into your head within this minute, said I to her briskly, or have you forgot that it is not a Moment past that your illness was in the left Shoulder? Did I say it was in my Shoulder, answered she? Nothing more true, replied I; it's no matter, added our fanciful Lady, provided I said I was troubled with some great illness, it's enough, I need say no more. Dorante. When I should leave to the Stage the representing the humours of these imaginary sick Persons, yet I may at lest rally Lovers, and affirm that they have Capriccios that reach to extravagancy; but I shall make me too many Enemies, should I declare myself against so universal a Passion. Of six Persons who hear me, there would be four who would murmur against me. But as for Gray-headed Lovers, I doubt not but you will deliver them up to me, and allow 'em to be ridiculous, when they creep to a young Wench, who laughs at them and their superannuated sweetnesses. Philemon. What will you say of those young Hearts, who feel the first strokes of Love, with so much the more pleasure, as not knowing it yet, they think themselves not obliged to oppose it. Dorante. Instead of rallying them for their Innocency, I would recount to them little Stories which might open their Eyes. Belise. You make me remember how you drolled with Cleonice, when her Heart inclined to prefer Erastus before all his Rivals, when she did not then know the Sentiments she had for him. Dorante. To pass by this discourse, Is there any thing more pleasant, than to see the pains your Coquettes take to bring in new Gallants, and to pile Hearts one upon another, just as Erastus' Kinsman would please himself in heaping up Money? Have you not a thousand times observed the continual perplexity of one of these Wantoness, how to dress herself, and to keep all she thinks she has acquired? She speaks to one, looks on the second, and smiles on the third. This Theme is so large, that it is sufficient to deter a Man that has talked enough already. I dare no more insist on the Railleries' which one might make of jealous Persons. I shall content myself in telling you, that these last Fools are yet more ridiculous than others. They never fail to form imaginary Subject of their frenzy, when they cannot find any real. They see nothing in the Objects which they behold through their jealousy, but what may relate to this passion, as we see all things yellow when we have the Jaundice. An Husband that takes notice his Wife is careless of herself, thinks he is not loved by her; and if she dresses, then 'tis to please others. I should never have done, should I describe all these follies. It's sufficient to say, that a jealous Person poisons every thing, and that instead of favourably interpreting things, for to set his Heart at ease, he gives every thing such a construction as may increase his disquiet. Among his misfortunes, I observe one which is peculiar to him; which is, that a jealous Person is derided instead of being pitied; although all other wretched People are usually commiserated. Erastus. What stories might one not tell of a jealous Person? Cleonice. And what may one not say of a Coquette? Erastus. Madam, be ruled by me; let's not enter too far on such a nice Subject; how do we know but we shall make the World laugh at us; Perhaps we flatter ourselves, and the World may know us better than we do ourselves. Cleonice. I'll not oppose myself against the common custom of the World; People may laugh as long as they will with all my Heart, provided you continue always as jealous as you have been hitherto; and I continue to be as great a Coquette as you have found me since you knew me. Philemon. Methinks we have spoken enough of Persons that one may rally, but I know not whether we may not add something on the manner, after which civilised Persons may rally one another. Dorante. We have already said, that if they do it, it must be finely and delicately, and to make the Conversation more agreeable. If you will, we will say likewise, that indirect Railleries' do please no less in an Entertainment, than praises which are given indirectly, have a grace in a Panegyric. Here's a Tour which will not displease you, it alone makes an indirect Raillery so much the more delicate, as it appears simple, natural, without affectation, and without malignity. A certain Person of Paris whom I shall call Lisicrates, had nothing but what was obscure in his Birth and his Life. However, a Son he had, being gone into Italy very young, had got a great Estate at Rome, and sent wherewithal to make Plenty reign in his Family. The Father died, and a Nephew to whom he had left a good Portion set up for a Spark. It came into one of my Friend's Head to abase his Pride, and to show him that his Family was still obscure enough not to be known in his own Country. He found him in a Company where the Conversation turned upon News. My Friend was asked what he knew, because he was a Person of good Intelligence: He told them what was talked of at Varsailles, and passing afterwards to Foreign Countries, he reported with an Artificial Tone, That the Letters from Rome inform us, that Lisicrates is dead in this Town. Cleonice. Ah! Dorante, how this Satirical stroke pleases me! How smart is it and ingenious! How it gives to understand, what your Friend would not explain! Philemon. That which I like best, is, that the Nephew of Lisicrates could find no just Cause to be angry. One might say that Dorante's Friend gave only a bare Account of what he had read in a Letter. Belise. I confess I should sooner give the name of a witty word, than that of a Raillery, to what Dorante has now related to us. Erastus. This Expression is short enough to be called a witty word, if it had I know not what of sharpness in it; for a witty word should more touch to the quick, and surprise, than Raillery. Philemon. It's true, that Raillery is more extensive, and that, according to the Opinion of an Italian, its sharpness should rather resemble the bitings of a Lamb, than those of a Dog. Belise. There are Raillers which we may effectually compare to Dogs, they make as great a a Noise as if they barked, they set upon People and by't them. Erastus. The Cynical Philosophers were too biting in their Railleries', and in their pretended witty words; but seeing we are on witty words, shall we do amiss in examining wherein they differ from Raillery? I am jealous too that I am mistaken in citing a pretended witty word, of Lupo d' Uberti for a Raillery. In effect, the Allusion he made to a Wolf, and the few words which comprehend his Thought, would make one take what he utters for a witty Saying, if any but himself had spoke this Witticism. Cleonice. Before we come to witty Say, shall we say nothing of gross Raillery, having spoken enough of that which is delicate? Belise. I am very glad you censure those Balderdash Fellows, who imagine they are fine Wits, when they retail out some sorry Equivocation, or trifling Allusion. Cleonice. Besides this Raillery you speak of, is there not still a gross kind of Raillery among the mean People, such as Porters and Carmen? Belise. We must let them have their Jokes too, and if they be suitable to Men of their Breeding and Conversation, no more can be expected from them. Philemon. These People have a very diverting way with them, which is, to give one another Blows with their Hands on their Shoulders, and these with them are very diverting Strokes. Erastus. They feel 'em so, I suppose. Belise. I think Raillery should appear natural and without Constraint, and the Air of the Countenance, the Tone of the Voice, and all the Countenance of him who rallies, should be accommodated to the Subject of the Raillery. Dorante. Except, if you please, when one pretends to raise Laughter, for than we should appear cold and serious, the better to surprise by the Joke, which must not be expected or foreseen. Saracen was admirable at this, and Voiture too. The Works of both show what an happy Genius they had in an agreeable and ingenious manner. But let's pass to witty Say, seeing you desire it, and the matter leads us thereto. ENTERTAINMENT XII. Of witity Say and Repartees. Dorante. RAillery does not always include witty words; we may utter 'em (if we can) in all occasions, and on all sorts of Subjects; but they being more commonly used in Satyrs than in Panegyrics, let's begin with those which we may regard as Railleries'. They should be close, sharp, and lively, and in some sort like Epigrams. So that all those pretended witty Say which are long, and include a great Morality, are rather Maxims and Sentences, than witty words; I am sure they relish not well with Cleonice. Cleonice. You may answer for me. You know the aversion I have to hear cited with a grave tone, a Sentence or a Proverb. I leave these Expressions to old grave Citizens, or to some Doctors who are overrun with an excess of Greek and Latin. I have over observed, that Courtiers and fine Wits, who understand the World, speak with less swelling, and in a more easy manner. Dorante. You will not then be over fond of a Moral Saying of Charles the 5th. which the Spaniards take for very Witty. This Emperor said, That the Counsellors of State were the Prince's Spectacles, but that those Princes were very unhappy that needed them. Erastus. I not only prefer an Answer of Lewis XII. before this Sentence, but I acknowledge I am charmed with it, I find a more exact Sense in it than in Charles the 5th's Maxim, and I admire the generosity of its Morality. These Ladies without doubt know, that Lewis XII. was a Branch of the House of Orleans, which had had bloody Bicker with that of Burgundy; and perhaps they know already what I am going to say. When Lewis XII. was on the Throne, one of his Courtiers joyfully told him, Sir, you have now the Power to be revenged of your Enemies. No, no, answered this generous Prince, it is not for a King of France to remember the Injuries offered to a Duke of Orleans. Cleonice. I like better these Noble Say, than those of the Ancients, which I have heard so greatly commended. And truly many of 'em do not over-please me, I cannot tell whether it be my fault or not. Dorante. However, we must do justice to the great Men among the Ancients. If their fine Say appear to us flat, it is because we enter not into those Interests which made them speak them. They are no more enlivened by the Persons who uttered them. They may have lost some of their Beauty by the Translation, which has made you understand them, and they are found void either of the allusions, or of favourable conjunctures which upheld them. However, Madam, the Circumstances which I now remarked, hinder not, but that there remains from the Ancients, an infinite number of great Say, with which you may be satisfied. But very likely you have not been much delighted with the Language of Amiot, when you have read the Tracts of Plutarch, called, The Notable Say of Princes, Captains, etc. Philemon. I fancy this famous Author chose rather to relate the notable Say of the Lacedæmonians than other Greeks, because they spoke at Sparta in a more concise manner, and that those kind of expressions do more properly belong to what we call witty Say. Erastus. And therefore the learned give too strict and short ways of speaking the name of Laconiestile. These Ladies will pardon me, I hope, for using this Word Laconie, altho' it only means Lacedaemonian. Belise. My ignorance reaches farther, and I confess I know not what means the Word Stile, altho' I use it every day, and hear other People talk of it too. Dorante should tell me what this Word does strictly signify: Dorante. You know perhaps, that Ink and Paper are of modern Invention. The Ancients made use only of Tables of Wax, or the Bark of Trees, and thereon engraved with a Pencil, which they called Style, as we writ with a Pen on Paper. So that by a figurative way of speaking, they said a Fine Style, as we say a Fine Pen, when we speak of the Writings of a good Author. Belise. I am very glad to be informed of a Word which is of so common use. Cleonice may now talk of her Lacedæmonians as long as she pleases. Cleonice. I dare declare to you, that as to what regards this Conversation, the Lacedæmonians are not so much mine as you think for. I am not so much pleased with their notable Say as their notable Actions. However, I acknowledge I have remarked an Answer which is of good relish to me, though I cannot tell how you will like it. A Man of Sparta, being at Table at the same time with a Persian, fell upon a discourse of War, which was likely to be between the two Nations. The Persian, proud of being under the Government of a Monarch who was called the Great King, and who held a vast Empire, would fright the Greek by giving him to understand the Power of his Master. We shall have an Army so numerous, said he, that the Arrows which we shall draw will darken the Sun. The Lacedaemonian taking nimbly his turn to speak, without any Commotion; So much the better, said he, for than we shall fight in the Shade. Erastus. That which a Captain of this warlike Nation, answered, appears to me worth relating; The Lacedæmonians, says he, never ask whether the Enemy be numerous, but in what place they be. Belise. I would willingly know wherein consists the Beauty of notable Say? Philemon. There needs only an Equivocation to make a jocose saying. Belise. And oftener to make a pitiful quibble. About two Months passed I was extremely surprised with one of these Quodlibets. I was in the Country, where some of the Women of the Neighberhood came to see me. There was a young one who bore away the Bell for Wit, she spoke much, and laughed yet more, and was mightily stored with Quibbles. Cleonice. It's usual with these Quiblers to say, that a Scrivener is an obliging Man, by reason of the many Obligations he makes. Dorante. There was heretofore at Court a Man who passed for a pleasant Companion, but I question whether his fancy would be so much approved of by the Court as it was by the City. You may judge of him by his Quibbles. An Abbot, who had perhaps more Ambition than Merit, would needs pretend to be made a Cardinal. He went to Rome for this purpose, but having taken wrong measures, he returned little satisfied with his Voyage. At his Arrival he went to make his Court, and appearing indisposed with a great Rheum, he was asked whence proceeded this indisposition? Do not you know, answered our witty Gentleman, that be came from Rome without an Hat? Erastus. I have heard you tell another story of the same Courtier. He came from the Camp, which held a Town besieged, and which we did not take: This rare Wit was sent to the King to give him an account of the condition of the Place and Army; so that all the Court was very earnest in demanding News of him. What say you of the Siege? say they. That she is very well, and gins to rise, answered he. Philemon. I know that Erastus has an Aversion to Quibbles, and that the other day having quietly heard Timocrates utter many of them, he seemed at last to be angry at him for them. Now for my part, I am for letting them pass, and think myself obliged in some sort, to those Persons who endeavour to divert me, although they prove not always fortunate in their undertaking. But I could never endure in History, that great Men should make use of an Equivocation to break their Word. Can we execuse that Captain, who by a Truce grants, that no acts of Hostility shall be exercised for eight days, and immediately after shall send out Parties every night to ravage the Enemy's Country? Cleonice. He may take this for a Warlike Stratagem, yet all the World will condemn his breach of Faith. We may call things how we will, but that will not hinder us from being infamous, if we under pretence of a Treaty, surprise our Enemies. I much blame your Captain, but do more detest the cruel prefidiousness of a Turk towards a Venetian. The latter of these surrendered himself, and the Capitulation bore, That his Head should be safe from all mischief. His Enemy had him no sooner in his power, but he made him be sawed asunder in the midst of his Body. In the excess of his pain, the Christian invoked heavens Vengeance against so cruel a treachery. And the Infidel answered him, with a malicious smile, that he had no reason to complain, seeing his Head was not touched. Philemon. Have you obseved one thing which I now remark? which is, That designing only to examine what may please in Conversation, we are gotten insensibly to Examples, wherein there are more Moral strokes than Maxims which respect an Entertainment. May we not be told that we vary from our Subject, and that we should retrench these digressions? Dorante. I confess that a melancholy University Logick-chopper might form a Quarrel hereupon, and charge us home with our digressions, requiring a Conversation dry, servile, and tiresome. But as to us who have a different relish, we will allow ourselves this liberty; and when any History or Tale may serve to recreate the austerity of Precepts, or make us more exact and cautious, we will gladly entertain it. Thus being instructed, if we are to make a Truce for eight days, we will take such measures as not to be deceived, we will express that it shall be for eight natural days of twenty four hours, wherein the nights shall be comprehended. But instead of troubling ourselves with justifying our citations, it's enough to allege that they please us; and if Philemon has any scruple hereupon, let him send it to some musty Pedant, and let him be pleased with us as heretofore. I am so sure that he will be so, that I will reassume the discourse where it was broke off. Here's an equivocal Word which heretofore surprised the whole World; or rather, here's a subtlety of extraordinary consequence. You know, that of the Scipio's there were two that bore the name of African; that the first vanquished Hannibal, and that the other destroyed Carthage. This last, the better to subdue Enemies who were so terrible to the Romans, made use of an Equivocation, or rather of a distinction which you will not find worthy of so great a Man. The Carthaginians, finding themselves too weak to hold out long, offered to capitulate and surrender their Town; and Scipio promised them there should be no hurt done to their City. But scarce was he Master of it, but he caused the Fortificaons' of it to be destroyed. The Carthaginians cried out, that the Faith of the Treaty was violated: But for all that, Scipio failed not to levelly their Walls and Towers. He endeavoured afterwards to justify himself, and show that he had not broke his Word. He represented to the Carthanigians, that the Romans did not confound the names of Town, and City. That the Body of the Citizens form the City, and that the Walls and other Edifices composed the Town. That he should have been displeased had the Inhabitants been ill treated; but more displeased, had he left the Walls and Fortifications entire, which could be of no use, but only to raise a Jealousy in the Roman People. Erastus. I like not these Artifices to deceive People, and can yet less allow it in great People. But as for the distinction you now speak of, I think it has been always used, and will be still so. The Athenians, fearing to be besieged, and subjected by the Persians, consulted the Oracle on the Revolutions they were to take. It was answered, That the City must departed the Town, and save itself by wooden Walls. So that it was interpreted, that the Citizens should abandon a Town, which was not strong enough to secure them; and that they should get on board their Ships, to fly from the Danger wherewith they were threatened. There is no body in this Room, but has heard talk of Paris in this double Sense. When we mean the Town, we say that Paris is every day embellished; and when we speak of the Inhabitants, the Body of which makes what the Ancients called City; we say, That all Paris is walking in the Park; That all Paris is gone into the Country in the beginning of Autumn. Philemon. A Man may speak a witty thing in making an Allusion; as when we sort with Words which refer to one another, when they are repeated, or the Sense of them varied. When the Marshal de la Meilleraie was Grand Master of the Ordnance, there were several Latin words engraven on the Cannon, which we may explain in these Terms. Here's the Key, when the Door is refused. Belise. I like this Allusion, and I find it grounded on a double Refusal which may be made. Cleonice. And I take a Cannon to be a terrible Key. It's true, according to Rabelais, that there is nothing more aperitive. Philemon. Here's a sporting with Words of another nature. It's said that a Soldier having not been orderly paid, had the Insolence to complain, in this manner to one of our Kings: Sir, three words; Money, or Discharge. The Prince, who was merciful, contented himself in returning this Answer: Soldier, four: Neither one nor other. Erastus. Shall we say nothing of Repartees, when Anacharsis furnishes us with so good an Example? This famous Philosopher was a Scythian; and a Greek, who had no other Merit but that of being born in Greece, looking on him with Envy, I acknowledge, said he to him, that the World has some Esteem for thee; but it must be granted, that there is nothing more barbarous than thy Nation: Very well, said he; Then I am the Honour of my Country, and thou the Shame of thine. Cleonice. A Marquis who has ruined his Family, had the other day a bickering with one of his Neighbours, who is a thriving Person, and has lately bought a considerable Office. Is it for you, said the Marquis, to contend with me, who begin your Family? I begin mine, said he, but you end yours. Erastus. This brings to my mind two Answers which you'll find are very ingenious; the first is of Phyrrus King of the Epirots, who being demanded which was the best Player on the Flute, Python or Cephisus? Polipercon is the greatest Captain, answered he; giving to understand that he was to judge of Men of War. The other answer is of Count Maurice of Nassau. A Lady entreated him to tell her who was the first Captain of the Age? Count Maurice was unwilling to speak his mind on so nice a point; his Modesty did not permit him to name himself, and his Merit would not permit him to part with an Honour, of which he was worthy; so that seeing himself straitened, Madam, answered he at length, The Marquis of Spinola is the Second. Philemon. I like this turn, and I think this second Answer is more ingenious than that of Phyrrus; the words of this Prince are one of these notable Say, which has more Morality than Sharpness of Wit, as well as that we have related of Charles the 5th. and Lewis the 12th. I believe our discourse would last a great while on this Subject, if we would relate whatever comes into our minds hereupon. It's better to take Coach, and go to the new Opera, for I have taken places. Scarcely were orders given to make ready the Horses, when Erastus reassumed the discourse in these terms. Erastus. It must be acknowledged that Philemon has thought of a very agreeable thing. Every thing is new in the death of Achilles, and I do not question but there will be great croudings to see it the first time of acting. But whilst things are getting in a readiness, would it not be better to take up our discourse again on witty Say and remarkable Answers? And besides, do we not see that therein is to be found a continual variety, which cannot but please? Dorante. I am so much of your mind, that I'll tell you of an answer worthy of Alexander. Darius asked a Peace of him, and offered him half of Asia, together with Ten Thousand Talents. Parmenio charmed with such an advantageous offer, Sir, said he to his Master, I protest, were I Alexander, I would gladly accept of these offers: And I too, if I were Parmenio, answered he. Cleonice. How sparkish are these Words, and how worthy of Alexander, of a Conqueror that will not terminate his ambition, but by the compass of the whole earth? Belise. I shall admire as long as I live the ingenious answer which the Queen of Siracuse, Gelon's Wife, made. This Prince had a Breath strong enough to incommode those that came near him, his Favourite thought himself obliged to give him notice of it; and this Prince, angry that the Queen had never spoke to him of it, complained to her very much about it. How, (answered she, with a Surprise, with which I am extremely taken) is it not the same with all other Men? Cleonice. This simplicity gives a great Opinion of the Virtue of this Princess. Philemon. But before we end this discourse, should we not have some Modern Instances? I profess I prefer 'em before the Ancients; and it is certain every Body is more concerned in them. Here's one then with which our Ladies perhaps will not be too much satisfied. 'Tis not above two or three years past, since a gallant Man, whom we all know, and whom I shall call Themistus, became— Belise. Ah! Philemon, I shall never forgive you this beginning of your Recital. Philemon. I have committed a great fault then in few words, seeing there is no hopes of pardon for me. But may I be so bold to ask wherein I am so culpable? Belise. Did not you say that you preferred the Modern Examples before the Ancient? Philemon. I say so still. Belise. And have you not added the reason, which is, that we are nearer concerned in what touches the Persons of our acquaintance, than in things which respect only Persons who have been dead several Ages? Philemon. Most certainly. Belise. Why then do you give a fantastical name to a Man whom we know? Are you afraid we should hearken too attentively; or that we should take too great a part in the adventure which you are minded to relate? Philemon. You say well, that I should not have this fear, when I should have named the Man whom you know. My discourse would not be so touching, as to produce so good an effect; but to speak freely to you, I was apprehensive lest I should raise up two Enemies against my Friend. I believed that Cleonice and you would not fail to insult over him, in respect of an opinion he is prejudiced with, and which I am assured you'll both of you condemn before the World. Belise. How! before the World! what will you increase our faults, by accusing us of dissimulation? What opinion then is this of your Friend's, let's know it? Philemon. You shall know it, if you'll let me go on without interruption. Belise. Say what you please, I shall not so greatly heed you, as to raise any more questions. Cleonice. Am I no body? Am not I a Woman? May I not have a little curiosity, though Philemon blame me for it? Philemon. To repair the fault I have committed, I'll lay aside the story I was going to tell you. Cleonice. Not so, if you please, for that will be worse; go on with it, pray. Philemon. I'll tell you then, to satisfy you, that Themistus was carried into the company of a young Lady, whose sight struck him with great admiration. Celimene, let me so call her if you please, had but a very mean Fortune, with an extraordinary Beauty, so that Themistus, who had immense Riches, made serious reflections on this sudden and violent engagement. He could take no rest, He found himself in a perpetual agitation, and feared above all, lest his passion, which he felt so violent in its beginning, would lead him in fine, to the satisfying his desires, to the prejudice of his Fortune. He resolved to banish from his Soul so dangerous a tenderness, he opposed it all he could; and finding he could not immediately overcome it, he called in a sentiment of Glory to the Assistance of his Reason. He had the strength to part far from what he loved, and to go a Volunteer into the Army; but he returned thence more amorous than he went. He visited his Mistress with greater joy, and a stronger desire; then blaming himself for his weakness, he made a second effort, and undertook a second Voyage, which was into Italy. He would try whether the divertisements would appease those inquietudes which the perils and fatigues could not allay, but the Carnaval of Venice was as little conducive to that purpose, as the Siege of Buda. Our Themistus appeared to me at his return more ardent and passionate than ever. My dear Philemon, said he, I lead a wretched life, I cannot forget Celimene, I have her always in my thoughts and I see her continually before my eyes with all her Charms. In fine, added he, and this was his saying, In short I must marry her, that I may cease thus to love her. He married her in effect, and fifteen days of Marriage changed his violent and tumultuous Love, into a sweet and delightful Friendship. Erastus. I profess I like the saying well, and let the Ladies take it how they please. Cleonice. We cannot do better than follow a Maxim which you approve. Belise. Your Friend was not so easily drawn into Marriage as my Uncle, who is married again lately. His Children made great complaints to him on the resolution he had taken of giving them a Mother-in-Law: They besought him to tell them wherein they had been so unhappy as to displease him, and entreated him to let them know what it was that offended him? I am so pleased with you, answered he, that I only marry again to have other Children like you. Cleonice. I am much mistaken if your Cousins took this for a good saying. Dorante. You know that the illustrious Person who has given such fine Conversations to the Public, yet was more pleased in doing a good Office, than in making a fine Book; so that you will not be surprised, if she used her most earnest endeavours in begging an employ for a young Gentleman who had been recommended to her. The thing depended on a great Lord who was one of her Friends, and to whom she said a thousand good things of the Person whose interests she prosecuted. The great Lord examined the Person, he found him very fit, and that he wanted not sense; but he answered, he seemed to young for the business he was recommended. How, Sir, answered our generous Friend, will you reproach him with a fault, which we every day correct but too much against our wills? At the same instant as Dorante had said this, Word was brought that all was ready; the Company immediately arose, and set out to go to the new Opera. They saw it with a great deal of satisfaction; but the application which Dorante had to it, hindered him not from examining more than once Lisidor's Countenance. He was desirous to observe the effect which a splendid sight might produce in the mind of a young Man who had never seen the like. Cleonice consulted Lindamire's eyes for the same reason, and took notice that she and Lisidor concealed one part of their surprise. That they sometimes spoke, that they looked on the People of Quality which were in the Boxes; in a Word, that they did not like those great wonderers, whose ignorance is the only cause of their astonishment. As soon as ever the Curtain was let down before the Theatre, Cleonice and Belise turned themselves towards Dorante, and asked him how he liked what he had heard and seen? Dorante. I dare not give you my opinion of an Opera which I have but once seen. It's true I shall soon have an opportunity to satisfy your curiosity. Philemon has given the first sight of this Opera to Cleonice, Lisidor shall give the second to Lindamire; and perhaps he will admit us to bear him company. Cleonice. Having said enough about this Opera, I would willingly have Dorante tell us in general, whether one may reprehend any one before People; and after what manner we may speak of a work that is criticised in a Company? Dorante. I am of opinion that we ought to be very reserved in these occasions, but seeing you will have the Conversation turn on this Subject, instead of excusing myself, I will be the first to tell you my opinion of it. ENTERTAINMENT XIII. Whether it be fit to reprehend any one in Conversation. Dorante. THere are every day to be seen in Companies so many Persons who commit faults, in respect of Language, or good manners, that it will be an endless work for any Man to set about correcting them. Were it not better for Men to be easy in Conversation, to speak, and to let others do so too, than to be perpetual Dictator's, to quarrel with People about Words, to top every Body, and strive only to run all others down? I should be greatly troubled, should Lisidor (he will let me cite him) fall in any essential point in Conversation; and my Remedy would be to take up the discourse, to enter on the opinion which he should be of, or to mention the expression which he should have used; yet I would not direct my discourse to him, lest I put him in confusion, and make a Fault observable, which perhaps one part of the Company took no notice of. Cleonice. If one of your Friends, talking in Company, should use a manner of speaking little exact, or contrary to Custum, would you rather choose to leave him in his error, than make him know it? Belise. For my part I believe it were fit to reprehend him. Dorante. You might do it, yet with great Caution and Moderation. If the Friend, you suppose, had a mind to buy Horses, and that he said, I desired Erastus who knows Horses— I would not interrupt him, and demand pertly of him, What Horses does he know, Coach-Horses? On the contrary, I would make him note his Fault in saying thus, You cannot do better than to address yourself to Erastus, no body understands Horses better than he does. Should any one interrupt me unseasonably, and with little Civility, in these Terms; What is that you say there, I do not know what you mean, and yet I may say I understand English well enough? I do not speak as I should do then, would I answer him, without showing him any Discomposure; or I would repeat again the same thing more at large, and in a clearer manner. I do not doubt but this Moderation would produce two good Effects. It would gain me Esteem, and might soften the sharp Humour of the Person who controlled me. Erastus. But should you have a Work given you to examine, would not you freely speak your opinion of it? Dorante. You will not be against my making a distinction on what you demand. Should I be thought able to give good advice, and a Manuscript were put into my hand before it went to the Press, I would speak ingenuously what I thought of it; and should think myself unworthy the confidence put in me, did I deal in another manner. Thus you see, I am not always so complaisant as you have taken me to be. I will tell you too moreover, that it is not long since that an Author found me as untractable in matter of Sonnets, as Moliere's Misanthropos. He shown me one full of Antitheses, wherein a Lover complained of the death of his Mistress; I could not bear with all his juggle, and impatiently interrupting the Reader; How, Sir, said I to him, will you have this Man amuse himself in sporting with Words, instead of bewailing his misfortune? This is so beside the subject, that I doubt I shall not have patience enough to hear it out to the end. Erastus. Let me tell you a story of a young Author, who came from a little Town of Guienne to Paris, for the Printing a Piece for which he thought to gain the admiration of the Universe. One of his Friends advised him to address himself to some ingenious Man, and consult him before he exposed his Book to be criticised by the Public. This Country Author would by no means yield to this at first, thinking this advice fruitless for a Poem which had been approved in his Country, but at length he permitted himself to be led to Chapelain, apparently to acquire esteem for it, rather than to admit of corrections. He told him he came to show him an Epic Poem he had made at home, and that he would gladly hear so great a Master's opinion on his Work. To speak freely, answered Chapelain, you are to be commended for having undertaken so difficult a Work at your Age, and in a Country so far from all assistance, which one might have at Paris. Sir, replied the Author, I will dedicate this Poem to the Marshal d'Albret. You cannot make a better choice, replied the complaisant Chapelain, the Marshal is a Man of Wit, and he is Governor of your Province. You will be near a Maecenas, who will relish your Writings, and give you his protection. After these words the Manuscript was opened, and the young Wit read about 50 or 60 Verses. This beginning was wide, and had no coherence with the Subject, so that Chapelain telling him, I see, Sir, you have thought fit to treat of things at first in general, to descend afterwards into particulars which more closely relates to your Subject. Ah! Sir, cried the young Man, what satisfaction there is in consulting a Person like you, you know already the scope of my Poem, as well as if I had read it all to you. No sooner was this said, but People came in, the Lecture broke off, and our Author went out. He was so well pleased with the Visit he made, that turning himself towards him that had introduced him, You must acknowledge, said he to him briskly, that no first Book had so great success: I do not see how, answered his Friend, you can say that a Poem has succeeded before it comes abroad into the World; unless you do as the Marquis Moliere speaks of, who liked the Play before the Candles were lighted. To speak sincerely, Monsieur Chapelain has too great Indulgence; and if you will be ruled by me, we will consult some one that has less. They went to the Abbot d' Aubignac, and after the accustomed Civilities were passed, the Young Man told him that he had made an Epic Poem. So much the worse, replied the Abbot briskly, for I am sure you know not what an Epic Poem is, seeing that at your Age you set about a thing which the most consummate Learned Men dare not undertake. This Boldness shows me better than your Accent from what Country you come. But, Sir, replied the Author, with Astonishment sufficient, I composed this Work only to dedicate it to the Marshal d' Albret. You could not worse address yourself, replied the Abbot. Do not you know that the Marshal d' Albret is one of the finest Wits we have? That he loves to rally, and that he will laugh at you and your Poem? He being Governor of our Province— For this very reason, replied impatiently the Abbot, you ought not to lay yourself open to him, and expose yourself to be the Laughingstock of your Country. But, Sir, replied again the young Man, you speak of Faults, without having seen any; harken, if you please, and you may better judge afterwards: He took then immediately a Sheet, and read it, without allowing the Abbot so much time as to interrupt him. But before he came to the Sixth Verse, the Abbot d' Aubignac being tired with hearing it, said with some sharpness to him, I would gladly know, Sir, says he, whether this be the beginning of a Work of Piety, or of a Profane Piece, of an History or Fable? But, Sir, a little more Patience, till I— Pray tell me not of Patience, answered the Abbot, Virgil, who perhaps knew as well as you the Rules of an Epic Poem, says immediately that he sings the great Actions of that Hero who came first from the Trojan Shores into Italy. The young Author, being as it were Thunderstruck, goes to Chapelain to comfort himself. Sir, said he to him, I am lately come from the most intolerable Critic in the World, who is the Abbot d' Aubignac, who would not so much as suffer me to read seven or eight Verses of my Work. He told me my Beginning was not worth a Straw, and that it had no Relation to the Subject. I believe, answered Chapelain, that Monsieur the Abbot d' Aubignac is not wholly in the wrong; but however, the Business is not past Remedy, you can make another Beginning, and keep that of your Poem for the first Work you shall make. Cleonice. I like this Management of Beginnings, and I find no less agreeable this Opposition of an excessive Complaisance, and a Severity that proceeds to Extremity. Philemon. I did not believe Chapelain of this Humour, and I have had a very different Account of it, from that which Erastus gives us. I was told that the deceased Count de Fiesque, coming from the Play, met Chapelain, and told him he had been greatly diverted with the Sight of a Play he named him. Is it possible, Sir, answered him Chapelain, that so great a Man as you, and who has so great Wit, can behold with Pleasure a Comedy wherein the Characters are not upheld, wherein the Actors come and speak, without knowing why, nor how; and, in fine, wherein there's not the Observation of the least Rule? The Count was for reviewing the same piece with a greater Application. He considered better of it, and went afterwards to Chapelain, Pray, says he to him, restore me my Ignorance, I was greatly diverted with the Play before, but now I take no Delight in it. Dorante. It is certain, that for our Satisfaction, it is necessary we should behold sometimes the Plays on the Theatre with Indulgence. Can a Man divert himself with Harlequius' Emperor of the Moon, if in entering he leaves not his sound Sense and Rules at the Door? Philemon. Hereunto we may add, as I have already said, that it is dangerous being too complaisant, or too severe in the Advices one gives. The Abbot d' Aubignac was perhaps the Occasion on of the young Man's leaving Paris and his Studies; and on the other Hand, Chapelain might induce him to apply himself thereto with too great Negligence, and without Success. They enlarged themselves no farther on this Subject, and the Company judged it late enough to departed. Erastus, Philemon, Cleonice, Belise, and Lindamire went out, and returned home. A small time after Dorante and Lisidor supped, and still entertained themselves on the Care which was to be observed in reprehending and criticising in Company. Dorante. I believe a Man should be less hasty to answer, when his Advice is asked in Relation to Manners, and the ordering of one's Life. Besides the Presumption we show, when we give over hastily these kind of Advices, it seems as if we were sure of the Event, and that we may be justly responsible, when the Success answers not Expectation. So that we must let others speak, especially if they have more Experience than we, and let us not give in our Opinions before we are asked more than once. If we be obliged to answer, let it not be too affirmatively, let us modestly utter the Reasons which uphold our Opinion, and show we not in our Countenances, nor Discourses, an Air of Confidence, which may make us appear full of ourselves. I know you are not of an Age to be consulted, and there is little Likelihood that old Men will need your Advice, but young Persons may require it, and others too hereafter. Moreover I do not keep strictly to the giving you precisely the Precepts suitable to you; it will do you no Hurt to know others, to the end that minding the Persons who observe them, you will come the better to know the World. I doubt not but you are satisfied with the Company you have seen, they are extraordinarily well humoured and ingenious. You have taken notice how free they are, and remote from all constraint and affectation; you have seen nothing but what's easy, natural, and ingenious in what they say; it is this Air you must imitate, if you will please in Conversation. Lisidor. I would willingly know wherein it consists; methinks it is very apparent, yet it is hard to say precisely what it is. Dorante. You have reason, and I know not whether I can satisfy your Curiosity. ENTERTAINMENT XIV. Of the Air which is fit we should have in Conversation. Dorante. BUT instead of entering on a precise definition of a Word, let's rather examine what may regard Conversation in general. Your principal design is to please in the Conversation of the World, let's therefore see what may contribute to this Design. It is a great advantage to have a gallant Air, but it is an advantage which a Man can acquire but imperfectly by his endeavours. Nature must begin it in us, and we must afterwards cultivate these favourable dispositions. We may polish them, and perfect them by frequenting Persons who have already this Air, if we imitate them in their Conversation, and manner of behaviour. Lisidor. Is it not sufficient to please in Conversation, that we are able by our good Mien to give weight and relish to our Words? Dorante. A good Mien alone does not always produce this good effect; we see every day Country People, who are well shaped and of a good aspect, and yet are in no wise agreeable company. The Air I speak of, is the Soul of a good Mien; without this Air, it is very difficult to please; it is this gallant and polite Air, which renders every thing pleasing. It's seen on the Countenance, in a Discourse, , at Table, House-hold-stuff, Equipage, and even in Buildings. Most young People strive to out do one another in Gallantry, but they are less gallant than they think for. They do not moderate themselves enough, and their heat makes 'em carry things too far. The air of Politeness we speak of requires sweetness, and young People have I know not what that is brisk, which does not agree with the Character of a gallant Man. You have observed that they are commonly too hasty in taking up what is newest in Modes, and that they seldom fail of going beyond the bounds which a gallant Man should prescribe. Instead of a well contrived suit, they are for laying on the heavyest Lace or Embroidery they can get. If they give a Treat, they proceed to excess, and for their Equipage they are not contented with what's neat and fit, they add more Splendour than their Quality or Estate requires. They think of nothing but distinguishing themselves hereby, far from regulating their expense by their Revenue. Neither must a Man; torender himself agreeable in Conversation, utter only subtle things, or out of the common Road. It is not necessary to show a great stock of Learning, and a vast deal of Wit. It is sufficient to speak with an easy air, and that nothing savours of affectation and constraint, as I have already recommended to you more than once. I was very glad that you saw so soon Cleonice, Belise and Lindamire. The two first have a very ingenious manner, which may contribute to make you get the same air and the same tour. You will never part from them without profiting either in your Understanding or Will. You will meet with few Women whose Conversation is more agreeable; you may get by them such an air, as the reading of the best Authors, nor the most learned Conferences will never afford you. I likewise confess that I am not displeased at your seeing of Lindamire; it is natural for you to wish to please her, and it cannot be, having this design, but that you must endeavour to polish your mind, to make your humour sweet and insinuating, in a word, to acquire the qualities which may gain the esteem of Ladies. Moreover, the desire which one may have to touch the Heart of a fine Woman who has Quality and Merit, may serve as a preservative against a disorder wherein Persons of your Age do too often fall. Not that I pretend you should bond your visits to Cleonice, and that being so young you should begin to sigh in form for Lindamire. When you have made two or three Campaigns, I will ask your sentiments hereupon, and I will tell you mine. However, I must needs acknowledge to you, that I should rather see you fixed on Lindamire, than any other Person I know; but however I would not have this respect for her proceed so far as to hinder you from seeing other companies, and to make thence your observations of different humours. However I do not mean you should go from House to House, to flatter and make Courtship to Ladies who will not be displeased with it. A Man that makes this his business, will be so far from being respected as a gallant Person, that he will be accounted no better than an idle Fop. Now as to such directions as concern young Men in general. Have you not observed they fall often into defects contrary to the manners of polite Men? They laugh every moment so loudly, that their laughter is in no sort like the subtle smiles observable in the Conversation of polite Persons. They disengage Friends to draw them into other Companies, and instead of living respectfully with Women, they imagine it the best breeding to use 'em familiarly. That which I find strangest, is, that they sometimes proceed to swearing, like the rascally mean People. And yet it is not difficult to avoid these faults, and I wish you at no greater trouble in attaining the fine Air we spoke of. You have all the dispositions which can be desired, and I hope you will cultivate them with success. Lisidor. I have been an hundred times surprised to hear say, that Melicrates, whom you know, is a polite Person, yet we all agree in our Country, that he is far from what we call politeness. Dorante. There is much difference between a Man of great Air, and a Man that has the Air great; and I add, that we must no more confound a gallant Man, with a Man gallant. The first has this Air gallant, so much talked of in France, and which answers in some sort to the Urbanity of the Ancient Romans; the other may without politeness be a Woman's Gallant, or have an inclination to Gallantry in general. An old Man may please by the quality of Gallant Man, but he would be ridiculous if he made Gallantries in his old days. Lisidor. I suppose that when we say that such a Man has a good Air, we praise him less, than if we attribute to him the Air great, or the Air Gallant. Dorante. You need not doubt of it, and it is likewise certain, that the good Air agrees differently to the two Sexes, to all ages, and all professions. A Sword Man, has commonly an open and fierce Air, a Magistrate is grave; a Woman should have sweetness and modesty, but the Air great is the most rare; and sometimes among several Princes, we see few of 'em, whose Mien does denote the Elevation of his Rank. This is an advantage which we admire in the Person of the great Monarch, to whom you shall be presented, when I shall find you used to Conversation, and the Manners of the Men of the World. I will carry you first to several Persons of the Court, to the end that going afterwards to Versailles, you appear there the less surprised, and that you may find Persons to whom you may speak: It is there, more than in any Place of the World, that you will meet with Persons of all Airs which we have discoursed of. It is here that you will find more politeness and less Affectation, than in any Court in the World. Most here have the Air gallant, and there's scarcely any one but has a certain easy Air, which makes all the agreeableness in Conversation. Lisidor. I profess I should have confounded this Agreeableness you speak of with the Air Gallant. Dorante. It's true, they are like enough to one another, and they both please almost in the same manner. Yet what we call agreeableness is more general, it suits with more things, it insinuates itself more sweetly, it reaches to the Heart and touches it. The Air Gallant takes another course, it seizes on the Fancy, and gains Esteem: But to speak in general, nothing can please in Persons who have not a good Air. It's true, that one may in some sort obtain it, in being careful that ones Action be free, and in acquiring a facility of Speaking. Lisidor. I knew a Man who spoke with great Facility, and yet who did not at all please. It was thought that he studied what he spoke, and I observed that this Opinion which the World had of him, did not contribute to the procuring him a Reputation. I would know whether you will condemn this kind of Care? ENTERTAINMENT XV. Whether it be good to prepare ourselves for common Conversations. THE Reading every day of Books, and the People whom we every moment converse with, may serve as an insensible and continual Preparation for the Conversations wherein Chance may engage us. It is by these two ways that our Memory enriches itself with infinite Notices, which she imparts to us afterwards in occasions wherein we may need them. Lisidor. I know that the Memory has been ever considered, as a Treasurer to whom we must give a Fond, if we will draw the Assistances we need. Dorante. This is the justest comparison we can make of it; when we learn things agreeable, or instructive, we only intrust them to our Memories; this is a Pledge which she keeps only to restore it. She does as the Steward of an House, who receives the Revenue of his Master, only to pay away what is demanded. But both one and the other must be faithful, and there would happen a troublesome Disorder, if the Memory retained not enough, and the Steward retains a little too much. I know not how it comes to pass that I am fallen to sporting with Words. It's not my custom to do it; and tho' it has come in naturally enough, yet many will condemn it as a point of Affectation. Lisidor. The niceness of these People would be troublesome, your Conception is grounded on the Truth, and the Term, whose Repetition makes the Sport, suits equally with the Steward, and the Memory. But to return to the Question, Do you believe it is sufficient to prepare one's self in general, as you now said; or do you not think it good, that I should prepare myself on certain Subjects, which are likely to be the Entertainment of the Company where I may chance to be? Dorante. If you desire to have matters ready for all sorts of Conversations, you will without doubt set upon collecting all the remarkable things you read or hear related. You will reduce these Observations to a certain Order. On one side you will set down Tragical Events, Thrones overturned, strange Deaths, Misfortunes unforeseen, and, in general, whatever you find most Tragical. On the other Hand you will collect the happy Successes, as surprising Marriages, unexpected Promotions, in a Word, whatever has happened that is pleasing in the Revolutions wherein Fortune has been pleased to Favour those she loves. If being well provided, you go and recount your lamentable stories in an afflicted House; will your long Narrations be suffered in a Chamber wherein silence reigns, wherein is nothing seen but pale Countenances, and nothing heard but sighs and Groans? I believe they will be filled with indignation, to see you so little sensible of the misfortune which has happened to them; and if their grief will permit them to see you want no Memory, will they not likewise see too that you want judgement? Without doubt you'll adminster great consolation to a Woman whose Husband is lately assassinated, if you represent to her, that the first Empress of Rome suffered heretofore a more considerable loss. That it was when Caesar was stabbed in the Senate, and that this great Man knew among his Murderers, Persons whom he tenderly loved. Should not I have made a very diverting recital in dining at Philemon's, had I set to talking of the Banquet of the Seven Wise Men, and the Festival of Cleopatra? If we would affect Persons agitated with any Passion, we must entertain them only with adventures wherein they may take part, and reserve Historical Events for certain Conversation, which we may term sedate ones, or those which may be called Conferences. To return to the distinction which I am obliged to make, I must say, that in certain occasions you may prepare yourself for common Discourse, tho' it were perceived that you have studied what you shall say. In effect, if there comes Ambassadors from far distant Countries, and little known, you will easily imagine that this will be discoursed of in Companies where you may chance to be, and that you will not do amiss to instruct yourself in a matter which will be the entertainment of an infinite number of People. So that you will be pleased to see in a Map, the extent and situation of the Country whence these Ambassadors come. You will read in some Relation of Travels, the strength and Government of the Nation, you will endeavour to find out the Interest she has to seek our Alliance, or to have our Assistance or our Commerce. Lisidor. May not one likewise discourse of the different Formalities to be observed in the Reception of Ambassadors, according to the different States who send them, or according to the higher or lower Rank of the Ambassadors? I have heard say, that the Chief of the last Embassy of Muscovy, called himself Prince, and even a Kinsman of the Czars. But I confess to you, I know not what this Word Czar signifies, which yet I pronounce very boldly. Dorante. You must know then that the great Duke of Muscovy is not content with the Title of Emperor, but takes even that of Caesar, which the Muscovites pronounce Czar, this suppression of a Letter is common enough in all sorts of Languages, whether to soften the pronunciation, or render it less languid, by straightening the words. Lisidor. Methinks the Name of Caesar, which gives a great Idea, is not so long that it needs to be abridged, and I did not observe that we take in our French Words the liberty you speak of. Dorante. You have not then examined them, but you will change your sentiments, when you will hear say, Seurin and Merry, for Severin and Mederic. But I cannot excuse our Tongue, when she changes or abridges fine Names to make them disagreeable, as Thibaud of Theobald, Thierri of Theodoric, and Alix of Adelaide. I could cite you likewise the Names of several Houses and Towns which we pronounce otherwise than they are written, but our Business is not to enter on these particulars, it being better to return to the Advices which I began to give you. Lisidor. I had already profitably used that relating to Ambassadors. When the Algerins came to make their Submissions to the King; I failed not to instruct myself in what might be said of these Pirates, on their little State, their Government, their Ships, and the Forces of their Militia, which they dare call invincible. I had less pains in informing myself on the Riches and Commerce of Genoa, the Magnificence of those Palaces, which make her have the Title of Proud, and I especially enquired into the Authority of the Doge, seeing he was the Chief of the Republic, whom she was obliged to send into France. You may easily judge I had not the same facility in learning of the Kingdom of Siam what I would know of it. But the Embassy which came from so far a Country, being too extraordinary, not to be the subject of all Conversations, I read Relations enough, to find wherewith to make myself be harkened to in speaking of the Siamoises. Dorante. I am very glad you need not much of my advice in this matter; I shall only advise you to recall every Night the Ideas of what you have heard say, that is most agreeable and most instructive, and to examine after what manner, or by what discourse, certain Persons have had the opportunity of pleasing, in the time when others could not be heard, tho' they were brim full of discourse. But here's enough for to Night, it is time to end this Discourse, and to leave one another. You shall have brought you to Morrow Morning wherewith to you handsomely, and it is fit that Erastus, who is to come to take us with him, should find you ready to go along with him. We will go and see Persons of great distinction, and to whom I would very gladly have you go sometimes. You must be presented to them by Erastus, he can recommend you in such a manner, as is not proper for me to do, and I am sure he will have no less Address than Affection, when he is to do you good Offices. After these Words Dorante left Lisidor, and went into his Chamber. ENTERTAINMENT XVI. That to please in Conversation, a Man must be Master of his own Humour. THE next Morning Dorante was with Erastus, and Lisidor at the Prince Viridatus', where was commonly the rendezvous of the most ingenious and polite young Gentlemen of the Court. Viridatus offered Lisidor all the Civilities which Dorante could expect, and directed often to him his discourse, altho' he had a geat deal of Company that day with him. I know not, said he to him, with an obliging Air, whether you have not left in your Province something which your Heart may regret; but I am much mistaken, if this Country does not afford wherewith to comfort one, for whatever he may have left in others. Erastus. It's certain, there's nothing which can make Life easy, and even pleasant, but comes to Paris from all the Countries of the World, yet methinks we must except a certain kind of Liberty which one has in little Towns for Conversation and Behaviour. Viridatus. But what advantage can one make of a Liberty which leads to nothing? Is it worth the Constraint which contributes to our Fortune? At these words, a Person of Quality, named Pharnacius, took up the Discourse, and answered Viridatus in these terms. Pharnacius. I know not how a Prince of your Humour can approve a way of living, which is regarded as a continual torture. What, I shall never have the pleasure of speaking my real Sentiments? Were I grossly Ignorant, should I be obliged to praise the Sciences before Viridatus; to declare myself against them, how able soever I were, if I would please honest Timophanus? Is there any Grandeur, which a Man pays not too dear for, if it be bought at this price? Viridatus. You will be more surprised, if I tell you, that this kind of Constraint, which you represent to yourself so dreadful, gives more Satisfaction than Vexation. And in effect, is it for the sake of Timophanus, and Viridatus, that you commend or discommend the Sciences? Is it not for your own sake, that you accommodate yourself to the Humour of the Persons from whom you expect good Offices? Do you take for Dissimulation a stroke of Prudence which requires you to seem to enter into the Sentiments of a Man whom you would very willingly draw into yours, when your Interests require it? For my part I think you have right to applaud yourself, when you can insinuate yourself into opposite Humours: What Pleasure is it, in discoursing with a Learned General, to cite the Instructions which Aristotle gave to Alexander, the Eloquence which made Caesar famous before his Conquests, and the Politeness of Scipio, to whom it's said Terence owes that which appears in his Works. When, on the contrary, we entertain ourselves with a Warrior, who has nothing but his Courage, do not we take a fit course in mentioning only Captains, the single Impetuosity of whose Courage has made their Men victorious? Dorante. We may call that Man happy that has this Suppleness of Humour, and when Nature refuses it, we should esteem the Persons who endeavour to acquire it. Had I a Patron of a dumpish, restless, and suspicious Humour, I would not accost him with an open smiling Air: And should I go to a young Prince who loved Pleasures, I would not carry a Countenance whose Melancholy and Austerity would seem to condemn all Joy. Lisidor. I know not whether this be not an approving of Inequality and uneven Tempers in maintaining such an Opinion. Dorante. A Change which is grounded on Reason, cannot be called Inequality; we see every moment, that the Commerce of Life requires that we speak indifferently in the same Day. I should be wanting in Civility, if I did not go and rejoice with a Friend who had married advantageously, and I should yet commit a more considerable Fault, should I not appear sensible of the Afflictions of one of my Relations, who had just lost his only Son. A Man that will only live for himself alone, and take no part in what may happen to others, must renounce the World, and retire with his Indolency into Solitude. Shall I go into a Company to show there a Passion contrary to that which reigns therein? Must I discover a Mien which condemns the Senments with which the Company is prepossessed? Viridatus. Nothing is more opposite to the Maxims of the civil Society than this Conduct, and a Person who shall obstinately follow it, will be in Danger of never getting Friends. All the Ancients have admired the easy Humour of Alcibiades, and we still wonder that a Man could so well accommodate himself to the different manners of Countries where he lived. Nothing was so much talked of at Athens, as his Eloquence and Gallantry. Among the Persians he was always feasting, and nothing was seen more splendid than his Dress and Equipage. But he passed over to other opposite Manners, when he was obliged to go to Sparta. The most regid Lacedaemonian led a Life less austere than his Pharnacius: It's certain, that Alcibiades was not content with following the divers Custums of Nations, but he moreover distinguished himself by a more exact regularity in practising them. Erastus. We may regard the Conduct of this famous Greek, as a Complaisance of Manners, if one may speak thus. This is a quality which gains mightily on the People. It is necessary for Persons who travel, and are designed for Embassies; yet we may justly say, that this Complaisance of action is neither so necessary nor of so frequent use as the complaisance of words. We have every moment occasion of yielding to the Opinions of Persons whom we have a design to please, and it seldom happens that we are obliged to quit our Modes and Customs, to take those of Strangers. Virdatus. Methinks we should not regret the time spent, in learning how to enter delicately into the sentiments of others. Dorante. Herein appears the address of the Men of the World. They never approve, without endeavouring to justify the approbation they have given; so that their Reasons cannot be disagreeable to those whose side they take; they testify to the rest of the Company that there's neither affectation nor flattery in their discourse. Erastus. To return to our subject, we may say, that tho' we be Masters of our humour, yet we must never abuse this power, in betraying our Sentiments, in maintaining an error, or in giving Praises to words or actions which do not deserve it. Pharnacius. But if you follow your own opinion, if you praise only things praise worthy, and you take no party which you cannot justify by reasons, what violence do you suffer yourself, and wherein do you appear Master of your Humour? Erastus. When I sacrifice it to that of others, when I renounce my own Will, to accommodate myself to others, to whom I am willing to give tokens of my submission. I will undertake a Journey which shall be proposed to me, in a time wherein I would rather choose to lie still; and I shall suffer myself to be engaged in a splendid divertisement, which will cast me into an expense and trouble, which I should have been very glad to avoid. Thus my actions will show the deference I have; my words, and even silence will give no small tokens of it. If a Prince, whom I would not willingly displease, commends an ill Man, that has disobliged me, and whom he does not well know, I will overcome my resentment, and add to a motion of generosity, a submission which will make me silent, when I cannot be of the same opinion of a Person whom I will not offend. Viridatus. It seems to me that it should be chief to Women that a Man should subject his Humour, there being many Capriccios to be born from them. As the greatest part among them do not strive to be over Constant, so we do not make our Court right to them, if we do not change with them; yet see how far their lightness leads. It being to the handsomest among them to whom we chief endeavour to render ourselves agreeable, from them therefore we must expect to suffer most. Besides, that they have no less inconstancy, it is certain that the continual flatteries wherewith they are fed, make them generally more vain, and less equitable. Dorante. Yet I should think, that having the Charms you speak of, they should be so well satisfied as to have their Spirits less envious, and more quiet. Lisidor. Moreover we are naturally led to use a deference to Persons that please us. Viridatus. I am much mistaken, Lisidor, if Nature alone has showed you that it is of her you have the inclination you speak of. Some fine Lady or other has opened your eyes on what you feel. However, I must not yet pretend to be your Confident; and I well know that in the first engagments we are pleased with making a mystery of every thing. Pharnacius. Your Conjectures perhaps are better grounded than you think. There is a very lovely young Woman come to Erastus, for whom already I am told Lisidor sighs. Viridatus. I know it, and will undertake that he will sigh no longer than Dorante and Erastus shall think fit. You speak of a Sister of Cleonice, that is very young and handsome. Erastus can tell us news of her, whilst we are making ready to go to his House, to see whether he gives us a faithful relation. Erastus. I will not tell you that Lindamire is Old, Cleonice who is her Eldest Sister will never forgive it. Yet I will acknowledge to you she will soon be fourteen, and I know not whether this Age can well suit with a Lover that has seventeen, and who is not to be Married before he be twenty. Viridatus. This agedness will be intolerable both to the one and the other; but will you tell us whether Lindamire be as disagreeable as she is Old? Erastus. It belongs not to me to answer this question, Lisidor can better satisfy your Curiosity. Dorante. Yet he has less seen Lindamire than you have. Erastus. He has seen her less, but he has better beheld her. Lisidor. After the War which has been made me, I dare not speak of Lindamire. The Praises which I should give her will be suspected, and if I speak things as I feel them, I may make them be felt likewise by others, and that is what I shall avoid, if you please. At these Words Viridatus embraced Lisidor, and spoke to him in this manner. Viridatus. If we judge of you by the dispositions you have, and by the continual Entertainments you will have with Dorante and Erastus, a Man needs not be a great Divine to say you will be one of the finest Men of the Court. Erastus. I must needs say that Dorante and I find no less our reckoning in the conversation of Lisidor, than Lisidor can draw advantage in ours. At his arrival from a far Country, we hear him at Paris with as much attention and pleasure, as they would have in his Province, in speaking of a Polite Man of this Town. Viridatus. I believe Dorante is much troubled at it. Erastus. You may judge, and I can assure you I am so too, although I be not Lisidor's Kinsman. Viridatus. You respect him as Dorante's Nephew, but it will not be long before you have other reasons to espouse his interests. Scarcely had they ended these Words, but other Company came in; Dorante, Erastus, and Lisidor dexterously got away, and were no sooner in their Coach, but Erastus demanded of Dorante, how he intended to spend the rest of the Morning? Dorante. In visiting the Prelate whom you know: But there are reasons for Philemon's being of the Company. Erastus. We need only go and take him up, we shall find him undoubtedly at home, for he expects I should send him Word whether we shall go together to Versailles: For Lisidor we shall not consult him on the visits he would make, till he has acquaintances by himself, and separate from yours. Lisidor. However the good dress I am in reproaches me, that I have not yet returned thanks to Cleonice for the pains she has taken. I know, answered Erastus smiling, that you are very thankful, when you have bought you; and having a Compliment in your head, which you would be gladly eased of, I need only bid my Coachman drive home. He shall go afterwards for Philemon, and so every body will be pleased. They were no sooner arrived, but that they light at the door, sent the Coach to Philemon, and went up to Cleonice's Apartment. Madam, said immediately Erastus in presenting Lisidor, here's a Gentleman who tells me he is ready to die with desire to see you. I bring him to you, and with the less constraint, in that I am sure he came not wholly to admire you. Cleonice. Methinks you might have a better opinion of me. Erastus. I confess it, but it were well if Lisidor had not so good a one of Lindamire. Lisidor. You see, Madam, that I am not so much as allowed the time to thank you as I ought. I am continually set upon, to see after what manner a Man of my Age can disengage himself; however I have a better Office done me than is imagined. The sentiments which I have are made known, which I dare not declare myself. Cleonice. You cannot have any that can be disapproved, and therefore the assistance which you say is given you, is not necessary to you. In this moment Lisidore and Lindamire could not forbear looking on one another and blushing; Cleonice observed it, and resumed the discourse, to turn the conversation on another subject. Cleonice. It is not possible that you have made your visits. You have put them off till another Day, or not met with those you went to see. Dorante. We come from Viridatus, and we expect Philemon to go together to a Prelates, where a business which we have calls us. I am pleased to see the surprise wherein Lisidor will be, in hearing Erastus' discourse learnedly on the most serious and important matters, having as yet only seen him in his merry Humour. I wish you had heard him the other Day on the new Conversations of France, you— Erastus. I read, on this subject, a Manuscript, which is going to the Press, and the opinion I had of it, made me say things which Dorante finds extraordinary in a Man of 〈◊〉 Humour. Cleonice. That which you now ●ay puts me on a reflection whence I may draw some profit. You gave some Days past Maxims for Conversation, and you said nothing of what is most important therein. Which is to know after what manner one should talk of what respects Religion. Dorante. You have reason, Madam, and we cannot better spend the time we have, than in making some observations on so considerable a matter. ENTERTAINMENT XVII. That we must speak reverently of Holy Things. Erastus. I Know not any Man that loves mirth better than I do; I will have it reign in my House, and I endeavour to inspire it whithersoever I go, and I every where affirm it to be the best and most universal remedy that we can use in our misfortunes. Yet I may say there's no body has more aversion to Libertinism. I look on it as a Rock that we must avoid, and I shun a Libertine, as a Man infected with the Plague. Not that I fear his pretended reasons will make any great impression on my mind, but that I scorn them, and am ashamed to be seen with them, as imagining them worse than Beasts. Cleonice. I believe that those who speak little respectfully of Religion, and who scoff at the things they ought to reverence, are led to this extravagance only by a ridiculous Vanity. I believe they would distinguish themselves, and that they intent only to show their Wit in maintaining particular Opinions, contrary to such as are generally received. Yet perhaps this Irregularity passes not ove● into their Morals. Erastus. However this is true, that there is no better Preservative against all sorts of Irregularities than Religion. That which hinders Women from being drawn as often into this Disorder as Men, is, that they do not so soon lose the Impressions of Piety, which we all receive in our Education. Cleonice. The Ignorance wherein we are kept, the Modesty which is every moment recommended to us, and the continual Submission wherein we spend our Life, are advantageous to us, in that they contribute to what we ought to believe, and therefore thank God it is not us that are charged with being the Authors of Heresy. Lindamire. I have heard talk of a Sect lately discovered at Rome. Cleonice. I have always had a Desire to entreat Dorante to relate to me the chief Particulars of it, but I forgot till now to mention it to him. This occasion of doing it offers itself too naturally to neglect it. Will you refuse, Dorante, to let me know wherein this Heresy consisted? Dorante. You well judge, Madam, that I will do what you please, yet you must permit me not to enter on particularising the Errors which the Quietists followed. For thus were those called who embraced this Sect. They drew this Name from the Rest they pretended to enjoy when they had raised their Souls to Contemplation by the means of a Prayer they recited. They held it was sufficient for them to make an Act of Faith, and set themselves in the Presence of God, and to rely wholly on his Providence. This was methinks a good way to draw abundance of People; whether that being lazy, they choose rather to yield themselves up after this manner that they may not act; or that they had the Vanity to believe themselves capable of well contemplating. If Women, as you now say, are not the Authors of Heresies, yet we see 'em ready enough to follow those they are taught, as either being desirous of new things, or suffering themselves to be taken with the fine appearances, wherewith the Errors which are proposed be generally disguised. However it be, several Persons of your Sex followed the Opinions of Molinos the Chief of the Quietists. It is true, this Spaniard passed for a Saint before he was discovered to be an Heresiarch. You know, Madam, that he has abjured his Errors, and that he is shut up for the rest of his Life. Erastus. One may in a Conversation relate the History of an Heresy, recite the Establishment of it, the Progress and Decay of it; for there is none but we have seen destroyed in the end. Dorante. However we should never mix with these Relations, any thing which may make these Novelties relish. They are sometimes more dangerous than the Opinions of Libertines. To convince these latter, I need only entreat them to consider the Course of the Sun, the Motions of the Stars, and the productions of the Earth. They will see that Man could not set that Order which we admire in the Universe, he that cannot regulate so much as a simple Digestion in himself, and who has been so long ignorant of the Circulation of the Blood in his own Veins. Must it not be acknowledged that he who so well governs so vast a Machine, must needs be a wise and infinitely powerful Being; and if he be such a one as we say, can we refuse him our Adorations? I would willingly know after what manner we should regulate the Worship which should serve to testify our Acknowledgement and our Submission? Must this be the Fancy of some frantic Enthusiast, or by the Pious Maxims of great and holy Personages which have been always in the Universal Church? This matter is too fine and large to be included in our Entertainments. Instead of engaging ourselves therein, it is sufficient to make known to you in few words, that it is no hard matter to shut the Mouths of the Libertines, provided they prefer not their Obstinacy to the Reasons wherewith one may convince them. However I would not have those who maintain the right side to appear puffed up with their advantages; they must speak with good sense, with respect, and without sharpness and ostenation. Whilst Dorante ended these Words, Erastus' Coach was heard to come before the Door, and presently Philemon and Belise entered into Cleonice's Chamber. Philemon. You expected me alone, and I bring my Spouse with me. She comes to stay with Cleonice, if we go to Versailles, where I know that Dorante and I shall meet with a Prelate whom we design to see this Morning. Erastus. We shall do better to eat what may be presently ready, and to go all together. I will leave you to do your business, and make your Court as long as you please, and I will take care to satisfy the curiosity of Lisidor, and Lindamire. The Company having consented to what Erastus proposed, such orders were given as were fit for so small a journey. Philemon. I must tell you, that Belise's coming has occasioned me to make you stay so long, and I entreat you to pardon me, if I did not know that as long as you be together we shall never believe you in danger of being weary. Cleonice. It's true that Dorante has entertained us in an elegant and easy manner, on a very nice and important subject. He has showed us in what terms and after what manner we may speak of our Religion, and I am so satisfied with it, that I wish Belise had her share in the Entertainment. Philemon. Perhaps she would have had less pleasure than you imagine: For it is certain it is not for discourses of this kind that she has the greatest curiosity. Belise. My ignorance is the cause. I am ever afraid that it would cast me into errors, however good my intentions may be. But you know I am not so fearful in other matters. I speak with a tone of assurance of the Customs of People, and the Government of States, when I enter on the politic Humour you so often twit me with. Cleonice. Ah, Belise, you are then bolder than I am; for I confess, that of the three sorts of distinct Governments, I dared never speak of any but the Monarchical. Neither would I hazard myself in pronouncing the names which relate to the different Republics we know. Belise. And I say audaciously Aristocracy and Democracy▪ and without Vanity I have not been four Months a learning these two words. Cleonice. For my part I should be three years on resolving whether I should speak them, and after so long a term, I believe I should remain still irresolute. Erastus. Let's leave these Jests, if you please, and whilst Breakfast is getting ready, let's entertain ourselves with a Science which Belise and all great Persons prefer before others. Belise. Rally as much as you will; but if Dorante will take my part, I will consent that he shall talk alone, and you will see whether my opinions be ill maintained. Cleonice. We like this expedient well, and Dorante, never refusing to comply with his Friend's proposals, he will accept your offers, and we shall thereby be gainers. ENTERTAINMENT XVIII. That State affairs must be discoursed of with great reservedness. Dorante. I Will speak then, seeing you enjoin me, and will first say that I put a great difference between Foreign Affairs and those which relate to us. We may speak our opinions touching the Government of other Nations with as much boldness as Belise does, supposing we understand the Interests and Maxims of them. But when we are pleased to discourse on the State under which we live, we should never extend our conjectures too far, nor affect to appear too penetrating. You know nothing does more contribute to the happy success of an enterprise, than the secrecy observed therein. The Captains themselves whom the King chooses to excute his designs, commonly know what they are going about, and learn it only by the Orders which they must not open, but at certain times, and in certain Places. After such exact precautions, can our affairs be mentioned with an affirmative tone? Dare we reason on uncertain conjectures? Persons of good sense never talk of those matters but with great modesty, and for my part I can only forgive this imprudence in Persons who are incapable of making any reflection. How many do we hear every Day censuring that Government which they do not understand, they make War and Peace according to their Fancy, and wholly busy themselves in hearing News, and modelling the affairs of State, when their Families at home are perhaps ready to starve for want of Bread. It's true, that since the King has so considerably increased his States, the Govenment is not so much spoke against. Philemon. I would willingly know whether there can be found any appearance of reason for the not admiring it. Foreigners are no less surprised than ourselves at what passes every Day in this Kingdom. We may cite, as a kind of Miracle, the Conjunction which we have seen made of the Canal of Languedoc with the Sea: The stately Building in the Plain of Grenelle deserves no less our admiration, than the magnificence we see at Versailles, and the Security which is now at Paris and all the rest of the Kingdom. Dorante. Whereunto we may add those incomprehensible Machine's at Versailles, which triumph over Nature, and force Rivers to take Beds where the imagination cannot conceive they can ascend. Belise. I will tell you then, that if the King was not our Master by the right of his Birth, and that it was permitted us to choose a Sovereign, his merit would immediately claim the Sceptre which he holds from the Salic Law. Cleonice. What a Pleasure you have done me in citing this Law, which I have heard termed a fundamental one of the State. It is so often mentioned, that I would willingly know what may be said particularly of it. Erastus. I believed, Madam, that having read the History of our Nation, you are sufficiently instructed in this matter. Cleonice. I know that this Law takes its name from the Saliens, a considerable People among the Ancient French; or that it is called Salic, because it was published near the Banks of the River Sala. I have also observed, that this Law has three parts relating to the Government: The first requires the State to be Monarchical. The Second, That it be successive. And the Third, at which I am not a little grieved, deprives the Persons of our Sex of the succession to the Crown. It's said 'twas Pharamont who instituted this Law, but I wish any one would tell me the reasons he had thus to regulate the Sovereignty of our Nation; to the end that if I should speak of it before Belise, she might not laugh at my ignorance. Erastus. I am to tell you, Madam, that Belise, and the rest of the Politicians of our time, are persuaded that the Salic or Ripary Laws respect only the Justice and Policy which is to be observed among the French, and that they speak in no sort of the Sovereign adminstration of the affairs. They affirm, that the Law, which requires the State to be Monarchical, and to be ordered in the manner we now related, was never written but in the Hearts of the People. They pass farther, and believe there never was any Pharamont. They ground themselves on that Gregory of Tours, who wrote the History of the French, speaks not a word of Pharamont, and it is certain that he would never have failed to mention a Prince, who was the first King of the Nation, of which he had undertaken to leave us the most considerable adventures. Belise will inform you of several other particulars. Belise. What can I not say? However I am willing you should treat me as if I were not knowing, and you should tell me the Reasons which Cleonice requires of you, that I may see whether you can justify what so famous a Law enjoins. Philemon. Have you not Apprehension that your Policy will make us exceed the Bounds which our Entertainments prescribe? Belise. Why fear it? Do we not grant the liberty of talking on all sorts of Subjects? And would you have the Principles of a Science omitted, which places a Man above multitudes of others? I hope the Company will punish you, and oblige you to speak the first your Opinion on the Monarchical State. Do you prefer it to other Governments? Philemon. I find you very forward, in that you will not expect till the Assembly authorises what you enjoin; but I see 'tis time ill spent to correct you, and that it is better submitting to you. I will tell you then, Madam, that one may soon determine ones self on this Subject. We must be for Monarchy, and consider there is more Ease and Security in obeying one Master, than if we were constrained to acknowledge several. It is certain, that Divisions do easily get among Persons who share the Sovereignty, and that it is very difficult keeping a Secret among them; judge then what we may fear from one and the other. Moreover, a King is too much accustomed to Grandeur, to appear giddy-headed with it; whereas it is but too often seen, that Citizens, who are immediately exalted to the Throne, become intolerable through their Pride. Belise. Well, you have said enough; pray now let's see whether Erastus will declare himself for the Regal Succession, or for Elective Kingdoms. What say you, Sir, Do you judge the People in a better Condition who have a Right to choose their Sovereigns, than those who are obliged to receive them, for better for worse, from the Hands of Nature? Erastus. You do not consult me on a matter difficult enough to gain me any Credit; and there is no body but may easily determine himself herein. We see it seldom happen, but that the Presumptive Heir of the Kingdom is Educated according to the Rank which he must one Day possess. Such Sentiments of Clemency and Equity are inspired into him, as may contribute to the People's Happiness; whereas the like Education is not bestowed on particular Persons, who are too far distant from the Throne, to make it thought that they will one day possess it. Judge of the Factions which are formed for an Election of this Importance; and into what Wars these Factions may draw the People. These Troubles are not feared in successive Kingdoms, therein happens no change. If a King dies, his Son takes his Place, and several Reigns appear but one continued Reign. It is not to be supposed, that only Persons remarkable for their Virtues are chosen, and in whom there can be found no Fault, seeing these Persons use all their Industry to dissemble and hid their Vices, and to adorn themselves with Qualities becoming their Ambition: But when they have gotten their Aim, and have nothing more to desire or fear, they then throw off their Masks, and abandon themselves to all manner of Dissoluteness. I could give a great many Examples of this; but you will find enough in the Roman History, if you will take the Pains to read it. Belise. You see, Dorante, that I have reserved the difficultest part for you, according to my mind, seeing it now lies upon you to tell us by what reasons the Salic Law could exclude Women from succeeding their Fathers, and deprive them of what Nature allowed them. Dorante. It troubles me, Madam, that I am not so sensible of the Honour you do me, and to tell you that the Salic Law had an admirable foresight in this third part which you condemn. If this Kingdom should fall into the Feminine Line, and we saw a presumptive Heiress of the Crown, to what Misery should we not be reduced? In effect, should it happen that the Princess would choose a Husband among her Subjects, those who expect this Honour, would make strong Parties, and carry things to a greater extremity, than in Elective Countries, seeing the prize is no less than a Crown, which would pass to their Descendants, and remain for ever in their Family. He that has the good fortune to be preferred, will be so unhappy as to be hated of his Rivals, the greatest Men at Court, and who will never faithfully serve him. If on the contrary, the Heiress of a Kingdom should cast her eyes on a neighbouring Prince, to bestow on him her Heart, and her Sceptre; we should fall under the Domination of a stranger, our Monarchy would become a Province of his States. Thus, Madam, you see you have no reason to complain of the injustice done your Sex, you must rather think this was ordered for the best; seeing hereby is prevented all those dismal Revolutions which I have now denoted to you. Belise. I must needs acknowledge you have satisfied me with your Reasons, although they be not very favourable to Ladies. I believe that Cleonice is in the same sentiment, and that she is not troubled that I have been so curious. Cleonice. You shall see that I will not be behind hand with you in another kind. You have declared yourself an able Politician, and I must declare to you, that I have particularly applied myself to the study of Morality. Moreover, I will be no less complaisant, than you: I consent that Dorante, Philemon, and Erastus tell us after what manner we should speak of Passions, Vices, and Virtues; and I offer to show you afterwards, whether their Opinions be conformable, of contrary to those I maintain. The Company having laughed at the pleasantry of Cleonice, it was granted that there was no matter which oftener fell into Conversation, than that she came from proposing, so that it was resolved on, that some time should be spent in discoursing on that subject. ENTERTAINMENT XIX. That to speak justly of the Passions, of Vices and Virtues, we should ordinarily descend from a general Discourse into particular Distinctions. Cleonice. BEfore we enter on the subject we are to treat of, I would willingly know what it is to speak justly? Philemon. I can boldly say I understand the justness which is found in an expression, but I acknowledge I should be puzzled to say wherein it consists. Dorante can clear up this point. Dorante. I am persuaded that what does most contribute to the justness of a discourse is, when there happens a real relation, or a real opposition between the terms, and between the things which are put together. Thus I should not speak justly should I say that Lisidor is of Provence, and Philemon an Officer of the Kings; seeing there is no relation, nor opposition between a Country and an Office. Neither should I any more speak justly, if being willing to testify my acknowledgement to Cleonice, I should explain myself in these terms. I return Graces to a Person who has 'em infinitely. This is properly what we may call a Galamathias, and it is very hard to understand two words which are tied together without any relation. In effect, in the first Place the Word Graces signifies only thanks, and the other Word which is understood, is only taken for some agreableness of the Countenance, or of the Person. I might moreover give you infinite Examples on this defect of justness, but I shall content myself with telling you, that it is chief in comparisons, where it is to be chief avoided. I should speak ill, should I say that the Barb Isabel of Philemon is as fine as the Diamond which Erastus wears, tho' it be permitted me to esteem one as much as the other, and to offer an Hundred Lewis' for the Horse as well as for the Ring. But we should not compare the Beauty of a Stone with that of an Animal, which is to say, two things which have neither any relation or opposition between them. Erastus. I found yesterday Juvenal lying on one of my Friend's Table, I opened it, and 'twas exactly on a passage of his sixth satire, where he speaks of the manner after which the Women of those times coifed themselves. He describes the bucklings and coiffing several Stories high which a wanton Dame wore, and says that her Size was so tall with them, that she might be taken for another Andromacha, in beholding her before; but if you viewed her behind, she appeared only to be a little Woman. Now let it not displease Juvenal, if I say he did not speak justly, he had cited Andromacha, he should then have opposed a Woman famous for her little Stature. Cleonice. Whence should he have taken it? Perhaps History mentions none. People do not usually take notice of a Quality so little recommendable. Erastus. Juvenal should then have chosen a tour which might furnish him with a just opposition, and have said that this Lady might have been taken for a Giant before, tho' she appeared but a Dwarf behind. Belise. I now undestand what is contrary to the justness of an expression, and you imagine well that the rest of the Company comprehends it yet better. And therefore we may speak of the matter which Cleonice has given us, and acknowledge in the beginning, that there is nothing so dangerous as the passions. For my part I am persuaded, that could our Hearts free themselves from their Tyranny, we should enjoy a serene and happy Life. Cleonice. It's true, that the greatest part of the World regards Ambition, Love and Hatred as the Springs of all Evils, and it is commonly their violence which leads to the committing of the injustices which we see in the World. Dorante. We grant you that the impetuosity of the passions hurries but too often to the committing of crimes, but can she not likewise be of great use in the leading us to Heroic Virtue? Without Ambition we should see no Conqueror, hear nothing of Alexander nor Caesar, and none of those glorious Actions would be performed which procure an immortal Reputation. So that instead of condemning the Passions, I rather wish a good use were made of them, and that they were rendered profitable. We love the effects of Clemency and Compassion, we admire that which the love of Glory produces, and the sequel of Infamy. And however decried Fear is, yet in a thousand occasions she makes up one part of Prudence. It is from her that we foresee evils, and avoid them. What may we not moreover observe, if we examine the other passions? Erastus. It seems to me that we have only the passion of Love to examine, there being scarcely any other but it. It takes different names according to the difference of its objects. Ambition is only the love of Greatness; Covetousness the love of Riches; and Hatred, which appears so opposite to Love, is, to speak properly, only a disguised Love; seeing we have only aversion for that which is offensive to us, because we love our own preservation. Philemon. When we had only to explain what Love is, do you think we should be without Perplexity? Although it be so natural and general a Passion among an infinite Number of Persons which feel it, you will find few that can tell you what it is. You may be persuaded of what I say by this Philosopher, who says that Love is I know not what, that comes from I know not where, and goes away I know not how. Dorante. We are so little accustomed to enlarge ourselves on this Subject we speak of, and to engage ourselves in Subtleties which serve only to tyre the Mind, that I do not think we ought to discuss the Nature of Passions. Those who are minded to inform themselves farther, may read the Works we have on this Subject, and in the mean time content themselves with the Distinctions which we have promised to bring. It must be acknowledged that we are to blame in condemning the Passions, and in being afraid of them. They are indifferent in themselves, and if it happens they sometimes disturb the Tranquillity of our Life; there are other Occasions wherein they are of great Help to us. Men without Boldness, would they march to Glory through Fatigues and Dangers? Let's make another Distinction, Shall we call a Man valiant who has done a great Action by an Impetuosity of Boldness, and shall we accuse of Cowardice a Person that panic Terror has seized in some Occasion? True Valour is, when in every Rencounter our Courage disposes us to vanquish the Obstacles which oppose our Designs; as a Man must not pass for a Coward, but when 'tis his Custom to avoid Danger. Thus we may reason on the other Vices, and on the other Virtues. A Magistrate is not to be praised as just, for having done Justice once. To merit this Commendation, he must be in a firm and constant Disposition to render to every one what belongs to him. Cleonice. I have for this Quarter of an Hour had a Desire to ask you the Reason for the calling Passions, those Emotions which agitate the Heart. Erastus. It is because they make the Body suffer through their Violence. Belise. I return then to what I have ever said, that the Passions are Monsters which are to be rooted out. Philemon. Are you willing to begin with Shame? Women will be very much obliged to you. You will free them from a Passion which keeps them in a strange sort of Bondage. Were they once without Shame, they would have the Pleasure of doing what they liked, without troubling themselves about what the World calls Reputation. Erastus. It's true, that Shame serves as a Guard for our Women, and there are other Passions which are necessary for the Commerce of Life. The Compassion we have for the miserable, leads us commonly to secure one another in our Misfortunes. Dorante. Does not Emulation excite to obtain the Advantage we want, to raise us to the Persons we see above us? Cleonice. But is there not a Mixture of Envy in Emulation? Erastus. Nothing is more different than these two Passions. Emulation is lively and generous, and Envy base and malicious. The first is a Regret at our small Desert, the other a Vexation which arises from the Merit of others. Emulation would raise us, and Envy would abase what is above us. In fine, nothing is more worthy of our Contempt than Envy, nothing is more commendable than Emulation. It made Caesar weep at the Sight of Alexander's Picture, and hindered Themistocles from sleeping near the Trophies of Miltiades. You know what Caesar and Themistocles afterwards executed. Philemon. As to what regards Vices and Virtues, I would speak differently of them, according to the different Circumstances thereto joined. There was seen heretofore in Greece a Republic wherein Theft was pardoned, provided it was committed dexterously; and you know well that Robbery found not the same Impunity in any other Country. Erastus. We have at this Day Neighbouring Nations where the Customs are very different. If Dorante would be praised for his Temperance, probably he would not go to search Applause on the Banks of the Rhine, as you would not advise me to go towards the Tiber, if you proposed excessive drinking. Cleonice. Are Distinctions to be made when we speak of Virtue in general, is it not equally reverenced by all Nations? Dorante. Every body does not regard it in the same manner, and I know not whether it will not puzzle us to say precisely what it is. It's true, there is a natural Equity which is generally approved; but it is not less certain that it is diversely practised. There never was any Obligation more indispensable, than that requiring Children to serve those who brought them into the World, especially when they are grown old, and find themselves afflicted with Diseases. All the People of Europe observed so just a Maxim; and yet the Scythians, who possessed more Country than Europe comprehended, accused those Children of Inhumanity who let their Parents live under an incurable Malady. For their Parts they gave the fatal Blow as a Stroke of Grace, and thought it just to terminate thus their Parent's Misery. They extended further their pretended Charity. They eat their Bodies instead of burning or interring them, imagining nothing more pious than to give this Sepulture to their Parents, for to change them into their proper Substance, and make them live again in themselves as far as it was in their Power. Consider this well. The Scythians commend a Man who comes from committing a Parricide, and other Nations punish him as the greatest Criminal. Erastus. In speaking of the different Manners of People, we may cite the Punic Faith, which is to say, the little Fidelity the Carthaginians observed in their Promises. It's certain, the Romans had more Probity, and I should have more relied on the Word of Regulus, than the Oaths of Hannibal and all his Army. Philemon. I think it more usual to distinguish the Vices and Virtues according to the Professions of Persons, than according to the Customs of their Country. A Virtue renders us recommendable only according as it is suitable to us. A Person consecrated to the Service of the Altar should prefer the Knowledge of Religion to all other Sciences, and his Piety must be so great as to make his, Words and Actions exemplary. A Soldier must glister after another manner, Valour should be his Virtue; and what regards Military Discipline, or the Art of Fortification, should be his chief Study. Cleonice. But can I not be told precisely what this Virtue is in general, so much talked of? Dorante. It is not an easy matter wholly to satisfy you on this Subject, so diversely has the Virtue you speak of been considered. I know not whether you will approve of an Opinion which I find the most plausible. I am persuaded that this Virtue, of which we form so fine an Idea, and which is believed so proper to make us live happily, is properly what we call Justice. Belise. But is not Justice the particular Virtue of Magistrates? Dorante. It should be the Virtue of all People, and had we all that stock of Equity necessary for the Commerce of Life, we should need neither Law nor Magistrates. Men would render whatever they are obliged to render, and they would begin by the Worship due to God. Subjects would obey their Sovereigns, Children their Parents, and as no body would claim what does not belong to him, there would be no mention of Thefts nor Murders; even Detraction would be banished all Societies. Whilst Dorante ended these words, word was brought, that the Meat was on the Table, and Erastus being risen up, You must acknowledge yourselves, said he, greatly surprised at the Novelty of my Compliment; for I know not whether I shall begin with Gentlemen, or Ladies; you must draw me out of this Perplexity; and for the rest, I know it by Heart. The Company having laughed at the serious Air wherewith Erastus spoke this, answered, that he might use his Liberty; so that he reassumed the Discourse in these terms. Erastus. Come let's end at Table this Discourse of Distinctions. You'll soon distinguish between the wretched Treats I give you, and the delicate Entertainments you give. What say you of these Antitheses? Dorante. That they are admirable, although we are on the point to convince them of Falsity. After these Words they eat, and bad the People who were to set out with them to make haste; and they returned to Cleonice's Chamber. Belise. I always go to Versailles with a great deal of Pleasure, but at my return I am strangely importuned by Arsinoa, she will have me to describe new Magnificences, or new Rarities, and puts such Questions to me as are strangely troublesome. Cleonice. I am yet more troubled with Celisira, she asks News of me with the greatest Earnestness, and will have me give her an Account of all that passes in the whole World. She has given me such a great Aversion for what we may call News, that I neither have asked nor told any for these Twelve Months. Dorante. But, Madam, hereby you deprive yourself of a very considerable Diversion, and hinder yourself from learning important matters, wherein an infinite number of People are concerned. And, therefore, Madam, I must beg your Favour for News. They are an innocent Cause of the Vexation which Arsinoa gives you, and it is not just you should for this reason extend your Resentment so far as to hate them. Philemon. But should we not seek some means to make them agreeable, to reconcile them the more easily with Cleonice? ENTERTAINMENT XX. After what manner we should tell News. Erastus. I Cannot so far interest myself in the Quarrels of Cleonice, as to take her part against News; however I must prefer those which divert before others. I am very earnest to tell of a Marriage lately made between two Persons who sincerely loved, and were much traversed in their Design. I am pleased to describe a gallant and magnificent Feast, or a famous Action performed at the Head of two Armies. And I must acknowledge I am no less delighted in telling with what Subtlety a covetous Hunks has been put upon, or by what Address the Precautions of a jealous Person has been rendered fruitless. You see I discover my Defects to you, and that I am not exempt from Malice, nor an Enemy to pleasant Relations. It's true, there are very few Stories that please me. If it be an adventure, I would have it surprising; if the News respects only those ready and lively answers which we call pleasant Repartees, I require a great delicateness in the tour of expression. Belise. I am not of Erastus' mind in point of News. The gay please me less than the sad; and my Spouse must pardon me if I say, that I love to have my Heart lively touched with compassion. Cleonice. There is indeed I know not what kind of sweetness in being touched with pity. Other passions are more violent and less agreeable. Experience shows it us in the representation of a Tragedy. Infinite numbers of People are drawn to it by the tenderness of their sentiments, and do not part wholly satisfied, if they have not been forced to weep. Erastus. The Tragedies you speak of, and the sad News which please Belise, have a farther good effect, which apparently you have not thought on, which is, that we cannot see a Person of great merit fall into a great misfortune, but that we feel a secret mitigation of our evils Can we justly reproach Fortune in giving us a moderate stroke, when we see what cruel pains she inflicts on Persons of an extraordinary Virtue. Philemon. Do you not think that the News which War furnishes you with, aught to carry it before all other sort of relations? Can one better draw the attention, than in describing a great Battle, the taking of a considerable Place, the conquest of a Country, or the revolution of a State; Cleonice. Were I a Lover of News, I would only recount such wherein those should be Interested that heard me; and if this News were News of that part of the Town where I live, they would please me better than the News Philemon commends. Belise. And I must declare myself for that kind of News which is instructive, and 'tis of that sort methinks wherewith we should entertain ourselves. Dorante. I know not, Madam, whether there be News which may in particular, be called instructive, but I may say that all News in general may become instructive, when they are related by an able Man. He can render the circumstances thereof useful for manners, for the administration of affairs, for the Government of People, and for the ordering of Armies. If a Siege or Battle be set forth to us in their proper colours, we shall observe the defects or the good conduct of the Generals, and thence make our advantage. If we be told of the consternation wherein the Ottomans were, we shall see that we must lay aside Pleasures, when business requires a constant attendance. We shall accuse Mahomet iv of blindness, in going to divert himself in hunting, when he should be at the Head of his Armies. We shall observe that things are generally preserved by the same means as they were acquired, that Valour is necessary to keep a Sovereign on the Throne; that Cowardice draws on the contempt and inignation of the Soldiery and Subjects. Erastus. That which passes at Court serves still more for our instruction. We see that all People must do their Duty under a Master who is never deceived, and who only recompenses Merit. Cleonice. What you say would give me a great desire to inform myself on the Affairs of the Court of Rome, did I believe we might entertain ourselves with that sort of News, as well as with those we now spoke of. Philemon. I do not believe it unlawful for to speak our sentiments on things we see Printed, and posted up; provided it be rather to instruct us, than to make ourselves Busybodies, who fancy we must decide all things. Dorante. We can add nothing to what was said on this matter by a great Magistrate, whose Learning and Eloquence has long since been admired by all the World. The force of his Reasons and his Citations have increased the Astonishment wherein I was before, at the Usage was showed our King's Ambassador. Erastus. Yet the Law of Nations, which requires that the Person of an Ambassador be sacred, is known by all the World; and every body has seen after what manner we have received the Embassies which were sent us from Infidel Kings. They have dealt in a different manner at Rome, towards the Ambassador of the Eldest Son of the Church, the most Christian King, a Monarch whose Predecessors have protected and defended the Holy See. Dorante. Will you believe me, instead of wading farther into this matter, do as I have done, buy the Book we have already hinted at, read it more than once, and you will have the pleasure of profiting by the Labours of a great Man who knows more of it than we shall ever know. Belise. Return we then to what we are to say of other News. Do you think we may draw any Instruction from the little Relations Erastus has declared himself for? Dorante. We need not doubt thereon; for when we are told with what Dexterity a jealous or covetous Person has been imposed on; we are instructed how to make use of the like Subtleties; and the Covetous and Jealous are hereby taught to take better Care. In fine, Cleonice must permit us to say that News may render a Conversation agreeable; That a Polite Person may recount them, provided he is sure of what he says, and that he does not wholly set up for a News-monger. Cleonice. I find nothing so ridiculous as to apply one's self to the telling of News from Morning till Night to all those we meet. Philemon. It's true, there are People who have no other Business. As soon as they are seen, they are immediately asked how many Bassa's are strangled at Constantinople, or in the Turks Army. They are questioned on the manner after which the Imperialists live in Transilvania; they must know whether the King of Poland pretends to make himself Master of Caminec; and what Design the General Morosini may have. Dorante. A News-monger can answer all Questions; if he has any knowledge in Maps, and the Interests of Princes, he may return probable Answers, otherwise he pays for his Boldness. For if there be any News-mongers who guess right, there are others who speak Confidently without knowing what they say. These last sometimes bring themselves into Trouble, and imagine thereby to make themselves famous. As Dorante ended these words, they were advertised that every thing was ready, and this agreeable Company parted for Versailles. FINIS. THE Secret HISTORY OF THE MOST RENOWNED Q. Elizabeth, AND THE Earl of Essex. By a Person of Quality. LONDON, Printed for R. Wellington at the Lute in St. Paul's Churchyard: And E. Rumball at the Posthouse in , 1699. THE EARL of ESSEX: OR, THE AMOURS OF Q. ELIZABETH. PART I. THE People had seen Essex in extraordinary Favour with the Queen; and were therefore the more surprised at his Fall. She had raised him to the highest Dignities of her Kingdom; and he continued then General of her Army in Ireland, against the Earl of Tyrone, who had raised a Rebellion there. His Endeavours to divert his Misfortune were vain; and after an obstinate Resistance he was brought up to London, and confined to his House. The Services he had done the State by his Valour, were very considerable: But the Favours the Queen's Goodness had heaped on him, proceeded from a more secret Cause, and more pressing Motives. Had the Earl of Essex never signalised himself by the Glory of his Actions, the Kindness she had for him would have made her distinguish him from the rest of her Subjects: And 'tis certain, her Affection had made him her Favourite, before he could pretend to it in the least by his Services. She was highly renowned above the Women of her Time, for Courage, and Strength of Mind; yet too weak to be Proof against the Impressions of Love. She had a passionate Tenderness for the the unfortunate Criminal, which was his Advocate, and defended him from the Severity of Justice; and was so far from taking Pleasure in a public Revenge of him, that she abhorred in her Heart those cruel Maxims that crossed her Inclinations. She kept her Bed to prevent public Discovery of a Trouble it was not in her Power to hid; and admitting of no Company but the Countess of Nottingham (her intimate Confident) she gave Vent to her Tears, and freely lamented the Misfortune that threatened the Repose of her Life. The Countess had a little suspected the Queen's Inclinations; and thought herself obliged by powerful Reasons to find out the Mystery: But this being a tender Point, and having to deal with a Princess naturally of a very high Spirit, the Countess was silent. But the Queen's Grief was too violent, to continue long mute: Her Sighs confirmed the Suspicions of the Countess; and her repeating in her Trouble the Earl of Essex's Name, convinced the Countess of the Truth of what till then she had but slightly fancied. The Countess had that Command of herself, she easily concealed her Concern in the Adventure; and appearing only sensible of the Trouble of the Queen, she used all the Art she had to comfort her; and failed not to put her in mind, how serviceable on that Occasion her Virtue might be to her, which had already made her the Wonder of the World. Ah, Madam! (says the Queen interrupting her) You do not yet know me. The Force I have long put upon myself, hath made you think, with the rest of the World, that the Height of my Spirit, hath raised me above the Infirmities of Nature; and the Greatness of my Thoughts, secured me from the Troubles of Life. But, alas! Poor Elizabeth is a Slave to her Weakness; and hath all this while but sacrificed to Reputation all the Quiet of her Soul, and Happiness of her Days. 'Tis high time, Madam, to reveal the Mystery, my Heart, Madam, is sensible and susceptible of the deepest Impressions: And what I have in Appearance, condemned most, is perhaps the only thing has most Power over me. The Earl of Essex is no less famous for the Victorg gained over my Heart, than for his Treasons against me: And I, who have maintained the Freedom of my Soul, and preserved the Liberty of my Affection, from submitting to the Efforts of all the Princes of Europe, and the Greatest of my Subjects, have now the Misfortune to find my Inclinations violently swayed in Favour of a Person, as ungrateful as faithless. You know what I have done to raise him; nor can you be ignorant how ill he hath requited me by his Crimes. A Man, who being Governor of Ireland, General of my Army, in quiet Possession of the best Offices of my Kingdom, and Master of my Affection; yet could not forbear conspiring against that Authority I was but too much inclined to give him a Share of; and perhaps, against a Life I took no other Pleasure in, but the Opportunities I had by it to make his happy— It was not in the Queen's Power to say a Word more. And the Countess more than ordinarily concerned at the Discourse, grew so much the more curious; and pretending to comfort the Queen, engaged her dexterously to a further Discovery. No, Madam, (replies the Queen) there's no Hope of Comfort for me, if the Earl of Essex die. By the Condition you see his Imprisonment hath put me in, you may guests what I am like to be reduced to by his Death. His Crimes I abhor, but am in Love with his Person; and find, that as I have been so weak to let him know it, I shall again be so weak to pardon him all. You do not know his Carriage towards me. And perhaps my Affection will as easily find Excuses for his Ingratitude, as it did for my Kindness. I will give you the Relation of it; but conjure you to reproach me so plainly with the Shame I expose myself to, that I may at last prevail with myself, to abandon the ingratefullest of Men, to the Rigour of his Fate. I Shall not give you an Account of the Interests of England, otherwise than what the Earl of Essex stands concerned in. I will pass by the Obstacles raised against my Establishment; and tell you only, I quickly gained Possession of the Throne, was adored of my People, and happy beyond the Hopes of a Person of my Sex. But Elevation is not always attended with the Pleasure of Life; and that smooth Gale of Felicity and Repose in the Beginning of my Reign, quickly blew over, at least, in my Opinion. Being settled in my Government, I found my Court thronged with Suitors of sovereign Grandeur, striving to merit the Choice it was in my Power (at once) to make of a Husband, and a King: The Earls of Somerset, Leicester, Arundel, and Hertford, had most Right to pretend to it. But finding myself disturbed by their Importunities in my most serious Affairs, and not at all inclined to entertain their Suits, I formally declared to them I designed to live single, and endeavoured to make them amends by considerable Employments, and Allyances I bestowed on them. Three of them openly quitted the Hopes they had conceived: Only the Earl of Leicester, more ambitious, or more constant than the rest, kept afoot his Pretensions, and publicly continued his Services: But it was not ordained his Perseverance should be crowned with the Reward of my Affection. The Earl of Essex having signalised himself against the rebellious Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, made, about this Time, his first Appearance at Court; and found with more Ease the Secret to please me. Those who presented him to me, spoke much in Commendation of him. And I was too much an Eye-witness of the Merit of his Person. I looked upon him as an extraordinary Man. Nor could I but think it equally extraordinary, to find myself so strangely affected with him at the first Sight. The Reception I gave him, was very obliging; and the Acknowledgements he made me, were full of Repsect: So that for the Time, I saw no Cause to check my Inclination. I may date from this first View, the Loss of my Repose. I presently fell into a Disquiet I had till then been altogether a Stranger to: And in spite of my high Spirit, I could not but inwardly acknowledge the Cause. And all the Efforts of my haughty Humour against it, served only to make the Triumph of the Earl of Essex more Glorious. You would better comprehend the Condition I was in, did you know the Resentments of a great Soul, jealous of its Reputation, in Extremities of this Nature; the Combats it undergoes, and the Confusion that attends the Defence. I feared my Eyes would discover the Pleasure I took in looking on the Earl of Essex, and my Weakness occasion Discourses in the World, to the Prejudice of my Glory. I shunned the Sight of him; but to little purpose, when I carried the Idea of him in my Heart. I was angry with myself for it, and summoned my Reason to my Assistance to deface it: But Love had so violently seized my Heart, that I struggle in vain to dispossess him. By little and little I yielded myself Captive to that powerful Inclination which had at first Sight made me so much in Love with the Person of the Earl of Essex: And pretending the Services he had done me against the Earls of Northumberland and Westmoreland, and the Memory I had of the good Services of his Father, as the Ground of my Favour, I made him Knight of the Garter, Master of the Horse, and of the Privy-Council, though under Age. Thus did I cherish and indulge the Weakness I had so long struggled with, and condemned myself for. The higher he grew in Office, the dearer he was to my Person. His Complaisance, his Respect, his Looks, (which to me appeared all kind and languishing) and especially my Affection, which had Tenderness enough to give a favourable Construction to the least of his Actions, conspired to betray me. Envy raised him Enemies: The Earl of Leicester▪ (concerned to be jealous of him) quickly suspected the Truth. And looking on the Earl of Essex, as a Person of Merit, capable to cross his Pretensions, he made it his Business to supplant him; which I presently observed. I easily foresaw the Trouble my Favour might cause between Persons so considerable: And the better to countenance the Kindness I had for Essex, I affected a little Complaisance for Leicester, which somewhat abated the Edge of his Jealousy. About that time, the King of Sweden, the Emperor, for his Son, and the Duke of Anjou, made me their several Proposals of Marriage, which I was forced to receive; but wanted not Pretences to send home their Ambassadors, without any Fruit of their Negotiation. How contrary to the real Motive of my Actions, were the Interpretations Men made of my Refusal of Marriage with these Princes! It redounded much to my Honour; my Glory was increased by it, and the World admired my Contempt of Love, even then when my Soul was wholly possessed by it. The Aversion I expressed for Foreign Alliances, raised the Hopes of the Earl of Leicester; and Essex seemed overjoyed at it: Not (said he, as I heard afterwards) but that the Queen is discreet in all her Actions; and her Choice, had she made one, had been decent and just: But that I think her so fit to reign alone, that I could not without extreme Trouble, see her share her Authority with a Husband, who perhaps would in time be her Master. The Construction I made of the Earl of Essex's Zeal, was suitable to my Affection, and the Desire I had of gaining his Heart; which I wished so passionately, that I fancied it done, and that the pretended Severity, that made me slight Kings, was the only thing that frighted his Respect; and that he had declared his Love to me, could he have thought he durst presume to do it. The Duke of Alencon (not discouraged by my Refusal of his Brother) began soon after to make Addresses for himself; and it was not in my Power to deny my Consent for his Voyage to London. But what Advantages soever he pleaded in his Favour, certain it is, the Earl of Essex lost not any he had gained over me. The Stay of that Prince in England, fortified the Earl's Interest: He was constantly at my Elbow. When the Duke of Alencon spoke to me, methought I read Reproaches against myself, in the Earl of Essex's Eyes. The Earl of Leicester watched me as carefully; though not with equal Regard from me. I raised so many Difficulties against the Duke of Alanson's Design, that he was forced to desist: And I rid my Hands of his Person, and his Suit, without giving him Cause of Complaint. You know that after the Death of the Queen of Scots, the King of Spain (who still makes himself indispensibly subject to a Necessity of opposing me) entered into a League with the Pope against me. And having filled the World with injurious Declarations against my Right to the Crown, they joined all their Forces to pull it off my Head. The Spaniards made themselves on the sudden Masters of Daventer: The Duke of Parma laid Siege to Sluys. It was high Time to provide for Defence; and the Earl of Leicester was sent away with all the Nobility of the Kingdom, in the Head of a numerous Army. The Earl of Essex was one of the first to follow him; and as strongly inclined as I was to stay him, yet I thought the Man I loved ought not to be idle when he had Opportunity by Glorious Actions to merit the Kindness I had for him. I will not spend Time in giving you a Relation of a War, which perhaps you are sufficiently informed of, and concerns not the Secrets of my Life. It tended to our Advantage; all (to the very Winds) having favoured our Side. When the Generals of the Army arrived at London, I was carried in Triumph to St. Paul's: yet the Joy I had to see the Earl of Essex, was greater than that for the signal Victory obtained. Amongst an infinite Number of Persons of several Ranks, my Eyes were fixed only on him: And much ado I had, sometimes, out of Policy, to cast a Look on the Earl of Leicester. Both of them had done very great Actions: I commended them publicly; and particularly joyed the Earl of Essex, for the Success of his Valour and Conduct; who spoke so much in Praise of the Valour and Conduct of the Earl of Leicester, that he was forced in Requital, to do him Right, in giving him openly the Eulogies he deserved. Not long after this Expedition, the Earl of Essex fell into a very deep Melancholy. I was the first that perceived it; and took it for an Effect of some secret Passion. I wished now and then he would once take the Boldness to declare himself, but presently my Reason, upon second Thoughts, set before my Eyes the Confusion would certainly follow an Explication of that Nature, to the Ruin of my Reputation, and that high Esteem the World had for me: Yet (to speak Truth) I could not resolve what to do, or to wish. I am in Love, I desired to be loved again; and that was all I could make of it The Earl of Essex, in the mean time continued sad. I was troubled to see him so; and fancying myself the Cause, I was desirous to know it; and resolved to fetch it out of him. He had full Liberty of Access to me, and I enlarged it daily: But not to expose my Reputation in forcing him to declare himself, I pretended an Inclination to favour the Earl of Leicester; who, since his late Victories, had entertained new Hopes. One Day, as the Earl of Essex came to thank me for the Government of Ireland I had bestowed on him, I was loath to lose the Opportunity; and interrupting what he would have said in Acknowledgement: You need not enlarge yourself (said I) on a thing I am fully assured of. I take Pleasure in raising your Fortune; and wish I could as easily remove your Melancholy, as I am pleased to give a new Proof of the Sense I have of your Service. You may; in your Turn, oblige me (added I) who am fallen into a troublesome Conjuncture, and find it very difficult to reduce my Affections into a Compliance with the Necessity of the State. This presses me hard, to provide England a King: This Choice is difficult; and I have not a mind to make it among Foreigners. You are discreet, and (I have Reason to believe) not the least loving of my Subjects. I will take your Advice; speak your Mind freely, what Man in England you think best deserves this Fortune? I looked on him with that Kindness, as would have inspired the most fearful with Boldness: I observed in his Eyes extraordinary Emotions, and all the Symptoms of a Secret ready to break out. The Point appeared Tender, and My Imagination flattered Me, all would be as I wished. Your Majesty's Resolution (answers he) will render a Man more Glorious by the Quality of Your Husband, than of the Greatest Monarch on Earth. Remember (said I) I expect not a Panegyric, but Advice from You: And that your Business at present, is to Nominate the Man I am to make King; not to Commend his good Fortune in being so. The Business is so nice, Madam, (replied he) I dare not speak my mind, though Your Majesty order it. Did you know (said I) what moves me to this Confidence in you, you would perhaps express yourself with a great deal more Freedom. But because to bring you to it, I must proceed further; tell me, whether you think the Earl of Leicester deserves to be your Prince? The Earl of Leicester (answers he) is Well Born, and a Person of Great Merit, and will answer the Honour your Majesty intends him. Is that all you have to say to me, said I? Ah, Madam (answers he, with a Sigh, which made me expect something more Pleasing) I should have more to say to you for myself, than the Earl of Liecester. What hinders you? said I. The respect I have for your Majesty, answered he. I am in Love, Madam; but 'tis not a thing fitting to make my Queen my Confident. I Blushed at those Words, and was in a Mind not to proceed further. But I looked upon him, and there needed no more to declare my Weakness: I have that esteem for you, added I, that I am not unwilling to be of your Council. Well, Madam, since you will have it so, continueth he, I must acquaint You, I am desperately in Love with the Countess of Rutland; and that I cannot Live, if Your Majesty consent not that she shall make me happy. You may easily guests what an Astonishment I was in at this Explication; having upon so good Grounds expected to have heard Myself named; it was well for me, I had not altogether lost the Haughtiness of my Nature: the Poor Remains of it were my only Help to preserve me from discovering more Weakness to the Earl, than he had discovered Love for his Mistress. His Transports helped me to cover mine. He perceived not the Blow he had given me. And sacrificing my Grief to my Glory, I affected to appear calm and unconcerned, when my Soul was full of Trouble and Confusion. You have made a good Choice, said I, and the Countess of Rutland will very well deserve the Kindness you profess for her. Madam, replies he, with Satisfaction in his Looks, which heightened my Grief, You have done more for me, in approving the Passion I have for the Countess of Rutland, than You could have done, had You procured me the Empire of the Universe. It is your Desire then, added I, with a Sigh my Despair forced from me, that I should give her to you. I desire any thing, says he, that may preserve me from dying for Love of her. Go your way then, said I, to be rid of him, and ease myself of the intolerable Constraint I was under, Be assured, I will concern myself in your Amour: You shall know it in time. But take heed you give not the Earl of Leicester the least intimation of the Secret I have imparted to you. Not before I have Order from your Majesty, answered he, to congratulate his Happiness, and pay him the Devoirs of an Affectionate Subject. Had you seen with what an Air he pronounced these words, you would have abhorred him for his Ingratitude. As for me, I was left in so desperate a Condition, it was long I could recover my Reason out of the Entanglements of Love, Anger, and Jealousy. I was partly the Author of my Misfortune, by calling to Court the Countess of Rutland, after her Husband's Death, without considering she was one of the handsomest Ladies on Earth; and but Sixteen Years old. I have not observed any particular Kindness the Earl of Essex had for her: He visited her as other Ladies of the Court. But their Intrigue was mysterious; and the more secretly it was carried, the Engagement was the stronger, and the Affection more tender. It is impossible to express the Trouble I was in when Anger seized the Place Grief had possessed in my Heart. Though the Earl of Essex had been ignorant of his good Fortune, I could not forbear reproaching him for slighting it as he did; and forgot not to charge him with Treachery and Ingratitude. But when I considered he was so far from apprehending my meaning, that he was gone directly to make a solemn Tender of his Love to another, and carry her the joyful News of his Success with me; I resolved, at least to delay the Pleasure of it for a time; and went out of my Closet into my Chamber, to call him back. I thought I heard the Earl of Liecester's Voice and his in the Antichamber; and going to the Door, found I was not mistaken. Leicester's Jealousy, had, in all probability, made him watch Essex as he entered my Chamber; and when he saw him return with Satisfaction in his Looks; You are happy, says he, in a Privilege, to entertain the Queen as long as you please; when others, who as passionately desire it, cannot obtain that Happiness for a moment. I am persuaded, replies Essex, you better deserve it; and make no doubt, but you will find more pleasure in it. I will leave you at liberty to go in Search of it; and you may do me a Favour not to stay me, being called another way, on a very pressing Occasion. He had no sooner said so, but he went his way; and I was so confounded with this new Sight, I scarce knew where I stood. Having at length recovered my Reason, I had the Discretion to hid my Weakness. Presently my Anger would have vented itself on the Countess of Rutland: But I considered her only Crime was her Beauty; and that she knew not my Concern for her Servant. The Earl of Leicester having at his Entrance perceived me in Disorder, durst not take notice of it; but after a short Visit, withdrew. A little before, I had sent to Congratulate the King of Navarre, upon his coming to the Crown of France; and having intelligence he wanted Aid to secure his Government, I resolved to send him some under the Conduct of the Earl of Essex, in hopes his Absence might Cure me. I would have persuaded myself, the Cause of my removing him on that Occasion, was my Desire to forget him; but upon second Thoughts, I must confess, it was rather the Desire of removing him out of the Sight of a beloved Rival. Being resolved on the Point, I hastened the Execution; and having ordered the Earl of Essex to attend me: You love Honour, said I to him, and I cannot think you will prefer the Pleasure of Sighing before a Mistress, to the Opportunities of acquiring Glory: I have provided One for you; and am resolved you shall Command the Troops I am sending to the French King. And to fortify yourself against the Troubles of Absence, you need only think of the Pleasures of a Return. His Answer was only in Sighs; and that passionate Language made me hasten his Departure. Soon after the Countess of Rutland (whom I could not forbear using very coldly) desired leave to go into the Country, a considerable distance from London. I had then so little Love for her, I did not desire to have her near me; but readily consented she should retire. The Hopes she had to see the Earl of Essex return, supported her so, that she, with much moderation, saw him take his leave: But I am assured by Experience, the Grief for his Departure, equalled (at least) the Hopes for his Return. When he was arrived in France, Fame spoke aloud in Commendation of him: his Absence altered not my Affection; and in spite of all I could do to the contrary, I had a sensible Pleasure to hear him Commended. Had I been desired, I should have called him home as soon as France was in Peace: But I sent him new Orders to join Admiral Howard, who was going for Spain: And I gave him the like Commission for this Expedition, as for that of France. He did Wonders in Spain: His single Valour frighted the Enemies. And having taken Calis, and pillaged the Coast of Portugal, he put again to Sea for England. The Fleet was scattered by a Storm, and we had News the Earl of Essex was lost. Then it was I knew better than ever, the Kindness I had for him. I could no longer persuade myself that his indifference for me deserved mine for him. I accused the Sea a Thousand Times, for having taken too unreasonable a Revenge for me; and was under Sufferings more cruel than Death, when News was brought me, that by the Assistance of the Admiral of Holland, he was arrived at Plymouth; from whence, in few days he came to Court. To show you how little Reason we have, when we are in Love, and how fickle are the Resolutions of a tender Heart, though provoked by Slights and Contempts: I had lamented the Death of the Earl of Essex, and received the News of his being Alive with a Thousand Transports of Joy. I was extremely pleased with the Report of his Arrival at London. But when I considered I should see him full of Love for another, and that perhaps I should not be able to conceal my Jealousy, I was tempted to order him to give the Council an Account of his Conduct, and not admit him into my Presence. I was sometimes of the Opinion, I should be able to do so: But this weak Heart of mine, so prepossessed in favour of him, revolted against all my Resolutions; I must follow my Inclinations, and see the most dangerous Enemy of my Repose, the Troubler of my Rest. He came to Whitehall; I admitted him to my Presence, I looked upon him; and, spite of all my high Spirit, he saw nothing but Kindness in all my Actions. You may imagine, what an agreeable Surprise it was to me, to find at our first Conference, that Absence had weaned his Affections from the Countess of Rutland. He appeared no longer in that Languishing Melancholy I observed him in before his Departure: He had Satisfaction in his Looks: The Air of his Actions were smooth and calm; and I fancied as much Joy in his Face, tho' the Countess of Rutland was absent, as I felt in myself, at the Explication he made. I see you again returned with Victory, said I: But am sorry it is not in my Power to reward your Toil with a Sight of the Countess of Rutland. But if any thing I can do, can comfort you— I am easily comforted for her Absence, when I am permitted to see your Majesty, answered he. I have no passion now, but for the Glory of Serving Your Majesty; and the Countess of Rutland is now to me no more than other Ladies of the Court. Are you no longer in Love with the Countess of Rutland? replied I, between Joy and Distrust. You have spoken too fast. When you see her again— When I see her again, says he, interrupting me, it shall be without those Transports I expressed for her, not forgetting the Respects due to Your Majesty. What, answered I, are you not afraid of the Reproaches of a provoked Mistress? No Madam, said he, in a free and unconcerned manner: All I am concerned for, is to do my Duty, and approve myself worthy Your Majesty's Favour. This, answered I, deserves my Acknowledgement; and time shall let you see I am not ungrateful. Thus did the Earl of Essex assure me he was Cured of his first Passion: And I was in Hopes, it might be in my Power to see him one Day entertain another. A Week after, he desired leave to go into the Country, about his private Affairs: He was absent a Fortnight; and returned more calm and unconcerned than ever. The Earl of Leicester had doubled his importunities in this Absence of the Earl of Essex in France and Spain; and obliged me at last, to put him out of Hopes. He is naturally Bold; and was so blown up with the Opinion of the Glory he had gained by some late Achievements, that he proceeded to telling me plainly, He was jealous of the Earl of Essex: and would have made a Crime of the Discourse I told you of, passed between them, as Essex left my Chamber. The Answer I made him, was an Absolute Command, He should be silent: Which was so far obeyed, that after some days Murmuring, he held his Peace. Yet this put me in mind to observe some measures, and not to follow openly my Inclinations. Things continued in this State, till the Troubles of Ireland. I have often opened my Mouth, to let the Earl of Essex know the Advantges he had over me; but Modesty shut it again: Yet seeing him under a Necessity of going for Ireland, when the Earl of Tyrone had raised a General Rebellion, I had not the Power to let him take leave without acquainting him, The Kingdom was at his Command. Upon the first News of the Troubles, he threw himself at my Feet, begging the Honour of my Command, to go Quiet those Disorders. You have done enough, said I, and there's no need you should (by exposing yourself to New Dangers) oblige me to New Acknowledgements. I doubt not, Madam, (answered he) but the Favour I beg of your Majesty, will be envied me: But I take the Boldness to say, Your Majesty cannot refuse it me, without doing yourself Injury: It being an occasion may contribute to meriting the Favour you have already honoured me with. The Ardour you express for undertaking Great Actions, Replied I, is not perhaps so Pleasing as you imagine: And all the Good that may Redound to England through your Valour, is less considerable than the Trouble is given me, who take less Care of my Crown, than your Life. I am Ambitions: Yet— Ah! My Lord, save me the Confusion of a more particular Explication of what you ought and might easily have long since understood. I might perhaps presume too far in my Wishes, says the Earl, in some Disorder. Wish boldly, answered I, I Love you; and if I blush to tell you so, 'tis not that I am either Ashamed, or Repent of it. You may believe this Acknowledgement a very hard Task for a Person of my Humour, who have seen you sigh for another, when I slighted Kings for your Sake, and would have Sacrificed more to your Satisfaction. What Madam! cries he, like a Man astonished, Have You loved me, and I been so unfortunate, to make myself unworthy Your Kindness by those Sighs I now disavow? Did my Eyes never tell you what I looked for in Yours? said I. I never had the Boldness, answered he, to make any such Constructions of your Looks. Your Fear was the effect of indifference, said I; but no more of what is past. Tell me now, can ye love me? Rather ask me, Madam, answers he, if all the Affection of my Soul can merit Your love? And whether the Earl of Leicester, whom you design to make the Happiest Man on Earth, shall not carry the Day from me? The Earl of Leicester, said I, was but a Pretence to make you speak. I told you then truly the Thoughts I had of you. My Trouble for you was not small, both in your Absence, and since your Return: But all is forgotten. Be henceforth as I wish, and doubt not of being Happy. He answered me with some Disorder, which I fancied the Effect of unexpected Joy. I thought it time to be no longer scrupulous; and that it was in vain to have any Reserves, when I had said so much. I will not let you go under any Uncertainty, proceeded I, but to convince you clearly of the Truth of what I've said, take This, said I, delivering him a RING, as the highest Mark of my Favour, keep it as a Pledge of my Kindness; which I conjure you to preserve in the State it is in: And on that Condition, I promise you, never to deny you any thing you shall desire of me, when you show me this RING, though it cost me my Life and my Fortune. His Joy and Acknowledgements at receiving the RING, were in Appearance, extraordinary and unparallelled; and attended with Promises of as high a Nature. He went for Ireland in few Days, leaving me fully persuaded his Thoughts were wholly taken up with me. But he had scarce advanced up to the Rebels, but he was charged with all the Crimes which occasioned his Imprisonment, and that of the Earl of Southampton. Then it was, I began to repent I had not given Ear to the wholesome Advice Cecil would have given me, concerning the secret Conduct of the Earl of Essex. In a Word, while my Thoughts were wholly employed to make his Fortune glorious, he was plotting with the Earl of Tyrone, to surprise and make me Prisoner in this Palace. You know the rest, Madam; his obstinate Resistance, his want of Respect for my Orders, his imprisoning my Ministers, his murdering my Soldiers, and his intolerable Pride in all his Misfortunes. Thus ended the Queen's Discourse; which having called fresh to her Mind all that had passed between her and Essex, she was more troubled than ever. The Countess of Nottingham hath heard her with Attention suitable to her great Concern in the Discourse. She, as well as the Queen, had been in Love with the Earl; and advanced many Steps, but in vain, to raise a Passion in him: And having newly understood the Cause of his slighting her, it added infinitely to her former Resentments. She had no mind to condemn the Queen's Weakness, knowing herself guilty of the like: Nor was she inclined to speak in Favour of a Man who was grown so much the more odious to her, as she had formerly passionately loved him. She thought it sufficient to comfort the Queen with Discourses that seemed to proceed only from Zeal for her Service; when, in truth, her Thoughts were wholly bend for the Ruin of an ingrateful Lover; who in her Judgement, deserved nothing but Hatred at her Hands. Though Love thought not fit the Earl of Essex should admire the Countess of Nottingham; yet another was her Captive, whose Character did (in a manner) make her amends: It was Secretary Cecil; who amidst his great Offices, and the Gravity that became them, discovered in the Beauty, Ingenuity, and high Spirit of the Countess of Nottingham, some Charms, that made him capable of a strong Passion for her; which was heightened by the Hatred both of them had professed against the Earl of Essex; Cecil having always looked on him as the invincible Obstacle of his ambitious Pretensions: And the Countess had against him all the Rage and Aversion that usually succeed Kindness abused. They were glad of the Imprisonment of the Earl of Essex; but the favourable Inclinations the Queen expressed for him, alarmed them. The Countess had no sooner taken Leave of the Queen, but she gave Cecil an Account of all she had learned. Having considered the Consequences, they concluded it necessary, while their Princess sighed secretly for the Prisoner, means should be found by private Ways, and in artful Conduct, without their appearing to have any such Design, to take away the Mercy which Love might inspire into her. Cecil, for the first Step, pressed the Queen to bring Essex to his Trial; and caused certain News of his Death to be spread throughout England. Essex, in the mean time, was busied with Thoughts of more Weight than those of his Life. He knew well enough, his Queen loved him, and knew as well, he had deceived her; and that she might with a great deal of Justice not only reproach, but condemn him. The Queen had not seen him since his going into Ireland: But having not the Power to give him up to his ill Fortune, without having heard him, she resolved to go to his House, where he was Prisoner, to reproach him as he deserved; and endeavour, if possible, to find him innocent. It is not far from Whitehall to Essex-House: and the Queen took so good Order in the matter, that no Notice was taken of the Undecency of the Visit; having been introduced by her Confidents alone into the Chamber of the Criminal. He was surprised at the Presence of the Queen: The languishing Condition she was in, made her sigh. All went for him, and the Victory seemed easy. He saluted her with a profound Respect; and then fixing on her Face those Eyes of his, which had so often charmed her, he fetched some Tears from hers. Well, my Lord, (says she, drying them) you see what I do for you notwithstanding all the Crimes I can reproach you with. I am come to you, and with a Design to hear you, if you have any thing to say to justify yourself. I have loved you too well, not to wish it above all things: And, would Heaven were pleased, your Justification might be purchased with any (the most precious) Thing in my Power. My greatest Crime is, that I thought myself too happy, Madam, replies the Earl, sighing. Had you rested there, said the Queen, I should have been too well satisfied to have complained of you▪ But to believe yourself happy, was it necessary you should betray me? And, must you needs have made use of violent means, to make yourself Master of a Fortune I was willing to share with you? What Reason could you have to seek the Protection of the Kings of Scotland and Spain? Did any Interests oblige you to secret Correspondencies with Tyrone? And, was it for the Safety of my Person, you designed to make me your Slave, and his? All you have done since to my Subjects, against my Orders? Are those the Expressions of your Respect? Is it by Fury and Treason you show your Zeal for me and the Public? Or, is all we have seen and heard of you, but Illusion and Fancy? Yes, Madam, replies the Earl, those Accusations of Treason and ill Designs, have run me upon the desperate Resistance I made. You have been pleased to heap Favours upon me; and I (too proud of what I so little deserved) flattered myself with Expectation of a thousand Pleasures which you had not absolutely forbid me to hope for. This let lose the Envy and Jealousy of others against my good Fortune: They abused your Majesty with Misinformations; and I had the Misfortunes to be assured your Majesty had ordered I should be Arrested; though my Innocence would have persuaded me the contrary. I confess, Madam, I was in a Rage, to see my Enemies insult over me; being abandoned by your Majesty, and on the Point of suffering (perhaps) a shameful Death. I thought it neither for my Reputation, nor your Majesty's Honour, I should die as a Criminal. This put me upon having Recourse to those Succours and Assistances they reproach me with; and the Resolution I took to go out of England, in hope to confound my Accusers. But I found all the Passages stopped: And I must acknowledge, in that desperate Condition, I vented my Fury, by taking Revenge on your Ministers. They, Madam, and only they, were the Objects of the Rebellion I am charged with. My Design was, only they, who had so industriously laboured to make me appear guilty, should do me Right, in declaring my Innocence; and permit me to lay it, and my Life at your Majesty's Feet. I never doubted, but your Majesty would have done me the Honour to hear me: And that by a clear Discovery of the Truth, I should have certainly confounded the Envy of my Enemies. But their Malice hath had the Success to see me a Prisoner, hated by my Sovereign, despised by the World, and made a Sacrifice to their Rage: And now what remains, but that I receive the Sentence of my Death pronounced by them; and see Cobham, Cecil, Raleigh, and their Fellows, share the Favours you honoured me with. You are well assured I hate you not, says the Queen, interrupting him: But, should I believe you? Can I give you up to the ill Fate that threatens you? I shall never murmur against your Majesty's Orders, replies the Earl, but submit to them readily, whatever they be. But I confess, it would make me mad, should my Enemies have the Advantage to condemn me. The Earl of Essex knew the weak Side of the Queen; and easily revived in her that Tenderness he had formerly inspired her with. No, says she, having paused a while, you shall not die. Make use of your Advantages: triumph over a Heart, whose Inclinations you very well know. I will believe your Intentions less criminal than they appear. But, my Lord, I conjure you by that Kindness of which you have such particular Experience, that you give me no Cause to repent of it. Trouble not yourself for your Reputation and Honour, I will take care to repair it. And before two Days be over, I will restore you to the highest Place you ever had under me. Essex transported with Joy for the happy Success of this Conference, affected the Queen so much with submissive Acknowledgements, that he restored her Spirits to perfect Tranquillity. At parting, she promised to call a Council on the Morrow, and in a glorious manner to declare him innocent. As soon as it was Day, she sent for Cecil: And the Countess of Nottingham waited on her. Having told them in a few Words of a great Conflict passed between her Justice and her Mercy, she concluded for the latter, and ordered Cecil to summon the Council, that she might declare to them the Design she had to set Essex at Liberty; assuring him she had invincible Reasons for doing so. This was a mortal Blow to the ambitious Cecil, and the Countess of Nottingham. They presently looked on one another, as if they would have asked each others Advice what Course to be taken: Afterwards they spoke to the Queen, in hopes to divert her; but she was inflexible: and Cecil was forced to order an extraordinary Call of the Council. But while the Earl of Essex's Enemies thought his good Fortune on the Point of being reconciled to him, Chance laboured for them with unexpected Success. As the Queen was going to Council, Word was brought her, the Countess of Rutland desired to wait on her. The Queen blushed, remembering what was passed: And looking on the Request as unseasonable and unlucky, she was minded to have put off the Countess to another time: But considering, she used not to deny any Person Access, and that the Countess of Rutland was a Lady of the best Quality; she commanded she should be admitted; and the Countess immediately came in. Though her Eyes languished, her Looks were sad, her Dress and her Gate very careless; yet her Beauty was conspicuous, and moving; she threw herself at the Queen's Feet; and with Extremity of Grief in her Looks, Madam, says she, with a great deal of Pain, I come to implore your Majesty's Goodness for the unfortunate Earl of Essex. For the Earl of Essex, Madam? Answers the Queen. How come you concerned for him, who hath quitted you with so much Indifference, after so many Promises of extraordinary Kindness? I expected you were rather come to join your Resentment with mine; and desire me to take a full Revenge, for the Injury done to your Beauty. No, Madam, replied the Countess, not the Transports of a forsaken Mistress, have brought me now into your Majesty's Presence, but the tender Affection due from a virtuous Wife, to a Husband she loves; in begging for the Earl of Essex, I beg for mine. This Confession may perhaps add to our Gild; but 'tis no dallying for those who are on the Brink of Destruction. I acknowledge, Madam, that after a thousand Crosses, we had that tender Kindness one for the other, we married privately, contrary to the Respect due to your Majesty. This, Madam, this only, and his Fear of your Majesty's just Indignation, put the Earl of Essex upon seeking Refuge out of your Dominions: He thought it fit, I should go out of them; but never harboured a Thought of conspiring against your Majesty. However, this hath ruined us; and if you protect not an unfortunate Person, whom you have so much honoured, he is irrecoverably lost. Consider, I beseech you, Madam, that a few Drops of Blood at your Dispose, and a poor Life you are Mistress of, are not a Revenge suitable to the Grandeur of a Queen, adored for many Virtues; yet chief, for your Clemency. The Queen was so astonished at the Discourse, that the Countess had full Liberty to end without Interruption. But this was sad News to a Heart lately full of the Delights of a pleasing Reconciliation. What a Torrent of Anger overflowed her Constancy? A Queen as she was, high spirited, haughty, and passionately in Love; to see herself thus cruelly betrayed, and find it out at a time, when a blind Credulity had stifled all former Resentments! Yet she forced herself to dissemble her Grief; and fixing a severe Look on the Countess of Essex: The Life you beg of me, says she, is not in my Power: The Peers are his Judges. Ah, Madam! cries the Countess, my Husband is lost, if you give him up to their Fury: Their Jealousy will do that which Justice cannot. Why should: you trouble yourself, if he be not guilty, says the Queen? Though I am satisfied of his Innocence, Madam, answers the Countess, yet your cruel Ministers are not disposed to believe it. Let me entreat you, Madam, if your Majesty will grant me no more, you will be pleased to allow me the Privilege of being put into the same Prison with him: I am as criminal as he, and perhaps more. I wish it in my Power, to grant your Desires, says the Queen, but common Policy forbids any Correspondence to be allowed between so considerable Persons, in your Circumstances. You may, if you please, wait his Fate and your own, in a Chamber in this Palace. Ah, Madam, replies the Beautiful Countess, consider the last Favour I beg of you, is, that I may be put into Irons. Can you apprehend we shall attempt any thing against you in so deplorable an Estate? This is the Eve of our greatest Disaster: That Barbarous Justice, to which you absolutely commit the Care of your Vengeance, will to morrow, perhaps, part us for ever. Deny us not, at least, the Comfort of mixing our last Tears. What can you fear from a Grief without Power— I fear being troubled with it, and I will be obeyed, answers the angry Queen, and goes away into her Closet, while the Countess of Essex was carried to a Chamber, where she was left under Guard. Never was Fury equal to the Queen's: The Madness she was in to see herself deceived, made her for some time forget all her Tenderness. Her Thoughts were wholly bend on Revenge, and giving up to the Severity of Justice, a guilty Person she had too passionately loved. Death, says she, shall be the Reward of his Ingratitude, and I will make his Punishment an Example to the Universe. With these Thoughts she came to the Council: When she had declared herself, the Peers were named for trying the Earl of Essex and Southampton. Armed as she was with Resolution to do it, she trembled at the doing; and could not forbear mixing some amorous Sighs with the violent Expressions her Anger forced from her. She withdrew under very great Trouble, and admitted no Visit for several Days. 'Tis hard to express what a pleasing Surprise it was to Cecil, to see the Queen angry, and declare herself against Essex, whom he thought her resolved to pardon. He carried the News to the Countess of Nottingham; who was as joyful at it, as a cruel Person could be on such an occasion. Yet they could not think all sure, while the Earl of Essex was only Prisoner in his House, from whence his Friends (if minded to do it) might get him out. They concluded to take the Opportunity of the Queen's Anger, to obtain her Order for putting him into the Tower of London; which Cecil, under a Cloak of Zeal for her Majesty's Service, easily gained, and readily executed. The Earl of Essex was generally beloved; and Cecil, fearing Commotions and Tumults if he should be carried through the City, ordered him to be sent to the Tower by Water: Which was accordingly done. The Earl of Essex not able to guests at the Cause of a Success so unsuitable to the Promises of the Queen, prepared himself for the worst that might happen; and in few Days, had Resolution enough to bear his Misfortunes. The Queen was as full of Trouble, as Cecil and the Countess of Nottingham were of Hopes, to see their common Enemy condemned in few Days. The Countess of Essex having no Comfort but her Tears, nor Company but her Fears, endeavoured from the Pity of her Guards, to have some Intelligence of her Husband's Condition. She was told, His Judges were appointed, and that he was in the Tower: Worse News she could not have. The Queen was irrecoverably angry: Nor could she by Letter, convey with Safety to her Husband, the Advice she thought good for him. A Conference she thought better: And Money being a Charm seldom resisted, she did by some Presents of Value prevail with her Guards to serve her to her Mind. Having fully possessed them, she neither designed her own Liberty not her Husband's: All she desired was a Minute of private Discourse with him; which her Guards undertook, and brought happily about. The Guards at the Tower, gained by their Companions, easily introduced the Countess into her Husband's Chamber. He knew nothing of the Passages at Whitehall. But when he was told, he was in few Days to appear before his Judges, he expected with a great deal of Resolution and Constancy, the End of his Misfortunes; comforting himself with the Thoughts of the Countess being retired into Scotland. But seeing her so near a Danger he thought her so remote from: Ah Madam! says he, with his Eyes full of Tenderness, What came you to look for in these fatal Places? And in whose Power was it to bring you hither? My Grief and my Guards have brought me hither: Answers the Countess. What, Madam! cries the Earl, are you the Queen's Prisoner? And does she know we are Married! Yes, replied the Countess, mournfully, and is so angry, we are past Hope. I was absenting myself from you, as you had desired me, but the News of your Death stopped my Retreat. And it was not in my Power to betake myself into a Place of Safety; there to attend the Issue of your Troubles: If it were not in my Power to ease you of them, I thought it my Duty, at least to share with you in them. This made me present myself to the Queen, and omit nothing that might move her Compassion: But she proved altogether inflexible. Ah, Madam, says the Earl, interrupting her, Your Impatience hath ruined us; Had you not appeared, I had been at Liberty. By a dextrous Justification, I had regained her Confidence, and you should have in few Days seen me come in search of you in Scotland. But now, there's no Hopes; the Queen will be revenged. What! Saith the Countess, hath all I have done, tended to your Ruin? Make use of your Advantages, I conjure you: The Queen retains some Tenderness for you: You may easily revive it. Oh! be not a Sacrifice to her Anger. Invent any thing in excuse of our Marriage. Disown it, if you please; I will consent to any thing, rather than see you condemned to Death. Let her banish me into any Part of the World; I will go most willingly. And, if it may conduce to your Safety, make use of the Pledge she gave you— Ah, Madam, replies the Earl, can you give such Advice to a Man, who, you know, adores you? Have you found by any of my Actions, that I love my Life more than I love you? No, I love it for nothing else, but to spend it with you: And I will part with it, with all my Heart, when I must be deprived of that Pleasure. My Fears were only for you; and can you believe, I could have the least Satisfaction in the Queen 's Favour, when her Jealousy should make her banish you? Let it break out, let her ruin me; I will glory in my loving you, and telling it to her Face. I know, the precious Gift she bestowed on me, leaves me some Hopes; and I may make use of it; but I would do it with Safety, and it may prevail for more than my Life. I apprehend you, says the Countess, you would reserve all for me, and neglect your own Safety: But you cannot incur a Danger, wherein I have not a Share; and the way to preserve my Life, is to secure yours. This Dispute had lasted somewhat longer, but the Countess' Guards minding her it was time to withdraw, she disposed herself to bid her Husband Adieu. Their Separation was moving, accompanied with abundance of Tears; to which a Multitude of tormenting Inquietudes succeeded, and ushered in a Day, that instead of diminishing, heightened their Sorrows. The End of the First Part. THE EARL of ESSEX: OR, THE AMOURS OF Q. ELIZABETH. PART II. THE Queen, though angry, gave no Order for comprehending the Countess of Essex in her Husband's Impeachment. The Morrow after their Conference, the Peers met in Westminster-Hall, and the Earl of Essex and Southampton were brought before them by the Constable of the Tower. The Particulars of the Trial are set forth at large in the Histories of the Time: It shall suffice to insert here, That the Prisoners being charged to have held criminal Correspondences with the Kings of Scotland and Spain, and entered into secret Alliances with Tyrone, and Traitorously laid and carried on a Plot against the Queen's Authority, made a very stout and resolute Defence. As politic as Cecil was, he could not hid the Malignity of his intentions; but it was observed he was not only a severe Judge, but a dangerous Enemy: The Heat and Animosity he discovered against the Earl of Essex, were answered by him with a slighty Resolution, and undaunted Constancy. Yet, for all he could say in justification of himself, he was Condemned with the Formalities usual on such Occasions, Sentence was pronounced by the Lord High Steward, That the Earls of Essex and Southampton were guilty of High-Treason, and should be Beheaded. The Earl of Essex was not moved in the least, to hear himself named, but appeared Hearty sorry to find the Earl of Southampton under like Condemnation; and conjured the Judges to examine with less Severity, the Conduct of a Person whose only Crime was, the Love he had for him. But not able to prevail, he melted into expressions of the greatest Tenderness in the World, for his Friend. The Queen being informed of the Condition of things, gave secret Orders to delay Execution. She was of a High Spirit, and highly provoked: yet found it very difficult to raise her Anger to a pitch equal to her Tenderness. Cecil trembled to find the Execution of a Sentence deferred, which he had with so much pleasure heard pronounced. The Countess of Nottingham was equally alarmed. The Proofs were but slight against the Earl of Southampton; and the Queen, sensible his long Friendship with the Earl of Essex, had chief engaged him in the Matters in Charge, pardoned his Life at the Request of his Friends. News was brought of it to the Earl of Essex, whose truly brave and generous Soul immediately broke forth into sincere Protestations, He should die now with Satisfaction and Content, since the Queen had owned by her Pardon, the Innocence of Southampton. While the Earl of Essex expected with a Resolute Constancy, the Catastrophe of his Tragedy, the Countess, his Wife, was informed at Whitehall, he was executed. Till then, she believed it uncertain; but this News surprised her so terribly, she filled the whole Court with her Lamentations The Queen heard them, but was not concerned, as the rest were for them. Let her cry, says she to the Countess of Nottingham, she must shed many more, to wipe out the Score of those Tears she hath cost me. The Countess of Nottingham was so far from endeavouring to pacify the Queen, that all her Care was to keep up her Anger. And because she was ignorant of many things she thought herself concerned to know, she took advantage of the trouble the Countess of Essex was in, and made her frequent Visits; not to bemoan her afflictions, but to find out something to render her more miserable. It must needs have been an unparallelled Cruelty, not to pity the handsomest Lady on Earth, appearing to our Eyes in a Condition more deplorable than can be expressed. She fell every minute, for very Weakness, into the Arms of the Women about her; and recovered herself only to lament the more pitifully: Which affected all but the Countess of Nottingham, who saw all this with an Unconcernedness suitable to the hardness of her Heart. Ah, Madam! says the Countess of Essex, as soon as she saw her, Will you not use your Interest with the Queen, in favour of the Earl of Essex? You know my Lord of Southampton hath his Pardon, replies she, and the Queen, perhaps, will do as much for your Husband. Madam, says the Countess of Essex, 'Tis not the Crimes charged on my Husband, jointly with the Earl of Southampton, nor those common to both, that render the Queen inexorable: You understand me, when I tell you, there are others she more deeply resents. And she hates the Earl of Essex less for the Attempts attributed to his Ambition, than his Engagements with me. But, Madam, replies the Countess of Nottingham, willing to find out the Mystery of their Love she was yet ignorant of, If you thought the Queen would oppose it, or be unsatisfied with it, why did you not quit a Business wherein you were to expect nothing but Crosses? If you were ever in Love, says the Countess of Essex, you know very well, we have not always our Wits about us when we are deeply engaged in Affection. However, Madam, when I Married my Lord of Essex, I did not know the Queen was so much concerned for him. Perhaps, answers the Countess of Nottingham, I might do you some Service, were I throughly acquainted with the particular Passages between my Lord of Essex and You. I am not in a very fit disposition to discourse you, Madam, says the Countess of Essex. But if I could by any Confidence, prevail with you to do something for us, I would give you an Account of all you desire. I will not promise you, I shall certainly prevail with the Queen: But, Madam, adds the cunning Countess of Nottingham, I will use my Interest, and perhaps, effect more than we have Reason to hope for. Have a good Heart, Madam, do not despair: The Queen is good, and I will zealously serve you, when I am instructed what course to take. The Countess of Essex yielding to the Persuasions of her bitterest Enemy, dried up her Tears; and after a short pause, spoke to this purpose. MY Mother died very Young, leaving no Child but me. My Father's Offices obliging him to a constant Attendance at Court, he committed the care of my Infancy to a Sister of his, settled about a hundred Miles from London. He could not, at thy Distance, see me so often as he would, so that when I came to Fourteen Years of Age, he thought, by disposing me in Marriage, to bring me nearer him. The Earl of Rutland had but one Son; and the intimate Friendship between my Father and him, induced them to think of a stricter Alliance. Our Fortunes were equal; and the Earl of Rutland's Son being Returned out of Italy, his Father acquainted him with his Design of Marrying him. His Affection was no way engaged to the contrary: And the Business was agreed on without my Knowledge, who was looked upon as too Young to be Consulted with, in a Cause of that Nature. Yet, Madam, my Heart was sensible so early, and capable of Discerning between Person and Person; and made it appear by Experience, Obedience and Affection do not not always agree. The Equipage of the Young Gentleman was no sooner ready, but he came where I was. Being not in Love, nor expecting much Pleasure in waiting on a Mistress he had never seen, and was represented to him as a Child, he prayed Three of his Friends to Honour his Nuptails with there Presence: The Earl of Essex was one of them. When they arrived, my Looks were divided between several Men, all much of one Age, and equally unknown to me. I know well enough, the Earl of Rutland's Son was designed my Husband; and I presently wished he were the Man whom I afterwads knew to be the Earl of Essex; at the first sight of whom, all my Trouble for being Married so Young, was presently over. He was the First spoke to me and looked on me more earnestly than any of the others. This made me believe it was as I wished. But I was sadly undeceived, when the Young Earl of Rutland was presented to me. I Blushed and Sighed, not knowing the Cause. The Earl of Essex did also the like; his Eyes went still in search of me; and I was not reserved enough to avoid them. The trouble I appeared in was attributed to the Innocence of my Age; and I quickly learned to take care to hid it. Our Parents being arrived, we were Married, without being asked by them, If we were willing. The Earl of Rutland's Son appeared pleased with his Fortune; and perhaps, found me more amiable than he expected. I, Madam, was so in Love with the Earl of Essex all I could do, was not to hate my Husband. Yet I had the good luck, my Kindness for my Lord of Essex was not so much as suspected. 'Twas believed I was then sensible of no other Pleasures, but what Children delight in; but no Age is a stranger to Love. I quickly knew what it was to have a Kindness; and soon complained the Liberty of my Inclination had been usurped upon. I had little joy in being so far Mistress of myself, as to wish I could love my Husband, and endeavour it; and to have an indifference for the Earl of Essex; for all my Efforts to that purpose were vain. The first Resolution I took, was to avoid the sight of a Man, who could only contribute to make me more unhappy. And when he had taken his leave with the rest of my Lord of Rutland's Friends, I prayed my Father to spare my Youth for some time, and not to expose me so early to the Court, where I never had been. My Desire was granted; and when my Father returned for London, to satisfy me, they took me to Rutland. But the Course I took, produced not the Effect I proposed: The Idea of the Earl of Essex accompanied me, in my Solitude. And my Father-in-Law being dead, we were forced to go to London, after a Years stay in the Country. I trembled to think, I should see the Earl of Essex again; and resolved with myself, I would be the most retired Person on Earth, to avoid all Occasions of meeting him; when News was brought me, he was gone with the Earl of Leicester into the Low-Countries. The Queen received me with that Kindness she usually expresses to those she intends to Honour. I admired her Merit; and the Pleasure to see myself respected by her, suspended a while my secret inquietudes. But within less than half a Year, my Father died, and soon after my Husband. I was much afflicted at these losses: I bewailed my Father's Death a long time: And if I had not for my Husband, that great Kindness, which is rarely met with in Marriages of Obedience, my Reason, and his Complaisance had forced me to esteem him, and to express Acknowledgements sincere enough, to save me the Trouble of any just Reproach from myself, or any other. The Queen having told me, she desired to have me near her, I quitted my House for an Apartment in this Palace, and my Fortune, which was very considerable, gave me such Charms, as drew about me a number of Suitors, who pretended mighty Kindness for me; but were really rather a Trouble, than Pleasure to me. In this condition was I, when the Earl of Essex returned to London. The Queen's Army had been Victorious; and she ordered a public Thanksgiving, when the Generals arrived. I waited on her to St. Paul's; and had not the Power by any Consideration, to be so reserved, as not single out from all the Nobility of the Kingdom, the Earl of Essex alone, to fix my Eyes on. The morrow, he was one of the first to wait on the Queen: I was with her before. I was moved at the sight of him: we looked on one another several times, with equal Concern. Madam, said he, as soon as he could speak to me, I have not had a moment's liberty to signify to you, how great a share I bear in your Losses. I believe, answered I, you are sorry for my Misfortune. 'Tis natural for every one to be concerned for such a Person as you are, adds he: But, Madam, I am much more concerned than any other. The Queen interrupted us: But in all the respects the Earl of Essex paid her, I would not but observe his Eye was towards me. I confess, I was glad to see him so eager; and perhaps, I answered him a little too soon; but I was young, tender, and Independent. His Merits were then extraordinary; and he had the advantage of my first inclination. He came the same day to see me in my Apartment; and failed not to do it constantly afterwards. All his Actions persuaded me, at length that he loved me; and it was not long, he let me know it. Madam, said he, one Evening, having brought me to my Chamber, after I had left the Queen, Do you remember the time we accompanied the Earl of Rutland to your Countryhouse? I have not forgot, Sir, answered I, that you were one of them that did him that Honour. Is that all you remember of it? adds he. Did you observe nothing in my Eyes worthy taking notice of? And was it possible, you should inspire into me so much Love, without feeling the Power of it in yourself? The Friendship I had for the Earl of Rutland, and the Progress he had made, prevented my speaking of it. Yet Time and Absence have but increased my Passion. And I protest sincerely, from the first moment I saw you, my Heart was never affected with any but yourself. A Discourse of this nature, may perhaps be thought unsuitable to the Condition I was then in; who Mourned for a Father and a Husband: Yet I had not the Power to be offended with it. The Earl of Essex assured me, I had gained his Affection: I was willing to gain his, and I cared for no more. You will give me leave, Madam, to pass over my Answers; and tell you only, the Earl of Essex was very well satisfied with them; that we then settled the Correspondence we have so long maintained; and that we found Occasions, and Opportunities to polish and perfect it. Thus far you see me ignorant of the Queen's Inclinations: I, as well as others, attributed the Favour we saw the Earl of Essex was in, to his Services, and his Dexterity in setting them out to advantage. But in time, I perceived my mistake: And as reserved as the Queen was, found out the Mystery, and tremble at the Discovery. The Earl of Essex had an elevated Soul, and capable of Greatness, Ambition might rob me of him; and I was willing to fortify myself against all Misfortunes, and to reserve only an Esteem for him. But what hopes of doing that now, which all my reason, and two Years Marriage had not effected? At last, Jealousy succeeded my Fears; and I began to believe, the respect the Earl of Essex had for the Queen, might proceed from a secret Affection. I fretted at this, and grieved at the Heart: The Earl perceived it, and solicited me long to tell him the Cause. I refused as long as I was able. I am Jealous, said I to him at last, with a little Heat, and afraid I should lose your Affection. 'Tis not an Unhappiness, answers he, to see you love me so, as to doubt of me: But there is no Cause to question my Faithfulness, who never loved any but you. The Queen loves you, said I; and her Kindness for you, with the Advantage of her Grandeur, may be dangerous Temptations to your Perseverance. The Queen love me, Madam! Replies he, How you interpret her ordinary Bounty, which hath (perhaps) too generously recompensed my Services beyond their Merit? She is too Haughty, and too Great a Mistress of herself, to fall into such a Weakness. You know, what Illustrious Alliances she hath slighted; and are to believe, she is above the reach of Love. There is not a Monarch on Earth, but I would prefer you before him, answered I; and measuring the Queen 's Affection by mine, I am easily persuaded, she may do so too, her Eye is always upon you, spite of all her Precautions, and is never else satisfied; and I have observed some Sighs from her, which a Heart concerned as mine, cannot hear without Trouble. I did not till now know how happy I was, says the Earl of Essex; but your Jealousy makes me sensible of it. Yet, Madam, give me leave to assure you, you have no Cause for it. Were the Queen Weak, as you Imagine; did she offer me her Crown and her Kindness; I would, by my Refusal, let you see, though I have Ambition, my Love for you infinitely exceeds it. To satisfy you of your Mistake, allow me to procure her Consent to our Marriage. You have mourned long enough, to avoid all imputations of Indecency: It is in your Power to make me the happiest of Men, and to clear all the doubts you have of my Faithfulness. I was far from opposing the Proposal he made; and I was not fully convinced the Queen was in Love with him, yet, I thought, if she was, he knew it not. To let you see, adds he, I will not conceal from you any Kindness the Queen hath expressed for me; I declare, I Sacrifice to you, one of the handsomest Ladies of the Court, who hath a thousand ways invited my Love. I pressed him to let me know her Name; but he conjured me to be satisfied with what he had said; and, not to force him to further Indiscretion, I gave over Pressing him. [The Countess of Nottingham Blushed at this Part of the Discourse, having Reason to believe herself the Person intended. She Hated him the more for't; but had the Command of herself, not to interrupt the Countess of Essex; who proceeded in her Story.] This freedom of the Earl put an end to my suspicions. I left him to take his Time for speaking to the Queen: When he went to thank her for the Government of Ireland bestowed on him, he returned to me with a Transport of Joy, to tell me; The Queen had not only Consented to his Desires, but intented to make the Earl of Leicester King of England. This quieted my Spirit, and made me acknowledge, I had no cause to be Jealous. We spent some days with a great deal of Pleasure; but were Cruelly interrupted by the Order the Earl of Essex received to go into France, to command the Forces the Queen sent in aid of that King. I had not time to express my Grief to him, or to be a Witness of his. We parted in haste: and then it was, I repent I had believed him; and that the Queen's Coldness towards me, convinced me of the Truth of my former Suspicions; and that her sending away the Earl of Essex, was but to remove him from me. I left Court, as soon as I could, with Decency, ask the Queen leave to retire into a House of my Fathers, about Fifty Miles from London. I will not tell you how I was Alarmed at the News of the Earl of Essex his Death in his Return from Spain; nor how we Writ to one another, in his absence. I was ready to Die for Grief, when he arrived at my House, more Respectful and more Amorous than he had ever appeared. He would have put me out of my Opinion, concerning the Queen: But I obstinately maintained it True. When I had convinced him of it, he offered to leave England, if I would name a Place where he might Live quietly. I had Affection enough to incline me to Consent to this Proposal: But considering it Unjust in me to spoil the Progress of his good Fortune, and put an end to his hopes, by an Unexcusable Retreat, I told him, it was impossible. And ushering with a Sigh the Advice I was going to give him: Forget me, Sir, said I, for I see your Fate will force you to it. The Queen will still cross us, and never want Pretence to Separate us: 'Tis better breaking off an Engagement, that suits not with your Affairs; Nothing in the World, can be a greater Misfortune to me; but I will submit to it, if it be for your Good. You suspect me of indifference (said he interrupting me;) and you have the Cruelty to advise me to it. Did you love me more, you would know me better: And were I capable of doing an unjust thing, I believe you would Exhort me to forget you, for no other cause but that you might think of me no more. But, Madam, to shorten our Discourse, and our Doubts, which almost make me Mad, Believe it, I love you above all things in the World, there is a sure and easy way to satisfy you of it. You are not willing to go with me out of England; and yet you are still afraid of the Queen: Let us Marry privately, and conceal it till we see a more favourable Time. This will frustrate the Queen's design to our Prejudice; you will no longer doubt of my Affection: And if the business be discovered, 'tis but flying out of the Reach of the Resentments we fear. I was strangely moved at this Discourse: Every thing obliged me to believe him. Yet considering it would reflect upon my Reputation to be privately Married, I was afraid to consent. The Earl Complained of me; I Cried: Love was our arbitrator, and decided the Controversy in his Favour. After long resistance, I agreed to a private Marriage; on Condition the Earl would go for London on the Morrow; and appear dis-engagaged to the Queen from all the Kindness he had had from me. We agreed to be Married at the Earl of Southampton's, his particular Friend; where I was to stay, while he went for London. Thus we parted: He took London Road; I went for Southampton, attended by Tracy, a Domestic of the Earl of Essex's, in whom he reposed an entire Confidence. As the Earl was on the Road, he had leisure to consider what Measures to take. My Lord Southampton came to receive me at his House; where the Earl of Essex arrived, soon after he had obtained leave from the Queen, to Absent himself a few Days. We are now come to the Instant that ushered in our Crosses. We were Married in the Presence of my Lord Southampton, Tracy, and some Women of mine, and a Kinsman of the Earl of Essex. He gave me an Account how the Queen had received him; and began to confess, he believed she loved him. He stayed but six Days at Southampton; in which time we agreed what course to take. I was too far from London to see the Earl often without discovering our Correspondence. Nothing seemed more proper to Conceal it, than a House he had within few Miles of London, on the Thames side: It stood alone, and was strong enough to prevent a Surprise. Having settled my Affairs, I was conducted thither by my Lord Southampton and Tracy, while the Earl of Essex returned for London. Nothing could be more pleasant, than the Solitude I was in. My Lord of Essex came to see me every Day: And I spent there two Years, without a moments Trouble. At last, an Accident happened that miserably perplexed us. The Earl of Essex had an infinite of Enemies, who envied him; and for all his Caution, they took notice of his extraordinary Assiduity for the Place I was in. They told the Queen of it: She was disturbed at it; more perhaps, for the Suspicion she had of some Private Gallantry of his there, than for those matters they would have possessed her with. I gave her no Trouble: The Earl's Disengagement, with my pretended Journey into France, had secured her as to me. Yet she would go see whether the Earl frequented that House, only for the Pleasure of the Place, or some hidden Cause. One Day, as the Earl was with her, she gave Orders, her ordinary Retinue should be ready to wait on her. I have long had a mind to see your Countryhouse, says she to the Earl, I have had a very pleasant Description of it: The Wether is fair; and I believe a Walk so far may do me good. You may imagine the Fears this put the Earl in: He durst not openly oppose her Design; but endeavoured to divert her, by saying, His House deserved not the Pains it would cost her, to go so far. When he saw her resolved upon it, he begged leave to go before, to put things in order for her Reception. Nay, says she, you shall be my Guide: There's no need of Preparation. The Earl, at these Words trembled for me. He was deprived of all means of Precaution; and the Concern he appeared in, made the Queen more curious. Imagine what a Trouble he was in by the way, and how often he wished something might hinder their Arrival. But Fortune favoured the Queen's Designs so far, that they came safe to the House; and she would presently go see the Lodgings. The Earl astonished, gave her his Hand. The Chamber I used, was the best in the House; and the first the Queen stayed at. The Earl seeing no Remedy, steps to the Door, which he found open contrary to Custom, and was pleasingly surprised, to find only Tracy there, sleeping, or rather pretending to sleep on a Couch. He was quickly awaked; and having expressed his Surprise and Respect, immediately withdrew. The Earl of Essex, who thought him at London, began to take Heart, fancying his good Genius had revealed the Adventure to Tracy. But a new Trouble arose: My Picture hung in the same Room, under a Curtain. The Queen asked If it was the Earl's? He answered, with some Trouble, It was not. The Queen drew the Curtain, and saw herself drawn at length, where the Earl thought my Picture would appear. Then it was he was persuaded, the faithful Tracy had had an Intimation of the Journey. The Queen expressed much Joy, to see her Picture in the Earl's Chamber. From the House, she went into the Garden; took a short Repast, during which, Tracy found the opportunity to whisper the Earl, He need not trouble himself— and returned to London, without the least suspicion. Thus Matters passed on their side. As to ours, The very instant the Queen told the Earl of Essex, she would see his House, the Earl of Southampton was at her Chamber-Door. You are come in very good time, to go along with the Queen to the Earl of Essex 's, says the Officer, who was going to provide the Equipage. The Earl of Southampton by these few Words, quickly discovered the Storm that threatened his Friend: And to provide a Remedy; I am not very well, said he to the Officer: Perhaps the Queen may command me to wait on her; I will not go into her Presence. Pray, let her not know you have seen me. The Officer promised, she should not; and Southampton hastened to the Earl of Essex's, to tell Tracy; who immediately took the best Horse his Master had; and put him so well to it, that he was with me before the Queen left London. I was not a little troubled at the News. Tracy hide me, and my Women in a Quarter, where was no likelihood of our being discovered; and then changed the Queen's Picture for mine. That Evening, the Earl of Essex, came to see me, and gave me an Account of the Tortures he had that Day endured for me; and how Southampton and Tracy had delivered him out of them. The Irish rebelled; I lay in at that time: The Earl of Essex, who loved me no less than his Glory, had within himself desperate Conflicts. His Duty prevailed: He desired he might command the Army, the Queen granted it; and the same time, plainly delar'd her Affection for him; which I was before but too well assured of. She gave him abundance of very kind Expressions; and (to confirm the Truth of them) a RING, which still leaves the poor Earl of Essex some Hopes. He was sufficiently prepared to manage the Queen: And you see, by this time, Madam, whether he was not under a necessity of some Dissimulation. He gave me a faithful Account of all passed between them; and being fearful for me in his Absence, he resolved to remove me, and to go himself out of England, if matters were discovered. This put him in search of some Places of Refuge. The King of Scots promised him, among others, the Palace of Dimbourg. The Earl of Tyrone made him many Proposals; but certain it is, he never harkened to any of them. I was weak when he left me, and obliged to recover a little Strength, before I would undertake a Voyage for Scotland. I was on my way, Fortune stayed me, the Earl of Essex was charged with several Matters; and the Queen prepossessed by our Enemies, took our innocent Precautions for Crimes. At last, Madam, the Earl was forced to come and shut himself up in the Place where I was; and was resolved to perish in Defence of me. You know what followed. Consider the Frights I was in, amidst so much Trouble and Blood, I saw every day spilt. The Earl conjured me incessantly, to quit a Place where he could not make any long Defence against so many Forces, as were employed to take it. I exhorted him to yield, and implore the Queen's Goodness. He protested, He would never do it, till I was in a Place of Safety. Thus was I forced to leave him, and go for Dimbourgh. The faithful Tracy, who should have conducted me thither, had perished already, in maintaining the Interests of his Master. The Earl of Essex committed me to the Charge of one of his Kinsmen; they forced me out of his Arms, to put me aboard a Boat that waited for us on the Thames, and was to carry us to the Place where our Convoy attended us. My Fears, and my Grief put me into a Fever: This stayed me some Days, at a little Village, where I had News of the Earl's Imprisonment, and the Queen's Resolution to ruin him. The Extremity of my Despair, put me on the Resolution of presenting myself to the Queen, and endeavouring to obtain some Favour by an ingenuous Confession. But, Madam, you know I found in her no Disposition to pardon us. My Conduct hath produced a terrible Effect: And I may justly reproach myself, to have been the Cause of all my Lord Essex his Misfortunes. This Discourse ended in Tears. The Countess of Nottingham took small care to stop them: She was too much concerned in more than one Part of the Story, which heightened her Fury: And leaving the Countess of Essex to the Horror of Despair, she returned to the Queen, whom she found almost drowned in hers. She used all her Art to revive the Queen's Anger; and by her cruel Address, effected her Design; without saying a Word directly against the Criminal. Cecil and she were tormented to see the Execution delayed. What shall we do, Madam, says he to her, if the Queen, in the Height of her Anger, will not give way that Justice be done? What are we to expect when her Anger is over? What are we not to fear from her Love, if it once get the Mastery of a Heart as hers is? 'Tis no no where so imperious, no where so absolute; and I very much doubt, whether all our Caution can prevent the ill Effects of it. In a Word, condemned as the Earl of Essex is, by an August Assembly, 'tis possible, he may recover his former Favour with the Queen, and utterly ruin us, as soon as he sets Footing at Court. I shall bestir myself a little, ere that come to pass, (says the Countess of Nottingham;) I have the Queen 's Ear: I know how to speak; I am not suspected; nor am I a Stranger to the Secrets of the one, nor the other: Yet we are not to flatter ourselves; the Earl of Essex is Master of his Fortune. If he petition, the Queen will not have the Power to deny him. He hath a Pledge, which gives him an obsolute Power over her: But, thanks to his Pride, he will not make use of it. Besides, whom can be employ in an Affair of this Nature, but we can corrupt? I will not leave the Queen, and I'll pawn my Life, I will secure all with her. Do your part, and let's not be surprised. Cecil knew the Countess Nottingham too well to doubt of what she said: He parted better satisfied; and thought of nothing but what flattered their common Hatred against Essex. The Queen had had a very ill Night, tormented equally with Sickness and Trouble. She considered the Unfaithfulness of the Earl of Essex; his plotting against her Authority, his private Marriage, his giving himself wholly up to the Pleasures of it, while he pretended to be entirely at her Devotion, and his Pride in the Depth of Misfortunes. She thought sometimes these Reflections strong enough, to enable her to see him die. But presently, the pleasant Idea of him she would destroy, his Merit, his Services, and the natural Inclinations she had for him, inspired her again with gentle Resolutions. She thought it better to see him a Criminal, than never to see him more. The Thoughts of his Execution put her almost besides herself, though it was in her Power to prevent it. The Countess of Nottingham was as wakeful as the Queen, though for different Reasons; and waiting on her in the Morning, as usual, You find me in a lamentable Condition, says the Queen; and if you help not to comfort me, I shall not be able to endure it much longer. The Wretch who causes me all this Trouble, is always before my Eyes, in the most pitiful Condition imaginable. It is possible, I should do nothing for him in such an Extremity? Shall I permit him to perish, as if I had no more valued him than another; when I have declared to him I loved him? Shall I reproach myself one Day with Cruelty, to have forsaken him, when it was in my Power to save him? What your Majesty shall be pleased to do in his Favour, replies the Countess of Nottingham, will be the more generous, for that he hath not solicited it. If he petitioned, your Bounty would be looked upon as an Effect of your Pity, and his Submissions: But now, it will proceed purely from your Goodness. These Words effected partly what she aimed at. The Queen blushed, sighed, and was silent a while. It must be confessed (proceeds she) That to do all for him, without putting him to the cost of one Sign of Repentance, is to approve of his Pride, and encourage him to carry it on to the highest Extremities. He would have my Kindness do all; and without any Reflection on the Outrages he hath done me, he believes, I shall think myself too happy in beholding the Executioner's Hand. Never doubt, Madam, (says the Countess) but he makes account to triumph still over that Goodness your Majesty hath always made appear towards him. Had he been carried from Westminster to the Scaffold; had you given him a Sight of that Sense of Death, and pardoned Southampton, without respiting the other's Execution, he would have been glad to make use of any means, in his Power, to move you to Mercy. But he knows the Power he hath over you; and pretends that by receiving a Pardon he vouchsafes not to Petition for, all the World will believe him innocent. But, Madam, if matters be carried on thus, What will the World judge of your Majesty? There is not a Person ignorant of this Adventure: And if the Earl of Essex, without acknowledging his Crimes, sees himself at Liberty: Will it not be said, That England is governed by a Queen, not so discreet as Fame reports her to be? At this, Cecil arrived and fortified extremely the Countess of Nottingham's Parley: He seconded her with all the Art of a cruel Eloquence, to persuade the Queen, She was concerned in Honour, the Earl of Essex should die. The Queen, in a Pet, consented he should be executed suddenly; and Cecil lost no time in carrying her Orders to those who were to be Actors in the Execution. The Earl of Essex (as the Countess of Nottingham had shrewdly guessed) had no Thoughts of petitioning for a Favour, which, in all Probability, the Queen's Kindness would of itself freely grant him. But when he saw himself on the point of being carried to the Place of Execution, he thought it his Duty, not to neglect the Medicines he had in his power, to bring about the Queen. Then he resolved to implore Her Mercy, and put her in mind of her Promises and Oaths. And knowing the Countess of Nottingham was her Favourite and Confident; though he had Cause to believe, she had no great Kindness for him, he was persuaded, she might have Generosity enough, to serve him in this important Meditation. He sent to desire the Favour of a Visit from her. The Countess, impatient to know the Cause, went directly to him, without acquainting the Queen. Who, but a Barbarian, could have seen the Earl of Essex's Person, and at the same time know his Misfortune, without being melted into Compassion? Yet the Countess of Nottingham, at the sight of him, was all Cruelty and Revenge; But, feigning some sweetness, she gave him away to declare himself thus. Can you, Madam, pardon the most unfortunate of Men, the Trouble he gives you, at a time when he hath no cause to flatter himself you have any Remains of Kindness for him? Yet nothing can be now of greater Advantage to me, than your Protection. I know the Power you have over the Queen; and would you be pleased to join it to my Sorrow and Repentance, for having offended Her, I doubt not, but we may prevail much. Tell Her then, Madam, continues he, (putting his Knee to the Ground) That you have seen me in this suppliant Posture, full of Grief for having deserved Her Hatred. Restore her this RING, which I have kept; and entreat Her to remember the Promises She made when She gave it me. I beg my Life by this PLEDGE, and She cannot deny it me, without forgetting Her Oaths. I can no longer look on Life, as a thing pleasing to me; but a miserable Wife, and the Interest of a Son press me to continue it as long as I can. I cannot think, the Innocence of the One, or the Infancy of the Other, needs my Justification: The Favour to be begged of the Queen, is for me alone. The Countess of Nottingham was transported with Joy, to see the Earl trust her with the RING, which had so often Alarmed her, and whose Power Cecil was still afraid of. She frankly promised what she had not the least intent to do for Essex, added feigned Tears to her false Promises, and assured him, she would directly go use her utmost Interest with the Queen, in his Favour. But instead of going to the Queen, to give Her an Acccunt of her Visit, she went to Cecil; who waited for her, praised her Cruelty, and had the Pleasure to see in his power, the sole Obstacle against Essex's Death. They went together to the Queen, who ask, How Essex received Her last Orders? He was never observed so haughty, Madam, (answers Cecil;) he cannot prevail with himself to show the least Sign of Repentance. He thinks of nothing but his Wife, and she is the whole Subject of his discourse to those who go to him. Let him die then, let him perish, (says the Queen, very angry) since he will have it so. Let Me be eased of the tormenting Uncertainties and Disquiets I am under. I am no longer against his Execution. This Zealous Minister was unwilling to leave the Queen the least time of Reflection: And while the Earl of Essex was in expectation of the Effect of the Promises of the unfaithful Countess of Nottingham, provision was made for his Execution in the Tower, to avoid a Rebellion among the People, who loved him. His Soul was naturally great, and discovered not the least Weakness, in the last extremity. Never did Man go to his Death with more Constancy and Firmness. He did not murmur in the least, against the Queen; though he might have Reproached her with Promises. He mounted the Scaffold Resolutely, Undressed himself, Recommended his Family to those about him; and having drawn Tears from all Eyes that were Spectators of that last Act of his Life, he received his Death, without so much as giving way his Eyes should be covered. Thus Died this famous Favourite of Queen Elizabeth. One of the best Qualified Persons in the World; and a Man who had been too happy, had not Love had too great a Power over him. Soon after the Queen had consented he should be Executed, she Relapsed into her former irresolutions; and after a sharp Conflict within herself, she resolved to Pardon him; and sent an Officer of her Guards, to forbid their proceeding further: But it was too late: Cecil had fore-seen what might happen, and cruelly provided against the Effects of her relapse into former Kindness. The Earl of Essex was already Executed; and that was the Answer he carried the Queen. Then it was she lost her ordinary Moderation; then her Grief broke out publicly. Cecil, says she, What Mischief hath your Barbarous Zeal, and Impatience done me! With that, she burst out into Tears, and would not endure the Caresses or the Comforts of any about her. While the Queen abhorred herself, for the Orders her Anger had given; Cecil, who had so faithfully caused them to be executed, enjoyed the Pleasure of having procured them: And the Countess of Nottingham Triumphed in herself, for the Revenge she had taken of a Man who had slighted her Charms. 'Tis impossible to express the Grief of the Countess of Essex: the most Stony Hearts had Tears for her. The Queen, (whose Anger was dead with the Earl) sent to comfort her, and assure her, she was at Liberty, and might dispose of her Husband's Estate. Let Her take my Life, and keep Her Pity to Herself, (says the Countess to the Queen's Messenger) She hath Robbed me of all that made my Life dear to me; and 'tis not in Her Power, to repair the Mischief she hath done me. The Earl of Essex his Friends, finding her, at present incapable of Comfort (even from them whom she esteemed highly, for their Love to the Earl) took her from London, in hopes, that Time might make her Susceptible of that Consolation, which the Violence of her present Sorrows rendered altogether vain. As for the Queen, She languished out the rest of her Life: The only Comfort she had, was to think the Earl of Essex had slighted Her to his Death, and never made Her any Submission. The Countess of Nottingham had small Joy of her Faithless Life. A violent Malady seized her, and made her sensible of the Horrors of Death: Remorse of Conscience tormented her; the Ghost of the Earl of Essex (whose Death her Cruelty occasioned) seemed to Haunt her incessantly. And being at the point of Death, she could not departed, without acknowledging her Crime to the Queen. Having begged one Moment's Audience, she confessed all that had passed between the Earl of Essex and her, the Love she had for him, the Implacable Hatred that succeeded it, and her Perfidiousness in keeping the RING he had trusted her with. With that she presented the RING to the Queen; who was ready to die at the receiving it; and was within very little of making the dying Countess feel the violence of her Resentment. Wretch, cries she, with looks full of Indignation, What Remorse hast thou exposed me to! Whether Heaven will Pardon thy Crimes I know not; sure I am, I shall never forget them. Having thus said, the Queen went out, and the Countess in few Hours Dyed. This proved a Mortal Blow to the Queen's Health; who not long after Died, uncomforted for the Death of the Earl of Essex. Cecil had loved the Countess of Nottingham too well, to be easily Comforted for hers. By the Death of Queen Elizabeth, the Crown of England passed into the Illustrious House of the STUARTS, whose Right it was: King James, after a Glorious Reign, left it to his Posterity, for the Repose of his Kingdom. FINIS. THE VICEROY OF CATALONIA: OR, THE Double Cuckold. Made English by JAMES MORGAN, Gent. Fronti nulla Fides— Juven. LONDON, Printed for R. Wellington at the Lute in St. Paul's Churchyard: And E. Rumball at the Posthouse in , 1699. To all secure in their own Thoughts, and Undiscovered CUCKOLDS. Gentlemen, AS I doubt not, on one side, but this Title comprehends, in reality, a most numerous and powerful Party, and am proud and full of confidence having put myself under your Protection,— Cornua sumo; so on the other side I lose much of my assurance, when I consider that it is to destroy the very being of your happy condition, to imagine that any of you will think yourselves concerned in this Dedication, since that very thought would make you really cease to be so, and rank you in another herd amongst the Jealous and Suspicious, to whom I do not apply myself. It is to you (Gentlemen) I speak, who are sure you are not spoken to; It is to you only our resolute Don Gabriel submits himself, though at the same time like a blunt Soldier, as he is, he tells you, that even to you he yields in nothing but his Fortune, which it seems, was as obstinately bend to force upon him the knowledge of that fatal secret, as he was to avoid it; and though he confesses he was guilty of much weakness in permitting himself to be carried away by the importunity of Don Fernand, even so far as to watch the actions of his Wife (a horrid sin in itself) yet he desires you to believe that even in that action he never consented to any thought that suggested to him the least doubt of her Virtue, but Armed his Soul with a strong contempt of Don Fernand's Jealous Humour; In fine, he had still been as Happy as any of you, had not his unkind Destiny peevishly forced upon him that secret which your kinder Fates so carefully keep from you, doubly kind indeed, since they both take from you the knowledge of a reality which would destroy your Happiness, and with the Idea of an imaginary thing (your Wife's Virtue) no where existent but in your own Brains, make you really Happy? Here he submits and acknowledges the advantages your favourable stars have given you over him; he adores that Heaven of Happiness from which he is fallen, and instead of giving thanks to his officious Friend Don Fernand, or others, who had contributed to Awake him out of his Golden Dream of Security, he cries out with the Grecian in Horace, — pol me occidistis amici Non servastis— Don Fernand on the other side, though he stands in need of Friends, deserves no Favour from you: A Jealous Mad Man; he swears you are all Cuckolds, but believe him not; believe him, said I? You know he lies: Poor envious Cuckold, he would disturb the quiet security of your thoughts, and use you as he has done Don Gabriel; but harken not to him, and if ever you fall into Don Gabriel's Misfortune of knowing what you would not know, let it never be justly objected to you that you did in the least contribute to your own unhapppiness, but confirm your Hearts in your just contempt of those miserable Wretches, of whom it is so fitly said, that I need not name my Author, Rather than not be knowing, they will know, What being known creates their certain Woe. This is the Advice of the brave Soldier Don Gabriel, who has been tried in both Fortunes; And this is highly recommended to you by him, who as much as any one, desires the continuance of your happy ignorance. James Morgan. The Double Cuckold. IN the Reign of Philip the Second, a Gentleman, named Don Fernand, governed in Catalonia in quality of Viceroy; a Man (to give him his true Character) of a most agreeable humour, and endued with extraordinary quality; but much addicted to Pleasures, and above all, to those of Love, which he pursued even with the Hazard of his Reputation. He married one of the greatest Beauties of Spain, a virtuous young Lady, and of so Pleasant a Wit and Humour, that any other but he would have found reason to have been highly satisfied in her; but there are some Husbands who think no Women so bad as their own, of which Number Don Fernand was. The quiet Possession palled him, and being disgusted with the continual serving up of the same diet, he was resolved to divert himself with change when he could, at the Expense of others. He had for these some Months used to Hunt upon the Grounds belonging to the Grand Master of the Artillery; whose Wife, though not altogether so absolute a Beauty as his own, yet shone with so many charms, as that few of her sex could stand in competition with her; and withal, was extremely pleasant and divertive in her humour, and of the most pleasant and gallant Wit in the World.— In a Word, a Woman exactly framed to his own Mould, and Temper. The Grand Master was a Man perfectly cut out for War, and so consequently, you may guests, very unfit for the Court. He bent all his mind to the Duty of his charge, and left the Affairs of his House to the manage of his Wife, of whom he had a good opinion, being of a Temper, contrary to the Genius of those of his Country, not at all inclined to the yellows. Some Relation between him and the Viceroy, together with the Friendship that was contracted between the two Ladies who had been long acquainted, served for an inducement to bring the Grand Master to Court, where Don Fernand would needs honour him with a particular Apartment. Hitherto all went well; neither did any one perceive the Viceroy's design upon Donna Angelica (so was the Grand Master's Lady called:) he spoke not to her but with his eyes, and by his handkerchief, which in that Country, serves for a Love-Interpreter as well as the eyes: But now since of an outward he had made a domestic Amour, the convenience of daily seeing and entertaining the object of his Ardent Affections, increased his Passion to such a Height, that it could be no longer kept a reserve from the quick sight of so penetrating a Lady as his was. A little Jealousy is sufficient to disunite two Women; A bare suspicion will dissolve the strongest Tie of Friendship that can be between them. The Viceroy's Lady began to look very indifferently upon Donna Angelica without assigning to her any reason for it: For most commonly one Woman does not love to betray the jealousy she possibly may have of another; that seems to her to be such a Point of Honour, as she will never, but in the last extremity, and when she is no longer capable of concealing it, discover the reproachful signs of this weak passion in her. Donna Angelica soon perceived the change, and as soon guest the occasion of it; yet she behaved herself in her usual manner towards the Viceroy's Lady. A Woman takes an extreme Pleasure to see herself beloved, especially by a Person of Quality and deserving Merit as Don Fernand was But Donna Angelica shown so much discretion in her conversation with him, that his Lady had nothing to ground a Quarrel on. But that discretion was wanting in him, whose Passion was raised to such a height, that it was not in his power to restrain it. The Viceroy's Lady, who would no longer serve them towards the convenience of their interviews, seeing that Donna Angelica abated nothing of her free and indifferent carriage, he refused her the ordinary civility of entering into her Chamber, where he used frequently to wait on her; and which had served the Viceroy as a pretence in his Visits to her. Donna Angelica could not dissemble this affront, the injustice of it being too great considering the freedom of her conversation wherewith she had hitherto treated Don Fernand; and she was now resolved to be revenged, and spare nothing whereby she could be able to make her jealous in good earnest. It is something dangerous to provoke an Enemy, when it lies in his power to do us more mischief than yet he has done: Donna Angelica had no sooner seen the Viceroy, but assuming to herself a more serious countenance than ordinary; Sir (says she) I know not what Pleasure you can take in making dissension betwixt your Lady and me: I, Madam? answered Don Fernand, absolutely astonished at the Reproach she made him: Yes, you, yourself, replies she: you make her by some of your actions imagine that you love me, and she by hers would confirm me in my belief of the same. I did not think, answered the Viceroy, smiling, that I could ever have been so much obliged to my Wives ill humour, as that she should make a declaration of love for me; but since it is so, Madam, I wish she may always continue it, for I swear to you, nothing is so true as what she would persuade you to; And Madam, I love you to such a degree as no Man yet ever loved before me. I perceive (replies she) that she is already extremely jealous, but she shall be sufficiently punished for it. Yes, Madam, replied the Viceroy, if you would but love me a little; Not so, replied she, although indeed any other would do it perhaps through revenge, if not through inclination; but, added she, laughing, I desire not to push on my revenge so far. This Discourse was interrupted by some Ladies who came to visit Donna Angelica, and the Viceroy, being obliged for that time to retire, writ a Lettter to the Lady the same day to this purpose. Revenge yourself, Madam, revenge yourself of the Vicequeen, who has had the Curiosity to pry into the secrets of my Heart; she is persuaded that none can have so tender and ardent a Passion as that I bear you; that I think of none but you, that I seek nothing but you, and that I have no Pleasure but when I see you, and am so happy as to be in your Company. It seems she has penetrated into the most secret folding of my Soul, and you ought to be angry with her in earnest; for since this offends you, and it is to your resentment I must owe your kindnesses, I would wish to see you so incensed against her as may make me truly Happy; at least you cannot choose a fit revenge; all the mischief will fall upon her, and we alone shall enjoy the Pleasure. Once more, Madam, let me beg of you to take your revenge; for though there were no subject for it, you will however but do an Act of justice, in bestowing a little Love upon a Man, who is not altogether unworthy of some Place in your Heart, being Don Fernand. This Letter was delivered to Donna Angelica, which she read not without a Smile, but returned him no Answer; nevertheless the Viceroy from this time, saw that his affairs were not attended with any extraordinary ill Circumstances. The Vicequeen perceived she had committed an error, and that by refusing Donna Angelica the privilege of her Chamber, she had given her Treacherous Husband a fair occasion to see her in private. Her Jealousy daily increased, she imagined a thousand times more than was indeed, and she suffered more trouble in one poor moment, by what she saw not, than she had in many days by what she had seen: she was forced to change her conduct, and to feign a desire of renewing her friendship with a Woman whom she hated more than Death. To how sad a point is a poor Lady reduced, when she is so innocent as to trouble herself about the little Follies of her Husband, and dares not render him quid pro quo! She would fain have had this satisfaction (though a very afflictive one) of seeing what passed betwixt these two perfidious Creatures, and putting a check to their Pleasure by her Presence, for she was from Morning until Night either with the one or the other. The Viceroy was extremely weary of her everlasting Company, he could have wished with all his Heart, that she had continued her ill humour and quarrel to Donna Angelica. Whatever he did, she would make one: if he walked out, she did so too; if he went to pay a visit to Donna Angelica, she followed him, and would be the last there; I leave it for your Married, Young, Brisk Gallants to judge, whether this was not damnable troublesome. He knew not what to do: Donna Angelica, who loved him not to the expense of her Reputation, would contribute nothing, on her part to make him more happy, for fear of giving the Vicequeen an advantage over her, who possibly waited but for an opportunity to ruin her. So that being in despair with anger and vexation, after having sought a thousand ways to rid himself of this trouble, without meeting success in any, he at last bethought himself of an expedient quaint enough, and such as few Spaniards would have thought on. But the Ascendant of Love often carries them above that of their Nation. He believed that Women were not jealous of their Husbands, but for want of something else to amuse them, and that, as one passion drives away another, he should quickly put an end to the Vice-queen's jealousy, if he could find her out a Man capable of making a tender impression of Love upon her. He studied a good while whom he should make choice of, to do him so important a service, without prejudice to his Honour: the affair was pretty nice and delicate; but when a Man loves to that degree that he loved, and is fired with the thoughts of enjoying those pleasures he was in search of, he must pass by a great many such Scrupulosities. In fine, having run over in his mind all the Gallants of his Court, that were capable of inspiring Love into the breast of a young Lady, he cast his eyes at last upon a young Neapolitan Lord, something allied to him, and for whom he had procured a Regiment of Foot; and who was newly arrived at Barcelona: he was young, full of sprightly air, for whom the Vicequeen had already a particular esteem, and he could not elect a Centleman more fit for his design. He found him one evening walking alone in the Park, and having taken him with him, he fell into the discourse of the Ladies of Barcelona, and smiling, asked him how he found himself, whether he had hitherto preserved his Liberty, and if he were not engaged in some Amour. My liberty is entire, answered the young Neapolitan. How! replies the Viceroy, among so many fair Ladies in this City, has no beauty had the power yet to reach your heart? either you have a very obdurate one, pursues he, or I must believe you have left a Mistress in Naples to whom you will not be unfaithful. Neither the one nor the other, Sir, replies the Colonel; I was never amorous; not that I am insensible of the passion, but the business and art of War pleases me better than that of Love. You are young, says the Viceroy, smiling; and you ought not to have such Ideas, for the one does not hinder the other; you may make Love, and yet very well discharge the duty of a Soldier. Nay, I will tell you more than that, continueth he; there was never any great and perfect Warrior but who was made so by Love; and so engaging him further in that discourse, he began to number up I know not how many Great Captains, who owed the most glorious Actions they ever performed, to the inspirations of Love; and he concluded at last that he must imitate their Example, if he would not pass for a Barbarian. Count Henry (for so the young Neapolitan was called) yielded himself to the Viceroy's arguments, but more out of complaisance, than through any inclination, judging very well that it would not become a young Courtier as he was, to dispute against a passion, on which all the World knew the Viceroy was so violently bend: I will court a Mistress then, says he, since you advise me to it. Don Fernand demanded of him, whether he would not be content to receive her from his hands; at which proposition the Count began to laugh, but made no answer. Do you fear then, pursued the Viceroy, that I shall not serve you to your satisfaction; I know how to acquit myself in such an affair, but too well, Signior, says he, and for that very reason it will be dangerous to owe that obligation to you: No, no, you need fear nothing, says Don Fernand, smiling; it is true, I have loved the Lady whom I would willingly bestow on you for a Mistress; but she is at present a trouble to me; and I hate her almost as much as ever I loved her. What a fine present, Sir, says the Count, interrupting him, do you make me then? will not the kindness you have for me, inspire you with something more obliging than to charge me with a Woman you know not what to do with? No Sir, says Don Fernand, and I may tell you withal, the offer I make you deserves not to be refused, and there are few men would have been so generous as I am in it: If you please Sir, (replies the Count) honour some other Person with your liberality; for I must return to what I have already told you, that notwithstanding the examples of so many Heroes that have loved, yet War pleases me better. Lord Henry, says the Viceroy, the Person I speak of is one of the greatest beauties in this Kingdom, and in wit and ingenuity not inferior to any: I believe it, Sir, replies the Count, but she is withal a Woman, Peevish, Conceited, Cross, Spiteful, Jealous, Imperious, and possibly worse than all this. You do not know, says Don Fernand, smiling upon him, and folding his Arms, that it is my Wife you speak of: Yours? answers the Count blushing, and thinking he had misunderstood him: My Vicequeen, replies Don Fernand, whom I intent to bestow on you for a Mistress: consider whether she be so unworthy of you. It is true, Sir, says the Count, blushing more and more, I have made some visits to your Lady the Vice queen, but it has been with your permission, and I thought I had not been so unhappy, as to have caused any unjust suspicions in you by my conduct, you mistake me, answers the Viceroy, I tell you, that if you like my Wife, it would please me extremely to see her made sensible of your deserts; and you will oblige me by endeavouring to make her so; do I now speak plain? If this raillery, Signior, answers the Count, is but to make a trial of my respect, I declare unto you, I am so Religious an observer of my Duty, that, setting aside the high Obligations I have to you, so great a Sacrilege would never enter into my thoughts. The Viceroy, thereupon walked a while without making any answer, and then turning suddenly towards the Count; All this, says he, would be proper for another in another Conjuncture; but since I desire not this respect or duty from you, can you do me any displeasure, think you, by serving me my own way? I tell you again, pursues he, raising his voice a little higher, you will oblige me extremely, if you will make love to my Wife, or at least endeavour to make her sensible of your Love. Count Henry more astonished than ever, at the strangeness of the proposition, knew not what to think, nor what answer to make. At which the Viceroy laughing, I see, says he, this discourse surprises you, and you have reason, but I have mine too. I love most passionately, even more than ever, and the greatest Obstacle that opposes my Love, is my Wife, and what would not a passionate Lover do to remove such an obstacle? She is jealous, and troubles me continually with her importunities. What remedy is there for me? I have tried a thousand ways in vain, she hath counter turned all my inventions, I am continually wearied with her endless complaints and reproaches. She follows me where ever I go; and poisons with her Presence all the pleasures of my Life. I have fancied that something which may amuse her, would do me Knight-service, and much relieve me, and that you are a Man very proper to inspire love into her Soul. You are Young, Handsome, Pleasant in your Humour, have abundance of Wit, and she has an esteem for you. It is true, she is proud and haughty, but still she is a Woman as other's are. For my part, knowing the Sex so well, I doubt so little of your success, that I must desire you to keep such moderation in it as I may hope from a Relation and Friend. You are discreet, and I confide in you, you know well enough how far the service I desire of you ought to extend. The Count, after some opposition of accepting such an Employment, either out of complaisance to the Viceroy, or else because the Vicequeen pleased him, at length suffered himself to be overcome by the Viceroy's persuasions, which reached so far as to let, him understand that he would not complain, though to the prejudice of his Honour, this amusement should happen to be carried on somewhat further than he desired. Thus they parted, the Viceroy highly satisfied that he had engaged the Count, in a service, which another would have feared to have entered into. And the Count, on the other side, wondering at the charge of such a commission as this, which was laid upon him. He had never been very much in love himself, and he could not well conceive, how any one should be so far transported with that passion. The Viceroy was to entertain the Ladies the next night at a supper, which was to present the New Gallant with an occasion of entertaining his Mistress. The Vicequeen, (as I have already told you) was a very beautiful Person, and such a one, as Count Henry might very well make his applications to, without doing himself any considerable violence: Yet nevertheless because it was a thing put upon him so, he found not in him that inclination which no doubt he would have had, had it voluntarily came from his own motion. Though her beauty was excessively charming, yet the too prodigal bounty of such a Husband, was a great allay to a young Heart, which is sooner engaged by the difficulty than the too great facility of the enterprise. He was at this feast, where he appeared something abashed, and his Spirit was seized with such a melancholy, which was not usual in him, for he was generally mighty Brisk, and a Person of one of the best humours in the World. The part he was to play had something embroiled him, and taken off from his accustomed jollity that Evening. Not that the declaration of love, which he was to make, seemed so difficult to him: there is less trouble in saying we love when we do not, than when we do; but that love is so ingenious as to furnish a Man with a thousand inventions which are impossible to come into the fancies of those that are not possessed with that passion. The Viceroy's Lady appeared that Evening more beautiful than ever; she gave him fair play, because she fell upon him railingly twice or thrice about his melancholy: But the Count, more frozen and contracted than Ice itself, scarce made a word of answer to all the raillery that the fair Lady was pleased to bestow upon him. The Viceroy looked on him with an eye of pity; And being ashamed of his want of confidence, came up to him, and reproached him with the title of the poorest and most pitiful Gallant he ever saw in his Life, telling him, if there were no better, the Ladies would be very much put to it. Sir, answered the Count, I will be what you please to ordain me, but I protest I must obey you in it with a World of Distraction, for I fear you may lose more by it then you will get. And what does it concern you, briskly answered the Viceroy, what I gain or lose? do but what I desire you, and trouble yourself no farther. The Count who could no longer excuse himself, advances towards the Vice queen, who having also a desire to speak with him, met him almost half way, and told him in whisper, she had something to say to him, and desired him not to go away before she had spoke with him. The Count overjoyed that she had given him so fair an occasion of obeying the Viceroy, deferred his Courtship to that time. When it was grown pretty late, and most of the Company was retired, the Viceroy waited on Donna Angelica to her apartment. Which his Lady had no sooner seen, but she made a sign to the Count to follow her, and she led him into her Closet, where having made him sit down by her. My Lord, says she, what is the cause why you are so extreme melancholy? may we not ask you, pursued she, with a most charming Air, whether it be not the effect of some Inclination? This question, and the freedom she had used towards him all that Evening, having made him suspect that all this was a trick that the Viceroy and she had before agreed to play him, and that they had a Mind to divert themselves at his expense, he was upon the Point of spoiling all, but to show he understood raillery; Madam, answered he, smiling, I have not been for a month together in such a Court as this is, where there are so many fair Ladies capable of inspiring the most tender Affection, without feeling the Power of Love: You love then, says she. Yes, Madam, I do, replies the Count, since it must be so. How! since it must be so, says the Ladies, are you forced to it against your inclination. No, Madam, replies he, but there are, you know, certain Stars that incline our Hearts which way they please: saying this, he laughed, and looked on the Vicequeen with such Grimaces, and Gestures, which extremely puzzled her, to comprehend the meaning of what he said to her, and, to make him explain himself, May we not know, says she, who this beauty is, to whom these amorous Influences have inclined your affections? Madam, answers he, with a good assurance; if you please to take the pains to consult your Glass, it will soon show you that beauty. I understand you not, says she, putting on a serious Countenance, and I believe being what I am, I do you a favour in not being willing to understand you. If I may pretend to any favour from you, Madam, replies the Count, it is, that you would understand me, and be assured, that you need not go out of this Closet to find the object that has charmed me in this Country. You forget your respect, Sir, says she, and now I see how far, the little too much esteem I had for you, has carried you. But if you return not within the limits of your Duty, and forbear hereafter such discourses to me, I shall be angry in earnest. You are young, pursues she, seeing him struck Mute, and these are faults which may be excused in such as you. If you have a design to love, added she, learn where to address yourself better, and in a place where something may be hoped. Alas, Madam, replied he, my success is so bad the first time, that I should do well never to love more. No, no, says she, smiling, you must not despair of good success: You will find others more sensible of your love then I am; and if you will let me advise you, I will tell you where you may direct your Languishing Courtship, and I dare engage you will be satisfied with the Person I shall choose for you. This Adventure was pleasant enough: For you see on the one side the Husband, on the other the Wife, endeavoured to bestow a Mistress on him. But he to crossbite 'em, pretends to act the part of the scrupulous Lover, and to make a conscience of being constant to his first Affection, and therefore immediately tells her, he cannot promise that his Heart will be able so soon to resolve upon a change, that the choice he had already made was good, that nothing could console him after so bad a Success. Nevertheless, after a great many Motives she laid before him, and even Entreaties which she used, he feigned at length to be overcome; and told her, since it was her absolute Pleasure, he would endeavour to obey her, though he could not do it without forcing his Inclinations; and in conclusion, asked her, who it was she had judged proper for the Empire of his Heart? She answered him presently, that it was Donna Angelica, who had spoken to her of him that Day in such a manner, as gave her to understand she was not insensible of his Merits, and that if the Resentments she had of him were not tender and amorous, yet they contained an Esteem which amounted to little less. The Count would have been overjoyed if what the Vicequeen had told him had been true; for of all the Court Ladies, he had seen none that pleased him so well as Donna Angelica. The Truth was, she had spoken very advantageously of him to the Viceroy's Lady, but it was not without Design. The Viceroy, who concealed nothing from her, had acquainted her of the Snare he had laid for his Wife's Heart in the Person of Count Henry: So that, Donna Angelica, who no less than he, interessed herself in the Success of this Plot, was resolved to help on towards the advancing of it, by prepossessing the Lady's Heart with the good Qualities of this young Gallant. The young Neapolitan, ravished with Joy, that the Viceroy's Lady had so happily met with his Wishes, in the Choice of Donna Angelica, dissembled, for the time, his Satisfaction: He only tells her, that after herself, all other Beauties were indifferent to him; that he cared not whom he received, provided it were from her Hands; but as for Donna Angelica, he had neither Access to her, nor the Privilege of going to her Apartment. The Vicequeen bids him be at no Trouble for that; she would remove all Difficulties, and that, if he pleased, he might see her, and speak to her in her Chamber, where she came every Day. It is easy to guests what the Design of the Vicequeen was, in making a Love Intrigue between Donna Angelica and the Count The Employ was something beneath her Quality. But where the Interest of the Heart is concerned, we pass by the nice Scruples of Honour. She had a mind to give her Husband a Rival, and such a one as might be formidable to him, and one whose Qualities were too charming, not to be as much beloved as he: For, judging of her Constancy by the Faith she kept to the Grand Master, she did believe she would not prove more faithful to her Lover, than she had been to her Husband. And indeed, she judged well. The Ties of Love are as easily broke as those of Marriage; and where there is a mutual passing of Oaths, those of the Wife ought to be as binding as those of the Mistress: If the former are violated, the others may very well be so too. A perfidious Mistress and unfaithful Wife, are alike. The Count knew not that it was to Donna Angelica, the Viceroy made his Pretensions. This Amour had not as yet made any great Noise about the Court: He was a great Gallant, and whatever he did in this kind passed for a piece of Gallantry which was ordinary to him. He had not as yet acquainted the Count with his Love, and the Vicequeen concealed it from him, for fear the Knowledge of it might divert him, and make him scrupulous how to be jointly concerned in a Love Affair with the Viceroy. So that, finding Donna Angelica a Woman exactly to his Humour, he resolved, by the Assistance of so powerful a Confident, to attempt so fair an Enterprise. The bare Idea of it made him amorous; and he was already impatient to see his charming Mistress. The Viceroy's Lady told him he need but come the succeeding Morning, and he might find Donna Angelica with her in her Chamber. He retired, full of this Hope, but was hardly got from her Apartment, when he meets with Don Fernand, who reproached him with his Negligence: Why, Sir, says the Count, interrupting him, do you find that I have not performed my Duty well? I am but now come from the Vicequeen, I have been two long Hours with her in her Closet, where I have sighed, talked of Love, and feigned an Excess of Passion. What would you desire more? I know not what you have done since I saw you, answers the Viceroy, but a while since, you made me conceive so ill an Opinion of you, that I began to lay down all Hopes of finding any good Relief from you. You were sad, dejected, and said not a Word, is that the way to insinuate into the Hearts of the young Ladies? That melancholy Air that I affected, Sir, answered the Count, is none of the worst means to take some Hearts, at least it was the means that persuaded your Lady the Vicequeen to lead me into her Closet to ask me what the matter was. And there, in private, I told her what I had to say, and I hope, added he smiling, you will find your desired Repose. I wish I may, answered the Viceroy, not being overfond of entering into the Particulars of that Conversation, and, after having encouraged him to pursue the Design, they each went away to their respective Apartments. The Morrow following, this new Lover, who used always to go extreme rich in , took a particular care to please his Mistress in his Habit. He found her, as he had been told, with the Viceroy's Lady, and as soon as they saw him come into the Chamber, they both fell a laughing at the different Thoughts they had of this Visit, each looking upon the other as the pretended Mistress of this Gallant: It was pleasant to observe the Care they both took to render themselves pleasing to him. Do you not see, Madam, says Donna Angelica softly, how delilicately he is shaped, what a sweet Air he has, how particularly graceful his Person is. I observe it all, says the Viceroy's Lady, being overjoyed to hear her speak in this manner, and I confess, if I were one of those Women that would entertain a Gallant, I would make choice of Count Henry; for Donna Angelica did judge by the gentile Behaviour of the Count, and the Disposition of the Lady, that if no Amour was yet a foot between them, it would soon be begun: And the Vicequeen was persuaded, that Donna Angelica, being persuaded, as she was, of the Merits of the Count, either did already, or would quickly be brought to love him. The Count acquitted himself as to his part well enough for a young Scholar. He sighed sometimes to one, sometimes to the other, to the Satisfaction of both. When the Viceroy's Lady made him a Sign, he went to Donna Angelica, and then returned to her upon the silent Commands of Donna Angelica. Never was Man better diverted, all was well received from him, he had the Privilege to do what he pleased, and they permitted him, each for the others sake, all the little Liberty he had a mind to take with them. Some Days passed in this manner, during which time the Viceroy's Lady and Donna Angelica, gave themselves this Diversion, and where the Viceroy himself had no mind to be seen for fear of spoiling their Mirth. The happy Count enjoyed, alone, these fair Lady's Company, and grew every Day more familiar with them: He was very handsome as to his Figure, and of so free and airy a Humour, that it sparkled through all his Actions, and his Company was very pleasant and delightful to them. But Don Fernand, who besides the little Advantage he had hitherto got by it, began to fear, that Mischief might happen to his Mistress, which he intended only for his Wife, grew weary of their Divertisements, and gave Donna Angelica notice, that she would do him an extreme Kindness to forbear being seen there any more, since she was unable further to contribute to that Design. But she, who by no means would permit the Viceroy to concern himself about the Measures of her Conduct, and knowing from what Motive his Advice proceeded, did but laugh at him, and went immediately from dinner to the Vice-queen's Chamber, where she was sure the Count would not fail to be: What is it to me, says she, what the Viceroy desires, I will not deny myself the Satisfaction of seeing the Count I never passed my Time more pleasantly than since I was acquainted with him. The Vicequeen was of the same Opinion: They sought not so much now to please one another, because possibly they both loved him, and it may be already repent they had been so liberal, and not endeavoured to retain him each for herself. But, as both of them had a good Opinion of their own Power to charm him, they flattered themselves with a Conceit that they could retrieve him at their pleasure. The Count being with the Viceroy's Lady, and the time of going to take the Air drawing on, they propos d to walk in the Garden, when there came in some Ladies, to wait upon the Vicequeen, and their Visit growing somewhat tedious, Donna Angelica whispers the Viceroy's Lady that she would stay for her in the Garden, with the Count in the Arbour, near the Labyrinth, and so they took their leave of her, and went both together. This Lady did most extremely long to know which of them had the geatest Empire o'er the Count's Affections, though she did not much doubt but it was herself, his Eyes, and all his ways of Expressions, as well as his Mouth, had sufficiently confirmed her in this Belief, but to avoid the ordinary Mistake of Women, who are willing to flatter themselves in this Particular, she was resolved to have from him a clear Declaration of the Truth; and they were no sooner in the Arbour, but, beginning to laugh after a very charming manner; for a young Lover, says she, Count Henry, you have made a great Progress in a little time: You are but newly arrived in this Court, and you have got already such an Esteem among all the Ladies, that I I should not very much flatter you, in saying it is arrived even to the point of Love. You are obliging, Madam, answered the Count, but I should be too happy, were the Progress I have made, capable of reaching your Heart. My Heart, says she, with a kind of secret Joy that appeared in her Eyes, you have no Thoughts of it, you questionless take me for the Vicequeen. No, Madam, replies the Count; I know to whom I speak, and if either of us mistake, it is you, if you imagine my Wishes and Sighs are addressed to the Vicequeen: It is you, Madam, that are their fair Object, and they only aspire at your Heart. And, seeing she answered nothing (for possibly she was then at a stand what to say to him) he made use of her obliging Silence; and having put one Knee to the Ground: Madam, says he, most passionately taking one of her fair Hands, and giving it a thousand Kisses, I have a long while waited for an Opportunity, to swear to you by all that is most powerful, and tender in Love, that not only I never had any other Design than to love you, but also that I never will love any besides yourself so long as I live. As he was speaking in this manner, the Viceroy, who was by Accident then walking in Alley that led to this Arbour, saw him in this Posture; but at the distance he was from them, he could not well discern whether it were his own Lady, or Donna Angelica, that he saw. His Reason would fain persuade him it must be the former, but there were some Motions of Jealousy that began to torment him, having made him apprehend it might be the other; he was resolved to be sure, and therefore hastes towards them to know the Truth. Donna Angelica was the first that perceived him, who hastily making the Count rise up from the Ground: What have you done, Sir, says she, the Viceroy has seen you, and I know not what he will think of it. Madam, answered the Count, I know not whether you may have any cause to fear on his side, but I am in despair for your sake, although not in the least for my own. It is upon your account I speak, replies she, and you know not possibly the interest he will take in it. The Viceroy no sooner knew Donna Angelica, but changing colour twice or thrice, according to the different motions wherewith he was agitated, his voice failing, as if he had been stabbed to the Heart. Certainly, Madam, says he, the Count has either received, or does demand of you some extraordinary favour, to be in that suppliant posture I saw him in at your feet: One or the other, says she, being nettled at his words, may possibly be true; but you may better be informed of it from him than me, to which purpose I leave ye together. The Viceroy would have stopped her, but she desired him to let her go, with such an air, as Don Fernand durst no longer oppose her in it. Never was Lover so dissatisfied as the Viceroy. What he had already seen almost gave him his deaths-wound, and for his comfort afterwards, she fled from his sight. He walked about there without saying a word, his mind being tortured with a thousand thoughts, each more destracting than other; and at last making a stop before the young Neapolitan, who was also in as dumb a figure as himself, By what I perceive, says he to him, without looking on him, you are one of those who with great difficulty begin to love, but when once they are set in, none comes amiss to them. A few days since, you knew not what love meant, now one Mistress is too little for you. The Count, which though young and unexperienced in these affairs, yet had a piercing wit of his own, readily apprehended, by the trouble he saw in the Viceroy's countenance, as well as by what he had heard him say to Donna Angelica, that it was she he was so deeply in love withal, and that it was his jealousy only which had made him speak in that manner, so that to repair the ill effect of this last adventure, he told him, that he was utterly ignorant of the ground of this reproach which he made him, and that if he were in love, it was with the Vicequeen, and that too in pure obedience to him, and that he had not thrown himself at the feet of Donna Angelica, but to render her his Acknowledgements for the many good offices she had done him as to his Lady. This reason, though plausible enough of itself, did not work a perfect cure upon the mind of the jealous Don Fernand, but however he was somewhat appeased by it. You Italians, says he, as a small matter obliges you, so you carry your acknowledgements to such an excess, that one would imagine you had received very high favours, and that no less than a perfect surrender of all was made to you, when indeed, very little or nothing is done for you. It was I, continued he, that desired Donna Angelica to serve you in your love to my Wife, and it is to me only you are to owe the Obligation. And to leave you nothing more to guests of this business, but to repose an absolute confidence in you, it is Donna Angelica whom I love; and therefore, that you might not be any longer deceived, and that in leaving the Vicequeen to your dividend, let me desire you that you would forget to cast your eyes on the other, and to avoid even being seen in her company, at least in private. If I were in your place, I know which of the two would please me best: and I must confess, there is no Woman I could love better than my Wife, were she another's; but she is mine, and that title is sufficient to give all Husbands a disgust who are of my humour and constitution. Do not think this to be any caprice; most married men are of this temper, and I know also good store of Wives endeavour to imitate them, and so to repay them in the same Coyn. As he was discoursing after this manner, the Vicequeen, who as soon as she could, had got rid of her visitants, came hastily into the Garden, with a resolution, caused partly by curiosity, partly by Jealousy, to overhear Donna Angelica, discourse with the Count, and passing through the Labyrinth, that she might not be seen, she came to the place time enough to overhear some part of the moral discourse her honest Husband held with the Count; she listened with a great deal of patience, even with that which exceeded other Women, and she heard the Count make her Husband this answer. Sir, the Vicequeen is certainly one of the most beautiful persons under heaven, and a man must be then, as you say, her husband, not to love her; but likewise, you ought not to fear, that a man who is not her husband, and to whom you have given the liberty of loving her, should not make his advantage of that blessing, and should ever dream of engaging himself elsewhere: as for my part, I will stand firm, as a Rock to this inclination, as long as you shall think good to permit me. This Resolution of the Count's did a little comfort the Vicequeen, for her Husband's contempt, who hearty endeavoured to persuade the young Gallant, that he could not make a better choice than that of his Wife, nor find a more Agreeable Husband than himself, provided he came not to one particular point, which he kept for a reserve, leaving him all the rest. They parted thus from the Arbour, and being come to the Palace together, the Viceroy took his leave to go to Donna Angelica, with whom he was to make his peace before he went to bed, if he meant to sleep quietly that night. As for the Vicequeen, she was walking still in the Garden, making divers reflections upon what she had heard. What a vexation was it for a person of so many kill charms as she abounded with, to think of the rare Dialogue, wherein her husband, with his usual eloquence, had set forth the esteem and love he had for her? Women of what condition or quality soever, can never pardon such kind of slights, especially those that are handsome. She call d him by the most injurious names she could invent. Is it possible, says she, that I can be so little valued, and that a man, for whom I have given myself a thousand torments, and whom I have loved hitherto even to the contempt of a thousand that deserved it better, should himself labour for his own dishonour? Oh Heavens! pursues she, this indifference of his, or rather this insupportable injury he does me, cannot sufficiently be punished. I ought to content a husband that is of this humour: I have yet the same charms and winning looks as I had, wherewith I might allure a thousand lovers to me, without giving him the trouble of seeking them for me; he shall not have cause to complain on that score. I will see how for his patience will extend; and I am a fool myself if I make not him the greatest of all mankind. Let me begin with this young Neapolitan, I perceive I am not indifferent to him, and since he is a Gallant I receive from my husband's hands, let me entertain him so kindly as that he may have no cause to be dissatisfyed. He will lose more by it then myself. With these thoughts she bore herself company to her Chamber, and entertained herself with them the greatest part of the night, during which, she confirmed herself in the resolution she had taken, of seconding her disloyal husband's good intentions. When a virtuous woman has taken the pains to convince herself, and is fully persuaded thto ' the motives of Revenge and Honour, that the sin is excusable, neither virtue nor honour is of strength sufficient to oppose her. The Count was extremely out of humour, that he had met with so unlucky an encounter, with the Viceroy's Mistress. He foresaw the consequences of it, and he was not a little troubled at the Resolution he had taken. To think no longer to love Donna Angelica was nonsense, because already he was so far engaged; and to continue it, was absolutely to ruin himself. What in the world to do he knew not, as the case then stood, if he had been able to believe his interest in this fair one so powerful, as to persuade her to agree with him in deceiving the Viceroy, they might then keep their love secret; but he durst not flatter himself so far as to that point: he had a desire, notwithstanding, to satisfy himself in this particular, if he could find ever an opportunity for it, without plunging the Viceroy into new suspicions. Whilst he was labouring under this inquietude, he saw him come into his Chamber. The Count altogether surprised at this visit, presently judged that some great important business had brought him thither. The Viceroy, observing in his Countenance the trouble that lay upon him, to put him out of his pain, after he had familiarly seated himself on the bedside where the Count was laid. You see, says he smiling, what it is to be in love by my being up so early; when you are as fast taken in the Amorous lime-twigs as myself, you will then sleep as little as I do: and passing from this little preamble to the occasion of his visit, he told him, That Donna Angelica was mightily incensed against him, even almost to the last extremity, for what he had said the evening before, in the Garden: You know, pursues he, whether I testified any kind of regret or jealousy, when I found you alone with her, though possibly I might have had very good ground for both. But however, she has passed a thousand severe censures upon that action. You must go wait upon her this morning, and, if she puts you upon that Chapter, endeavour what you can to disabuse her; but above all, be sure to take no Notice that I have spoke to you, or that I have in the least made you my confident of my passion for her. If she speaks to you of the Vicequeen, let her understand that all your inclinations are bend that way for her. It is the ordinary frailty of Womankind to flatter themselves that they are extremely admired by the men, and you having seen them both together, she perhaps may think you have made a dividend of your heart betwixt them; but let her understand your inclinations, let her see your heart is incapable of adoring any more than one Divinity; and that, having made choice of the Vicequeen, you have given up yourself absolutely to be subject to her Empire. After these, and a great many other good Remonstrances, the Viceroy went his way, and the Count, having dressed himself to the most advantage he could, directed his way to the Palace, and found Donna Angelica bright as the Day, setting before her Toilet; she blushed when she saw him, possibly at the remembrance of the last words he had spoke to her, and having made him sit down, they both remained silent, perplexed, I am apt to believe with the multitude of their thoughts, rather than want of matter for a Discourse. But Donna Angelica, unwilling any longer to insult upon the young Lover's disorder, took pity on him, thereby to retrieve his Courage; I thought, says she, you came here to ask my pardon for the boldness you took yesterday in the Evening, but by what I perceive, you have forgot it already. It is true, Madam, answers he sighing, I am criminal enough to beg your pardon, since I have been so unhappy as to displease you, but I must confess to you, though I were to expiate my fault with the laying down of my life at your Feet, I know not whether I could ever repent of what I said to you; and if it be a crime to love you, I am in danger of being, all my life, the greatest criminal in the World. You do not feat then, replies she, to offend me. Alas Madam, says he sighing, I dread your least displeasure, but love is a God more to be feared than you. It is high time to explain myself, and I am so wretched as not to please you, let me then at least understand my misfortune. Well Sir, says she, will you be satisfied if I tell you, that such a Man as you, never sighed in vain; she could not bring forth these words without blushing, but they so strangely possessed our young Lover with a joyous transport, that flinging himself at her knees, he embraced them a thousand times: She made him rise, and told him, smiling, he should have a care the Viceroy did not find him again in that Posture, whom he was to look upon as his most dangerous Enemy. I know it, Madam, says he, in a tone wherein there was less assurance, and that he is already too well established in your Heart, ever for me to hope to displace him: it is not on that point, replies she, you ought to fear him, but it is because he will have a Watch over your Actions, and if we are not wonderfully circumspect, his jealousy will bring a great deal of trouble to us both. Then the Count acquainted her with the visit he had received from him that Morning, and the Discourse they had held, and that it was by his Order he had made her this visit, and in fine each of them passing from these confidences, they entrusted one another with their deepest reserves. The Count acquainted her with what had passed between him and the Viceroy's Lady, and Donna Angelica to requite him, concealed nothing that had passed between the Viceroy and herself: Thus having diverted themselves, they took their measures how to deceive both the Viceroy and his Lady: After which, having made a very fair progress in so early an Amour, they parted infinitely satisfied with each other. The Vicequeen, who used every Morning to receive a visit from her dear Gallant, waited for him with more impatience than ever, and began to be quite and clean out with him for tarrying so long from her, as if he could have divined the favourable dispositions of her heart towards him that Day. She could stay no longer, but immediately after Dinner, she went to visit Donna Angelica, to hear what was become of him: she was told, he had passed part of the Morning in her Chamber, which news, together with some other melancholy thoughts, put her clearly out of all good humour for the rest of that Day. The Count came not to her till about the Evening, and found her in her Chamber very much indisposed, and full of thoughtfulness. No doubt she was thinking at that time of him. And she received him with such an indifference as gave him plainly to understand, she had a quarrel with him; and he was not long ere he knew what it was; for, after he had used some importunities to beseach her to disclose, she reproached him with a thousand things, many of which he was not guilty of, and which ended all in the visit he had made that Day to Donna Angelica, upon which she made a long and smart descant. The Count answered her, that if he should be in love with that Lady, he paid but the Duty of an Obedience to her in it: You are a Traitor, replies she, you have obeyed me without repugnance, and it appears but too plain, that I counselled you nothing, but what was agreeable before to your inclinations, and that in refusing your heart, I only hindered you from becoming perfidious to me. You have yet so much power, Madam, answered the Count, over this heart, that if you please but to recall the gift you have made of it, it will easily return an absolute Captive to you. To speak to her in this manner was indeed to deserve the name of a Traitor; but he had reason to apprehend some danger from her, as well as from the Viceroy. He plainly saw, she had engaged him in an Amour with Donna Angelica, whom she mortally hated, but with an intention to ruin her. Moreover, as he knew not what was in the Breast of this fair one, although he had of late discovered some increase of her inclination towards him, he did not imagine that what she said to her would be of so great a consequence. But the Vicequeen, who really imagined, that the Count's inclination was greater towards her rival, had not any difficulty to be persuaded to what she was willing to believe, and so engaged him to make his most tender addresses to her. The young Count, who after he had so happily passed the Morning, was now full of Gallantry, added Treachery to Treachery, and said to her, all he could have said to Donna Angelica, insomuch that the abused Vicequeen, furiously swallowed all his Courtship, and was most passionately charmed with it. These sort of Treacheries, are much in use as well among Men as Women; which is the reason that we take a stricter care, and rely no more upon the faith of words then upon that of looks. The Heart itself often proves a great Liar; what it longs for one Day it has an aversion to the next. The young Count was something tainted with the corruption of the Age: and the Vicequeen, though otherwise a very ingenious Woman, suffered herself to be deceived, because she extremely wished all things just to the standard of the young Courtier's Rhetoric to her. He saw Donna Angelica, but it was privately, and from her, he came full of Love to make his Courr to the Vicequeen; He used the same disguise towards the Viceroy, whom Donna Angelica treated more favourably, to amuse him, and not to make him suspect that she had any secret Intrigue with Count Henry. But it is impossible for a jealous Man, and a jealous Woman, long to be abused, by those whom Love takes pleasure sometimes to blind: It is very difficult when we are possessed with a great Passion, to be always on the Defensive part against another Passion; and if we are the least forgetful before those who watch us narrowly, we are soon caught. The Vicequeen, and Donna Angelica very seldom saw one another; the Jealousy which had already embroiled them on their Husband's Account, had now also disunited them on the Account of a Gallant. As for the Viceroy, he was well satisfied with the Proceed of the Count as to his Wife, but not as to his Mistress, and while he was at rest from the Importunity of the former, he was much disquieted for the love of the other. The submissive Posture in which they had seen the Neapolitan Count in the Garden, came continually into his mind, and he had observed so great a Change in Donna Angelica's Carriage and Behaviour since that time, who did sometimes absent herself for half a day together, so that no body knew what was become of her, that it gave him sufficient matter for his Thoughts to work on. The Vicequeen was much happier then; for she imagined she had an equal return of Love from the Count, to that she gave him; she saw him every day, and took all the Liberty with him, that any Woman would take who cares not if all the World knows she entertains a Gallant: She had a right to it not to be questioned; nay, further, none could indeed tell how to say any thing against it. Her Husband would have it so; he was a Gallant she had received from his own Hand, who had trained him up on purpose to make him pleasing to her. It is true, he had prescribed him some Limits; but however, the Vicequeen was mightily pleased, in that he left her the means of revenging herself on him, and it was in the transgression of those Limits, that the pleasure of her Revenge consisted. When Inclination is joined with Revenge, we very seldom miss our Blow: And Women especially, who have always their Revenges ready at hand. The Vicequeen found herself one Morning extremely inclined not to pardon her Husband: She had had that Night a thousand pleasant Dreams of the Count, and possibly waited only for his coming, to make those Dreams out: My Traitor of a Husband, says she to herself, is absent, I am alone, and if the Count should come at this instant, I know not what I should be able to deny him; and I am very sure few Women in the World would have had my Patience. What? Abused on all sides by a Man, who, instead of adoring me as he should do; does court another before my Face, even to the last Point of Gallantry! Nay, more just Heavens! He seeks me out a Gallant to comfort me for his Disloyalty, or rather to amuse me, he teaches him Ways to please me, nay, and complains of him that he does not please me enough. Oh! Had the most virtuous Women living such Husbands as mine, we should see if their Honour were able to hold out against such cruel Injuries. From these Thoughts she passed to others more agreeable: She represented the Count to her Mind in a thousand charming Ways; and the Ideas whereof filled her with an Impatiency of seeing him, not to be expressed. But all the Desires, and languishing Motions of her Soul, brought him not: Noonday came; and now she prepared herself to make him a thousand Reproaches, being no less enraged against him than against the Viceroy, though in a very different manner. The unfortunate Count was at that time embroiled in a very troublesome Business, and so could not much think of her: She had sent twenty times to his Lodging, and as often to Donna Angelica's, but could hear no Tidings of him. What Misfortune had happened to him, what was become of him, you shall now hear. The jealous Viceroy, who had been advertised by secret Spies he kept over Donna Angelica, that the Count visited her almost every Night, had often attempted to surprise them together; but whether it was the good Address of the Gallant, or whether Love was so kind to favour them, I can't tell; but so it was, that they had always the Happiness to come off safe: So that being almost in Despair, and being infinitely desirous at what Price soever, to bring about his Design, he had planted one of his Spies when it just began to be dusky, behind the Tapestry at her Chamber Door, to see when the Count came in, or she went out to find him. It is very well if we are but once happy in such an Amour: Too much good Fortune oft times makes us negligent; and we find ourselves very near a Precipice, when we think ourselves just at the Zany of our Happiness: But we ought not to rely too much upon our past good Fortune, and in matters of Danger, we ought to be as vigilant as our Observers. Heavens defend all Lovers from such a jealous Man as this Viceroy of Catalonia, who had abandoned his Wife to another's Addresses, that he might have the Pleasure to make his Applications to a Mistress without being troubled in his Business. He had Intelligence brought him about midnight, that his Rival was come, and slipped into a Closet that was near Donna Angelica's Chamber. This News transported him both with Joy and Anger: He disguises himself in the Habit of one of his Men, comes immediately to the Closet, and knocks softly at the Door. Count Henry used every Night to come to that happy Place, where, when the Grand Master was in Bed, he passed an Hour or two, as Affairs would give him leave, in most pleasant Conversation with Donna Angelica: And now hearing one knock so gently at the Door, he doubted not but that it was his fair Mistress. He opened the Door softly, and perceived one with a Hat on, who endeavoured to force an Entrance; but being young and stronger than the Assailant, he pushed him back, and clapped the Door so suddenly to, that the Viceroy ran a very great Danger of leaving Part of his Nose behind him. Just at this time the Grand Master came from the Town, and hearing a Noise, as he passed towards his Lady's Chamber, he asked what it was. The Viceroy had taken care to put out two Lights which usually stood there; and hearing the Grand Master's Voice, being seized with a sudden Fear (for he would not for the World be seen in that Disguise) endeavoured to make his Escape, which he did not however acquit himself so well of, but that the Grand Master, in the Pursuit, regaled him with his Cane; with which he gave him two or three severe Drubs, crying out, Thieves, Thiefs: But he escaped for all this happily enough, if this may be called a Happiness. Donna Angelica heard this Alarm in her Chamber, but felt it more in her Heart. They told her there was a Thief that would have broke into her Closet, but she doubted it was her dear Count: So that trembling all over with Fear, she came out of her Chamber, to see whether he were taken. The Grand Master told her he was not, but that he had so mauled him with his Cane, that he did not believe he would come thither any more this good while. This News gave the affrighted Lady some Comfort, not but that she was much concerned that her dear Gallant had been so ill treated. But after the Danger she thought he had escaped, she thanked her Stars that he had come off so cheap. These are the Fruits of Love, which many young Lovers have sometimes gathered before the Flowers: She made some Complaints within herself, which being passed, she could not but laugh at the Reflection she made upon the Adventures of Lovers, and how different their Days are, one from the other. She knew not that it was the Viceroy, that had been paid so handsomely for his Curiosity, and undergone the Punishment due to his extravagantly jealous Humour. That unfortunate lover came home very much mortified as may be imagined, cursing after a strange rate the folly of Love, but yet more Donna Angelica; I beleieve it was a pleasant Soliloque he entertained himself all that night, and if he had been with her, he had vented his passion in dreadful reproaches. He would not go to bed before he had writ to her a letter which he charged one of his servants to deliver her the next morning as soon as she was known to be awake; He flourished it over after this manner. You are the most ungrateful of all women, and least worthy to be beloved by a man of honour. It is in my power to ruin you; but I have compassion on you. A Lusty young Gallant has the happiness to please you, and in the night time a closet is a very good place to hid him from your Husband's eyes, and to favour your Love. He's a poor Husband that relies upon the honesty of his virtuous Wife! you may abuse those that will be blind, for my part, thanks be to Heaven, I have opened my eyes; and shall look upon yours with the same indifference, as I would look upon the ill conduct of a common woman: for you deserve to be no otherwise regarded. Don Fernand tells you so. When he had writ this letter, and read it several times over, he went to bed a little comforted, and resolved not so much as ever to think on Donna Angelica more. But alas! how little does a lover know himself? And when we have delivered up our reason into the power of a passion, how little reasonable are we! No soul ever felt any torment comparable to that of the Viceroy that night. In the morning, when he began to slumber, for he was not to expect any sound sleep, news was brought him, that the Grand Master was at the door, and desired to speak with him. He knew not what should be the cause of his coming thither so early, unless it were to insult over him for the drubs he had given him with his cane, which he yet felt: he sent him word that he was not very well, but however he might come in if he had any business of moment with him. The Grand Master, who thought it his duty to acquaint him with what had happened in his apartment, the night before, was not willing to defer telling him that thiefs had broken into the Palace; and that he had come home in the critical minute, to hinder them from stealing the pretty curiosities his wife had in her closet. He would have told him what swinging drubbs he had given one of them with his cane; but the Viceroy, to whom that relation was uneasy, interrupted him, and told him he had heard all that passage, and further, that it was thought these thiefs were some servants that had a private correspondence at his house: that he ought to watch them as well by day as by night, and that if he would give himself the trouble of searching that closet, he might possibly meet with one of them there still. Sir, says the Grand Master, my wife has the key, and there is no way for them to get into it, except she consents and opens the door. There may be something in that too for aught you know, replies the Viceroy, or they may have false keys; and I tell you, you ought not to be too confident, for there are familiar Robbers, who many times seek something that is above your money, or your choicest rarities either: what can they seek above those, says the Grand Master, interrupting him, it must be either my honour, or my Life. As for the former, the virtue of my Wife secures that: and as for the other, I have no ground to fear; for I think there's none can say I am his enemy: However, replies the Viceroy to him, go and search that closet, and if you find any one of the thiefs there, you may judge by his mien of what character the rest are. The Grand Master took his leave without making any answer, and went directly home, wondering at the Reasons which moved the Viceroy to speak such things as he did. He came into his wife's chamber, who had but just received and made an end of Don Fernand's obliging letter: but it madded her to the soul. He gave her an account of the discourse he had had with the Viceroy, and of his imagination that the thiefs that had been there the last night, were persons more dangerous than they were ware of, and that he thought some or other lay still perdue in the closet. Having both of them laughed at the Viceroy's fancy, he would needs go himself, and visit the closet: But Donna Angelica, who, after the letter she had received from the Viceroy, had reason to apprehend some treachery, endeavoured to divert her husband from that curiosity. Do you not see plainly, says she, that he plays the fool with us. Prithee, how should a thief, pursues she, come into that closet; or if he had a false key as he speaks of, could not he easily have made his escape before this. 'Tis true, says the Grand Master, but the Viceroy would fain persuade me, that these thiefs have greater designs than we think for, and he hath left me in a kind of dispute whether they aim at my honour, or my life. And how should he know their design, says Donna Angelica, certainly he must have some intelligence with them if it be so. I confess, answers he, I am a little surprised at it, but for his satisfaction, and that he may not say I have slighted his advice, let us go and search the closet. Donna Angelica followed him, and though she thought herself secure as to matter of the Count, yet her heart did strangely bear within her at the apprehension of something, though she knew not what. But in short they did search the closet, though they found no body: The Grand Master was not satisfied with that, but he was resolved to search likewise all the chambers, and go the round, that so he might be able to give the better account to the Viceroy, and there was not a corner, wardrobe, no, nor even a chest of any considerable bigness, but he pried into it. After all this labour to no purpose, he went to give an exact account to Don Fernand, and was very importunate with him to know the reason of those suspicions he had taken up concerning the thiefs; but the Viceroy had no disposition to extend his resentments so far, and pretend to make a discovery of things which he was not able to go through with so effectually as he could have wished; which caused the Grand Master to think no more of the business, and only to fancy that he might perhaps be subject to visions. Donna Angelica, was in no small perplexity: she understood by Don Fernand's letter that he was acquainted with what had past the night before, and that he knew she was wont to entertain the Count in that closet: This did extremely plunge her, and she could not apprehend how the Viceroy should come to the knowledge of all this; for she did not in the least imagine that it was he on whom the unlucky Catastrophe of that scene had fallen. In short, she knew not what to believe of it, and she resolved to write to the Count, to see whether he could not any better clear up this mystery to her. She sent a messenger to him, in whom she reposed a great deal of trust, who after having sought him two or three hours in vain, returned to her with the letter, telling her he could neither find him, nor hear any news of him. But all this daunted not Donna Angelica, who imagined he might possibly have received some small hurt from her husband, which might oblige him to conceal himself, from the sight of his acquaintance, who might have made some conjectures upon it, perhaps to disadvantage; she was nevertheless very much disquieted, and thought it strange, that he should not have the civility, or kindness to write to her after such an adventure as that, which he could not but imagine would create her a great deal of uneasiness. She stood at the closet-window, which looked towards the sea, and reflecting upon all that had happened to her, she sighed and complained of the negligence of her lover; when, casting her eyes by accident on the platform that was under the window, she saw in a little lodge built for a sentinel, a man that made her a sign with his hand not daring to show himself, for fear of being seen, from some other windows of the Palace which looked that way. She looked earnestly upon him, not knowing at first who it might be; but at length, not without a great surprise, she discovered him to be her dear Count, which gave her no small trouble. There were upon this platform two Culverins; but the place being almost inaccessible, they were little looked after, and that gate which went to them was never opened but when they had an occasion to discharge them: so that were was no danger of his being sought for there; but the main difficulty was how to get him from thence. The window was so high, that she could not imagine how he could get down without hurting himself. But they could do nothing before night came on; that was the only time to remedy all. She writ to him in the mean while several little notes to comfort him, which she threw down, together with some sweet meats, and indeed whilst he was under that severe fatality, without having any thing to eat, I am apt to think he really wanted some such refreshment as that, or else the comfort of her letters was not of itself sufficient to keep up his drooping spirits. Night came at last, having been long wished for by both the Lovers; and Donna Angelica having thrown him down a strong Rope which she had prepared for that purpose, the young Gallant mounted up to the Window with an incomparable Address, and you may guests, that what he had eaten that Day, had not very much overcharged him. What a Joy was it to the fair Angelica to see him in her Closet? It was such as could not be moderated but by the Fear of some new Misfortune which might happen to them. The Count acquainted her with all the Accidents of the precedent Night, and with what had obliged him to leap down upon the Platform: She, on her part, told him the Consequence of that Adventure, what Alarms it gave her on his account, and the Grand Master's Discourse thereupon with the Viceroy. They concluded that it must be some of the Viceroy's Spies, or possibly he himself that had been so shrewdly beaten. Then laughed at the Thoughts of it, and they would have carried the Discourse out further, but reflecting upon the present Juncture of Affairs, they concluded they had railed at it sufficiently, and it was time the Count should withdraw, not doubting but that they should be now more narrowly watched than ever; so that the Pleasure of seeing one another, and of being together, giving way to the Danger that threatened them both, they began to study which way the Count might get out of her Apartment, and not be discovered. There were in this Closet some women's , and the Count being of no extraordinary Stature, Donna Angelica even ventured to dress him up in one of those, and found they fitted him extraordinary well: She had no sooner got them on, but the Grand Master knocks at the Door; Donna Angelica, though trembling with Fear, was forced to open it; and her Husband seeing the young Lady, asked her whether that were one of the Thiefs the Viceroy would have him fear, and so went out again, not staying for an Answer, which happened very well to his Lady, for I believe at that time she was in no extraordinary good Condition to make him one, sufficient to pass muster. After such a Deliverance, we cannot think our two Lovers would defer any longer taking their leaves of one another: The Count, having saluted his fair Mistress two or three times, got out very happily, and came safe home to his Lodging. The next Morning, he was no sooner out of his Bed, but he received this Letter from the Vicequeen. For a young Lover, Count, your Passion is very cold: What! Is this the Love you have promised me? To let slip a whole Day without seeing me: Nay, so much as without sending to inquire after my Health! I find, Sir, I must even teach you your Duty: But that is a little too much; however I have Compassion on you: You are young, and it seems you know not yet what it is to be deeply in love. But come to me, for I have resolved to make you happier to Day than you could reasonably expect. Adieu, I shall expect you at ten of the clock this Morning, fail not to come. The Count went to see her; and, after some few Love Quarrels for his so long Absence, for which he excused himself as well as he could, they entered into a more particular Conversation, in which the Vicequeen used all her Charms to set him on fire. Count Henry, whose Spirit was under no Constraint as to this fair one, spoke the most endearing and most gallant things to her in the World, and such as possibly he could not have said, had he been extraordinarily in love; for Love, though it suggests some times very good Thoughts to us, yet it does not inspire us with Boldness of speaking them. The abused Vicequeen in the mean time answered his obliging Discourses in such a manner, as discovered how well she was satisfied; one thing only in this Gallant, displeased her; that having so much Love for her as he pretended; he had no more Confidence, but suffered all his Passion to consist only in Words. Non voglion le donne inviti; Violenze desian per iscusare Con l'altrui forza i loro appetitu. She looked upon the Count with Eyes which drew him to her, and as soon as he approached, she pushed him back, now making one Complaint, and then another; and in fine, like a Woman that sought an occasion to quarrel, and at the same time was desirous to make Peace; tho' I leave it to the Reader to judge what War and what Peace it was she desired. She was in an Undress capable to inspire any Soul with the most passionate Tenderness; for, besides that the Spaniards have naturally something in them extremely charming, both Art and Love had mutually agreed, to make her so, and they had dressed her in such a negligent manner, that was able to poison the most obdurate Hearts. I know not what happened between them; and I should be loath to speak it, though I should know; but this I know, that, besides the Revenge to which the Vicequeen was carried out, she was not a Woman that would be at all the Charge of such a Scene to no purpose. A Man of Honour stands much upon his Fidelity to his Friend, but no Principles of Honour could resist such powerful Charms. Some Days passed in this manner, during which, the Count, who for some Reasons of Polity, did not visit Donna Angelica, but made his Court to the Vicequeen, to amuse the Viceroy. But Women are less discreet in Love than Men, especially when they love as this Lady did. Donna Angelica had a dying Impatience to see the Count, and was angry at him, that he did not rather expose himself to some Danger, than suffer her to languish as she did; and though she had herself forbid him for some time to come to her, yet she would have had him testified to her, that his Love was more powerful than her Prohibition; and that he loved her to such an Excess, as made him uncapable of obeying her. Besides these Complaints, which she thought she had reason to make of him, she had her Jealousy also, which not a little tormented her: She understood that he went every Day to the Vicequeen, and though she had advised him to do so, the better to conceal their Love, yet she was so vexed at it, that she could not pardon him: Insomuch that she writ him this Letter upon that Subject. When you do not see me, the least you can do, is to see no body; but you have need of Consolation, and it is in the Arms of the Vicequeen you find it. Ingrateful Man! What can you say to this? Will you yet say, it is to amuse her? What can you fear from her: You are a Traitor, and you endeavour only to deceive all the World; me you shall not, I assure you, Aieu. What a Cruelty was this to the poor Count, into what a Gulf of Dispair did the Perusal of this Letter plunge him! He thought to go and wait on her that very Moment, either to justify himself, or die at her Feet: But lest his Rashness might ruin them both, he thought he could not use too much Circumspection. At length he bethought himself, that as he had by the Disguise of Woman's , got undiscovered out of her Apartment, so the same Disguise might be favourable to him, and get him into it. He was young, handsome, and well shaped, his Complexion was such as might become a young Lady: And there was no Danger, that the Grand Master, with whom he had no Acquaintance, and who had seen him but once or twice en passant, should know him. He goes then to a young Lady, one of his intimate Friends, and desires her to furnish him with a Suit of women's Apparel that might fit him. She brought him one, helped him on with it, and it became him so extremely well, that nothing could appear more charming. This done, he takes the same Lady's Coach, and being attended by one of her Women, that knew nothing of the Intrigue, came to the Palace. He goes into Donna Angelica's Apartment, desires to see her, and is admitted into her Chamber, under the Name of Donna Brigitta, a Country Lady, who came to wait on her from another Lady of her Acquaintance. He was no sooner in the Chamber, but to his great Confusion, he saw the Viceroy there: But by good Fortune, Donna Angelica, who came before him to receive the Stranger, hindered the Viceroy from observing his Disorder. The Jest was, that she did not know him, and that she would have him brought him further into the Chamber, but the Count soon put her out of her Ignorance, by squeezing her Hand, and she was so extremely surprised to see him, that she stood a good while in a Maze, but at last she recovered herself, and led him into another Chamber, and presently returned to Don Fernand. But with what Trouble and Disquiet I leave to the Judgement of any Woman, that has loved and found herself in the like Circumstances: She had with her the most dangerous of all her Enemies, at least, she looked upon him as such; though he had an extraordinary Passion for her: And on the other side, was the dear Object of her Desires, whom, for some Days, she had not seen, and for the Sight of whom she most passionately languished. To complete all, in comes the Grand Master, who finding this Lady alone, and understanding she stayed for his Wife, who was with the Viceroy, being a very civil Person, though naturally no great Courtier, he thought himself obliged to keep her company. The Count, as I told you, had a very winning Air with him. The Grand Master easily mistook him for a Country Lady; for he had not seen any so handsome in Barcelona; and though he was by his rough disposition not much inclined to admire the Sex, yet he found this Lady so exceedingly adjusted to his humour, that he even surpassed himself; he passed a thousand Compliments on her after this manner: He offered, she telling him that she was but newly come to Town, to show her the Artillery, to lead her to the Arsenal, and to walk with her upon the Ramparts, to salute her with the great Guns; and a thousand other things belonging to his trade of War, and which he thought a handsome Woman ought to love as well as he. This was the sum of his Courtship and Gallantry to her: The Count, who was very complaisant, seriously thanks him, as if those were the greatest Obligations he was capable of laying upon him; and being desirous to gain his favour, he looked upon him in so obliging a manner, as was enough to gain the absolute conquest of his heart. And no doubt the Grand Master would at last have made Love, had he known how; but as that was not his Trade, he contented himself with making her several other, as he thought, signal offers of his Service, either for herself or her Friends: And I believe he would have also made her a tender of his Purse, had not Donna Angelica come in, to whom, according to the Spanish fashion, he was to yield his Place, though it was extremely against the grain with him so to do. This amorous Lady had a great deal of trouble, to get rid of the Viceroy, but it was well repaired by the charming sight of her dear Count; she looked on him with admiration, and blushed, not with anger, for it was not possible for her to conserve any against so dear, and so obliging a Gallant; But rather with Love and Jealousy, to see him so handsome and so attractive in that figure. Perfidious Man, says she to him, with a charming Air, you see every day new ways to surprise me; but I had sufficiently been revenged on you, had the Viceroy or the Grand Master discovered you; for they, you know, are two enemies, you ought to fear. No, it is yourself, Madam, replies the Count, whom I fear more than all the enemies in the world besides; therefore let me beg of you to give me some assurance that you are not angry with me, and I shall be contented. And who, says she, sighing, can be long angry with you? The very sight of you pleads your excuse, Go, says she, blushing, you know too well the way to get your pardon. I shall not go about to acquaint you with the sequel of this Discourse; but we may imagine they would have sealed the Articles of a firm Peace, had not Love, which still delighted to be interfering, sent them the Grand Master, who already being fired with a passion for Donna Brigitta, could tarry no longer without seeing her. He took the pretence of telling them, it was Dinnertime, and desired his Wife to persuade the young stranger to dine with them. These two young Lovers, who had not had time to make the full advantage of their interview, yielded without difficulty to the Grand Master's request. Only the Count made some scruple for fashion's sake, but it was to be the more earnestly entreated, which the Lady did with so good a grace, that she could not be denied. All Dinnertime the Grand Master had his eyes fixed upon the fair Donna Brigitta, he carved for her, and forgot not to drink her Health. The Count and Donna Angelica, who observed all his earnestness and care, could not forbear laughing at him. The new Lover never had been seen in so good a humour in his life, and he took a great delight to see them meet with so pleasant a Diversion. The Count did as much as the decency of the Sex he had taken upon him would permit, to make him really Amorous, who never till then had been in Love with any thing but his Sword. The Count drank the Grand Master's Health, he shown him all the respect imaginable, he took all occasions to oblige him, so that the Grand Master believed he had already got some place in Donna Brigitta's affection. He spoke very highly of her Beauty, and said, he was forced to confess, having made his Excuses to his Wife, that he had never seen a more beautiful Creature in his life. Donna Angelica managed this Scene extremely well, and played the part of a good-natured Wife, telling him, she would serve him as his Confident, but gave him warning that he was to expect a Rival. A Rival, replies he in a fury, being heated both with Love and Wine, and who is it that will dispute here with me? The Viceroy, answers she, if he sees her; but that shall not be here, pursued she; for, as a faithful Confident, I will keep her entirely for you. The Grand Master was so well pleased with his Wife for this Complaisance, that he could have given her the Empire of the World, if it had been in his power, to express to her the sense he had of such an extraordinary kindness. Dinner being ended, he kept his Wife and Donna Brigitta company a little time; but having some important business that indispensably called him away, he was obliged, though with a great deal of regret, to take his leave of them. Whereupon the Count pretended he must be gone too: but the Grand Master opposed it, and employed, besides his own importunities, those of his Wise, to oblige him to tarry till his return, which should be within as short a time as possible, telling them otherwise he would not go, how pressing soever his business was. Donna Angelica frighted with this last Menace, as well as with that of the false Brigitta, told him, she would take the charge of that Affair upon her, and that she would lead the Stranger into her Closet, from whence she would not suffer her to stir, till he returned. The Grand Master earnestly entreated his Wife to be as good as her word; and having waited on them to the Closet, for the better security, as well as to show a piece of Gallantry, he locked them in, and took the Key with him. The Viceroy, who notwithstanding the just ground he might have to complain of this Lady's imprudent Conduct, was now a little reconciled to Donna Angelica, being yet uneasy and disquieted; spent whole days in her Apartment; so that not being satisfied with his Morning's Visit, which had lasted three or four hours, he came again after Dinner. Having met with no body, and being there well acquainted, he came as far as her Chamber, and hearing some laughing in the Closet, he put his Ear close to the Key hole, and knew it to be the Count's voice, which made him hearken more attentively, for he was unwilling a word of their Discourse should escape him. I leave you to judge, whether it could be pleasing to him or no. He resolved at first not to interrupt them, but hear them patiently out to the end; but it was hard so long to restrain the impetuous motions of his troubled Soul. The more he heard, the more his grief enlarged upon him. But what should he do in this Circumstance? he was almost at his wit's end, and knew not what was his best course to take; to knock at the door was a trouble to no purpose; he might very well imagine they would not open it, without making him speak, and much less if he should speak; and what measure soever he should use, it would but the more advise them to manage their precaution. If he had followed the motion of his first thoughts, he had presently endeavoured to break open the door; but besides that, the door was strong enough for the efforts he was able to make against it, he had so much reason remaining in him, as to see it did by no means become a Person of his Character, to use that violence in another's Apartment; and if he made any noise, he apprehended that the worst consequences of it might light upon himself. He concluded then, it was his best way to wait there without making any bustle, till they came out, or the Grand Master would come in. For he was resolved this time to undo them, and the occasion was too fair to be slipped. Those in the Closet continued still their Merriment. But the deep sighs the Viceroy fetched (who sitting on a Chair he had placed near the door, the better to overhear them, bitten his Nails to the blood) having given them some suspicion of the truth, made them speak lower; and than it was, that the Viceroy being upon Sentinel, and enraged at the heart, not knowing what their secret way of Diversion might be, would fain have found some device or other to peep in upon them, tho' he could not well have hoped to see any thing there that might be very pleasing to him. The Grand Master, who was under a violent impatience to see Donna Brigitta, could no longer defer his return. Those who have never loved, are more violent than others, when they begin to be fired. He left his business half undone, and sighed all the time of his absence from her: He could have wished for a winged Chariot, to bring him home so much the sooner: But however, at last he gets thither, and running directly to the Closet, he finds, not without great surprise, the Viceroy in a very sad posture, and with a Countenance which sufficiently witnessed the Confusion that possessed him; at first he made a pleasant judgement of it, and reasoned after this natural manner; What a Cur of a Hound, says he to himself, is this; no sooner have I any Game here, but he is presently nosing after it, however he seemed as if he knew nothing, and told him, as he came up to him, that he was amazed to see him there alone, and asked him, if he knew where his Wife was. You may hear News of her, answers the Viceroy, in a Tone that sufficiently expressed his Astonishment, if you will but open the Closet door. The Grand Master, who had the Key in his Pocket, would seem cunning, and having no desire that the Viceroy should see the fair Brigitta, whom he imagined to be the Person he sought, knocked at the door, and desired his Wife to open it, telling her the Viceroy was there. She answered that she could not, and desired to be excused. The Grand Master being glad of this answer, told Don Fernand that he must excuse her this time, that perchance she was doing something she would be loath to have any men witnesses of: I know, replies the Viceroy, that she is doing something belonging to her Sex, but it is such as cannot be done without the assistance of a Man, and if you will persuade her to open the door, you will see, she could not have chosen one more gallant, or more young. I understand you, Sir, answered the Grand Master, smiling; but as he is, we will let him alone with her; and I hope you will not be more concerned at it than I. No, I assure you, answered the Viceroy: But Don Gabriel, (so the Grand Master was called) deceive not yourself, do you know who it is? I know him so well, answered the other, that I myself locked them in together, and that you may not doubt, pursues he, with an Air full of Raillery, see here the Key. Don Fernand, strangely surprised to hear him speak in this manner, was some time without giving him any answer; and after having walked two or three turns in the Chamber, looking him in the Face, as if he would read in his Countenance, whether he spoke in good earnest: Your Temper, says he, for a Man of Honour as you are, in such a Circumstance passes my understanding. What you please, answers Don Gabriel smiling still; but all this shall not oblige me to show you my Wife's Gallant. I know him well enough, replies the Viceroy. Since it is so, answered Don Gabriel, let us leave them in quiet together, for it is not the part of a good natured Husband to interrupt his Wife's pleasures, when she is taking them with her Gallant. The Viceroy, being more astonished, knew not what to say. He expected the Grand Master's fury would have made him sacrifice them both to his resentment, and he was thinking with himself, if he could not divert him from it, at least to endeavour to save his Wife: How contrary was the Event to his expectation! He makes a Jest of it; he is agreed with them, and has made himself their Gaoler. What can the amazed Don Fernand imagine, but that the Grand Master has lost his Wits, or that they have given him a Spell? He went his way, for he knew not how to deal with a Man of his Character, and looking upon him with scorn, he marched out of the Chamber: Don Gabriel waited on him: The Viceroy told him he ought to have more care of his Reputation; the other laughed at the advice, and answered him only in raillery. In fine the Viceroy left him with the worst opininion one man could frame of another. Those that were in the closet had not heard all this dialogue without a great deal of concern; They had both been undone had the Viceroy persuaded Don Gabriel to open the door; and they trembled when he came back to them: The siege being raised, at last, says he to them, this Viceroy would be a terrible man, if he did not find some others as cunning as himself; He told them all the discourse they had had, but with such mimical gestures, as forced them almost to burst with laughing, notwithstanding the little inclination they had to it. This Comedy had lasted much longer, had not the Count, observing the trouble Donna Angelica was in, occasioned by the Viceroy, resolved to retire. But what gave them most trouble was, that Don Gabriel would by all means wait on them, and there was need of all their Rhetoric and addresses to divert him from it. The fair Donna Brigitta made use of all the power she had over him; promising him that whensoever she came to Town, she would come and pass some time with them: So that at length he yielded to let her go, and she without any further impediment got to the Lady's lodging, where she changed her , and reassumed her former figure. The next day Donna Angelica, impatient to hear news of the feigned Brigitta, sent a note, which by misfortune fell into the hands of Don Fernand, by means of one of his spies, which he had placed at Count Henry's door, to observe what passed, to whom the messenger entrusted the note, taking him for one of the Count's servants. The Viceroy was reading it when he saw the Grand Master coming to speak with him about some important business, and beginning to laugh, he asked him what news of his wives Gallant? they said very pleasant things to each other, both of them believing they had reason to be pleasant on that subject. You are a man of good sense, Signior Don Gabriel, said Don Fernand to him, we are not responsible for the follies our wives commit; and it is a madness to be disquieted at them, or to make our reputation depend on them: how many men are there of your humour, and where are the husbands that are not subject to the like. The Grand Master, who saw the Viceroy's raillery went a little too far, I shall come to you, Sir, says he, to comfort me in this case, when I have need of it; for you are prepared, I see, upon this subject: but let me tell you, it is no more true, that there was a Gallant yesterday in the closet with my wife, than that there were theives there the other day. I agree with you in that; answers the Viceroy that the one is as true as the other. But, Sir, says Don Gabriel, the closet is not so large; I have eyes, and I think— I know you have eyes, interrupted Don Fernand, but I know too you will not make use of them. I told you it was a Domestic thief who sought neither your money, nor your other little Closet-knacks; but it seems you care not; since you are so good as to lock him in yourself with your wife. What! is that the thief, answered the Grand Master, with a violent laughter, which hindered him to pursue his discourse. I wish, added he a little after, such thiefs would come every day; I will give them liberty to steal what they please. But Sir, to leave you no longer in your error, I will tell you, the thief you speak of is one of the handsomest women in the Kingdom. A woman, replies the Viceroy, laughing as well as he, and since when is Count Henry become a woman? Count Henry, says Don Gabriel! I think I have seen him; but he has not such lineaments, (though this were possible) nor such a complexion, nor such a fine neck, nor I know, added he, I am not a man to be so deceived, as to take a Man for a Woman: yet, says Don Fernand, it was the Count who was yesterday in the closet with Donna Angelica, and the thief I mentioned the other day. What, the thief that I cudgeled, replies Don Gabriel. I speak not of the drubbs you gave a man the other night, answers the Viceroy, but what I have told you is very true. Sir, replies Don Gabriel, if my wife had a design of making any gallantry, she would not sure elect such a raw young Gallant as he is. The youngest men are not the worst Gallants, replied the Viceroy, and youth is seldom displeasing in a way of gallantry, nay, more, I assure you, I know his voice too well to be deceived. We are more easily deceived, replies the Grand Master by our ears, than our eyes. I see very well: And I too, said Don Fernand, and to convince you fully, read this Note, which one of your wives Pages delivered this morning to a servant of mine, whom he took without doubt for another. Don Gabriel takes it, and finds in it these words. Are you not ashamed if your negligence? you should have writ to me two hours since: what say I, two hours? you ought not to have gone to bed without writing to me, but I pardon you for Don gabriel's sake, who loves you already almost as much as I. Love works every day great miracles, but this is so extraordinary, that I believe never any resembled it. At least I can say, that none but Donna Brigitta has found out the secret of reconciling two such contrary things in the world as is love and jealousy; and make herself be equally loved by the husband and wife. Adieu, if you come not this day at least write to me. This Note had no superscription, and Don Gabriel, having read it, asked the Viceroy what he found in it, that reflected upon his honour, and how he knew it was addressed to a Gallant, rather than to a Lady. I think it is enough to clear that doubt, answers Don Fernand, that it was sent to Count Henry; but for your sake, added he, laughing, I will believe if you will have me, that it was to Donna Brigitta, whom the Note mentions. Well, replies Don Gabriel, rising to be gone, if I have no other enemies to fear, but the young Neapolitan, I hold myself very secure on that side, as to my Wife. The Grand Master having thus left the Viceroy, came to his wife's apartment, and asked her, whether she had writ any note that morning; she, who readily suspected the Viceroy of some treachery, answered him without any trouble, that she had, and that it was to Donna Brigitta: Don Gabriel who would have sworn for his wife's virtue, believed what she said, showed her the letter the Viceroy had given him, and told her from the beginning to the end all the discourse they had had together. Whereupon the incensed Donna Angelica spoke all that her anger suggested against Don Fernand. She told Don Gabriel that which most troubled her, in the baseness of the Viceroy's actions, was, that not being contented to use all means to create an ill understanding betwixt them, he had to her greater dishonour, charged her with a man whom all the Court knew to be the Vice-queens Gallant: And that you may not doubt it, added she, besides the report that runs abroad of it, I will show you a letter which I found the other day by chance, in which you may see what the Lady writes to the Count She went to the closet, and brought one her lover had sacrificed to her, which he had received but two days before from the Vicequeen. The Grand Master read it with an inexpressable joy, that he had somewhat to insult over the Viceroy withal: He went instantly to find him out, and, accosting him with a smiling countenance, Sir, says he, I know not what day this is, but all love-messengers are destined to mistakes on it: Count Henry has more than one mistress; a while since one of your men surprised a note which my wife writ to him, and see here another which is fallen into the hands of one of my servants, and which one of the Vice-queen's Pages carried to the same Gallant. Some mistake on both sides; but as you had the goodness to deliver me that of my wives, I thought myself obliged to bring you this from yours. Take it, Sir, added he, you know the character, I think it is your Ladies. It is so, answered the Viceroy coldly, and began to read. You have scarce left me, my dear Count, but I languish to see you again, and the same pains other lovers suffer for a month's absence, I suffer them all for that of one night, or a day. Cruel are the minutes I pass without seeing you. Return to morrow more amorous than ever, if you will repair these disquiets. The pleasure of being loved by you is so charming to my heart, that I cannot purchase it at too dear a rate. I find glory in it; honour, and revenge, and all that another would lose by it. Adieu for some hours; for I hope as soon as I awake to receive the good morrow from you: from whom alone I expect my happiness. Nor do I desire to have any more of them, if they do not come from you. Adieu. The Viceroy having put the note in his pocket; with the same coldness, he had read it, and looking upon Don Gabriel, who expected to hear him vent his passion in the most bitter terms imaginable; what would you have, says he, I am one like yourself; like me, Sir, replies the Grand-Master then, methinks my wife's Letter should speak so as that does of the Vice-queens, but there is a great deal of difference betwixt them. That difference is just nothing, answers Don Fernand, and I tell you, though our wives do not write the same, they use us both in the same manner. Sir, replies the Grand Master, if you are willing to believe so for your own comfort, I will subscribe to it: but raillery apart, I know what I ought to think, and till you have showed me as convincing proofs as I bring you, you will give me leave, upon the subject of our Wives, to put a difference between your fortune, and mine. The Viceroy told him it would not be difficult to convince him, provided he will believe his eyes; and Don Gabriel having promised he would contribute on his part to the discovery as much as he could, they parted, the Viceroy being resolved not to leave one stone unturned, to be revenged of the incredulity of the husband, and treachery of the wife; The Grand Master designing to let him use his endeavours, without giving any notice of it to his wife, of whose loyalty he thought he had no reason to entertain the least suspicion. Count Henry, whom Donna Angelica had not failed to acquaint with all that had passed between the Viceroy, and Don Gabriel, went no more to her apartment: but they could not be long without seeing each other. They made several assignations, of which very few succeeded according to their wish▪ having always found some that followed them, or gave them some interruption. They were observed not only by the Viceroy and the Grand Master, but by the Vicequeen also; who, some Days since, became more jealous of the Count than ever, because she saw him but seldom; and caused him to be dogged from Morning to Night, and followed him sometimes herself. The Palace Garden had been more favourable to them than any other Place, whether for the Convenience Donna Angelica had of going thither without Noise, or without being followed; or that it was not mistrusted, being always kept carefully locked. But it is dangerous to go often to one and the same Place, and in Case of an Amour, the surest way is often to change Stations. This Garden was one of the pleasantest of Catalonia, the chief Country of delicate Gardens. There was in the Middle of it, a kind of an enchanted Palace, made of Trees artificially ranged, and composed into Galleries, Halls, Chambers, and Closets, with all their Appurtenances, one of the most curious Pieces of Art in the World. There was but one way into this Palace of Trees, which was by a Drawbridge, it being surrounded with a deep Mote full of Water. The Thought of passing an Hour or two of the Night in so pleasant a Place, no sooner presented itself to our Lovers, but they found means to get false Keys to the Garden-door. The Viceroy had at length some Notice of it, and advised the Grand Master, the better to surprise them, to tell his Wife, that he was to make a Journey into the Country for two or three Days. Don Gabriel, who could not yet believe what he heard, consented to what he desired of him. The Spies were sent into the Garden early, who immediately got up into the Trees to keep sentinel. It was scarce Night, when they saw a Man, of a very good Presence, walk towards the green Palace, and within a little while after, a brisk jolly Lady, who took the same way. They stole down from the Trees, having no more to do, and having drawn up the Bridge, according to their Orders, they ran presently to the Viceroy, to acquaint him that they had taken the Quarry. What a Joy was this to Don Fernand: Don Gabriel was neither merry nor sad. He desired to know the Truth, and then he knew what Resolution to take, if things were so as they reported. Now the Truth will appear, says the Viceroy, but I must beg a Favour of you, which is, that you would not be transported against your Wife, and that you will content yourself with putting the Gallant into the Hands of Justice. I believe, answers the Grand Master, that in such Affairs we do not take Counsel of any Persons, but tell me what you would do yourself, should it happen to be your Wife. I would shut her up in a Convent, replied the Viceroy, or send her back to her Friends, and I beg that Favour at your Hands, for Donna Angelica: For I protest to you, I shall not endure to see a Woman ill used for a Misfortune which she should always have reason to accuse me of; show her me, Sir, says Don Gabriel, and then it will be time enough to interceded for her; but to tell you the Truth, my Heart, which uses to give me the first Alarm, when any ill Accident threatens me, does not yet give me the least Commotion. Don Fernand gins to laugh, and without any further Reply, marches towards the Garden, and Don Gabriel followed him, being each of them attended by five or six Servants well armed, to apprehend the Gallant. They entered the Garden: The Night was so dark, they could hardly see each other; they advanced towards the Place, caused the Bridge to be gently let down, where having commanded their Servants to tarry, that they might make the less Noise, and withal not to have them for Witnesses of this Adventure: Only they two went in, and softly stole towards the green Palace. But it being of a large Extent, and having a thousand Places wherein to skulk, it was hard in this Obscurity, to find those they sought. The Viceroy marched before, and he would have been pleased that Don Gabriel should hear part of the Discourse between the two Lovers, not any longer to doubt of the Title with which his Wife honoured him. I believe it would have been a pleasant thing to have seen two Persons of their Character, animated each by different Motions, marching on Tiptoe in the dark, sometimes listening, and taking even the Noise themselves made for the Voice of some body; particularly the Viceroy, who interessed himself so much in this Affair, that the moving of the least Leaf gave him an Alarm: They held each other by the Hand, as the Song is; and Don Fernand having the Vandguard, was the first who met with one; but instead of catching, he was caught himself. He had scarce entered one of the Rooms, where he had heard some Noise, but he was seized by the Arm. Most treacherous of all Men, says the Person that held him, and whom he knew, by her Voice, to be his own Wife, will you now own your Treachery, or will you yet tell me you come hither to seek me? I leave it to the Reader to judge whether the Viceroy were not sufficiently astonished, he knew not whether she spoke to him in earnest, or whether she took him for another: But for Don Gabriel 'tis hard to express his Joy: Ah wretch! continued she, could you after all my Kindness, betray me in this manner? What Pleasure could you take in abusing me with a Belief that you loved me, was it only to comply with the Viceroy, who chose you to be my Gallant? Why do you not speak to me? I should have been content to have given you a Mistress as I did, without giving you a Heart which you refuse. These Words were too clear to leave the astonished Don Fernand in any Doubt. He would have retired, full of Confusion, with what he had heard; not so much upon her account, as Don Gabriel's, who kept close to him behind, and would needs see the End of this Scene, which could not but be exceeding pleasant; but before we pass any farther, it will not be amiss, for the better understanding of this Adventure, to tell you, how the Vicequeen happened to be there that Night. I have already spoke of her Jealousy, which for some Days before tormented her, and caused her to observe all the Motions of the Count, and sometimes followed him in Person. She had notice, as well as the Viceroy, that he went every Night into the Garden, and not doubting but it was to see Donna Angelica there in private; she went thither by Night disguised in Man's Apparel, to the end she might not be known. The Palace of Trees being the fittest Place for an Interview, she judged they had made choice of it for theirs: So that she went thither to wait for them, and a while after saw Donna Angelica come towards the Place; but it being the Count whom she principally sought, she let her pass without Interruption. It is true, that in the Impetuosity of her first Motions, when she was near her, she had like to have been transported to some Action, more conformable to her Jealousy, than her Sex. The Spies, as I have already told you, went immediately to give the Viceroy notice: And the Count being come thither presently after, was much astonished to see the Bridge drawn. He imagined there was some Mystery in it: He went round the Moat, to try whether he could hear any Noise, which might give him some further Knowledge of that Accident. He w●● resolved at least not to go out of the Garden 〈◊〉 he had found to what End this Precaution, of drawing up the Bridge, had been used, and he had a thousand different Imaginations about it. But he had scarce made his Round, when he heard the Viceroy and the Grand Master coming, and understood part of what they said from behind a Hedge, under which he skulked till they were gone past him. He saw them enter into th● green Palace, and presently draw up the Bridge, which stabbed him to the Heart, in that thereby he was deprived of all Hope of bringing any Succour to Donna Angelica: No Torment could be equal to his, who doubted not, but the Consequences of this cruel Adventure would fall heavy upon ●●s dear Mistress. The Truth is, she was for her part strangely perplexed. At first she was much surprised to hear the Vicequeen speak in a Place where she not only thought no body was, but where she so little expected her. She risen up at the Noise the Viceroy and the Grand Master made, thinking it was the Count, and was going towards them, when on a sudden she heard the Voice of her Rival, reproaching her Lover: She was seized with Fear, and knew not what to undertake in so extraordinary an Adventure. The Vicequeen, who knew that Donna Angelica was in that Place, spoke in this manner to the false Count, on purpose to oblige him to an Answer, such as she desired Donna Angelica should hear. Speak, ungrateful Man, pursued she, seeing he made no Answer; What do you find in Donna Angelica more than in me! Is it that she is false as you are? As for her Wit or her Beauty, you know us both too well to prefer her to me. Will you tell me, it is to revenge me on the Viceroy? No, it is nothing but the Pleasure you take in Treachery, that could engage you: For you will not deny but you have loved me with Passion, and have told me a thousand times, that if I pleased, you would no more see that Lady, and that you had not the least Inclination to her: And in the mean time, while I give my Heart entirely to you, and you assure me of yours, you cast yourself upon a Woman whom you profess not to love. In all this there was something pleasing, and something disagreeable to both the Husbands. When any thing was said that displeased Don Fernand, he made a step back, and the other pushed him forwards; when it was any thing that reflected on Don Gabriel, the Viceroy pulled him back by the Cloak. I have not yet done, pursues the Vicequeen, seeing he still kept silence, you shall not part from me till you have declared which of us two, Donna Angelica or I, reigns Empress in your heart. I know it must be I, added she; if you follow the Viceroy's Counsel; for you know there is no Woman he could love above me, if I were not his own Wife already. But follow the dictates of your own heart, and tell me whether you deceive us both, or if I be the only deceived person. You only, Madam, answered the Viceroy, in whom the Spanish phlegm began to take fire; you are doubly deceived, pursues he, both in taking me for the Count, and in persuading yourself that he loves you. You did not, pursued he, think me so near you, when you made me acquainted with your Affairs. No, certainly, answers she, in a great astonishment, which nevertheless she soon overcame, but I am not angry that you heard what I have said, for you know whether you have not deserved all this, and whether any one has contributed to your dishonour more than yourself. All this, replies he, might be better told if I were alone; but here is the Grand Master, replies the Vicequeen to him, has too great a share in this Evenings Adventure to laugh alone; and if he will give himself the trouble of searching all these Rooms, he will find a Lady of his acquaintance here who came not hither to meet with him: Donna Angelica who was not far off, heard this Discourse, and I leave you to judge what her apprehensions were. The Grand Master, who knew it was his Wife the Vicequeen spoke of, did but laugh, not seeing any probability of her being there; and answered her, that he did not conceive the Rendezvous was intended for two Ladies, since there was but one Gallant. It is true, answered the Lady, but the assignation was made for Donna Angelica. Then, Madam, replied Don Gabriel, what brought you hither? The same, answers she, that brought you, though my Success has been as bad as yours. But, Madam, says Don Gabriel to her, you see I have no reason to give credit to what you say, since by your own confession, you are jealous of my Wife; nevertheless if you can show her to me here, I shall then believe you. The Vicequeen having told him, he need but search the place. The Viceroy, sent some of his Servants to the Palace for Lights, though she endeavoured to oppose it, being unwilling to be seen in the Equipage she was in: But notwithstanding, the Order was given, and they straight ran to the Palace, to fetch some Flambeau's. Don Fernand had no reason to be very well satisfied with the Vicequeen; though besides his not loving her, he saw, that to give true Justice to all Persons, the fault lay not wholly at her door; and that it was but just he should suffer for his own folly: Yet, notwithstanding all these Reasons that made against him, and of which he endeavoured to convince himself, he could not but be exceeding vexed to think Don Gabriel was witness of his shame. It was necessary to make the Scales even, that he should show him Donna Angelica; and he died with impatience to have the Lights brought. This unfortunate Lady was in the greatest perplexity imaginable; she had hid herself under the Bushes, but when she heard them talk of Lights, she thought there was no place of security for her; she would have made her escape, but she found the Bridge guarded. What course to take she knew not; she walked round the Moat with tears in her Eyes, demanding of the Night to redouble her darkness, to save her from the unhappiness that threatened her; and she was resolved rather to throw herself into the Water she saw before her, then to be exposed to the laughter and scorn of her most cruel Enemies: When on a sudden she discovers through that obscurity the end of a Plank, which rested on the bank of the Moat where she stood. She was fearful at first, but taking courage by little and little, examined what it was, and could not imagine from whence that succour came: She stuck not to venture herself upon it, and try to pass to the other side; but she was scarce halfway, when she met a Man coming towards her upon the same Plank: Her fear redoubled, and she was just upon the point to return back, had she not been stopped by the voice of that Person, who asked, Is it you, Madam? Ah my dear Count, answered she, with an incredible Joy, how opportunely has Heaven sent you, to free me from the greatest Misfortunes that could befall me. The Count, (for it was he) gave her his Hand, and told her, he had been above an hour seeking some means to relieve her, and that by a great goodness of Fortune, he had found that Plank at the lower end of all the Garden. Their Discourse was not long, the time would not permit it, the Lights of the Viceroy had sent for, appeared already in the Green Palace. They drew away their Plank, and having tumbled it into the Moat, they got by a by-way, presently to the Gate, at which they were used to come in, to think how to manage their Affairs, and secure themselves from their jealous Observers. As they passed, they could perceive the other three very busy in Search of the fair Fugitive. There was not a Hole or Corner in the Palace, which they left unvisited: Not a Bush unshaken, and hardly any of the higher Grass unsearched: In fine, no Place, though never so abstruse, which was not carefully examined, as well by the M●sters as the Spies themselves: Who all affirmed they had seen two Persons enter the green Palace, and the Vicequeen more positively than they, added for the further Credit of the Story, that it was Donna Angelica, whom she had seen, touched, and followed for some time. The Grand Master, as he had reason, laughed at all this: And even took Pleasure in making them run from one side to the other, to no purpose, the Vicequeen was absolutely in the last Despair, and protested she would not quit the Garden till she had found Angelica. You will find, says Don Gabriel, continuing his Raillery, that this dangerous Count has carried her away; for you must needs confess with me, that a Woman being alone, and without Help, cannot otherwise than by Enchantment, get out of this Place, the Bridge being drawn. They had great Contests on both sides, which at last ended in the common Confusion, both of the Viceroy and his Lady, who being weary at length with their unpofitable Search, took their way to the Palace. Don Fernand, nevertheless, commanded that the Bridge should remain drawn all the Night, and that Guard should be kept, intending the next Morning to renew the Search. To what end, says the Grand Master, is all this Precaution, but to cherish so many idle Imaginations of your own Brain: Sometimes a Thief is in my Wife's Closet, another time a Gallant transformed into the Country Lady, and now to conclude all these Adventures, I am to find my Wife, by Night in the Garden with Count Henry; where, instead of her, I met with yours, who takes you for that young Gallant. What ought I to infer from all this, added he, but that you were pleased to give me the Diversion of a Comedy which we will conclude, if you please, in my Wife's Chamber, whom doubtless we shall find asleep, whilst you have given yourself so much Trouble in searching for her here. The Viceroy, whose Head was full of what his Spies had told him, and of which he doubted not, since his Wife had confirmed it, took him at his word, and went with him towards his Apartment. As for the Vicequeen, she had left them in a great dispute which of the two was graced with the Largest Antlers. They came into the Palace, and meet in the Guard-room the Major of the place, who waited for the Viceroy to deliver him the keys of the Town-gates, and told him, that Count Henry was just gone forth at one of the gates of the Haven, and had embarked himself with a very handsome Lady whom he led with him. A Lady, replies the Viceroy looking on Don Gabriel, to observe his countenace: You will find, says the Grand Master to him laughing; it is she whom we seek. The Viceroy, without giving any answer to the Grand Master's raillery, asked the Major of what stature she was. But he could give no exact account, because they walked fast, and gave him but little time to observe them. The Viceroy's heart notwithstanding, misgave him that it was no other than Donna Angelica: and running to her apartment to know the truth, he found in effect that she was absent, and came presently with the news to her incredulous husband, hoping he would lose no time in pursuit of her. Don Gabriel was for the present a little astonished at it; but like a man of sense, by the Viceroy's example, he would not afflict himself overmuch, and told him, that since his Wife was not as she ought to be, the Count had done him a favour, ridding him of her: so that the poor Viceroy being afflicted on both sides, and made a Cuckold too in the bargain, fell to consider what he should do with his own Wife; but he found his condition common to so many husbands, that comforting himself with others in the like circumstance, he resolved not to part with her, and I think he did well. A Cuckold! none more a-la-mode than he, The number does increase so much; Who names a Husband means a property, And their Wives use them all as such, FINIS. Novels and Plays Printed for, and Sold by, R. Wellington, at the Lute in St. Paul's Churchyard; E. Rumball, at the Posthouse, ; and B. Lintot, at the Cross-Keys in St. Martin's-lane, near Long-Acre. THE Drudge, or Jealous Extravagant. Princess of Cleves. Nicerotis. A Novel. Agiatis Queen of Sparta. Revengeful Mistress. The Duchess of Mazarines Memoirs written by herself. Cardinal Mazarines' Letters. Count de Soisions. Seraglio. Count de Amboise. Don Henrick. Court Secret. Fatal Beauty, or Agnes de Castro. Art of Making Love. Neapolitan, or the Defender of his Mistress. Amours of Count Teckley. Don Sebastian. Rival Princess. Character of Love. Unhappy Lovers, or the Timmerous Fair one. Clytie. A Novel. Humours and Conversation of the Town. Rival Mother. A Novel. The Lover's Secretary. The Nun's Letters to a Cavalier. Religio Laici, in a Letter to Mr. Dryden. Intrigues and Gallantries of Christina Queen of Sweden. Homais Queen of Tunis. Life of the Duke of Guise. Unfortunate Hero. Irish Princess. Bassa of Buda. Lisarda, or the Travels of Love, and Jealousy. Duke of Alancon and Queen Elizabeth. Amours of the Queen of Polonia. Hattigi King of Tameran. Pilgrim. Scanderbegg. Revived Fugitive. Mrs. Behn's Novels in one Voll. Incognita, or Love and Duty Reconciled, by Mr. Congreve. PLAYS. THe Relapse, or Virtue in Danger. Spanish Wives. Unnatural Brother. Plot and no Plot. Younger Brother, or Amorous Jilt. Old Bachelor. Agnes de Castro. Rover, or Banished Cavalier. Rule a Wife and have a Wife. Country Wife. Rehearsal. Anatomist, or the Sham-Doctor. Cyrus' the Great, or the Tragedy of Love. Don Quixot in 3 Parts. Roman Bride's Revenge. Marriage-hater matched. Country Wake. Neglected Virtue. Pyrrhus' King of Epirus. Very good Wife. Woman's Wit, or Lady in Fashion. The Gallants. Sullen Lovers. Humourists. Macbeth. Timon of Athens. Oedipus. Ibrahim the 13th, Emperor of the Turks. Canterbury Guests. Lost Lovers. Love's a Jest. Plain Dealer. Brutus of Alba. London Cuckolds. Sir Courtly Nice. Earl of Essex. Squire of Alsatia. All for Love. Devil of a Wife. Lancashire Witches. Cleomenes. Don Sebastian. Oroonoko. Abdelazar. Pastor Fido. Love for Money. Love's last Shift, or the Fool in Fashion. Young King, or the Mistake. Roundheads, or the Good Old Cause. City Heiress, Conquest of Granado. Cheats. Titus Andronicus. City Politics. Debauchee. Venice preserved. Rival Queens. Villain. Sir Antony Love. Theodosius. Princess of Cleve. Antony and Cleopatra. Disappointment. Fond Husband. Mithridates. Caesar Borgia. Woman Captain. Rival Ladies. Wives Excuse. Bury Fair. Orphan. Novelty. Tempest. Caius Marius. Chances. Don Carlos. Friendship in Fashion. Hamlet. Indian Emperor. Philaster. Sacrifice. Sir Martin Marr-all. State of Innocence. Traitor. Virtuoso. Virtue betrayed. Wild Gallant: Empress of Morocco. Town-Fop. Innocent Mistress. Impostor defeated. Alcibiades. Amazon Queen. Ambitious Statesman. Amboyna. Amintas. Andromache. Atheist. Banditti. Belphegor. Benefice. Bonduca. Bussy de Amboise. Calisto. Caligula. Cambyses. Carnival. Commonwealth Women. Cornish Comedy. Country Wit. Darius' King of Persia. Destruction of Jerusalem. Duke of Guise. English Monsieur. False Count. Fool's Preferment. Fortune-Hunters. Gloriana. Grateful Servant. Heir of Morocco. Henry the Sixth. Humorous Lieutenant. Injured Lovers. Innocent Usurper. Julius Caesar. Kind Keeper, King and no King. Libertine. Love in a Tub. Love in a Wood Marry Queen of Scotland. Massacre of Paris. Miser. Miseries of Civil Wars. Mistaken Husband. Nero. Love without Interest. Othello. Pausanius. Provoked Wife. Psyche. Reformation. Regulus. Richard the Second. Richmond Heiress. Rival Sisters. Royal Shepperdess. Scornful Lady. Scowrers. THE HAPPY SLAVE, A NOVEL. Translated from the French. By a Person of Quality. The Third Edition. LONDON, Printed for R. Wellington at the Lute in St. Paul's Churchyard, and E. Rumbal at the Posthouse in Russel-street, in Covent Garden. 1699. Advertisement. THE Book I Publish scarce deserves an Advertisement. But that I give you, is not to bespeak the Critics in my favour. I cannot believe any Person of Wit will exercise his Faculty on a Trifle, which perhaps I have spent less time to Compose, than he must to censure. But 'tis because some Persons having small kindness for an Author, have been pleased heretofore to comment on my Tables, to make stories of my stories, and to stretch my fancy to conjectures which never came into my Head: It were easy for me to justify myself in this particular, if it were desired; but I conceive my manner of proceeding hath sufficiently done it, to Dedicate it to one of the Principal Lords of the Kingdom, a Book, such as they make my former, by their strange interpretations to be, and to put my Name to it, was it not the way to gain myself Enemies, and utterly ruin me? I have committed faults in my time, but never of this nature. Therefore I declare to the Public, and especially to those who busy themselves in penetrating into other men's intentions, that under the literal sense of my Tales there is not hid any Allegorical meaning, that when I speak of the Turks and of afric, I have not any Ideas in Europe or any other Nation, and that they will make me think quite otherwise than I think, if they make me speak any otherwise than I speak, if the Intrigues or Adventures I writ of, have some conformity to those of our times, I am not to answer for it: 'Tis the fault of Chance and not mine. There are so many in Love, that though Love takes infinite ways, they can hardly avoid meeting sometimes: were Writers confined to entertain you only with things rare and extraordinary, they would be soon drawn dry, and all their stories quickly exhausted; the Reader is entreated to do me Justice herein, and not pay me with ingratitude for the Presents I make him of my Toys: This shall be followed by a Second Part, where the History of Laura, who shall bear the principal part in it, shall be matter of Gallantry, and far exceed this of the Sultaness. THE HAPPY SLAVE, A Novel. afric, for some Ages, hath passed for a part of the World, where the People were no less Cruel and Savage than the Lions and Tigers that fill the Deserts of that Country: But since the discovery of Love there, it hath appeared, that as Love grows in all countries', so Barbary itself hath nothing of Barbarous but the Name. To verify this, I shall entertain you with a piece of Gallancy acted there, which may justify what I affirm. Count ALEXANDER, a young Roman Lord, very considerable for Estate, (but more for Birth and Parts,) had scarce appeared to act his part on the great Theatre of the World, but he found himself pressed by his Relations to Marry: He was handsome, high spirited, and witty, as those of Old Rome, but addicted to Pleasure, as those of the New; humoursome, and wholly given up to the pursuit of his Fancy and Inclinations. As for Marriage (upon the good Advice he had received not to engage, but as late as he could,) he usually said, What a pitiful Utensil a Wife is? witness the greatest part of those Gentlemen dignified with the Illustrious Title of Husbands; especially now adays, when Men seem to have Wives only for this, That others may make use of them. These Consequences he drew, as well from Experience as Example; for being Young, Handsome, and Rich; he was sufficiently qualified not to fail of good Fortune, with a Sex (in our Age) very kind and susceptible, and had not wanted his divertisements of that Nature; and therefore he had small inclination by taking a Wife, to give others the Opportunity to pay him in his own Coin. In the mean time the Interests of the Family (which often prove Poison to the greatest pleasures of Life (obliging the most excellent Persons to ordinary Actions: The Young Roman, to deliver himself from the importunity of Relations, chose rather to quit the Pleasures of ROME, by Travelling abroad, than to make himself subject to a Law so contrary to his Humour, and that beloved Liberty he preferred before all things. He communicated his design to his Valett de Chambre, who had served him long, and being active and ingenious, quickly took order to have all things in readiness that were necessary for their purpose. The Spring was come, and the Wether seasonable for Travel, when on a fair day the Young Gentleman and his Servant privately left Rome, and embarked at Civita Vecchia in a Felucca hired for the purpose. His design was to visit the best Courts of Europe, beginning with that of Spain. But there are Persons over whom Fortune is so rigorously imperious, that she seems jealous of any thing they undertake, without consulting her first. 'Twas she who provided Count Alexander a Voyage into afric, when he had designed to confine his Travels to Europe: Of the Towns he was to see, Tunis was marked out by Fortune for one; and though much out of his Road, yet where Fortune intermeddles, there always happens something extraordinary; her excesses and extravagancies being that which chief makes us take notice of her. The fourth day after he had left Civita Vecchia, this Young Lord began to perceive, that though all the Elements are terrible at Sea, yet Men who are Enemies are more terrible than the Elements. Till then the Wether had been fair to extremity, not a puff of contrary Wind: He proceeded in his Voyage with what speed he could wish, and blessed himself at the happiness of the Wether. The Coast of Italy is dangerous, especially in Summer, being then subject to Inroads by People of the South, whose livelihood is Robbery; and when the Wether is fair, their Trade is so great, that whosoever is not upon his Guard, is happy if he escape them; I mean the Corsairs of Barbary. Count Alexander, who never thought he had left Rome, to be led in Triumph to Tunis, saw himself at break of day saluted by a Brigandine of that Nation: The poor Seamen presently took Alarm, the sight of one Turban was sufficient to affright them: And the Turks had scarce discharged three or four Muskets at the Christians, but they leapt into the Sea to save themselves by swimming; the Italian Count and his Servant stayed in the Vessel, not in hopes of being able to defend themselves against that number of Enemies, which the strength of Rollando, and the Enchanted Armour of Amadis could scarcely have done, (whereas now a Man is but a Man, and among other Secrets that of Enchanting Arms is lost.) But having no skill in swimming, he could not expect to escape as the Mariners: Yet he was not so out of love with his Life, but that he held it better to be a Slave than be drowned. But that those Barbarous Corsairs might see what a Person they dealt with, and that he might sell his Liberty as dear as possible; having commanded his Servant to throw his Baggage overboard, he gave him order what further to do. I will omit the Description of the Action, though reputed the most glorious ever done on the Mediterranean, being a Combat of Two against Thirty, whereof they laid six dead on the Deck, and many more wounded. 'Twas an Engagement of a Herd of Wolves against Two young Lions, who defended themselves with unparallelled Valour and Courage. 'Tis true, the Turks (not to lose the Money they did expect from their Ransom) spared them at first, using Cudgels only against them; but at length the Blood and Death of their Comrades, and the shame and disdain they had of so long and obstinate defence made by two rash Christians against them, being so many, having filled them with rage, they had recourse to their Symitars: And with so much advantage, that having killed the Valet, the Young Count (after several Wounds received, his strength, not his Courage, having failed him in so tedious a Fight,) was forced to yield, being no longer able to lift up his Arm to make use of his Sword. The Cowardly Villains had scarce the Courage to board him, and durst not approach him, till they saw him fallen flat on his back. They took him, and carried him on board their Brigandine, where they gave him all the help in their power for saving his Life, having no other mark of their Victory, but the taking one Valiant Person, who had cost them too dear to be proud of their Prize: They beheld him with Admiration, and could not comprehend how an Age so tender could be capable of so much Courage; and that in a Body appearing so delicate, there was strength enough lodged to perform the actions they had seen. And being Naturally Superstitious, they did really believe there was something supernatural in the Young Man's Person, or at least, that he was the Flower of Christendom; this conceit helped them to bear with more patience the shame of their Victory. And finding their Men thin, and having taken before some considerable Prizes, they resolved to return directly for Tunis. The Wether was favourable, and in few days sail they arrived at Gouletta, where going ashore they put the poor Count on Horseback, bound and pinioned like a Robber, and brought him to the Town; some of these Barbarians having got the start of the rest, spread such a Report of his Valour and Courage, that they drew together not the ordinary People only, (who are curious of small matters) but the Principal Persons of Tunis, and the Bassa himself, who accompanied with many of his Friends, came walking towards the Ruins of Carthage, to see the arrival of this Famous Christian, whom they imagined a Man that carried Terror in his looks: But how were they surprised to see a Youth pale and disfigured, yet keeping with his good mien the marks of Grandeur in his Countenance. He was pitied by all, and the Bassa being a gallant and generous Person, was presently seized with such Indignation against the Villains, who used in that manner one so little deserving it, that he commanded them forthwith on pain of his displeasure to unbind him upon the place; which they instantly did, not daring to disobey him, who next the Dey was of greatest Authority and Power in the Kingdom: He asked them the price of their Slave, and, having commanded him to be conducted to his Palace, paid the Corsairs five hundred Patacoons, being the Money they demanded. Count Alexander having happily fallen into the hands of so good and generous a Patron, began to recover He was Lodged in a handsome Apartment, where the Bassa's Chirurgeons searched his Wounds: And being more carefully looked to than on board the Brigandine, he soon found himself better, though weak, and sore bruised by what he had suffered at Sea from the hands of those Barbarians, who having no pity for any, had not been too careful of him; yet there was no danger of his Life, the Fever he had was not great, and they had hopes to see him well in few days. The Bassa visited him Morning and Evening, and by degrees his care and kindness grew to that height, that he came more frequently to see him, and not only took more particular notice of him, but increased daily the esteem and friendship he had for him. Before I proceed, it may not be amiss to satisfy the Curiosity of the Reader, in giving him an account of the Person; the Birth and Character of the Bassa. Mahomet Bassa by the Father of Sidy Marat, and Mahomet Lapsy the new Beys, was the Son of a Renegado of Corsica, of the Family of Petrosanty, who by the handsomeness of his Person, and the excellency of his Wit, having gained the good Opinion of the Dey or King of the Country, made so good use of the favour of his Prince, that he advanced him to the highest Office of the Kingdom, whereof he left his Son Mahomet his Heir. But, to shorten the Story, Mahomet the younger being deeply embroiled with the Dey and the Divan, (who, jealous of the Authority his Father had gained, would have divided the Offices of Bassa and Bey) went to the Port, and returned Victorious: Tunis never flourished as under him, being as fit for Arms as Gallantry, of a great Spirit, and excellent Wit, the most Brave, the most Generous and Magnificent of Men: He loved the Christians, and did them Justice; and entertained a Commerce of Civility with many Princes of Europe. He sent and received Presents every Year to and from the Great Duke of Tuscany; in a word, no Lord of that Country ever carried himself better, and had more Merit and Reputation than he: Some resemblance of this Splendour may yet be seen in the Person of Mahomet Lapsy his Son; he had inclinations worthy a great Lord, as he was, and the Soul of a Man truly Generous, and of Eminent Virtue. The Bassa was charmed with admiration at the Wit of the Count, extremely pleased with his Conversation, and sometimes past three or four hours in familiar Discourse, sitting on his Bed. He was chief surprised to find his Apprehension so clear, and Knowledge so general, that what Subject soever he chose to Discourse of he spoke of to admiration. This made the Bassa speak of him to his Friends with so tender Affection, and so much to his Praise, that he gained him the Esteem and Amity of all the principal Lords of the Kingdom, who came to see him, and made him Presents according to the Custom of the Country. The Bassa, by many Illustrious marks and clear discoveries, was induced to believe the Count a Person of no ordinary Quality, but did not think fit to question him on that point; and had no further knowledge of him than that he was an Italian. Nor durst the Count acquaint him with his Condition, fearing, the knowing of it might make his Enlargement the more difficult: But after so many favours from the Bassa, he could not in gratitude conceal himself from a Person who had obliged him so highly, and to whom he did owe more than his Life. Therefore being asked by the Bassa, whether his Parents were living, and why he writ not to them: Sir (said he) I should be the basest of Men should I ever forget the Obligations you have put upon me, nor could I be guilty of a greater dishonesty, than to be prevailed upon by fear, or any other consideration, not to pay you what I own you. I confess, (and I hope you will pardon me,) that I scrupled to make a full discovery of myself to you, for fear my Captivity might be the harder, my Bondage more severe, and my Liberty valued at a higher rate: But having found you so generous, I cannot, after the Favours you have heaped upon me, the Rights you have over your Slaves, by forbearing to tell you, I am a Person of Quality, of one of the best Families of Rome; that my Name is Count Alexander, and that if ever you restore me to my Liberty, I must pay you my Ransom with most grateful Acknowledgements of your Kindness and Favours. The Bassa smiled, and with much tenderness answered, Alexander, you shall not far the worse for your discovery to me; I am no Merchant of Slaves, nor did I buy you to sell you again: You are free, and shall live with me in this Country as if you were in your own, with one of your Friends: And if I detain you here a little longer than perhaps you would wish, it is because I can hardly part with one for whom I have so high an esteem, and so cordial affection. To these he added other expressions of Kindness, which were joyfully received by the Count, and dispelled all his Grief for the loss of his Liberty. As soon as he had recovered his Strength, the Bassa made him partake of his Pleasures and Divertisements, in Hunting, Walking, Horse-race; in all which the Count appeared Eminent above others, and became more Famous than ever any Christian was in those Parts; every considerable Person was ambitious to visit him, and took pleasure to see, and to treat him, which is a special favour to those of their Country, much more to one who professed a Religion, to which they are open irreconcilable Enemies. Hence you may observe the Power of Merit, and how are influences of a fortunate Destiny. The esteem the Bassa expressed publicly for him, contributed much to all these advantages; but you are to consider his Person, and the sweetness of his Temper, and candour of his Actions as the effectual means for gaining him Amity, and that which won him the Love of the most Excellent Persons. But notwithstanding his Illustrious Acquaintance, and agreeable Divertisements, the Honours and Favours he daily received, he could not forbear wishing with sighs for a return into Europe. He lived as one free, but was really a Slave to the Affection of the Bassa, from which he thought his deliverance more difficult, than from Fetters and Chains. His Wit and Inclnations were not for the Men of that Country; he loathed, and was weary of them: The Turks have a good sense, and will reason well enough of the Affairs of the World, and are great and subtle Politicians; but for Wit and good Breeding, they know not what it is; their Conversation is barren, and consists more in the smoke of Tobacco than Excellent Discourse: Their Knowledge is small, having ordinarily no advantage of Reading or Travel. The Bassa alone had more Wit, and more Reason than the rest altogether; but his Employment in the State engaging him in a thousand indispensible Affairs, would not allow him to be always with Alexander, who in the mean time past his Melancholy hours in the Garden of the Seraglio, where he had the privilege to walk, being a retired and very pleasant place, and that wherein he took great delight. But alas, how different were these days from those at Rome! the Italians are naturally apt to be Melancholy, and this Solitude made the Count so: The Bassa, who loved him sincerely, and passionately, wished to have him always in good humour, was troubled to find him sad and dejected; but having often enquired the cause, could not obtain farther satisfaction, than that it was an effect of his Temper: He had furnished him to excess with all that Country could afford for the Pleasures of Life, and could not imagine the cause of the grief, but fancied at last, that to complete his Divertisements, Alexander might want the conversation of a Woman. The Bassa being a Person much given to Gallantry, was the more easily inclined to believe he had found the true cause of his Melancholy. And looked upon it as no incurable Disease, but presently resolved to find out a Remedy, by furnishing him with a Mistress, which was a high strain of complaisance in a Person of his Character; but there were no limits to the Love he had for his Alexander. The Law of Mahomet is very severe in this Point, against Persons of another Religion, though very indulgent to those of his own. Those who fall into the Hands of the Turks, and will make love to their Women, are under the necessity of changing their Religion, or Burning: these Extremities are hard, yet of the many Christians reduced to those straits, I know not one who hath thought Martyrdom so charming, as not to prefer Circumcision before Burning: the Bassa, though no zealous observer of the Law, was willing however to avoid the Scandal that might follow, if the Intrigue were discovered, and therefore designed to marry him to a Christian. There was with the Sultaness his Wife, an Italian Slave, a young Maid of good quality, lovely and witty: it was not long since the Bassa had been in love with her, but without any success: whether it proceeded from the respect she bore to the Sultaness her Mistress, who loved her entirely, or from scruple of Conscience in point of Religion, with which she excused herself, certain it is, his addresses were vain; and after three Months eager pursuit of his design, being not accustomed to so much resistance, he quitted her, and cast his eyes on other less difficult conquests: he hoped that one Christian with another might have better success, and that Alexander being very lovely, and young, needed only to show himself for gaining the love of a Maid of his Country, professing the same Religion with him: he endeavoured to dispose her for the purpose, by raising in her an esteem for the Gallant he provided her: he had often spoken of him in the Chamber of the Sultaness, where Laura, the Slave we are discoursing of, did constantly attend. And having form the design, he seldom entertained them with any thing else, but Alexander did this, or Alexander said that; of which he gave them so pleasant Descriptions, that he could not fail of making some impressions of love for him in a Woman, though never so little susceptible. The Count knew nothing of all these good Offices; the Bassa smiling sometimes at his sadness, would tell him, he should shortly see him in a different humour. One having disposed all things on Laura's side, (who had told him, she would not be displeased to see this Christian) he took him into the Garden of the Seraglio to walk, and after a turn or two, asked him if he had ever been in love. The question did very much surprise him, apprehending, that being among a People naturally suspicious, the Bassa might perhaps have had some Jealousy of him, though he could not imagine the cause. But to disabuse him, he held it necessary to affect great indifference in the business of Women, and (the truth is) to that day he had not been in love. And though it were ill courtship to the Bassa, who was an admirer of Women, to tell him he had never been in Love; yet he chose rather to commit a solaecism in courtship, than to give him the least cause of suspicion The Bassa advised him to have a care of himself, lest Love should one day be revenged of him, and told him, he despaired not of seeing him a Lover in Barbary: You are, said he, handsome and witty, and there are here, as in Europe, dangerous Ladies, who perhaps may have designs on your liberty; and you are not yet got out of Tunis: This Discourse unexpected, and spoken with such an Air, so troubled the Count, he knew not what answer to make. The Bassa much pleased at the disorder he had put him to; What, said he, doth Love appear so terrible to you, that you dare not encounter it? can a Man of your bravery be afraid of a Passion? Recollect yourself, and think it not so dreadful here as in Italy; you arm your Cupid with weapons of War, we dress ours with Flowers; nothing is less cruel than Love among the Turks: our Women are kind, and good natured, and never are the cause of any man's death by coyness and disdain; the sole difficulty is in getting a sight of them; gain but that point, and nothing can be more easy than the rest: your Ladies are scrupulous and shy of showing favour to theirs Lovers, and ours make a conscience of seeing theirs Languish: it is not so odious to be fond and coming with you, as 'tis to be cruel and insensible here. We follow in the first place the Law of nature, preferring it to Mohomets', as being Men before we are Muslulmen. We hold ourselves obliged to pay kind regard and affectionate tenderness to Female Beauty, and expect from it a return of complacency. And those who approve not these Maxims, we esteem unworthy to taste the pleasures of Love. I know that in Europe you use this Passion an extraordinary way, making that Martyrdom which should be a delight; but I would fain know, what the design of that Woman can be, who sees a man every day on his knees at her feet, sighing for that which she also desires, and it may be, more passionately. Why then must he be tormented? Why so many sighs, why so many tears expected from him, when the passion of both Sexes is equal, if that of the Female may not pass for the greater? The Count having in this time recollected himself, answered; I believe, Sir, that in Love as in other matters every one may have his particular fancy, and different Maxims for conduct: but if I, who was never in Love, may be allowed to deliver my opinion of it, I conceive that Men born under a Law, are insensibly disposed to bear it with ease. And I dare confidently affirm, there is more sweetness, and charming delight in the torments we endure in our way of Loving, than in those easy pleasures that cost you nothing: think not, Sir, those torments so cruel as our Lovers represent them; they aggravate them only to affect their Mistresses the more, and to make them more sensible. It would certainty surprise you to hear them cry, Increase, O love, Increase so sweet a pain: their sufferings are pleasures. The Bassa was so charmed with hearing him speak, that he would not interrupt him, so that he proceeded, What satisfaction can you find in a Love that is fulsome and dull, without any pique to make it poignant, and season it for relish? What divertisement to be expected from an innocent Cupid, a Child without wit, without waggery, that permits you to do in all things as you please? The Bassa could not forbear laughing, and told him, that to make him believe that Love the most charming, that made him suffer most, he must make it appear by trial in himself by being in Love, enduring with pleasure all the torments he spoke of: Sir, said Alexander, I was never in love in my Country, where you know we have freedom of living, and Liberty of converse with the Female Sex; it is not probable than I shall fall in love here, where we are not allowed so much as a sight of them: means may be found, replied the Bassa, to satisfy you in that particular, if you desire it. I do not conceive it for my advantage, said the Count, to thrust myself into the fire to try the experiment, or to change my Religion. No, no, said the Bassa, it is with a Christian I would have you acquainted, and one in my judgement very beautiful, and not unworthy your sighs: had I been of your mind, and like the Lovers of your Country, taken pleasure in being vexed and tormented, my business might have been done. She made me pine for her above three Months, till weary of a Mistress that had so little sense of my pain, I betook myself to others that were more of my humour; her beauty and wit will certainly charm you, and you may find her as haughty, as fierce, as cruel as you can wish: it may be difficult to have a sight of her, as being with the Sultaness, who, since she knew the inclinations I had for her, would never permit her to step out of her Apartment: but I'll bring you thither disguised as an Eunuch; there is no other way of entrance for you into the Seraglio: and you are so young, that by Night you may pass for an Eunuch without any suspicion. The Count gave him a thousand thanks for the favour, not but that he could have been very well content to have been without it, having no great desire to engage himself in Acquaintance in a Country where he would tarry as short time as he could; yet in complaisance to the Bassa, and of Curiosity to see a Slave the Bassa represented so beautiful, he accepted this offer with some kind of joy. The fourth Prayer being over, he came to his Patron, being the time he usually went to the Seraglio: And having taken the Habit of an Eunuch provided for him there, he waited on the Bassa to the Apartment of the Sultaness: Laura, who had notice of their coming, waited their entrance; the Bassa came smiling up to her, and whispered her in the Ear, that he had brought her an Eunuch, who could tell her News out of Italy; prayed her to have a care of him, and to use him as a Person he loved entirely. Laura fell a laughing, and answered, she doubted not but the Eunuch should give him a good account of his Reception. The Count, though Disguised, was so easy to be known, that, had the Bassa said nothing, his good Mien had discovered him: No Eunuch, no Turk had so good an air. She gave him her hand to lead her into a Chamber, where they should not be exposed to their view who passed by. Sir, said she, I know not what thanks to give the Bassa for the favour he hath done me, to afford me a sight of you, no man being allowed entrance here but himself, and the Eunuch whose Habit he hath caused you to take. I cannot impute it to any thing but the extraordinary affection he hath and daily declares for you. 'Tis true, Madam, answered the Count, the kindness of the Bassa to me is extreme; but if either of us have reason to be concerned how to thank him, (as he very well deserves) 'tis certainly I, for the favour he hath procured me; yet I could wish I were not wholly beholding to him for it, but that (as he would have me believe) you had a hand in it. Sir, replied Laura, I shall tell you no lie, I have made it sufficiently known to you, I desired this favour from him. He told us things so glorious of you, and related them so much to your advantage, you may easily believe, I (who, for three years I have been here, have not had the Liberty of Converse with any Man) could not but desire acquaintance of a Person so generally esteemed. Madam, said he, this Country hath been favourable in allowing me a Reputation, which perhaps I may find difficult to maintain in your Opinion. You need not fear that, replied Laura, your Mien confirms sufficiently the reports that have passed of you. But to change the Discourse, do you know, said she smiling, that sometimes 'tis dangerous in a Nation like this, to make yourself so much the subject of Discourse; if not on the men's account, yet certainly on the women's, who fall in Love merely on report, without a sight or knowledge of the Party: The Count answered smiling, Madam, there is no danger of your being of the number of those kindhearted Ladies, I am not so Fortunate. And why, said she, might not I be one, who have so longed for a sight of you: but to lose no more time, I must tell you, your Fortune is better than you think; and I do that for another, which perhaps I would not have done for myself. The desire of seeing a Man is here reputed a mighty advancement of Love, where to see and to agree are all one. But I have undertaken this affair, and made the Bassa believe I have very favourable thoughts of you. And to satisfy your Curiosity of knowing the Party for whom I have so much complaisance in store, it is for the Bassa 's Lady, Madam Alhie the Sultaness: The confidence she is pleased to repose in me is so great, that she hath entrusted me with this Secret, and my kindness for her should not admit one moment's scruple doing her this Service. I cannot doubt but you have heard of her Beauty; never was any so famous in this Kingdom, nor perhaps in the World, more worthy admiration: And as for her temper, 'tis the sweetest and most lovely that can be imagined. The first view you have of her, will persuade you she hath an Inclination to Love, so tender, so languishing is the air of her Countenance. And though this be natural to the Women of this Country, and that the first thing they are taught, is to sigh, and appear languishing, yet I have not observed those weaknesses in her but on your account. To deduce things from the Original, I must inform you, that when the Bassa returned from Constantinople, having dispatched the Affair depending there between him, and the King, and Divan of this place, and being confirmed by the Grand Signior in the Offices his Father had left him, which they had disputed; the King, in order to Reconciliation, was advised to give the Bassa his Daughter in Marriage. Alhie was then Sixteen Years old, and her beauty at the height; though at this day in my judgement, no man that sees her, but must be in Love with her. These Marriages of Policy and State interest, to which the Daughters of great ones are subject to be Sacrificed, seldom prove Happy. The Bassa Espoused Alhie, and perhaps loved her a Week, but after that returned to his former Engagements, and for ordinary Beauties quitted the greatest of the Kingdom. 'Tis true, it often happens thus in this Country, where Men abhor loving by Duty and Obligation, and commonly love Mistresses better than Wives: But this Lady, in my Opinion, aught to have been excepted, as wanting nothing requisite to satisfy the Passion of any reasonable Man; but she is as unfortunate as others. The Bassa, though otherwise a Person of much Gallantry, visits her scarce once in a Month; yet he pays her all the respect in the World, and she hath no cause of complaint but of his Love; but take Love from Marriage, what signifies the rest? What a trouble is it to a Young Lady, who knows her own merit, to see herself slighted in that whereof she is most sensible? A Lady who would think herself happy in being beloved, and thinks she deserves it: You must be a Woman before you can comprehend the rigour of this usage, and the greatness of her misfortune. But to come to what concerns you; the Sultaness hath ever had a great inclination for Christians; and the greatest Pleasure she takes, is, in stories she makes me tell of my Country, which surprise her so (especially when I speak of the Freedom Men have there with Women) that she hath a thousand times wished her Fortune had been as mine, and that she had fallen into the hands of a Christian, who would have carried her into that Country 'Tis certain, a Woman had better be a Slave with us, than free among the Turks, where their Life is nothing but a perpetual Slavery. The Adventures of Love and Gallantry have pleased her so well in the relation, that she longs for a sight of one of those I called Persons of Quality and Merit, who were so Gallant and Handsome, as I represented. You were no sooner arrived, but she came with great joy to tell me, the Bassa had newly bought a Christian of whom they spoke Wonders. I fell a laughing, and asked if it were not such a one she had often wished for her Slave. She blushed, and turning about with a sigh, answered, who knows what may happen, and whether Fortune hath not designed him for me. She made me her Bedfellow that Night, to entertain her on that subject. On the morrow the Bassa having confirmed the reports of you, and commended your Person, she and I for several days had no discourse but of you. The kindness she hath for me, makes me somewhat familiar with her; nor do we very strictly observe here our distance towards great ones; this made me sometimes take the Liberty to quarrel with her for the longing she expressed for a Man she had not seen. I confess, said she, this were falling in Love a little too soon, if we managed our Love as the Christians do theirs. But the Bassa having made such a description of this Man, there is not a Woman in the Kingdom who would not have had a greater Passion for him than I have expressed. And you may believe he would not have spoken so much in his praise before the meanest of his Empresses; but though he slight me so, that he cares not what I think, my Affections are free. You would esteem yourself happy, Madam, said I, to have such a Christian in Love with you. More happy, replied she, than you can imagine. And I will assure you, I could willingly change the state I am in, for the condition of a private Christian Lady: What good does it me, to abound thus with Riches, to receive so much Honour, to be the Daughter of a King, and the Wife of a Bassa, if I cannot be content, nor do as I would, nor love where love is due? In a word, I am nothing less than I am taken to be, but a Slave more unhappy than those under Chains. Poor Laura (said she, embracing me tenderly) how I pity thee, who hast tasted the Pleasures and Liberty of thy Country, and hast unhappily fallen into their hands who use so unworthily all sorts of Women. With such discourses as these did we entertain ourselves ever since they spoke of you at Tunis. The Bassa came oftener to visit the Sultaness, though we knew not the reason; and almost every day brought us the News of you: And, as he loves you entirely, took pleasure in relating every thing you did. Perhaps, had he known the favourable inclinations the Sultaness had for you, he had been more sparing in his expressions of you, for I cannot believe he designed to prejudice himself in speaking obligingly of you. But it was an oversight, and most unpardonable in him who so well knew the temper of Women of this Country: Judge you whether so good a report from so good a hand could want its effect. The Sultaness was affected with them so much to the purpose, that what at first was a bare inclination, grew up by degrees to a settled Passion. Her humour was suddenly changed from Merry and Jocund, into Sadness and Melancholy; and I, who alone knew her Distemper, could not but pity her sighs and complaints, and was extremely afraid she might fall into a Disease, which they call Fantasy, and is a kind of Melancholy that proves Mortal to many Men and Women of this Country. I did my endeavour to cure her of this Passion, by representing to her all the obstacles in her way to the happiness she desired. But my Remedies came too late, I did but trouble her to no purpose, having said to herself all that I could possibly say to divert her from the affection she had taken: So that despairing of Remedy on that side, I applied my thoughts another way, and flattered her hopes of bringing that to pass, which I could not discover the least possibility to effect. But to prevent the growth and increase of her Distemper, it was necessary to deceive her by flatteries and hopes. At last, I know not how it fell out, that the Bassa having spoken of you to me two days ago, as he frequently does when he finds me alone, I told him, I should be very glad to see you, if it might be done without noise and scandal: I was extremely astonished how easily he promised it: And you may believe I had not waited here for you, but that I very well knew him a Man of his word. The Count having harkened to all this discourse with marvellous attention, and thanked Laura for all her good Offices, and answered all her obliging expressions in behalf of the Sultaness, discovered to her the Bassa's design, and the reason of his being brought thither; Laura was ravished to hear his discourse, and though she foresaw her concern in the Affair was like to be small, yet she was pleased with the News she received, being willing to sacrifice all Interests of her own, to the satisfaction of her Lady. But, Sir, to tell you all, said she to the Count, having paid my thanks to the Bassa for the favour I was in hopes of from him, I went presently to bring the News to the Sultaness, who could not sufficiently embrace me, being so extremely transported, that nothing in the World could have made her more joyful; she hath scarcely been able to sleep ever since: She and I have laid a hundred designs, and framed to ourselves a thousand devices how she may have a sight of you: but if the Bassa will not permit you to come alone hither, I do not see how it may be effected: The Sultaness in the mean time will be ravished with joy that I have seen you, and that you know some part of her mind. The happy Roman being charmed at the kindness a Lady of that beauty and quality had for him, was very urgent with Laura to oblige him on this occasion, and pressed her to say to the Sultaness from him, all that a heart extremely sensible of the favour she did him, was capable to express. That he would have esteemed himself the happiest of men, had it been in his power to have merited this honour, and that it should be the business of his Life, to deserve it by his Actions. Sir, replied Laura, all she desires of you, is that you will so manage the Liberty the Bassa doth afford you, that she may once have a sight of you: I find myself engaged to it by so many reasons, said the Count, that you may be assured I will not forget any thing that may gain this honour: I must entreat you to assure the Sultaness accordingly, and that I have at least as much passion as she. He had no sooner said this, but the Bassa came to them, which made them change their discourse, and the Bassa having condescended to make himself one of the company, and very pleasantly rallied; then said, he perceived by their Countenances they were obliged to him for the Acquaintance he had procured between them, and that they were very well pleased the one with the other: The Count and Laura having returned the Compliment, the Bassa took his leave, and he and the Count went out of the Seraglio. The Bassa had observed such joy in Alexander's Countenance when he was with Laura, it made him believe he was very well pleased with the visit he had given her. But he had the curiosity to ask him how he liked her; and whether she appeared so beautiful as he had represented her: The Count answered, it was certainly impossible to see a Lady more handsome, or more witty: And that he was charmed at her Beauty and Conversation. The Bassa, who desired nothing more than to see him in Love was extremely glad at the confession he made; and told him it should be his fault, if he saw her not again, and, if he desired, he might do it on the morrow, that he would give him a Key to enter the Seraglio, and that he might go alone; lest if he brought him in, the Sultaness might be jealous: it being not his custom to visit her so often, the Count failed not to acquaint him how highly that favour would oblige him; so that the Bassa bid him go to bed, and take his rest, and told him he should see Laura on the morrow about the time he had seen her that day. Never was a night so restless to any man, as this to the Count, her inclination, like that he had to marriage, with the principal and most beautiful Lady of the Kingdom, was a thing so rare, and so tempting for a man of his temper; what Laura had said of those obliging thoughts that charming Person had for him, did so ravish him with Pleasure, that in the depth of misfortune he could not imagine any man more fortunate than himself: But when he considered, that she was the Wife of the Bassa, a Person to whom he was so strictly obliged, he was troubled extremely, and sighed for sorrow; these second thoughts prevailing at that time over the other, he highly reproached himself for entertaining a thought of so base an ingratitude. But it is a ticklish business to repent of a thing that extremely delights us, and men seldom charge themselves home for a fault so pleasing and lovely, as the pleasure of being beloved: Those reproaches of the Count against himself, were not altogether the most violent that might be, and sometimes he would be angry with himself for making so much ado. At last, being assaulted by turns, on the one side by Reason, on the other by Passion, by the Glory of that, and the tenderness of this, he got up in the Morning, without having been able to take any other resolution than to yield himself up to be guided by his Destiny, to be governed by Fate, and be merely passive in the management of the business; that is to say, to love, in this particular, like a Turk, and to see the Sultaness, if it were so predestinated: But to do nothing in order to it, though he had promised Laura to contribute on his part all that lay in his power, and had told the Bassa, he should be extremely glad to go again to the Seraglio. His resolution sometimes was very tottering and weak, and to speak truth, 'tis almost vain to take one against love: He wished a thousand times that day, that his Fate to whose conduct he had given himself up, would incline to bring him to the Sultaness. He waited the Hour with a great deal of impatience, however he would fain have persuaded himself to the contrary: But a young heart cannot be insensible, being so apt to take fire, that it scarce requires any help to inflame it. As soon as the Bassa saw the Count in the Evening, he showed him (smiling) the Key of the Seraglio: And he received it with the greatest joy in the World. But I give it, said the Bassa, on condition that you make me your Confident. And I think I have done enough to engage you to do me that pleasure. The hour was come for his going to the Sultaness, and the Count having put on his Eunuch's Habit, his Patron every day more obliging than other, would needs bear him company as far as the Seraglio; Laura having notice of his coming, had waited for him above an hour at the Gate, and no sooner saw him arrived, but ravished with joy, she gave him her hand, and told him, You are either the most dexterous, or else the most fortunate Person in the World: you bring about things so difficult and in so short a time, that all things seem to join in your favour: I am obliged for it to my fortune, answered the Count; for, as for Addresses I had no occasion to use any, but if you would make me believe myself as happy as you say, help me to a sight of the Sultaness. Laura told him, he should presently hear of her, and brought him into a Chamber, where her Lady was used to receive visits. It was her custom to seat herself in a kind of Alcove, the passage to which was through her Chamber, made up with great Ballistres guilt, and covered with a Curtain of very thin Silk, through which she could see those whom she honoured only with a sight of her; which is a piece of State used in that Country. Laura told the Count, that the Sultaness would see him from behind that Curtain. And shall not I then, said he, have the honour to see her. I know not, said Laura, but 'tis a favour so great, that 'tis never granted but when they are willing to grant all that may be expected: Ah Madam, said the Count, I beseech you to desire that favour for me; tell her it will be of small consequence to give a stranger a sight of her, and that I shall die with grief if she deny me that honour. Laura promised him all the assistance in her power, and leaving him for a moment, went to advertise the Sultaness, who questionless longed for news of the arrival of her dearly beloved Christian. In the mean time the Count considered the Riches and Ornaments of the Chamber, being the most magnificent of the Apartment, it was set out with four Crystal Glasses which had a pleasant effect on the Gold and the Jewels which glittered all about: Scarce had the Sultaness seen Laura, but she knew by her countenance the happy news she brought; and without allowing her time to say any thing, she passed to the Alcove, from whence she designed to take a view of the Christian, before he should know that she was there. But she made too great a noise at her entrance, and the Cavalier let her know, he had perceived her, by saluting her as he did, after the Turkish mode: Laura arrived the same time from the other side, and going to the Ballistre, went to whisper the Sultaness, who was not able sufficiently to express the pleasure she took in seeing this Christian, and the Charms that appeared in his Person. As for him, he was strangely perplexed at a visit of this nature, where he could neither see, nor speak to the Party he visited. He went, he came, he turned about as desired, and at the end of the Show, went silently to the Ballistre, and addressing himself to the Sultaness, having seen a shadow of her through the Curtain, he told her a thousand pretty Stories, a thousand Gallantries to oblige her to afford him a view, for she understood Italian, and spoke it pretty well, having learned it of Laura. She was very well pleas d to hear the Count speak, and hearty laughed at it, but answered not a word, nor had the Curtain drawn. The Count was impatient, and accounting every moment lost he spent in that manner, seemed to fret and be angry, and in a frank and free way told her, he should die of the Fantasy, as the People of that Country, if she denied him this favour, and that at last he would with his own hand draw that troublesome Curtain: and he had certainly done it, if Laura, who feared the Sultaness might take it ill, had not hindered him. But Laura was mistaken, and her Lady gave her not thanks for her pains. 'Tis a Maxim among the Women of that Country, not to sin of themselves against the Rules of their duty; but press them a little, and offer them the least violence, they will presently yield without any resistance: their excuse is, that nature is weak, that men know it well enough, and are very much to blame to press them so home: that if there be harm done, it must be laid to their score, who cause them to do it, and not to them who are ignorant of it, and innocent in the business. Laura not well versed in the use of this Maxim, committed a fault, when she thought she had been discharging her duty. The amorous Sultaness would have been ravished with joy to have been seen by the Christian, and the officious Slave spoiled all by a piece of useless discretion. But her Lady was willing to receive the miscarriage, and satisfy in some measure the extreme desire her dear Christian had to see her; she gave him leave to ask what he pleased, to make him amends for the rigour of the custom of that Country, which made it undecent for her Sex to show themselves to any but their Husband. The Count presently desired she would at least do him the honour of showing him one of her fair hands: The Sultaness no sooner heard him, but lifting up the Curtain a little, she gave him her hand over the Ballistre. The young Count was so charmed with this favour, that transported with joy, he laid his knee to the ground, and kissed her hand with such passion; that the Sultaness, equally transported, wrung his hand, pressing it so hard, to let him know she approved of what he did. She was not over careful to keep herself unseen; and having put forth her arm, she could not choose, but sometimes appear to him in part by one chance or other (to which perhaps she contributed a little.) Her Gallant could have wished he had had a full sight of her, but thinking he had enough for the first time, he would not adventure to desire any more. The pleasure the Sultaness took in the sight of him, was so great, and so charming, that she could have willingly past that night with him. But knowing that many eyes were upon her, and that she lived where men are extremely given to jealousy, and especially of their Wives, she had apprehensions of being Lampooned in her own Apartment for staying so long in the Alcove, at a time so unseasonable for receiving a visit. And Laura had told her, 'twas time to withdraw. But how cruel a thing 'tis to be forced to part from that which we love? it cannot be done without pain and regret. Still she found some little pretence or other to stay him a little longer; at last she presented him with a Gold Chain beset with Jewels, and told him obligingly it was not fit a Slave like him should wear any other. The happy Count better satisfied with this Chain, than if she had given him the Grown of Tunis, answered her Gallantry, and the favour she did him, with the most passionate and the most grateful expressions imaginable. And seeing the necessity of parting, he took his leave of the Sultaness, and withdrew with Laura, who accompanied him to the Gate of the Apartment. Presents among the Turks, are the first Evidences of affections, and often pass for declarations of love. Laura, who knew it well enough, made the Count sensible, before parting, what that meant which he had received from the Sultaness; and that he was not to doubt, having heard and seen so much of her, but she passionately loved him. Yet he was to take heed, and believe he had need of abundance of discretion, to deal with the Women of that Country, whose passion of love is sometimes so violent, that they observe no bounds; that the Sultaness was indeed the most rational she had known amongst them, and had the most wit, yet tender and passionate as the rest. That she and he would be immutably ruined, if the Bassa, who had no small experience in Amours, should once have the least suspicion of the Intrigue. That there was not in the Kingdom a man more tender of his honour than he; and that all the kindness he had for him, would not save him from his indignation, if he once came to know he had seen his Wife. As much taken as our young Roman was with the pleasant beginnings of his Amours, and for all his rejoicings at those evident kindnesses he had received from the greatest Beauty under Heaven, yet he could not forbear reflecting on Laura's good counsels, but went musing along the Seragilo, what course he should take, what means he should use against so dangerous a Passion, which would certainly bring him to ruin and confusion. When the Bassa, going to one of his Mistresses, met him by the way, and seeing him pass by, without so much as saluting him, he presently fell a laughing, and taking him by the arm, Now, said he, I see that you are in love. The Count being confounded at his surprising him in that case, made excuses for his fault. The Bassa made answer, that if he desired to be pardoned, he must freely confess the truth, and acknowledge himself extremely disordered at the Merits and Beauty of Laura: More Sir (said the Count, with a very deep sigh) than you can possibly express or imagine. But it being late, and the Bassa not willing to stay, he deferred the more particular inquiry to another opportunity, and dismissed him to his Lodging. This was a great happiness, and no less pleasure to the young Lover, who was not then in a condition to give the Bassa an account of his Amours. Part of that night he passed walking in his Chamber, as if he had intended to come to a Resolution before he went to bed. It was not the fear of death, or misfortune that troubled him, but the horror of ingratitude; and having received so much kindness from the Bassa, thought it inexcusable in him to have any unjust designs on his Wife: But, then says he, should I not be the most ungrateful of men, should I slight the affection of so charming a Person, to whom, if I consider her obligations according to their value, I own more than to the Bassa? And is it not possible for me to see, and to love her within bounds, so as to be blameless on the one side and the other? No, no, if there be ingratitude in that, I cannot help it, there is nothing in the World can excuse me to the Sultaness, and love ought to make my excuse with the Bassa. This was the last Combat between gratitude and love in the heart of the Count; the last carried the day, and going to bed thereupon, he rested very well. The Bassa who was extremely desirous to see him so deeply in love, that he should not be able to deny it, was the first that spoke to him, to return again that day to the Sultaness Lodgings: he gave him the Key of the Seraglio, and laughing, told him, he need not make such haste to come back, if he found as much pleasure as he wished him there: but that he must have a care, he did not engross all the love to himself, but he should give Laura some part, unless he were minded to languish as he had done, a long time to no purpose. The amorous Italian went strait to the Seraglio, and Laura, who waited for him, told him at his arrival, he might pass to the same Chamber he had been in, and that she would give her Lady notice of his coming; but she not having the patience of waiting so long, was got already into the Alcove. The Count having an extreme curiosity, and longing for a sight of that place, thought it convenient for the purpose, to make use of that time, when he believed the Sultaness was absent; and coming up to the Ballistre, gently took up the Curtain. But how was he surprised to see on the sudden, that charming Person in a Posture the most capable of any, to make one in love. I shall not trouble you with a description of the Alcove, which being a Room of State for the Wife of so puissant a Lord, you may easily believe, was very noble and rich: It was raised a foot higher than the Chamber; the approach to it being by a space covered with a fair Turkey Carpet, checkquered with little squares of Damask wrought with Gold. The Sultaness lay on a Bed of Damask of like work; and having designed to show herself that day to the Count, she had not forgot to put herself in an equipage and posture capable to charm him at first sight: she had turned her face towards the Ballistre, leaning her head carelessly on her left arm, which you might clearly see in her great Tiffany sleeve after the Turkish mode. Her black hair was partly pleated with great ropes of Pearl, parting down on her Breast, and part on her shoulders, and set off the clearness of her delicate Complexion (vying with the Snow in whiteness) to so much advantage, that it wrought wonderful effects in the beholder. She had about her body, a small Gold Bodice only, her bosom being half open, and the rest covered with a piece of fine Tiffany, like an Amazons Scarf: all was visible from her Neck to her Breast, and so admirable to behold, that it had been impossible for an eye, having seen it, (as the Count did) to escape being enamoured of it: she had on her head, plumes of several colours, and in the midst of them a crescent of Silver. Her Coat was of a light Stuff Embroidered with Gold, after the fashion of the Country, with Diamond Buckles to tuck it up at the knee: her Leg was half naked, and the rest covered with Buskins all laid over with Diamonds and Pearls; in a word, she was all so Rich, so Gallant, so full of Charms, that the poor Count was utterly undone at the sight. His joy and astonishment were visible to her in that confusion of action and words, in which he was so miserably plunged, that he knew not what was become of himself, nor what he would say to her. But falling into an Ecstasy, and wholly swallowed up with admiration, his Eyes and his Sighs were Orators for him. The fair Sultaness as soon as she saw him, would, with a Handkerchief she had in her hand, have covered her face, and hid from him part of the confusion she was in. But the happy Lover, recovering courage by degrees, passing his arm betwixt the Ballistres, hindered her from it. Once you might have had reason Madam, said he, to have kept from my sight those treasures of love, as knowing full well that no man can see them without dying for love of them, but now 'tis too late to conceal them from me. I have seen more than any heart is able to bear, without yielding itself; and it would be extreme cruelty in you, not to complete what is so happily begun. As the Count was speaking to her in this manner, she looked upon him with eyes so tender and piercing, that she seemed willing to execute what he desired. The crafty Count having seized one of her hands, (to which, as he looked upon it, he gave a thousand amorous kisses) by little and little drew it out so far on his side, with so feeble resistance from the Sultaness that she came at last to lean her head on the Ballistre just over against the head of the Count Then it was, he had full liberty to take a view at his leisure of those Beauties that put him to amazement, and ravished him with such joy as he had never before been sensible of. As ill luck would have it, the Ballistres were so close, that not any two of them stood half the head distance one from the other. However the two Lovers meeting half way, made a shift to slip through a great number of Kisses, the most charming and sweet that Lovers e'er tasted. The Count being naturally bold, made one Liberty but a step to another, and seeing what he was permitted to do, and the pleasure she took in it, he pressed his amorous temerity so far, that what he did may pass for half an enjoyment. Till than their entertainment was made up of dumb engagements, a thousand times more eloquent than the finest expressions in the World. Their eyes, their sighs, their actions, their toys had spoken a Language intelligible enough to persuade both they loved one another entirely. They had no need of other conversation; yet, Laura arriving, they changed it a little, but they spoke before her the most tender, and most passionate things you can imagine. The Sultaness who had that confidence in her as to conceal nothing from her, was not troubled at her coming. But the Count, who took not so much pleasure in these discourses, though very obliging, as in those dumb entertainments, made a sign to Laura to take the other turn; at which the Sultaness seeming a little angry, let down the Curtain, and so fastened it behind, that he could not take it up. But this being in Jest, and to provoke his passion the more, her rigour was short-lived, and Peace presently made more firm than ever. The first favours give a privilege for others, and a kind of right not only to hope, but demand them: The Count, to be revenged of his Mistress for the piece of spite she had done him, thrust both his Arms between the Ballistres, and embracing her on the sudden, kissed her with that violence, that he forced Blood out of her lips. The Sultaness was so far from complaining of the rudeness of his Caresses, that being charmed with the pleasure of them, she carefully saved all the Blood on her Handkerchief to preserve it as a Trophy to show Laura, as a most sensible mark of the extreme Passion her dear Alexander had for her. Let me acquaint you by the way with a rarity of those parts; that for a Woman to have been beaten by a Man she loves, is esteemed in that Country a great evidence of affection to the party beaten. I confess such favours are somewhat rude, but 'tis the temper of the Country, and such is their custom: As for the Blood that came from the lips of the Amorous Sultaness, we may believe it proceeded from a transport of Love. With us, one may be bitten, but not beaten through extremity of this Passion; but blows exceed the limits of Gallantry, and that Woman must be an African, that loves to be so courted. 'Tis a fashion will never pass in Europe, and though they use it sometimes, yet never to oblige Women; none of whom that I know of were ever pleased with a bastinade. The rest of this visit having been spent in foolery and toys, though sometimes of much moment in matters of Love, I will not trouble you with the particulars. Laura, who was not far distant from the Lovers, appeared at the least sign of their pleasure to have her attend. The Count and the Sultaness bid each other adieu with the greatest kindness imaginable: And Laura brought him to the Door of the Apartment, so deep in Love, he scarce knew where he was. He went directly from thence to the Bassa, who instantly observed the visible change of the Count's former Sadness and Melancholy into a tender and languishing air; at which the Bassa taking occasion to laugh, said, Well, Alexander, hath Love played his part well? Is it your pain, or your pleasure hath so charmed you to day? I confess, Sir, said he with a sigh, it is the pleasure I have met with; but pleasure, I fear, which may cause me much pain. The Bassa believing, that to be the Confident of the Count's Passion, might be of some use, took him by the hand, and led him to the Garden, to take a turn in the Walks. He fell presently upon the subject of his good Fortune, and prayed him to tell him truly, how his Affairs stood. The Count having his Heart and his Fancy all full of Love, with very great ease gave him such a ravishing description of his tenderest affections, and painted the pleasures he had taken that Evening so much to the life, adding his sighs and exclamations, with gestures and looks so eloquent and passionate, that he awaked in the Soul of the Bassa the affection he had formerly for Laura, and lately laid asleep. What care soever is taken to cure one of this passion, still there remains enough in the Heart of a Lover to set it on fire by the least spark that falls on it. The insensibility and resistance of Laura had not Ice enough in them to quench all the heat of the Bassa's affection. She had only covered it with ashes, to preserve it the better against another time: Had the Count acted like a Politic Lover, he had easily fore-seen, how ticklish and dangerous a business it is, to make such representations before Persons who are amorously inclined; and especially before a Man whom he had reason to consider as a Rival, and in whose Power it was to dispose of him as he pleased. But the truth is, that in speaking thus of Laura, he thought he hazarded nothing of his own; he had really no kindness for her, but hoped to do his own business the better, in making the Bassa believe that he loved her; which is the reason he did not carry himself in this with so much caution, as he would have done in another conjuncture. The Bassa slept not that Night. Laura appeared a thousand times more handsome and charming, in the description of the Count, than ever she had done in his Eye at full sight. He esteemed himself the most unfortunate of Men, not only for that he had quitted the pursuit, but had contributed so much to see her in the Arms of another: Hereupon jealousy presently possessed him, attended with a train of spite, rage, and peevishness to torment him. What greater shame, thought he, could ever happen to a Man as he was, who never found resistance from a Woman, than to have been slighted by a Slave, who was his dependent, and had yielded to another Slave as soon as she had seen him? For after the passionate relation Alexander had made, the Bassa made no doubt but all was concluded; he had fancies of this kind that troubled him extremely: and if he did not then hate the Count, 'tis certain, he retained not for him that kindness he had formerly expressed towards him: And as for Laura, though he was then more in Love with her than ever, he had a pique against her, and could not forbear reproaching her all Night, for her want of discretion, in making greater account of a man's kindness, that could do her no Service, than of his, by whom she might have made her Fortune. These thoughts were followed by others concerning his Person. He accused himself of baseness, and weakness of Heart, to trouble himself with the thoughts of a Creature that so little deserved his esteem, or to intent to hinder the satisfaction of two Lovers, whose Love he himself had caused and promoted. All this notwithstanding, he went on the morrow with the Count to the Seraglio; but for no other end, but to observe the countenance of Laura, who surprised to see him come: This is extraordinary, Sir, said she laughing, twice in one week: What will People say of it? As for you, said the Bassa, you will say no ill of it, I come in so good Company; and should others believe as formerly, that I come for love of you, you know 'tis not for myself, and therefore you are the more obliged to me. Laura very civilly thanked him for his goodness. They fell then all three into a little discourse of Gallantry, wherein the Bassa spoke so many kind things to Laura, that she might understand part of that Amorous trouble he was in, if she had mistrusted it; but he delivered himself with such an air, that his Compliments, and kind Expressions were taken for mere effects of his good humour. But the Bassa's coming thither, being under pretence of seeing the Sultaness, he could not dispense without giving her a Visit; but he was not long with her, being not able to rest till he returned to the two Lovers, which he did with all the speed in his power. He told Laura a thousand things more obliging than formerly; and having highly caressed her, gave her at parting such a look, that if she had made the least reflection upon it, she might have easily perceived the kindness he had formerly for her took fire afresh with more vehemence than ever; but she could not suspect in the least he would trouble her any more, after the kindness he had expressed for his Alexander, and having been the instrument of the pretended Passion between her and the Count She took all for Gallantry, and made it the subject of raillery with the Sultaness, to whom she gave an account of all that had passed with the Bassa, and with Alexander. The fair Turk went that Evening to bed, ill satisfied with her fate, having been disappointed of an Entertainment she had expected, as pleasant as that she had received the day before from her dear Christian; she could not sufficiently lament the unluckiness of the Visit given her by a man who Courted other Women, and seemed to have been born to incommode and give trouble only to her. Laura answered in raillery, She had little reason to complain of it to her, to whose complaisance she was beholding for a sight of her Lover: Ah Laura, said the Sultaness, who knows for what reason he hath been so complaisant: You may very well believe, it was not to oblige me. I believe so, Madam; replied Laura, but you are obliged to him however, and aught to thank him for me. After this little raillery, they fell to discourse, what could have brought the Bassa thither that evening; and could not imagine, but it was in Compliment to the Count The Bassa by this time was fallen into a deep Melancholy, seldom appearing, but when he walked in the Garden, sometimes alone, and sometimes with Alexander, and then not a word of Laura, nor any discourse of going again to the Apartment of the Sultaness: This troubled our Lover, who besides his affliction for being deprived of the sight of a Person he loved better than his Life, and ceasing to see her, must cease also to live; had a thousand tormenting surmises and troublesome fancies upon the Bassa s change of humour, which he could not attribute to any thing but his having taken some umbrage and jealousy of him, on the account of the Sultaness. The Sultaness and her Confident were no less tormented on the other hand; they had seen a first, a second, a third, and a fourth long day pass without a sight of their Alexander: Lovers are very exact Accomptants, and keep reckoning of the very moments, but account nothing more tedious than a day of absence. What should be the meaning of all this, said they one to the other, having a thousand fears upon them, though they knew not of what: 'tis a difficult matter to keep any thing secret in places of that nature Yet they could not imagine they had given any occasion of discourse, or that any Person in the Apartment had made the least discovery of their Intrigue. At last, on the fifth day, after abundance of Affliction, the Bassa came to see them; but, the mischief of it was, that he came alone. Besides he appeared so dull, so musing, and so much out of humour, they made no more doubt but he had smelled out the Intelligence they held with the Count But that which gave them the kill blow, and raised their fears to the height, was, that Laura having, according to her custom, waited the Bassa out of the Chamber, and asked him, what he had done with her dear Eunuch? I am jealous of him (said the Bassa, making no stay) I need tell you no more: Laura made haste to give her Mistress the Alarm, and told her, there was no more doubt to be made, but jealousy was the cause of the Bassa's not bringing Alexander with him, the Bassa himself having told her so that instant; those who are guilty, are easily frighted, and fear hath this property, that it so confounds the imagination, that the lightest suspicions are taken for clear and unquestionable truths. With what sighs, what tears did the poor Sultaness afflict herself; yet not so much for the ill consequences she might apprehend from the jealousy of the Bassa, as for the fear she had, that if he were really jealous of the Christian, she should never have a sight of him more. She did hearty wish she could have written to him, but there are few trusty Messengers to be found in those places, where there is cause to distrust every one you converse with; and every Eye that sees you, is a spy on your actions, at least if not gained by Money or kindness, wherein, after all possible care, you may be deceived: as she was in this trouble, Laura received a Note from the Count, brought her by an Eunuch, and carried it forthwith to show it the Sultaness, being in these words. Madam, the Bassa every day more obliging than other, is pleased to grant me the honour of walking with you this Evening in the Garden of the Seraglio. I know not whether you can dispense with yourself till then. Let us take the hour you think most proper. He will be there with one of his Mistresses. Send me word, if you plaese, if I may expect this favour from you. The Bassa would never have thought of this walk, but out of the extreme desire he had to know certainly, how Laura and Alexander stood affected one to the other; and that he might inform himself of what they should discourse. The Garden was a place very fit for his design, especially by Night, where he could hear without being seen. He had made the proposal to the Count, in confidence he would receive it with a great deal of joy, which in appearance he did, but without hope of any great satisfaction from the Adventure, it being scarce probable the Sultaness would permit Laura to come. But that which really troubled him, was the opinion he had, the Bassa was certainly jealous of his Wife, since he gave him so clear proof of his unwillingness that he should see Laura at her Lodgings any more. The Question than was, how to write to the Slave, to dispose her for the walk. But the Count having written the Billet, the Bassa sent it by an Eunuch, and stayed for the Answer. The Sultaness read the Billet, and was of opinion with her Gallant; that it was for Love of her the Bassa was unwilling he should come any more to see Laura in her Apartment. It was long they came to a resolution in the point, whether Laura should agree to the assignation: Laura very wisely thought it better not to go, but the Sultaness, wholly led by her Passion, and too deeply in Love, to act any thing with reason that concerned her affection, notwithstanding any thing Laura could say, made her write him this Answer. It were to act the part of a very ill Person, to be all alone in the Garden, while others are diverting themselves there: I consent for pity, to come and bear you company, but on condition that you will be wise, and that we be at some distance from the Bassa, because I would not be known by her, that he brings with him. If you can promise me these two things, I am for you after the fourth Prayer, when the Sultaness is a Bed. Adieu. This answer was beyond the expectation of the Count who rejoiced extremely at the pleasure he promised himself with the Slave, from the discourse of the Sultaness, while they should continue in the Garden. Night being come, and the fourth Prayer over, the Bassa told him, he might go, and bring Laura to the Garden, while he went for one of his Mistresses, who was lodged on the other side. It is the Custom of the Grandees of that Country, among a multitude of Women they have in their Seraglio, when they have not a particular inclination for any one, to take this to day, and another to morrow; and having lost the taste of Love, to search for Pleasure in change and variety. It may be easily imagined, that Alexander received this Commission with a great deal of joy, and was in no small haste to go to the Sultanesses Lodgings. She who was charmed at the sight of him, could not express her joy without a thousand transports of Love, and the most tender caresses a most passionate Lady could possibly make her dearest Lover. Alexander did his part to admiration, not only returning transport for transport, and caress for caress, but excelling his pattern, Love working in him, or he in the Sultaness such things as gave her very great satisfaction. It may be admired Peradventure that two Persons so little acquainted, should in so few days become so very good Friends. But we must know, Love in these hot Countries makes far quicker progress than in the cold, where the Winds, and the Snow, and the Rain spoil his Wings, and hinder his flight: Whereas on the contrary, the Sun is there almost still at the height, and Love being a tender Infant, and going always naked, thrives there the better, where he finds hearts very well disposed, and ready to take fire. The Count, who could not stay long there, was willing to bestow the small time he had to spend with the Sultaness in gentle reproaches for her permitting Laura to come and walk with him. You have, said he, a very good opinion of my Affection, Madam, or else you love me with a great deal of indifference, that this does not in the least trouble you at all. The Sultaness answered, she relied not so much on his Fidelity, as on Laura's Discretion, whom she knew too well, to think she would betray her. Look you to yourself, as for her I place a confidence in her, and if you do your Duty, I am persuaded she will not be wanting in hers. Having thus spoken, she would not detain him longer for fear of the Bassa, but retired to her Chamber The happy Lover, very well pleased with the lucky moment he had passed with the Sultaness, asked Laura if she were ready; She made him answer, he should not stay for her longer than while she fetched her Barnus, which is a kind of Hood that covers them from Head to Foot. The Count seeing her return muffled up in that garment, went his way before, according to their custom there, and she followed: He said not a word to her while they were in the Seraglio, for fear of being overheard, and discovered; but being arrived in the Garden, where they had liberty enough, Who will believe, Madam, said he, but we made an Amorous assignation, being come to a place of Rendezvous so fit for the purpose. And the Bassa will not fail to think us the happiest Lovers in the World. Laura made him no answer, but kept on her way, till they came to the Bower that was assigned them at a convenient distance from the Bassa's, as Laura had desired. The Count gave her his hand, and knowing very well every turn ' in those Walks, which he visited almost every day, he made her fit on a place of green Turf made for the purpose. Then, said he, this, Madam, is to try a man's Fidelity with a Witness, to expose him to pass part of the Night in such a place as this with a Lady so beautiful as you. Surely the Sultaness will henceforward rest assured of my Passion. The Count made a pause, expecting her answer, but not receiving a word from her, he proceeded, telling her, I thought we had not been so debarred the pleasures of an Assignation, but we might have enjoyed that of discourse; but for aught I perceive, you mean to follow the fashion of Turkey; and since 'tis a favour in this Country for a Woman to show herself▪ or speak to a man, you will deprive me of the one and the other: But while we are together, I pray let us live after the mode of our Country, which is far better than the Turkish. To do otherwise with we, were altogether too rigorous, and more, I believe, than you have promised the Sultaness, or she expects at your hands. Away, I beseech you, said he, taking her by the Barnus, with this useless Hood, and do me the favour to tell me some News of the Sultaness; or if you please, of the Adventures brought you hither, which from the day I first had the honour to see you, I have had an extreme longing to ask you: This you will not deny me, if you think I may be any way useful to you, as I doubt not but I may, being your Countryman, and so well esteemed by the Bassa, as to be able to do you some Service. All this Discourse so obliging for Laura, she heard, without replying a word, or quitting her Barnus, as he had desired. The Count seeing this, pressed her no further, but with more serious air said, if you desire, Madam, to pass the Evening in this manner, it will be very unfortunate for me; but I must comply. And removing a few paces from her, he went and sat him down in a corner of the Bower, where he continued a while without speaking a word. The fair Lady fetched a sigh, as if she had been displeased at his quitting her. The Count laying hold on that occasion to be even with her, took his turn of tormenting, in not answering her sighs. At last she came to him, took him by the Arm, and embraced him, with many grimaces, as if she would have turned all into ridicule. The Count fell a laughing, and said, Madam, I beseech you be satisfied with the Sacrifice I make to Love, without trying my patience any further; let us, if you please, have a little conversation, but answer me when I speak, for I do not love talking to myself. But all would not do; she laughed under her Hood, and took pleasure in vexing him. The Count at last growing impatient; this is too much, Madam, said he, and since you will needs laugh, I'll show you a trick shall make you speak in spite of your Heart; having said so, he took her in his Arms, and not being able to take off her Hood, he used some Familiarities with her, would have forced speech from a Maid of Laura's Discretion and Modesty: But the Lady was still silent, and so little concerned, that she scarce made any resistance. At which the Count was extremely surprised, and after all the esteem he had for Laura, apprehended there might be a design in the business, and that he was abused: Then it was he did all in his power to get sight of her through a little glimmering of light that came into the Bower. Did the Sultaness know, said he, the liberty you allow me, she would give you no thanks for your silence, or your being of affording me a sight of you, which it seems you do to give me occasion to attempt greater matters, and deny me small favours to grant me the principal The fair Lady not able to defend herself longer, quitted her Barnus and having escaped out of his hands, Ah, little Traitor, said she is this the Fidelity you have promised me? Oh Heavens Madam, said he, is it you? t was the Sultaness herself had taken Laura's place▪ and you may imagine what a pleasant surprise this was to the Count, who could not on the sudden otherwise express it than by his exclamations▪ and running after her (who fled not too ●●st) he overtook her at the Door of the Bo●●r, and embracing her most tenderly, My dear Sultaness, said he the second time, is it you? Yes, answered she (suffering herself to be gently brought back into the Bower) it is I, who repent me already of what I have done for you, who did not deserve it. Did you think me so simple, to expose into the hands of another, that which I hold most dear in the World? Do not I see how ill it is trusting of you? Your Constancy was very tottering; it was at least half overcome. And had Laura, the counterfeit Laura answered your offers, where would you have been? Never was Man more confounded than the Count at all these Reproaches: He made a free Confession, but excused himself by her carriage towards him, alleging it impossible for any Man to have withstood the attaques she had made. At last, he carried the Cause, all was accommodated, and Agreement made, and Love singed the Articles. To come in search of a Gallant (as the Sultaness had done) into a Garden where she knew her Husband was present, was an Adventure somewhat bold: And doubtless, there are many Women who will condemn her conduct as imprudent; but of those who are in Love there, are few, who being in her place, would not take the same course. The Bassa, though accompanied with a very Beautiful Person, passed away time somewhat worse than the Count: Chabania his Mistress had (besides Beauty) an excellent Wit, and a very taking carriage, which made her pass for the most charming Person in the Seraglio. The Bassa had formerly been deeply in Love with her; but Love for convenience is not very durable: Her Patron was not in an humour to Entertain her that Evening, and had not brought her with him into the Garden, but to serve for a pretence to colour other designs; she apprehended as much, as soon as she knew that Laura was in the Garden, which the Bassa unluckily told her, thinking he might satisfy her in that point, by letting her know that Laura was deeply in Love with Alexander, in whose company she was. But Chabania was so far from believing it, that she presently fancied Alexander to be no other than the Bassa's Confident in the Affair, and that he had not brought Laura into the Garden but for his Master: She had been formerly jealous of him, even to distraction, and I know not how it came to pass the Bassa was so overseen, as not to have made choice of some other of his Women, who might have been more for his turn on this occasion: She was at her wits end for the small countenance he gave her; all the while he was with her she had scarcely four words from him, and saw clearly his thoughts were wholly of Laura. This was vexation enough for a Woman in Love, who knows herself handsome, and is high spirited withal. But that which put her into absolute despair, was, that the Bassa not able to obtain any truce from his jealousy, having spent some time in her company, without any caress, or giving her the least evidence of kindness, though she had more than once given him occasion to show it; told her, he had a longing desire to go and hearken, and know how the Christians in the Bower entertained one another: She made him no answer, but letting him go, she the next minute after went another way towards the same Bower to observe the Bassa, and see what he did there. The Nights in that Country are very clear, especially in Summer: The Bassa, notwithstanding all the caution he had used to post himself securely near Alexander's quarter, under the favour of the Hedges, that covered his approach, was perceived by the counterfeit Laura in the Bower. She had discovered him by his shadow, and having made her lover ware of it, he presently went out, and ran to meet the Bassa, to entreat him not to come any further, but permit him to enjoy that moment of pleasure he had been pleased to procure him. The Sultaness not knowing what wind had brought the Bassa to that side of the Garden, and fearing he would come into the Bower, would not be persuaded by any thing that Alexander could say to her, to stay after him in the Bower, but presently went out to hid herself in some corner of the Garden, where she might be in better security. The mean time the jealous Bassa, confounded at the discovery, and having lost the opportunity of executing the design he had so unfortunately laid, suffered himself to be prevailed upon by the entreaties of his Rival, and returned towards his Bower, as Alexander to his; where being arrived, he was sufficiently amazed at missing the Sultaness, but thought she had fled away for fear, which troubled him extremely; but just as he was leaving the Bower to go in search of her, he saw in the furthest and most retired part of it, something that seemed to have the shape of a Woman: Then going up thither, and finding he had not been mistaken, he fancied it only to be a trick of the Sultaness; this pleased him extremely, and passionately embracing her, Madam, said he, are not you very waggish? You would fain have made me run all about the Garden in search of you: She answered not a word▪ but getting out of his arms, she went away briskly, and withdrew into another corner of the Bower: the Count was surprised at this manner of proceeding, being not so gentle as he expected from the Sultaness, who loved him so tenderly; but to undeceive himself as soon as he could, and to find out the cause of so sudden a change, he went up to her the second time, and taking her by the hand; What may be the reason, Madam, said he, that you run away, and hid yourself from me? there is no fear of the Bassa; he is withdrawn to his quater, and bath promised not to give us any further disturbance. But all this could not make her answer a word; so that not knowing what to think of this rigour, he kneeled on the ground where she was sitting on a seat of green Turf, and kissing her hand, prayed her for love's sake, to tell him the reason why she seemed angry with him; he courted and embraced her with great passion and tenderness, and she as patiently took it, but at last perceiving her laugh a laughter very different from that of the Sultaness, he examined her more nearly, and knew by the difference of her shape, and her , that he was mistaken. It was inconceivable, what a trouble this put him in. He thought himself arrived in Fairy-land, to see the strangest sights in the World. That Laura had been changed into the Sultaness, was not so surprising as pleasant, but that the Sultaness should be turned into another Woman, and perhaps a Mistress of the Bassa's, this was the thing he could not comprehend: that which troubled him most, and extremely disquieted him, was the pain he was in, for not knowing what was become of the Sultaness; and the fear he had, the Bassa might have met her in the Garden, and known her: this moved him again to go out in search of her, but Chabanea (for it was she he had mistaken for the Sultaness) held him fast by the sleeve, and stayed him, telling him in the Moors Language, it was not fit for him to quit in that manner a Lady for whom he had already expressed some affection. The Count understood not her language, prayed her to let him go for fear the Bassa should come, and be offended at his being with her. But all to no purpose, she no more understood his Italian, than he her Moresque, and was so far from letting him go, that she would have made him sit by her, that she might revenge herself on the Bassa for the slight he had put upon her. During this little contest, which could not but be some what extraordinary between two Persons who understood not one another, the Sultaness comes in quiet out of breath, and throws herself half dead into the arms of Alexander, who happened to be in a place ready to receive her. What frightful fancies had he then in his head? He presenly imagined they were utterly undone, and that she had been discovered. But the Bassa arriving presently after, set him right again, in saying, you run away Madam, speaking to the counterfeit Laura, from a Person who wishes you no ill, nor intends you any; then turning towards Alexander, he was about to excuse himself to him for breaking his word, but seeing Chabania stand by him, he suddenly altered both his mind and his Language, ask her in Moresque what she was come thither for. She answered him aloud, and gave him a thousand reproaches for his unworthiness and weakness in quitting her, to follow a Slave that run away from him. This was a very rare Scene, and the Dialogue not a little pleasing to the Sultaness; but she had not long to laugh at it, for Chabania being vexed to the heart for the slight the Bassa had put upon her, and for what he had said to her before her pretended rival, flew like a Fury upon the Sultaness, with that promptitude and swiftness, that neither the Bassa, nor Alexander▪ who would have stayed her, were able to save the counterfeit Laura from being somewhat ill handled The Count was touched to the quick at this outrage, and no consideration of life or of duty, could have prevented him from having satisfaction, had not his fear of losing the Sultaness prevailed more upon him than his resentment. The Bassa was as angry as he, and taking the enraged Chabania by the hand, he drew her somewhat rudely out of the Bower, and led her away. The Count was no sooner alone with the Sultaness, but embracing her tenderly, Madam, said he, with a passionate tone, what dangers have you gone through for love of me! what a cruel assault have you but now endured? The Sultaness did nothing but laugh at the last adventure she had been in, and told him she took more pleasure to see Chabania's despair, (for whom she had ever a natural aversion) than she had suffered of harm by her outrage and violence. But she confessed the same time, that she was in extreme perplexity when she met with the Bassa ranging over the Garden in search of that Woman, and that it was the highest piece of good fortune imaginable, that she had her Barnus with her, to hid herself in. She added that her dear Husband had said to her a thousand gallant things, and had done also some things a little extraordinary; but that it was her good fortune to be not far from the Bower, and to make her escape: She told him further, that there remained no more doubt of the Bassa's being newly fallen in love with Laura, and that she was very well assured of it by the kindness of his expressions, and the transports she observed him in at this rencontre; that this was the true cause of all their alarms, and the reason why he brought him not into the Seraglio as formerly: The Count was of the same judgement, and both held it necessary to make good use of the occasion, and that Laura who was to act the principal part, should employ her best address and complaisance in their favour. The Bassa taking small pleasure in the Garden after the unhappy success of his amorous designs, having done his endeavour to pacify Chabania, would bring her back to her Lodgings, and passed by Alexander's Bower, to let him understand it was time to withdraw. The Count followed him immediately, being extremely joyful to have come off so happily from a walk that had proved so full of adventures: He bore his dear Sultaness company into her Apartment, where he stayed not long for fear of the Bassa, but withdrew to his lodging. He passed the rest of the night very pleasantly, though he slept not at all; and the truth is, he had reason enough to be well pleased, though his Patron had not, who was more labouring under mortal afflictions: Laura, whom he now was more deeply in Love with than ever, put him in despair by her Rigours and Cruelties: if no more pity from her, than no more pleasure to be expected in his life. His great affection for Alexander could not keep him from being his rival, and wishing to share with him in the favours she did him. His passion was arrived at a point which is the highest of sufferings, that of not being loved: and when he thought of the opportunity he had let slip the night before, when he had Laura in his power, he was so cruelly vexed, he could have found in his heart to be revenged of himself: yet he had no great cause to blame his discretion, for he had done enough, and unless he would have driven hi● Gallantry to the last push of all, he could not ha●● done more. He was not willing to declare himself to Alexander, nor acquaint him with the thoughts he had newly entertained, as well to prevent the displeasure he believed it would give him, as for that he conceived the Count might be of use to him in the design, and that the discovery might be to his prejudice. In the Morning as soon as he was up, he went (as he sometimes was used) to the Count's Chamber without any attendant, and found him in bed: A Man said he, must be as happy as Alexander in his Love, before he can sleep as quietly as he. If there be any answered the Count, hath cause to commend his good fortune on that account, it must without doubt be a Person of your comeliness and Gallantry, who to gain love, need no more than say you are in love. Yes, replied the Bassa, with a smile, except it be to Laura, who hath made me very sensible that I can sigh to no purpose, and that the master of her person may not be the master of her heart; It was necessary that Alexander should come from Europe to afric to make that Conquest: This, Sir, replied the Count, may be an instance of the Vagaries and Extravagancies of Love, who often knows not where to fix, but follows the effects of destiny, or the Stars which are predominant over the affections. And I believe Sir, added he smiling, as for the Love of Laura, you are already very well satisfied, and so little concerned where she bestows it, that you never designed to make me in Love with her, that you might be my Rival. However, said he, observing the Bassa sigh, I assure you, should it so happen, you cannot do me a greater favour than in letting me know it. And you shall find that all the passion I can have for her, shall not hinder any performance of the duty I own you. I will quit all my pretensions as I know you have the least design upon her, that I may prevent all dispute with a Person to whom I am so deeply obliged, that there can be nothing so dear to me, but I will part with it for your sake. Believe it Alexander, answered the Bassa, it is not so easy a matter to be disengaged from a passion like yours: you may as well persuade me, you cannot be in Love. I am certainly in Love, replied the Count, and it may be as deeply as possible; but having so many favours daily heaped on me from you, there is nothing in the World I shall Love more than your repose and satisfaction: And, Sir, if Laura appear now as amiable as formerly to you, I must tell you again, I love her no longer; so easy a matter was it for the subtle Italian to be generous in parting with that in which he was so little concerned. The Bassa asked him if he would say as much before Laura. He answered, he believed him too just and too gallant to desire him to make a declaration of that nature before one who had been his Mistress. At last the Bassa proposed another walk in the Garden that very day, and at the same time prayed him to write about it to Laura; which the Count having not been able to avoid, received his answer. The child dreads the fire; we do not commonly expose ourselves twice to the same danger. The Bassa 's usage of me last night, gives me small encouragement to trust him the second time. And you are an eye witness how ill I was handled by her he had with him. Let it satisfy you, that if you come hither, I will have the honour to see you. But no more walking. The Bassa much troubled at so unexpected an answer, went out of the Count's Chamber without saying a word, and passed in solitude the rest of the day. But in the Evening he went to the Sultaness, where he presently met Laura; who enquiring of Alexander, and why he had not brought him with him; would it displease you, said the Bassa, if I supplied his place this Evening: that were too great an honour for me, replied Laura smiling but the Sultaness expects you, and is not very well. The Bassa gave her his hand, and would have led her into a private Chamber; Laura perceiving it, and that he was in good earnest, prayed him to let her go; that her Lady was not well, and he knew well enough she could not endure her being a moment out of her sight: I, I, replied the Bassa, the Sultaness is sick, and cannot be a moment without you; but 'tis because ' 'tis! desire to pass that moment with you; had it been Alexander you could have stayed a little longer. The Bassa said this with so pleasant a tone, she could not forbear laughing. You know Sir, replied she, 'tis another case when you are with the Sultaness. Besides Sir, added she smiling, one would venture a little for a Sweetheart: Well, well, said he, pressing her to go along with him, 'tis love hath brought me hither: I, Sir, answered she, striving to get away from him, and 'tis Love obliges me to avoid the occasion of being found alone in your company; for though I know you a most accomplished Person, you will allow me to tell you, you have not too much respect for our Sex, and 'tis very hard trusting you, witness your assaults last night in the Garden. The Bassa made her a thousand Oaths he would keep within the bounds of that respect and discretion she might expect from the severest virtue, and protested he desired only one quarter of an hours discourse. Laura, who knew the violence and obstinacy of his humour, when denied any thing he held reasonable to be granted him, disposed herself to entertain him that quarter of an hour. He reproached her a thousand times for her hardness and cruelty against him, and gave her withal the kindest words and the most tender and passionate expressions imaginable. Laura, to defend herself, pleaded her Honour, her Religion, and her Duty to the Sultaness her Mistress; three things she would not betray for the World: Had you but a little Love for me▪ said the Bassa with a sigh, you would not find so many reasons for defence. I have my Religion as you have yours, and the Precepts of it perhaps as severe as yours; but Love is stronger than all the Precepts, the Laws, the Religions of the World, and those who serve him, worship no other God. As for the Sultaness, how are you concerned, that is my business, not yours; and it shall be your fault, if ever she know it. But what do you tell me of Honour? Surely 'tis more for your Honour to love a Man as I am, than to love such a one as Alexander. You mistake yourself, Sir, answered Laura, if you think that in the visits he hath made me, there hath any thing passed contrary to my duty. 'Tis not with those of our Nation, as with the People of this Country: We may be together, and no body by, yet my Honour secure. I swear to you, Sir, Alexander never received that favour from me, which I could not afford the Person for whom I am the least concerned in the World. The Bassa interrupted her; what, not in the Garden? Neither in the Garden, nor any where else, replied she, had he ever any other advantage than a sight of me, which with us is accounted for nothing. Can you make me believe, answered the Bassa, what you say? Laura told him there was nothing more true, and he might rest assured of it: But Sir, said she, for your better satisfaction, bring him no more hither, and you shall see whether I make my complaint for it: 'Twere pity, replied the Bassa, to destroy so fair a friendship; and I do protest to you, that were it in my power, I would give you no trouble, but I am not so much Master of myself, to gain this point on my heart, to be unconcerned in your Love: But since you love Alexander with so much indifference, that you can so easily resolve not to see him more, I have no cause to afflict myself, but rather to hope you may one day love me perhaps as much as you do him. After these words the Bassa retired, with a heart a little better at ease than when he came in, but as deeply in Love as before. He gave not an entire and firm credit to what Laura had told him of her indifference and small concernment for Alexander, but did believe her passion for the Christian not so great as he had imagined, or that their Love had been cooled by some quarrel, for he had observed on the one side and the other, more indifference than is usually consistent with that passion. But then reflecting suddenly on himself, may not this be (said he, resuming his jealousy and diffidence,) an effect of their policy? may they not be agreed to deceive me? and being already sufficiently assured of one another's affections, may they not pretend they have no Love for one another, that they may Love one another with greater security? No, no, adds he, this cannot be▪ there is no hiding of Love, it will appear if not smothered to death: She loves not Alexander at all, or loves him but indifferently; thus he the more easily persuaded himself to be so, in that he did most passionately desire it might be so; and thenceforward his passion increased so fast, it became greater than ever. Hope being a passion that more than any other foments that of Love, easily promises itself happy events, and flatters itself with expectation of good fortune and success. Laura gave the Sultaness an account of all the pleasant discourse; and the Sultaness could have wished Laura had not been altogether so severe to the Bassa, but a little more kind and complaisant, without which she thought they could not see Alexander so often as she desired. Laura on the contrary told her, that to have been complaisant, would have spoiled all, for that the Bassa would then have entertained some hopes of favour from her, and so become more amorous than before, and consequently more jealous of his supposed Rival than ever. What shall I do then, said the poor Sultaness, who can do nothing but fear, and cannot expect any thing but crosses and misfortunes? Laura told her, things were not in so desperate a condition, that she need trouble herself for it, for the Bassa had promised to send Alexander on the morrow▪ and that they would consider with him how to order their business. The Count did not know that the Bassa had been with the Sultaness; but having not heard from him that day, he went on the morrow to wait on him at his rising. He found him a-bed, so dejected and melancholy, that he might by his countenance easily discover the heaviness of his heart. Yet he received him with that air of kindness and friendship might well assure the Count he was not displeased with him. The Bassa was silent a while, and then looking on the Count with an air of friendship and confidence; Alexander, said he, I am the most unfortunate of men, especially in Love. Laura, added he, sighing, the cruel Laura hath not the least tenderness for me; no, not the least pity for the torments she sees me suffer for her: and unless you will be a little kind to me, I know not what will become of me. Ah Sir, answered the Count, let me but know what you desire of me, and what I can do for you: you know it is not in my power to dispose of others hearts; but if I may contribute to your satisfaction; if you would have me speak to her; if— How happy should I be, said the Bassa, interrupting him, would you do what you can. Sir, replied the Count, if it depend upon me, you may promise yourself success. The Bassa held his peace for a little time, as if he studied what to say; but Alexander pressing him to declare himself, he told him with some trouble, that he should appoint an assignation with Laura in a Chamber, in the Apartment of the Sultaness, where the Bassa might meet her in his stead. The Proposal was so unworthy and unfit for Alexander to consent to, that it astonished him on the sudden so extremely, that having blushed at it very much, he knew not what answer to make. The Bassa observed the disorder he was in, and was more out of countenance at it than the Count; but for fear he should interpret it otherwise than intended, and taking his blushing for no very good Omen, he told him, (to be rid of him) that he might go think of it, and that if he gave him any answer, it should be a favourable one. The Count went out of the Chamber, and made a thousand reflections on his ill Fortune, which had reduced him to the extremity of making him serve such a person; not but that he was fully persuaded, Laura would not come, and that he should be little concerned, though she should entertain the motion, and favour the passion of his amorous Patron: But besides the baseness of the employment he put him upon, he was mad to think he took him for such a Villain, that loving a Maid, as the Bassa believed he did Laura, could betray her so basely. This was the only thing troubled him; nor would he have done it, though he died for it▪ The Bassa having seen him leave his Chamber in that manner, thought there was small hope of effecting his design that way; yet being a person of great reason and worth, he was so far from thinking the worse of the Count, or being offended with him on this occasion, that he esteemed of him the better, and considered of other means to gain satisfaction to his love in the enjoyment of Laura. His passion was now arrived at a height beyond the power of reason to manage, and capable to put him on any enterprise whatever. The most virtuous of men when changed into a desperate Lover, become the most furious and extravagant of all; being so much more sensible of slights put upon him, as he conceives himself a person of merit. This transported Lover having failed of his design to make Alexander of his Party, to serve his ends in a Proposal that included Treachery, resolved to deceive Laura himself, by going to see her that night disguised as an Eunuch. The design was not very well laid, but it took, as shall appear by the sequel. He had not the patience to stay till his ordinary hour of going to the Sultaness; but as soon as 'twas night, he went away disguised like an Eunuch, and came to the apartment, where he found one old Moor at the gate, who not taking so much notice of him as to know him, he sent her to Laura, to tell her that an Eunuch of her acquaintance desired to speak with her in the Chamber of Repose; so called because it was retired, and far from noise, and the place where they used to take some hours rest after dinner in Summer. He made choice of this Chamber as the most proper for his design; and the old Woman was no sooner gone about her message, but he went to hid him there. Laura was then busy, and the Sultaness having casually met the old Woman in search of Laura, asked her, what she would have with her? the old Woman having had no order to keep private her business, told her freely, there was an Eunuch desired to speak with her in the Chamber of Repose. The Sultaness hearing of an Eunuch who would speak with Laura, made no question at all but Alexander was the Man; and without further enquiry what kind of Man the Eunuch was, or any other consideration, she takes Laura's Barnus, and goes to the place of assignation; had she made the least reflection on the message, she could not have been so deceived, nor have exposed herself so easily to the danger she went into. It was not the custom of her Gallant to use her thus, or to see her any where but in the Alcove-chamber; he scarce knew the name of the Chamber where she was told he stayed for Laura, and knowing what she did of the Bassa, she had reason to mistrust him. But those who are in Love as the Sultaness was, are subject to greater oversights than these. She knew that Alexander was not to see her but by night, yet she waited for him from the first moment she awoke in the morning; and in this amorous expectation, which tantalized her extremely, and kept her in a mortal inquietude whether he came or came not, there needed no help to hurry her away when the time drew near. Women who have been in Love, will easily confess there is nothing so hard as to be prudent on such occasions, and that the name of their Gallant when expected, hath made them start up for joy, and run to meet him e'er they knew whether he were come. The passionate Sultaness having given up herself to be led blindfold, where she thought Love waited for her, borrowed wings of that God to carry her the sooner into that Chamber; there was not any light there, but this did not surprise her, it being not usual to place any in that Chamber▪ She pleased herself with the fancy of putting a Love-trick on Alexander, by making him take her once more for Laura, this made her resolve to be silent a while, as she had been in the Garden, and to divert herself that way. But as she was entering, she was taken with a shivering all over, and such a sudden fear, that she was on the point of going back again. But the Gallant who waited for her, having taken her by the Hand, she began to recollect herself, and went along with him where he pleased: he led her away to the further end of the Chamber, where he was so loath to lose time for making use of the occasion, that embracing her with some transport, though trembling withal, he had almost put it out of her power to defend herself. The Sultaness thinking this action too violent to be Alexander's, began to mistrust; and having given him his liberty till then, she did the utmost in her power to resist him, and knew, though a little too late, that she was abused, and that this Man had neither the shape, nor the stature, nor face of her Alexander, and that it must be the Bassa, which some marks she knew about him, soon put out of question, she changed her method, and stood upon her guard. The resistance she made after the kindness she expressed at the first, was observed by the Gallant, and made him perceive that the cheat was discovered, and no hopes of hiding himself. So that without further dallying he made his last efforts, and rendered those of the Sultaness so useless, that he obtained his design. This transported Lover was happy at least in conceit, which sufficiently proves the power of imagination, and that our greatest pleasures proceed from it. I am sure, there is no unfortunate Lover but may envy his mistake, and that chance could not put a greater obligation on any Man, than this on the Bassa. His passion thus satisfied, he withdrew, without saying a word, and the Lady made all the hast she could to her Chamber, for fear the passionate Bassa should renew the assault. Laura who had been much troubled at missing of her, was no less amazed to see her come in the condition she was in, which made her throw herself on the Bed; where half weeping, half laughing, she told her the story of the adventure: At which Laura did nothing but laugh; expecting very pleasant conclusions from so comical beginnings. The Count had been at the Bassa's in the Evening, and not finding him within, came on the Morrow to acquaint him with the resolution he had taken on the proposal. As he entered the apartment, he was told that the Bassa had been ill that night, and had not slept at all, and that he had forbidden any entrance into his Chamber; but the Count having more privilege than others, they let him pass, and he found him a-bed, and writing, with so sad a mien, and so dejected a countenance, that the Count presently concluded he had had a very ill night; seeing Alexander on the sudden, he coloured a little; but the Count laying one knee to the ground, I come, Sir, said he, to beg one favour more of you: You are the principal Author of all the Love I am engaged in; it is my misfortune that you feel the same passion. Accept, I beseech you, the sacrifice I make you Sir, I will never love, and if you will have it so, I will never see Laura more. Bless me! cried the Bassa, what Lovers are these! is it possible that two persons who began to love one another with so tender affection, can part with such ease? and that I, who am am not beloved, cannot bring myself to this; speak Alexander, and tell me whether it proceeds from any distaste you have taken, or that you do it for my sake. No Sir, answered the Count, Laura is this day as amiable in my eyes as the first day I saw her; but rather than see you in the condition I find you in, I will not spare the doing myself any violence I am capable of; and for your quiet and my own, I hearty wish I never had seen her. This example is so rare, replied the Bassa, that nothing less than the esteem I have for you, can make it credible. In the mean time this Billet will let you see, that I have not stayed for you to set me a Precedent, but that I know in my turn how to give Precedents for others to imitate, but not to out do. It is written to Laura, read it: And there it will appear to you, that if I have done you wrong, I know how to punish myself for it. I should be hearty sorry, so virtuous and excellent a person as you, should part from us, with an ill opinion of me. The Count extremely surprised at this discourse, not comprehending the reason of it, after an answer full of respect and acknowledgement to his dear Patron, took the Billet, and there read these words. If all the passion Man can have for a Woman, is not capable to justify the crime I committed against you, you ought to pardon me, at least having suffered in one night all the torments▪ and afflictions of a cruel repentance, which yet fills my soul with grief and confusion. And if by giving you and your Lover your Liberty, I may in some measure make amends for my faults, you may make you ready for your voyage, for to morrow morning you shall go both together. Farewell, and think of the violence I did my , in forcing from my bosom two persons, whom of all I ever saw, I loved most entirely, and then you will find me not altogether unworthy of pardon. The Count was so confounded at reading the Billet, as never was Man, and had much ado to hid the disorder it put him in; he kneeled the second time, as it were to give the Bassa thanks for this last favour, which before his engagement in Love with the Sultaness, had been the greatest he could have done him; but now after his passion, it was certainly the greatest misfortune could befall him. He was willing by this action to hid from the Bassa the trouble he was in. But the Bassa took him up, and told him, he could not see him in that posture, for a business where he had more cause to complain of him, than to thank him, that he should know at leisure the whole matter from Laura, and that in the mean time he had nothing to do but prepare for his Voyage; that he had given order to stay a Christian Vessel, which should have gone off that very day for Italy, and should land them at Legorn; that the weather was fair, and that without fail he should embark with Laura on the morrow: for all which he gave him his word. The Count having taken leave of the Bassa went out of the Chamber with a heart so full of trouble and affliction, for the news he had received, that he wanted a more proper place to comfort himself, and to vent his thoughts of the resolution the Bassa had taken to give him his Liberty, and to send Laura with him. He knew not what might have obliged him to a resolution of this nature, though upon reading the Billet, he did imagine the Bassa had committed some outrage on Laura; but this was not the thing troubled him; it was the Sultaness, from whom he must part, and must bid her adieu for ever: to part with a Woman one loved so tenderly, to part with her for ever, and to part with her in the height of his passion, sounds very harsh, and where is the Lover could take such a resolution for any reason ? Yet Liberty, which to a Man who knows what 'tis to be a Slave, to a Man of Alexander's quality, is a thing so attractive; to return to his Country after eight or nine months' absence; the pleasure of Rome, and the consideration that if he lost this opportunity, he might perhaps never have such another; all this, I say, made such a Party, that the most beautiful, and most charming Lady in the World, could not have hindered many excellent Persons from quitting hers to take it. But true Love which values nothing above its own satisfaction, slights a liberty to be bought with too many tears: yet in this conjuncture, it was almost impossible for Alexander to refuse this cruel liberty, being all he could in appearance desire, and bestowed on him by the Bassa, with a Mistress with whom he believed him passionately in love. What reason could he find to refuse such a Present which had cost the Bassa so dear, and aught to be the most acceptable to him? He despaired to find any, and saw clearly there was a necessity of parting, unless Love, favourable to Lovers in extremity, would come to his aid, and make the Bassa alter his resolution, as they commonly do who take any against love; never did Slave pay more Vows to be delivered from his Chain, than he did for the continuance of his Captivity, choosing rather to be a Slave the rest of his Life, than to be for ever removed to such a distance from that which he loved a thousand times more than his Liberty. The Bassa having passed some hours after in his Bed, to muse upon the resolution he had taken, which he adhered to, though it made his heart ache, called for his Aga, and gave him orders for the departure of the two Christians, causing store of Provisions, and very rich Presents to be carried on board the Vessel; this done he sent his chief Eunuch to the Sultaness his Wife, to entreat her to give Laura her Liberty, whom he was minded to send home to her Country, together with Alexander, for reasons of importance to her, as of necessity for him, and for the ease and repose of one and the other. Having given these orders, and the same time sent the Letter he had written to Laura, he took Horse for Bardou, one of his Houses of Pleasure, a mile from the Town, and stayed there till midnight, having all that time walked alone in the Gardens, to wean himself from the sight and company of Alexander, and the pleasure he took in Laura's discourse. That night the Bassa could not sleep, and in the Morning his Aga being come to bring him an answer from the Sultaness, as to his request for giving Laura her Liberty; he went presently to carry it to Alexander, whom he found in appearance ready to be gone, but in truth never less disposed, but hoping every moment some change of resolution in the Bassa. Ah, Alexander, said he, we must part, but I know not how we shall; for the Sultaness who loves Laura with the same affection I do you, notwithstanding my representing to her how much she was concerned in interest to have us part, and to desire it as much as I, cannot resolve upon it, but hath sent me word this Morning she will sooner lose her life than her Laura. You must go see Laura, and tell her 'twill be her fault if she be not free, and go along with you; for as for me, what I have promised I will perform. In the mean time I will give order that the Vessel be stayed longer, that it may not sail without you. Sir, answered Alexander, there are frequent opportunities of Transportation, and when you have given some longer time to satisfy the Sultaness, and dispose her to grant Laura this favour, our obligation then will not be less for our Liberty you are now pleased to grant us. Alexander replied the Bassa, resolutions like that I have now taken in your favour, go so much against the grain of a heart affected as mine, that delays may be dangerous, and time may make them falter: make use of the good motions reason and equity have inspired into me. I do not tell you my thoughts are unalterable. The spite I have against my heart oft its weakness, the outrage I did Laura yesterday; my shame to appear before her after it, and the small hopes I have of gaining her Love, are the true causes of your good fortune: all this is yet fresh in my mind; stay not till time deface these impressions, there being nothing men are apt so soon to forget, as the injuries they had done to others. As they were discoursing together, a huge Moor who served as Purveyor for the Count, and brought him every Morning his Provision from the Seraglio, came on the sudden into the Chamber with a great Basket on his head, not thinking (without doubt) of the Bassa's being there. The Moor started at the sight of him, would have gone back, but the Bassa with his hand made signs for him to stay; he obeyed, and laid the Basket on the ground, which appeared very heavy, and so he withdrew; the Bassa, of pure curiosity to see what they had sent Alexander to eat, bid a Moor, who waited in the Room, take up the Basket lid, which he did, and found the Provision to be a Woman very pleasantly tucked up and muffled in her Barnus that she might not be known. But being in the Habit of a Christian (which the Bassa and Alexander had formerly seen Laura in) they made no doubt but it was she. The Bassa at first was very much surprised, but then fell a laughing, and said to the Count, the Invention is rare, and that she had far more wit than the Women of that Country; but this is a product of Love the Father of Inventions. However, 'tis certain nothing could have been done more proper for our design: But shall not we see, said he, all your Provision? Madam, you are here between the two best Friends you have in the World; and you have no reason to be shy of showing yourself; having said this, he drew near to the Lady, and would have taken her by the arm to help her to rise, but she refused and thrust him back. I see Madam, said he, you have not yet granted me the pardon I begged of you. I confess the offence was too great to be so quickly forgiven; but you are taking your leave, and it is not fit we should part without being friends; for it would be a perpetual grief to me, to see you leave this Country with hatred in your heart. Deny not this favour (added he, reaching forth his hand) to a man reduced to despair for having offended you, and punishing himself so severely for the fault, that there is no need of this extreme cruelty from you. But all he spoke was in vain, for she hid herself more closely, and fortified herself in the Basket to prevent being seen. The Bassa was unwilling to press her any further, but addressing himself to Alexander, told him, it was his part to make peace, and to prevail with Laura to let him see her once more being the last time▪ The Count took it ill that she made so shy of showing herself to a Person to whom she was too much obliged, to deny him his request in such a conjuncture, what cause soever she might have had of quarrel against him. Besides, he was particularly concerned to press her to show herself; for the last refuge he had, was his hope that the Bassa's tenderness for her, would perhaps at the moment of parting take fire afresh, and make him change his resolution; with these thoughts he went to her, and gave her all the reasons he could invent to be reconciled to the Bassa, and let him see her a moment; but all to no purpose. He had not one word of answer, which angered him so, that having taken her twice or thrice by the arm to make her rise, he was just going to force up her Barnus, and threatened to do it; but the Bassa would not suffer it, bidding him force her no further; that she had cause enough to complain, without doing her new violence for love of him. But, says he, let us make use of the time, and since she is brought hither to our hands, and you have no more to do but embark, let us finish what we have begun, and perform what we have undertaken, there never can be a fairer opportunity; and I cannot think that Laura will be sorry to leave such a Country as this, or part with us to go along with you. The Sultaness in all probability is yet asleep, let us not stay till she awake. We must presently carry Laura (as she is in the Basket) into the Ship: you shall bear her company, and as soon as you arrive, you shall hoist sail and away; as for me, I will pass the rest of the day at Bardou, and give out such orders as may be necessary, that in case the Sultaness miss Laura, and find she is escaped, you may not be stayed. Having said this, he sent a Moor to the Port, with order to have a Shallop in readiness to carry Laura and Alexander aboard the Christian Vessel riding at Gouletta. This done, he sent for the Captain of his Guards, and bid him accompany the Count, and commend the care of that Basket to the Moors who were to carry it along. Having given these orders, he had no more to do, but bid his dear Alexander adieu; and having embraced him with tears in his eyes, he bore him company to the Shallop, and from thence went to Bardou with a heart full of grief. The poor Count was more to be pitied: He was not much concerned to express how sorry he was to part with the Bassa; but as for the Sultaness, whom he could have wished to have seen once more at least, his trouble to leave her was so great, that he felt not the grief he should have showed when he bid the Bassa adieu, who had so highly obliged him. When he saw he must part, and no hopes of seeing her, his heart was so full he could not speak a word; the tears ran down his cheeks, which much moved the good Bassa, who thought they were shed for him, and was not displeased to see himself outdone by a Man who was not ungrateful, and cordially loved him: At last he saw him embarked, and bid him the last adieu. The afflicted Count was so oppressed with grief, that from the Haven to Gouletta, having given his heart a little more liberty than he durst have done in presence of the Bassa, he let fall such lamentable expressions, looking towards the Town, that the Captain of the Guard, and the rest that accompanied him, were extremely astonished, and moved to compassion. By good luck they understood not Italian, but his gestures, his tears, his looks, and the colour of his countenance expressed an unparallelled trouble and affliction. He no sooner got a board the Ship, but he threw himself on a Bed, and was so much beside himself, that he did not as much as think of his Basket; but the Captain of the Guard had eased him of that care, and caused it to be carried into his ; after which he took leave of him, and having commanded the Captain of the Vessel to hoist up his Sails, he went into the Shallop and returned to Tunis; then was it that Alexander finding himself alone in his , abandoned himself to the torment of his grief. Ah Fate, said he, unjust Fate, what have I done that you use me so cruelly, that you force me away from a Person without whom I cannot live. Ah my Sultaness, dear Sultaness, must I leave you, must I absent myself from you for ever? For ever, said he again, rising up: Ah Heavens! let me rather be set ashore, I shall find pretence enough with the Bassa; let me rather trust Love than Fortune, she hath betrayed me: Whatever happen I must die, and I had rather die at her feet whom I love, than at this cruel distance. Having said this, he went to see if they were still at Anchor, but found they were already a great way from Land, and sailing with a favourable wind, had almost lost sight of Gouletta. What despair was he in? Ah my heart said he, there is no remedy, now I must perish. Dear Sultaness, added he, taking his Sword in his hand, see whether I am guilty of this absence, and receive the Sacrifice I make you of my Life; with that he drew his Sword, and was going to thrust himself through, when on a sudden the Person in the Basket, who had thus far harkened to all he had said, threw herself upon him to prevent further mischief. Let me alone to finish a life which cannot but be unhappy at this distance from all that I love. Ah dear Alexander, answered the Lady, embracing him with all tenderness, her joy not permitting her to say any more. The Count finding immediately (notwithstanding the trouble and transport he was in) some difference between this voice and Laura s, looked behind on the Lady who held him in her arms: But what an astonishment, what a charming surprise was it for a heart like his, and in the condition he was in, to see that it was the Sultaness herself? THE HAPPY SLAVE. The Second Part. OH Heavens! Is it you, Madam, cried the Fortunate Lover? Is it you? says he again, overwhelmed with a full Tide of Joy, flowing so fast it had almost made him speechless; may I believe that I see you the moment I thought I had utterly lost you? Oh happiness unparallelled and beyond expectation! But, Madam, direct me, I beseech you, where to pay my Devotion; am I obliged to Love, or to Fortune? Your thanks are due, dear Alexander, said the Sultaness, for the Design, to Love; and to Fortune, for the Success. The Happy Lover extremely amazed at so surprising an Adventure, found in himself so sudden an alteration from the depth of Grief to the height of Joy, that to enjoy more fully the present pleasure of so blessed a change, he thought his moments too precious to be employed in satisfying the curiosity of knowing by what means he was so unexpectedly arrived at so complete a Felicity. The Vessel under sail with a favourable gale rendered them as secure as Mortals can be on an Element where the Winds are in a manner Master of our Lives as well as Resolutions. The Happy Lovers lost not the advantage of the Season to enjoy one another with as much pleasure and satisfaction as prosperous Love is capable of. The Captain of the Bassa's Guards being arrived at Tunis, took Horse, and soon got to Bardou, where he found his Master walking alone in the Garden, and gave him an account of the departure of Alexander. The Bassa, like a man dejected and disconsolate, having lift up his Eyes and Hands to Heaven, without saying a word, withdrew into a Marble Bower in the midst of the Garden, where he continued all that day, having given his Guards express Orders not to permit any Person whatever to come near him; hoping thus to free himself from the importunity he feared from the Sultaness, on Laura's account. His Servants and Guards were much surprised at these Orders, not knowing what might be the cause of his displeasure, unless it were that Alexander was gone. In the Evening arrived at Bardou a Spahie, who brought him a Letter, and was followed by another, and he by a third, who all came to speak with him on business of extreme haste and importance; but being acquainted with the Orders he had given, they durst pass no further, but resolved to wait his coming out of the Bower. The Turks observe exactly the Orders of their Masters; but Aly the Captain of the Guard, gathering from the number of Couriers the importance of their business, thought it his Duty to step to the Town, being but three Miles distant, to learn what the matter was, and getting presently on Horseback, went directly to the General of the Galleys, being one of them who had dispatched the Spahies. The General sent him instantly back, with strict Order to speak with the Bassa, and tell him, that to oppose the designs his Enemies had against his Life, his presence was absolutely necessary at Tunis; Aly, who apprehended the consequence of the affair, made no scruple (when returned to Bardou) to present himself before his Master; who extremely enraged to see his Orders broke first by him, would neither hear him, nor receive the Letter he would have delivered him from the General of the Galleys. But locking himself up, past his time till the fourth Prayer, when he took Horse to return to the Town. By the way he received Letters from several, but thinking they came from the Sultaness, or some of her party, he opened not one of them. The General of the Galleys astonished not to see him come, after News sent him what was Plotting against him, resolved to go in Person to see what stayed him at Bardou, and by the way met him. The Bassa seeing him come with a very large Train, asked him smiling, if he thought he had been Besieged, that he came to meet him with so numerous a Party. You are pleasant, Sir, answered the General; but I wish we stand not in need of far greater Forces before we come to Tunis. The Bassa observing him to speak in good earnest, fixed his Eye upon him a while without speaking a word, than asked him, what need there could be of the Forces he mentioned; and (with Indignation) what, says he, will they Assault me for love of the Sultaness? Do not you think, Sir, replied the General, there is reason enough for't? Can you believe that a Prince like the Dey, your Mortal Enemy (but from the Teeth outwards) can brook the injury you have done him, who loves the Sultaness his Daughter better than his Life? What injury, said the Bassa? What injury, replied the General? An injury, than which, in my Opinion, a greater could not have been offered. What, answers the Bassa, interrupting him, will they dispute my Power to set two of my Slaves at liberty at my pleasure? No, Sir, said the General, no question is made of your Right or Power in the particular you mention; but the Sultaness was not your Slave, and unless you designed to engage in a new Civil War, not only the Rules of Honour, Justice, and Religion, but the Maxims of good Polity, should have prevailed with you, not to deliver her into the hands of a Christian, than which a greater misfortune cannot befall a Woman of our Religion. The Bassa thought this Discourse so extravagant, that he burst out a laughing, and gave him no other answer, but that he had taken the Alarm too soon. The General being moved, reply d with some heat, you know me too well to think me concerned at that you reproach me with; but when you come to Tunis, you shall judge if I had not cause to take the Alarm. If the Dey, answered the Bassa, design a breach with me, he will find a better pretence than you speak of. True it is, I have sent away Laura with Alexander the Christian, without the consent of the Sultaness; but there were reasons for it, and such as the the Sultaness of all Persons living had most cause to approve. The General of the Galleys did verily believe the Bassa was seriously bend upon raillery, and willing to keep that as a secret which all the World knew; which he took in ill part, and had not spoke a word more on that subject, had not the Bassa continued the Discourse. But, Sir, said the General, interrupting him, what pleasure can you take in endeavouring to conceal from me (one of your best Servants and Friends) a business so notorious to all? Every body knows Laura is in your Seraglio, and that the Sultaness is embarked with Alexander. Not to mince the matter, I must tell you, the general voice is, that for Love of this Slave, you have rid your hands of the Sultaness and Alexander, and that you design to Marry Laura, though a Christian. But give me leave to tell you, that besides the novelty of the thing (the like having never happened in this Kingdom) not only the Dey and Divan will oppose it, but your Friends will to their power obstruct it, and prevent it if they can; and I dare undertake, you will scarce find a Person of your side. The Bassa hearing him speak in this manner, thought him distracted, and would have used him accordingly, but restrained by the Friendship he had for him; Laura, says he, whom I saw carried in a Basket, whom I accompanied to the Port (where they put her aboard a Shallop) whom the Captain of my Guard conducted to the Vessel in which she was Embarked, and he saw under sail, this Laura is in my Seraglio, and I am to Marry her Sir, answered the General, did I not know you very well, and were fully persuaded of the good esteem you are pleased to Honour me withal, I should not know what to think of your Discourse; for it cannot be but you know the whole Affair better than any Man. But to end the Dispute, let us go to your Palace, where you shall see whether it be Laura or the Sultaness that is there. It was not long ere they arrived at the Palace. The Bassa, who took all that the General had said to be fabulous and vain, would not so much as have sent to the Seraglio to know how things stood, thinking it foolery to doubt of the Sultaness being there. However in complaisance, and by way of raillery, he ordered Aly to wait on the Sultaness, and to Compliment her for him, upon the displeasure she took for the departure of Laura. The Captain of the Guard not fancying his Master ignorant of what was past, took his Order for a mere matter of Address, and a colour only to hid the truth of what he would have concealed; and approve himself able to manage the intrigue, as one who could penetrate into the desires of the Person who employed him, he went to the Seraglio, where he presently learned what he formerly knew, that 'twas Laura was there; and returning to the Bassa, made him a civil answer as from the Sultaness. This put the General into very great disorder, and gave the Bassa new occasion to laugh, telling him, he did not understand the design of the Dey, in raising those Reports to procure him the ill will of his Friends, and hatred of his People, and renew their former broils with greater violence than ever; but that he should find the means to bring him to Reason, and that in the first place, he would expose the Sultaness to the view of all the People, and then send her home to the Dey, to let him see how unwilling he was to have any Alliance with a man who made it his business to find occasions to ruin him. As they were Discoursing, they heard a great noise on the sudden in the Palace, followed by Volleys of Musquet-shot, and People crying, to Arms, to Arms. The Bassa went presently out of his Chamber to see what the matter was, and met Aly coming to tell him, that the Palace was invested on all sides, and that an attempt had been made to enter it by force, but that he had beat them back with ten or twelve Soldiers of the Guard, who by good Fortune happened to be with him. The Bassa, of all men the least subject to fear, and of a ready Wit, and admirable judgement in the most surprising occasions, knowing himself destitute then of Forces to make any resistance, and hearing them threaten to set fire on the Palace if the Gate were not opened, ordered they should cry out at the Windows that the Gate should be open d, that those who had begirt the Palace round, and were, for the most part, drawn thither with hopes of Plunder, might run all to the Gate, and give him opportunity to make his escape another way. The Stratagem took according to his desire, and he made his escape by a private way from his Enemies, who had showed him no Mercy had he fallen into their hands. But he, with the General of the Galleys, and Captain of the Guard, got safe to the Mountains, Inhabited by the Moors, who had great love for him. He no sooner gave them notice of the need he had of their help, but they came to him that Night, so that by break of day he found himself at the head of 8000 Men, Armed some with Muskets, some with Pikes, both equally useful to them. Poor Laura was alone, abandoned to the Mercy of this Popular Torrent, who having pillaged in a moment that Rich and Sumptuous Palace, without respect to the place or the Sex, entered the Seraglio by order from the Dey, and took out thence the unfortunate Slave, leaving the rest exposed to the will of the Rabble. It was Laura's good Fortune, that he who had the Commission to take her, was a Person of great honesty and worth, a private Friend of the Bassa, and one who expressed as much respect for her as she could wish in such a Conjuncture. She was carried to the Castle, where she was committed to the same Officer's Custody, being a Secretary, and generally esteemed by all the Divan. And being the only Person could speak to her without danger of being heard, he confidently told her the first time he saw her, that the Bassa, whose Conduct till then appeared admirable, had committed a fact no less difficult to be repaired, than generally condemned by the best of his Friends, but that he feared the greatest smart would be hers. The poor Slave sufficiently Alarmed by seeing herself forced out of the Bassa's Seraglio, and made the Dey's Prisoner, was frighted much more by the Discourse of this Turk, who appeared to her a very credible Person; she prayed him for Heaven's sake to tell her what the matter was, what fault the Bassa had committed, and how she was concerned in it, that she must be thus handled? If you are ignorant of the passages this day, answered the Secretary, I will let you know them. I believe, continues he, that you know Chabania, or at least have heard talk of her, all the World is convinced of the Malignity of her Nature, and illness of Disposition: But to the business in hand; that which she affirms, is grounded on Proofs so pregnant, and Reasons so clear, that her Malice hath compassed the effect she desired. Whether she was jealous of you, or in disgust with the Bassa, I know not, but she is the cause of the disorder you have seen; which, if not remedied, may prove the ruin of the Kingdom: The Dey was at Chess when word was brought him, that a Lady from the Bassa's Seraglio desired to speak with him on business of great importance. Instantly he quitted his Game, and retiring into a Chamber to give the Woman Audience, he sees Chabania enter, attended with her Eunuches who Ushered her, who falling before him on her knees, spoke to this purpose. Sir, I bring you News, which doubtless will trouble you. But if I deserve Death for not being able to endure an injury done to your Royal Blood, and the whole Nation, without giving you Advertisement, I am content to suffer for it, having the satisfaction to see you. Revenge the wrong has been done you, which is, that your Daughter is gone, that she is delivered over into the hands of that Christian who sailed away this Morning, and that a pitiful Slave is to succeed in her place, to the infinite dishonour of your Highness and the Nation. Take your Revenge of the Author of this disorder, and execute, that Justice which you ought against so cruel an attempt, acted to the dishonoar of God, the injury of your Blood, and dishonour of your Country. Scarce had she made an end, but the Dey inflamed with Anger, and extremely enraged, called in those who had waited in the Antichamber, and scarce able to speak for the Passion he was in, made Chabania repeat before them all that she had said to him. It unhappily fell out that all who were there, were Enemies to the Bassa, and instead of appeasing the Dey, took the present occasion to animate and encourage him to get satisfaction for so cruel an outrage. Women and Eunuches were sent from the Dey to the Bassa's Seraglio, on purpose to know the truth and particulars of this Affair, who made their report, that the Sultaness was not there, that no body knew what was become of her, and that you only were able to give us any news of her. A Messenger was presently dispatched to Gouletta, to inquire at the Castle, if there were not a Woman in the Christian Vessel that sailed away this Morning; the answer he gave was, that the Vessel was sailed away without being searched, and that the Bassa had sent order to that purpose by the Captain of his Guards, who accompanied the Christian aboard the Ship. These Circumstances so clear and apparent, did but too much confirm what Chabania had said. Hereupon divers Counsels were held; and the Assembly consisting of Persons ill-affected to the Bassa, or at least too Zealous for the Dey, the Result was, that Revenge should be taken. I cannot conceive how it was possible the Bassa had no news what passed, the report having been presently noised over the Town. It was designed he should be surprised at Bardou, where it was believed he would have lain this Night. But News being brought, that he was on his way hither, the Dey's Aga had Order, if denied entrance, to set upon the Palace, and seize his Person living or dead. And I at the same time was to go to the Seraglio, and to carry you away: They missed of him, and it was well for you he escaped; for had he been taken, both he and you had been by this time dead. But having so luckily made his escape, and being Master of the Militia and Moors of the Kingdom, he may become formidable to the Dey, and be in a capacity to deliver you from danger. The unfortunate Laura, too much acquainted with the unkindness of her Stars, did nothing but sigh and groan at the apprehensions of the new storms that threatened her. She knew better than any, the little reason they had to charge the Bassa with the flight of the Sultaness; and being of Opinion, that by justifying the Bassa, her cause would appear better before the Dey; she told this Turk, that her Patron was not, perhaps, so guilty as they thought. I know not, continued she, what is become of the Sultaness since she left the Seraglio this Morning; but the confidence you have expressed in me, in the freedom of your speech to me, and your generous carriage obliging me not to be so reserved to you, as I would to another; and seeing the extremity matters are reduced to, I must acquaint you, that if the Bassa sent away the Sultaness with the Christian, as is reported, she was very willing to go. And because it is probable you will hardly believe me, without telling you more, I shall be forced to relate part of a story which may serve at least to excuse, if not justify the Bassa. You must know, Sir, said she, that the Sultaness loved Alexander; and that she loved him entirely; the occasion was this: The Bassa, whom every one knows to have had a mighty affection for that Christian, had a longing desire (whether for Divertisement, or to fasten him more closely to his Person) to see him in Love with some Lady; and was of Opinion, I might be fit for the purpose, if he could but contrive how to bring us together. But because I stirred not out of the Seraglio, and that it would have been a very scandalous thing, to see a Christian enter a Palace, where none of your Religion but Eunuches have access; he put the stranger into the habit of an Eunuch, and having prevailed with me to accept of a Visit from him, brought him to me one Evening. The Sultaness, already full of good thoughts for the Christian, whom the Bassa had a thousand times spoke to her of, was extremely glad to hear of the design, to bring him to her very Apartment, and with very great earnestness prayed me, if possible, to procure her the pleasure of seeing him. This proved no hard task for me to perform: The Bassa, who seldom came to visit the Sultaness, sending him almost every day disguised like an Eunuch into the Seraglio; so that I had no more to do but provide for the Secrecy of the interview between my Mistress and Alexander. They had a sight of each other; and if Alexander was so handsome, as to please the Sultaness, you may imagine that so Beautiful a Lady could not displease him. Their Love increased day by day to that height, that they saw one another very often. The Bassa seeing his Christian in Love, and thinking me the object of it, took singular pleasure in it. The Bassa had formerly had some kindness for me, which cooled by my resistance; but having one day for Divertisement caused Alexander to give him an account of the progress of his Amour, the fire of his Love so long raked up and smothered, kindled afresh into a flame; and gathering from the success of Alexander's Address, that I was not insensible, as I pretended to him; he renewed his Courtship, intermingled now and then with reproaches for the little esteem I had for him in preferring the affection of a Slave before his: I foresaw the danger, but was unwilling to make him sensible of his mistake, to save the two Lovers from the inconveniences which would certainly attend the discovery. And making myself a Sacrifice to the pleasure of the Sultaness, I let him believe I was not insensible of the Merit of Alexander. The affair thus managed, there followed many pleasant Adventures and Intrigues, which for fear of troubling you too much at present, I shall defer the relation of it to a better Opportunity. The mean time, the Bassa extremely pressed me, and reproached me daily for slighting his Passion, and at the same time favouring a Christian far less worthy of my affection. He left no stone unturned to compass his Amorous designs, insomuch as at last he found the means to have a private and dumb interview in the dark with his Wife, whom he mistook for me, and did her all the violence imaginable to be revenged of the insensibility I had for him. Having satisfied himself, he parted with her without knowing her, blessing himself for the good Fortune of having obtained that which he might have commanded every day. But grieved at last for the outrage he thought he had done me, and not knowing how to excuse himself to a Mistress extremely offended, he judged no better amends could be made for his fault, than setting at Liberty two Lovers, whose Passion he had so unjustly injured, after having been not only the promoter, but first Author of their Love. He sent me the News of his Resolution by a Billet he writ to me, wherein he pleaded in excuse the great Passion he had for me; that to expiate his fault, he would deprive himself for ever of the sight of me, and send me back with my Love to my Country, being all could be desired from a generous Rival: And that if I were sensible of the pain and regret my absence would cost him, I should find him punished beyond his desert. My joy was not greater than the trouble of the Sultaness upon receiving this News which put her into an unspeakable affliction. Her Nights and her Days were wholly spent in Tears; she used all means possible to prevent the misfortune she apprehended from Alexander's return into Italy. I gave her way, choosing rather to renounce my Liberty, than see her die for grief in the condition she was in. But the Bassa, the firmest of men in what he resolves on, not perceiving the reason she had to oppose a design she had more reason than he to promote, considering the Passion she knew he had for me, which must needs trouble her, was true to his Resolution; and knowing there was in the Port a Christian Vessel ready to Sail for Italy, he caused it to be stayed for our Embarking therein. What a trouble was it to the Sultaness to see the Bassa so obstinate, and us on the point of departing! Never was a Person so plunged in a Sea of despair, never were sighs so lamentable as hers; I was resolved to entreat the Bassa to put off our departure to another occasion, that I might gain time to dispose her to grant me the favour; but whether it were for the shame to see me, or for fear that the sight of me might melt him into a tenderness that might alter the Resolution he had taken, he appeared not at the Seraglio. The Morning we were to be gone, the desolate Sultaness resolved to die, or to follow us; she had long studied to contrive a way how to do it: I was her Bed-fellow, but neither of us slept a wink. Laura, says she, having considered well what she would do, thou knowest the affection I ever had for thee, that I have used thee more like a Sister than a Slave. Thou knowest my heart, and I need not tell thee I cannot live without Alexander. I desire no acknowledgement of what I have done for thee, (added she, kissing me with her face all bathed in tears) but for pity sake, forsake me not in the most desperate condition that a Woman, in Love as I am, can be reduced to, but do something to save my Life: had she desired mine with such melting expressions, I could not have denied it her, which she might perceive by the tears I shed to accompany hers. Then she told me of an intention she had thought of, whereby to get aboard with us, and that she doubted not of the success, if Alexander had the Passion he pretended to have for her; and if he had not, she would comfort herself, and find pleasure in Rage for the absence of so ingrate a Person; that without the knowledge of any one in the Seraglio she would be carried to his Lodging, and thence aboard the Vessel we were to Embark in; and that the Bassa sending for me to be gone, we might all three get aboard before any Discovery could be made of her departure. To give her content, I approved of what she said, but did really apprehend the success of this affair, and presage, I know not how, that I should be the sufferer. 'Tis a dangerous business to yield one's self up to the conduct of Lovers, in that which concerns the interest of their affections; they are apt to flatter themselves, to puff themselves up with hope, and admit of no fear. When the day began to appear in our Chamber, we thought it high time to set about and take order for what we thought necessary for accomplishing our desires. We got up, and the Sultaness having put on a Suit of mine, commanded me to call her one of the Eunuches, who was Purveyor for Alexander, and ready to Sacrifice his Life for the Service of the Sultaness; she sent him for the basket wherein he used to carry the Provision, and placing herself in it, wrapped up in my Barnus, commanded him to carry her to Alexander's Lodging. I saw her go away in this manner, waiting with fear and impatience enough to hear the success of this contrivance of the Sultaness, and expecting every moment Orders from the Bassa for my going away. At last, the time of Embarking being over, and the Sultaness not returned, I was desirous to be informed how matters past, and understood with astonishment and displeasure enough, that Alexander was gone, and that the Bassa, having brought him to the Port, returned for Bardou. Then it was, Sir, I felt the stroke of my ill Fortune, in losing, not only the hope of returning to my Country, which might have given me some comfort, but of ever seeing the Sultaness, the Person of the World I had most kindness for, and one who rendered my Captivity pleasing. I could not doubt but her flight would be laid to my charge; but the consideration of a Life so unhappy as mine, had produced in me so clear resolutions for death, that, had you taken notice at your arrival, you could not observe any trouble in my countenance. And in good earnest the loss of my dear Sultaness afflicted me so, that the appearance of death could not have done more. They asked me oftentimes what was become of her? the answer I made, was, that I knew not: But having been long taken for her Confident, I was shrewdly suspected. As for the rest of her Servants, you might have read in their countenances, the trouble of their minds. This is that, Sir, I had to say to you of the Sultaness; and if you think this Story may be of use to the Bassa, and conduce to the procuring peace between him and the Dey, I should be very glad you would relate it to him, though I may appear guilty of having committed a crime against the one and the other But they have prudence enough to be sensible of the condition of a poor Slave, whose happiness consisted in her complaisance to a Mistress, who loved her so well as to make her a confident in affairs of this consequence. The Turk made answer, that the Bassa had so much kindness for her, and so little for the Sultaness, that he would easily pardon the Treason she was guilty of; and as for the Dey, he could not be much offended with her, for having done his Daughter so eminent a service, in assisting her in a piece of unfaithfulness to a Husband who (the Dey knows) had not any Love for her: and that he would make use of the particulars of this Story to reconcile them; that he would manage this business with some Friends of the Divan, and particularly with the Aga, the Deys Favourite, who had great influence over him, and though a Renegade, loved the Christians very well, and might do her some service. To these expressions he added a thousand assurances on his part, and civilities enough to oblige her extremely. This done, he withdrew, to avoid the suspicion her Guard might have of a longer discourse, it being already very late, but promised to see her again on the morrow, and bring her News of all that past. The Bassa being now at the Head of so many Moors, thought himself strong enough to take the Field, and as soon as it was day, marched down towards the Town, to favour the retreat of his Friends, and of the Soldiers who came flocking in to him; so that before noon he had an Army of Moors and Turks above ten thousand strong. The Dey used all diligence possible to arm his people, but found himself not strong enough that day to encounter the Bassa, whose Arms were already grown terrible to his Enemies, who from his just indignation against them apprehended a Siege. But his quarrel being chief to the Dey, and wanting Cannon to attack him in the Castle he was in, the Bassa was forced to wait the arrival of the Artillery he had sent for to the Port whereof he was Master. In the mean time, having assembled the principal of his Friends, to make his complaint to them of the unjust proceed of the Dey, and to demand their advice, he was not a little amazed to hear them all maintain, as the General of the Galleys; that it was his Wife was gone away with the Christian; and that Laura stayed in the Seraglio; and that the Dey had reason enough for what he had done, in the belief he was in of the Bassa's intentions to make away his Daughter. The Bassa, who still fancied that they were abused, would not vouchsafe to contradict them, but calling in the Captain of his Guards, asked him before them, if he had not the day before spoken with the Sultaness. Poor Aly shivering for fear, fell down at his feet with his face to the ground, and confessed he had thought the Bassa had sent him to the Seraglio, on purpose to blind the world, and that it was desired he should justify before the General of the Galleys, he had seen the Sultaness there, but that in truth she was not there, and that he found only Laura weeping for the departure of her Mistress. The Bassa for all this would not be persuaded, but said, he must see the Slave before he could believe it, having many Reasons to the contrary, when he received a Billet from the Deys Secretary to this purpose. My Lord, Mahomet Bassa; I know not whether it was your good Fortune or mine, that ordered the Dey's making choice of me to take away and guard your fair Slave; but you may be assured she could not have fallen into better hands: she wants for nothing, and you may believe, I hold neither my Estate nor my Life too dear to bestow in your service, and obliging of her. If in the mean time I may be allowed the liberty of giving you Counsel, I would advise you to endeavour the advantage and peace of your Country, rather than that War and Ruin which will be inevitable, unless you moderate your Passion. There is no Man more sensible than I of the injury they have done you; but I am sensible also that the appearances, for which you are condemned, have misled the Dey; and that the blame of the departure of your Wife ought to be charged only on your Wife. The rash Counsel of disaffected persons, which the Dey hath followed in this affair, hath put you both into this present disorder. God grant it proceed no further, and that we may not, to the scandal of other Nations, see our Country ruined by those who have it in charge to maintain and preserve it. I hope both of you will be better advised, and waiting your Answer, I wish you all happiness. Adieu. Assen, Secret. The Bassa, having read this Letter, could no longer doubt of the truth of the thing, knowing Assen to be a person of great Integrity, and his very good Friend. He was easily comforted for the loss of the Sultaness, and laughed at the adventure, and could not believe she had had a design to follow the Christian, if he had not given order to carry her aboard in the Basket. He was not much troubled at the mistake he had been guilty of, and thought that in matters of Love, a Mistress of at least as good value as a Wife. He never suspected any treachery in the Case, but was willing to know what reason could have reduced her to disguise herself in that manner, and go along with Alexander; yet he could not but think Laura of the Plot, but thought himself revenged of her, and her sufficiently punished, in having lost at once her Lover, and the occasion of her liberty, to pleasure a Mistress, who might become a Rival. He longed extremely to see her, to know the whole business; and Love adding new flames to this curiosity, made him so impatient of delay, that how dangerous soever the enterprise might have been, he would have gone that very day to Tunis, if his presence with the Army had not been absolutely necessary, to receive those who every moment came over to his party. He sent his Friend this Answer. Mr. Secretary, You have in your hands a Treasure, which if the Dey knew how much I value, he would not have trusted you or any other therewith, as being assured he might with it make his peace when, and on what conditions he pleased. Take care of her, I conjure you, as you would of my person, and believe, I will never forget a service of so much importance. Send hither your Moor to morrow at the fourth Watch; I shall want him for a business I cannot trust any other person withal, nor write to you at present. Mahomet Bassa Dey. By that time he had written this Billet, the night was far gone; yet for more surety he would not let the Moor go till three or four a Clock in the Morning. The Walls of Tunis are very low, and in some places easy to get over. True it is, they were then very well guarded; but the bearer of the Billet being known to belong to the Deys Secretary, there was no danger of his being stayed; and accordingly he found his passage free as he could wish. The generous Assen had been that Evening to visit his fair Prisoner according to promise, and given her an account how matters stood, with some hopes of accommodation between parties at difference; for that it was clear by the confession of the Eunuch who had carried the Sultaness in the Basket, that if the Bassa had a hand in sending away the Sultaness, she had contributed not a little to her enlargement, out of a criminal passion she had for Alexander, by going to see him at his Lodging. Laura well pleased with this News, could not sufficiently thank Assen for the obliging care he had of her. He had sent so many several sorts of excellent refreshments, that she found herself better used in the Prison, than in the Bassa's Seraglio; she knew not what to attribute so much goodness and complaisance to, and was a little troubled, out of an apprehension she had there might be some love in the case; for the Turk appeared so civil, so punctual, and so full of kindness, above the ordinary rate of those of his Country, that she had cause to think him rather a Lover of her, than a mere Friend of the Bassa's; yet had he not in a syllable transgressed the respect that was due to her, which pleased her the more, that she had no cause on that account to be angry with a Man who had done her so many good Offices. And the truth is, he acted only out of a principle of generosity, having been five or six years a Slave in Italy to a Patron who had used him very well; and therefore being of a generous nature, he held himself obliged to do the Christians good offices, as having for them a more than ordinary Love and Esteem. As Laura was complaining of her ill Fortune, which threw her out of one mischance into another, he prayed her to tell him how she was made a Slave. Laura was so much obliged to him, that the trouble she might expect in herself, upon a fresh relation of her misfortunes, could not hinder her from giving him that small satisfaction, in acknowledgement of the many services he had done her; so that having assured him there was nothing pleasant in the story of her life, yet to let him know the first rise of her misfortunes, she begun in this manner. Sir, I was born at Genoa, and of one of the best Families of that Republic, but you shall excuse me, if I conceal the name: I will save my Family that shame, since my misfortunes can do it no credit. I was born in a prosperous and flourishing Estate, and my Parents having no other Child, I was bred With that care and expense I may rather call profuse than great. It was my misfortune that my Mother died when I was but 12 years old, and that my Father, though aged, married a young Lady more considerable for Birth than Estate; but my Father had sufficient to satisfy the ambition or pride of a Woman of quality. But these were not the Vanities my Mother-in-law was subject to, it was Love had the Ascendent over her. My Father was old, she was young and handsome, and he had cause to be jealous of her. He let her stir but very rarely out of her Lodging, and never but in his company, and then only to Church, or to make a visit to a Friend or Relation. But who can resist his fate? My Mother-in-law, little pleased with the severe hand my Father held over her, found her inclination to be unfaithful to him, increase more and more; nothing provokes desire more than restraint, and difficulties and straits are Sisters of invention; she made use of several to carry on some little intrigues in the Town, but all to no purpose; my Father, an old Master in Gallantry, was so cunning and mistrustful, that nothing could escape him. So that the kind Lady despairing of relief from abroad, was willing to try if she could find at home any means to satisfy her inclinations. She cast her eyes on a Man, of condition so mean, I dare not for her reputation let you know what it was, though otherwise very handsome, honest, and till then very faithful to my Father, who had more trust in him, than in any of his Domestics: this acquaintance and familiarity so dishonourable for a Lady of her quality, lasted for some time without being discovered, till at last by ill fortune for them and for me, having laid me down to sleep on a bed of repose in my Mothers-in-law chamber, I was an eye-witness of their Infamy: they were not ware of me, my Maid having by chance covered me with a piece of Tapestry, laid usually on the bed. I saw them, and they me, with what surprise you may imagine. I was then 14 or 15 years old. Was he not a Slave, says the Turk? interrupting, with a tone full of joy and surprise. Yes, Sir, answered Laura (astonished at the Question, which made her look earnestly on him) he was a Slave, and of Turkey. Ah Madam, cries the other, as soon as she had said so, is it possible you should not know Assen? and that you should be Madam Elinor? At this Laura was mute for some time, and then recollecting herself, Oh Heavens! is it you, my poor Assen, says she? By what good fortune have I met you here, and fallen in your hands? By the best fortune in the world both for you and me, says the Turk, ravished with joy to find himself in a condition to serve her, and being under the obligations I am to you, I should be the most ingrateful of men, if I employ not myself in your service. I know you may accuse me on the account of your Mother-in-law, but what could a poor slave have done, tempted by the charms of a fair Lady, who offered him Money and Liberty when he pleased? You will confess, men are gained by less matters, and that if I committed a Crime in doing as I did, after the Confidence so good a Master as your Father reposed in me, and the bounty he shown me, yet it is pardonable; at least I believe I have made some amends for my fault, in saving your Lives, which your Mother would have rob both you and him of by poison. But I had that influence over her Passion, that I diverted her from it. She made me a thousand promises, if I would put in Execution that horrible design; but because you are ignorant what followed that Adventure, I will tell you in few words. Your sight of us, as you said, surprised extremely both the one and the other; and in that desperate Passion your Mother-in-Law was then in, I know not what she would have done to have been rid of you. But, as I told you, I opposed her, and made her understand, that the course she proposed, would certainly plunge us into irreparable Mischiefs, and doubtless, cost us both our Lives. That it were better to endeavour to gain you by fair means, in hopes that being very good natured, you would not pursue our destruction, by making your Father acquainted with that which would certainly be the cause of his Death, and bring him to his Grave. You cannot but remember I went alone with you out of the Chamber to persuade you. And that I told you, it concerned the Honour of your House to keep the matter private, with several other reasons, with which you expressed yourself convinced. At last, you promised me not to make any more noise of it, if your Mother-in-Law would, for the future, keep within the bounds of her Duty. I made a relation of all this to her, expecting that the experience of your discretion, so well known in the Family, would have passed for current Security, for your keeping your word. But it could not secure her from strange inquietude and trouble of Mind. She could not see you without shame, nor come near your Father without trembling. She buzzed instantly in my Ears, that there was a necessity of making you both a Sacrifice to her Repose; and that till than she could not expect any Pleasure in her Life. She told me, I must help her to effect the design, or expect to be the first that should feel the weight of her wrath. I endeavoured the best I could to reduce her to Reason, but for some time she would not hear any. At last, her ill humour desired only the satisfaction of your being put out of your Lodging, and was content to find out several pretences to persuade your Father to put you into a Nunnery, or at least out of his House. Notwithstanding all the Arts of her Complaisance and Cunning, she found it no easy matter to bring this about; but for the quiet of the House, it was necessary to please her, and place you under Pension in a Nunnery. Shortly after, whether it were that you had discovered the business, or that she feared you had done so, or rather that she was willing to be rid of me, by this Stratagem she came one Night to my Chamber, while your Father was asleep, and with a fright in her looks told me, I was undone, that my Master knew all, and that I had no more but that Night for to save myself. Whereupon she gave me Money, and seeing me resolved to be gone, bid me her last farewell. I kept, as you remember, the Keys of the House, and so got easily out. I had, for a Disguise, taken a black Suit of your Fathers, and as soon as it was day, and the Port open, I hired a Felucca, which carried me to Legorne, where I lay private three days, staying for a Vessel of the Great Dukes, which was to carry a Present to Mahomet Bassa, my Ancient Friend, who made use of his Interest with the Dey to restore me my Estate, which since I was a Slave, had been Confiscated, upon a belief I was dead. But having failed of his desire, he procured me in recompense, the Secretary's place, which is no great matter here. This, Madam, is the account of my Life since I left Italy. You may oblige me in acquainting me with yours, which I could not come to the knowledge of, having never heard since from Genoa. That which remains to be told you, says Elinor (whom we will yet call Laura) is a story full of troubles and misfortunes; the more difficult for me to relate, that a Person of Quality cannot but be ashamed of them. But I will be free with you. Having spent two Years in the Covent I was placed in, my Father moved with many tears, took me home; where for the time I stayed there, I was under continual Persecution from my Mother-in-law; who having got the Ascendent over the good Man, made him believe what she pleased. She had new designs in her Head, which you may believe was the cause of the fear she put you in: for my Father never had the least knowledge of your familiarity, and was much troubled at your running away, declaring he had lost in you the best Servant he had. He had designed to have set you at Liberty, which was the reason he sent not after you, as he might have done. I was by this time become somewhat clear sighted, and what I knew of my Mother-in-law, made me suspect every thing she did: I watched her narrowly, and in few days discovered a new Gallant. You may believe, that after the mischiefs she had done me, I failed not to do her all the ill Offices in my power: it is the nature of our Sex never to Pardon. But besides the pleasure of Revenge, I was engaged in Honour against her. This raised a War between us more violent than ever, and my Father had trouble enough to content us both. At first she thought herself hard enough for me, having once already turned me out of the House, and afterwards sent you packing; and putting on a bold face, feared nothing, as knowing I would not accuse her of any thing, but her impudence could bring her off, my Evidence being gone. But when she perceived by my obstructing her new practices, rallying her on all occasions, and other cutting effects of my resentment, that I understood her Secrets, she spared nothing that Rage and Fury could suggest to her against me: At last, she fell heavy upon me with my Father; and having not prevailed with him to return me into the Monastery, forced him to turn me again out of his House, and place me with his Relations; where I passed six Months with one, and six Months with another, to the great displeasure of the Family. Till at last a Grandee of Spain, an old Friend of my Fathers, having been created Viceroy of Naples, and passing by Genoa to go and take Possession of his Government, my Father entreated him to take me along with him, which he readily did. The Viceroy and his Lady received and entertained me, not only as the Daughter of their intimate Friend, but as their own, and honoured me with such expressions of Civility and Bounty, that I thought myself too happy in being of their Train. And the truth is, I was not deceived; these beginnings of kindness growing every day to greater perfection, especially on the part of the Viceroy's Lady, who appeared not able to live a moment without me. She had been a great Beauty, and was not then unhandsome, though not very young. She kept nothing from me, but imparted to me her most private thoughts, and made me the Confident of her dearest affections. This lasted as long as I was disinteressed, but there is no trusting one another of our Sex, especially in matters of Love. I was reputed not unhandsome, and having a full Purse at command, I lived at that Court with Splendour enough. It was presently known, I was not the most inconsiderable of Genoa, and this advantage set off with a little Beauty, raised so great a number of Pretenders to me, that I could not pass a day without treats and addresses of Love. The Court of Naples hath always passed for the most Gallant of Italy, by reason of the multitude of Persons of Quality in the Kingdom, but was never so pleasant as then. I was so young that I knew not what Love was, and was not concerned to make haste to learn it, but made the Cares and Sighs of those in Love, my sport and divertisement. But Love will in time be revenged, and make sport of us that make sport of him. I had not yet seen the man who had the secret to affect my heart, no not one who could please, though that Court had of all sorts, and some very handsome. The Son of the Viceroy, being a young Lord very well accomplished, and not a little concerned for me, did but give me trouble. But as I hinted before, I paid dear for that indifference and those slights I gloried so much in. Five or six months after our arrival at Naples, there appeared at Court a young Gentleman, whom Love seems to have raised up for my ruin. It was the Marquis Hippolito of the House of Accelyn, equally considerable for his good parts as his Birth; a Youth whose outside was taking enough to charm at first sight, but as traitorous and wicked within, as he was outwardly handsome and well accomplished. When you have heard out my story, you will say I speak with too much moderation. It is hard to hate what we have been once truly in Love with. In spite of that unpardonable outrage he did me, I find that if I saw him, and had it in my power to take my revenge of him by death, which he hath but too well deserved, my resentment would give place to the inclination I had for him. He was newly come from France, and had got the Court-air, so peculiar and natural to those of quality of that Nation. I was extremely pleased to see him, and looked upon him with delight, the first time he appeared, at Court; and was sensible of it, though with shame and anger at myself. From thenceforth he was constantly in my thoughts, though very troublesome to me. I was displeased with myself for it, and would upon any terms have put him out of my mind, but the more I endeavoured it, the more I found him settled there. I saw him several times after, and to end the War within me would fain have persuaded myself, it was not for my honour to entertain such thoughts of that Gentleman; but I found in the end my ingenuity deceived me. That which contributed most to my ruin, that both by his looks and his actions he seemed to prefer me before all the Ladies of the Court, and though he did not declare so much, yet I could observe he had more than an ordinary respect for me, and would now and then say to myself some things I fancied he might and would have said to me. At last I made myself of his Party, and blaming my past coyness, I thought it very allowable and just, to have some esteem for a man who merited it from all the World: Having once entertained this thought, and convinced of it as reasonable, my passion and Love finding my heart already more than half open, pressed in and absolutely took it. The Viceroy's Lady, who often diverted herself in entertaining me with all the Intrigues of the Court, having one day told me several Stories, asked me if I knew the Marquis Hippolito's Mistress, for that, for some days past, she observed him very solitary and out of humour, which she took for an effect of some inclination. Had she looked upon me when she asked me the question, she might have read in my countenance how much I was concerned; for I changed colour three or four times. But being upon the Tarrass of the Palace on the Country side, she was looking that way, and took no notice of me; so that having time to recover myself, I answered with an affected coldness, that he was a dull young fellow, and I believed incapable of Love: and thereupon out of Jealousy her question had raised in me, I made a description of him as really unlike him, as contrary to the thoughts I had of him. The Viceroy's Lady fell a laughing, and having looked upon me so, as she believed, would have put me out of countenance; is it possible, says she, that you should think so of a man whom all the other Ladies esteem the handsomest of the Court? If I were not very well persuaded of your indifference for all men, I should believe of you quite contrary to what you say. But look to yourself, for sooner or later you shall be met with, and your insensible heart shall have her turn as well as others. As for me, I confess, were I as you, that young Gentleman would please me, and I would not have you slight him: Think of it, he is a Person of merit and worth, and wants nothing of what may justly deserve Love from a fair Lady as you are. Who would not have believed but she spoke in good earnest? Who could have mistrusted her after so many kindnesses and favours she daily laid out on me? I know not whether I was to blame, but must confess I yielded myself to be taken, and was ready to unsay in her presence all that I had spoken against the Marquis Hippolito, and to acknowledge I had prevented her in the thoughts she had been pleased to inspire into me of him, but my modesty restrained me. I thought myself concerned in honour, to expect an Address from him, before I would confess myself taken. I could never discover perfectly this Lady's design, but as far as I can guests by the consequence, she questioned me of pure jealousy, endeavouring to discover whether I had any affection for the Marquis. She had often seen us talk together; judging by her thoughts of him, that it it was hard enough for a Lady to be acquainted with a Gentleman of so many charming Qualities, without loving him; she had doubtless some apprehension I had on his account cease d to be insensible. But finding by what I said, that I continued indifferent, her jealousy giving place to Love-policy, she desired to settle some friendship between him and me, to serve her for a pretence to see him as oft as she desired. At least I am of opinion these were the reasons obliged her to speak of me as she did, and to tell me, if ever I meant to love, I could not make a better choice. I stood out stiffly to the end, telling her, my Liberty was so precious, that I would not part with it for any consideration in the World, if the keeping depended wholly on me: But because those of my condition were not born to enjoy it all their Life; whatever I endured, I would be guided by my Friends, and absolutely obey their pleasure who had the right to dispose of me. Hereupon she embraced me, and said, all the Maids of the World would be wise, were they of my humour, and followed my example. In the mean time, since I was resolved not to slight the Counsel of Friends, it was her advice I should admit the Marquis Hippolito to see me sometimes. But Madam, said I, interrupting her, hath he desired leave to do it, and is it at his request you make me the motion? She answered, saying, that I need not trouble myself for that, but might believe this overture came not altogether from her; and that the Marquis had found me out as well as others. You may imagine what a pleasure she did me, in telling me this, who desired nothing more than the love of that Gentleman. This discourse being over, we parted extremely mistaken in our thoughts of one another. She imagined I was still the same, and altogether insensible of love; and I thought she had spoken as a Friend, and really desired to see me in love with the Marquis: We began to have the young Lords Company, after the particular kindness between him and Don Alphonse, Son to the Viceroy, gave him free entrance where he pleased; and the Viceroy having no small esteem for the Marquis, was not only glad to see him at Court, but engaged him by his Civilities to come to him oftener. I shall forbear mentioning what the Lady contributed on her part; but you may believe if very probable, that having the kindness she had for him, she omitted nothing in her power to further these Visits. At first he was altogether for me, at least in appearance; for several days he wanted nothing of diligence or complaisance to please me. I went he still waited upon me, approved all that I said, and took my part on all occasions. In a word, he practised all that may be done, for gaining a Mistress; and was presently looked upon in Court as a new Servant of mine Many of my Friends congratulated my Conquest, and I could not but laugh at them. Not but that I believed it, being easily persuaded to credit what I so much desired, but that I was afraid to believe it so soon, and was unwilling it should be known, to avoid the shame that might attend a mistake. He had not as then spoke to me of Love; and the least I could do, was to expect he should declare himself. A Lover of so much Wit as the Marquis, could not fail of finding an occasion. But I know not whether fortune befriended him so ill, as not to afford him one. However, 'tis certain he never took any to discover his Passion by Speech: All that I knew of it, was from his looks and his sighs, which perhaps my kindness interpreted too favourably. Men being now accustomed to a general Gallantry, that in show and appearance, both their words and their actions speak altogether of Love. These promising blossoms of an apparent affection, were all blasted on the sudden. I was surprised at it to astonishment, to see him so far advanced to make so sudden a stop, at a time I lest expected it, and prepared myself to give occasion to discover his affection, which I feared his respect for me, or his fear to displease me, had hindered from doing. I could not imagine the cause of so sudden a change; for three whole days he absented from the Court, and when he appeared there, he looked like a man so cold, so altered, as if he durst not cast an eye upon me, whereas before he was jovial and complaisant, and his eye never off me, you cannot easily imagine how terribly this vexed me. I was upon the point of ask him the reason, and had certainly done it, but that I was overruled by a little haughtiness and pride, which making me look on his inconstant proceeding, as an effect of manifest Treachery, inspired me with scorn and aversion against him; which however I smarted for in the end: for two whole days I did nothing but weep and complain of Love and my own wickedness. The Viceroy's Lady observing me sad and dejected, though I did all in my power to hid part of my trouble, asked me what I did all, which probably she knew but too well, but was willing to have the pleasure of hearing what I would say, I, who till then had not the least reason to distrust her, made no scruple of telling her in plain terms the cause of my grief, and told her, she had more than any contributed thereto. This made her blush, and comprehending on the sudden what I meant, but thinking without doubt I had discovered her secret. But I fell unhappily to explaining myself, and seriously confessed to her, that what she had said to me of the Marquis Hippolito, had produced in me some disposition of kindness for him, which cost me then very dear, having been very confident she would not have deceived me, but that the Marquis had now deceived us both. I must confess, says the Traitress, I was willing to conceal from you the inconstancy and change of a foolish young flash, and did design not to speak to you any more of him, not thinking you could be much concerned for him after what I had heard you say of him. But since you are ware of his inconstancy, and so much concerned at it, I must tell you, that to my grief as much as yours, I have discovered he is otherwise engaged. She perceived me blush extremely at that word, and in truth I was so disordered within, it was impossible to hid my despair. Otherwise engaged! Madam, said I, sighing: Yes, answered she, to a new Mistress very lately. Judge you, continued she, what I said to him on that occasion, and whether he did deserve to be reproached, having expressed so much passion for you, that I thought it impossible a man could have been more deeply in Love. Oh Heavens, cried she, how deceitful are men now adays! He excused himself by the Friendship he hath for my Son; that to be his Rival, were to betray him, and that the confidence he had in him, in acquainting him at his arrival, with his affection for you, obliged him to make a Sacrifice of his heart, to serve my Son's interest. Sorry excuses, I confess, says she, but how can we help it? 'Tis a mercy however, he knows not the favourable inclination you have for him, for which he is unhappily beholding to me, as the cause of your kindness. He should never have known these worthy inclinations, replied I: I never discovered them to any but yourself Madam, for whom I had no reserve, and I hope you have not told him. Think not, says she, I could so far forget myself: though I were not so much your Friend as you know I am; I know very well with what caution to manage their concerns, who repose a confidence in me. Then I asked her trembling, whether she knew the fair Lady had rob us of him▪ That, says she, I cannot learn of him, but I will endeavour to discover it by my Son, who without question knows who she is; leave that to me and I will bring you news of her as soon as I can discover her. Thus did my Rival triumph and laugh at me. I must confess I was a very Fool, in that I had not then more wit, than to trust any Woman; but it was the confidence I had in her, that blinded me. Yet when I call to mind a thousand things then spoken and done, I cannot but wonder, I who had seen so much of the world, could not make discovery of the treachery they acted against me. I did nothing but torment myself night and day, and avoided all occasions of being with the Marquis, for fear my weakness should to my disgrace prevail over my resolutions. I saw him entertain himself commonly with the Viceroy's Lady, and ask her one day, what it was they discoursed of; and whether she had discovered the secret I was so desirous to know; she answered me, no, but that I should not trouble myself, for the Marquis would come to me again; and that she studied how to bring it about. I was vexed at this, and told her I did not desire it: that she might do her pleasure, but that I desired to be unconcerned. And the truth is, the pains I endured, would, I believe, by degrees have made me insensible, and cured me at last But on a day the Viceroy treated us in the Garden▪ I quitted the Company, and walking aside to muse in a dark and solitary place, I met with the Marquis. I thought it an effect of the Lady's care, and that she had made use of this occasion to reconcile us. I know not whether he took the haughtiness and seriousness of the Looks I entertained him with for an ill Omen, or not; but sure I am, he trembled as he approached me, and with a very settled tone, told me, it was very strange to see a person of my Humour finding out so solitary a Walk, there being so much good company in the Garden: it had been, said he, excusable in any other, as an effect of some amorous thoughts; but for you, Madam— for me, replied I, interrupting him, and who hath told you but I may have been led hither by Love? Ah Madam, answered he, we know you too well to entertain any such suspicion; and I am sure, if you can love any thing, it must be only yourself. 'Tis well, replied I, if it be true as you say, that I love nothing at all; but as for what you reproach me with, 'tis reported you are not altogether indifferent: there is some ground for the report, Madam, indifference being a Quality I never stood much upon, especially towards you of all the people in the World. What not towards me? replied I, when you knew me insensible. 'Tis true, Madam, answer- he, I was told so, but submitted however to the destiny of those many unfortunate Lovers, you have made such in this Court. In matter of affection, said I, we are not to be led by example; some have more merit or at least better Fortune than others; we are sensible towards some, when we are not so towards others: One person shall please, without knowing wherefore, amongst an infinite of others who shall not have that advantage, though equally handsome. In a word, every one hath his lucky moment: you may believe I could not have said all this without blushing; The Marquis having heard me with such attention, as clearly discovered him surprised at my discourse, was just going to answer me, when the Viceroy's Lady, who would never with her good will have us both out of her sight, unhappily interrupted us, and surprising us on the sudden, said, I dare lay a good wager you were, speaking of Love: 'tis true, answered I smiling we were discoursing of a very pleasant question, occasioned by being reproached by the Marquis for my insensibility. He hath reason, Madam, replied the Lady, to prevent an answer from the Marquis; he who is so deeply in Love, may justly reproach you: if you know it not, I can assure you of it, and will in time tell you more. I thought, said I, we had not been so great strangers, but I might have known it from himself, without being obliged to another for the News, and if we two were alone, I know how I would quarrel with him for it. All this was spoken with an air of raillery, which wrought very effectually on the inclinations of the Marquis, which the Lady discoursed of; I applied to myself, imagining what she spoke of it, was done for my honour, and to engage me to an obliging answer, which I gave. She presently fell into other discourse, and led us insensibly towards the Company. On the morrow, the Marquis having mused all night on what I had said, found me alone looking out at a window of the Palace, and falling insensibly on the discourse of the day before, asked me, though I had no inclination to love, whether I would be displeased at one who loved me with the greatest passion in the World: I answered, there were but few I would allow that liberty to; and that in the whole Kingdom I knew but one I could permit to use that privilege. I believe he could not but understand I meant him, and my looks did but too much confirm him in the opinion; he, though he observed it, would not take notice of it. I know, Madam, says he, it is extremely imprudent to propose a Person of a meaner rank than yours, or one of small merit, or not Master of Qualities worthy your esteem; but the Person I speak of, is beyond all exception. Finding him take a course so contrary to what I expected, I had not patience to permit him to make an end, having ground enough to believe, it was not for himself he made this Declaration; and interrupting him briskly, A Lover, said I, (blushing with anger and shame) perhaps would not displease, provided he were like the Marquis Hippolito; any other may come too late. I had scarce spoken these words, but I repent me of them, and unwilling to hear any more in the confusion the torrent of my Passion had put me in, I withdrew, Oh Heavens! cried he, running after to stay me, How unfortunate am I? Unfortunate, said I, turning toward him: Is the esteem I have for you a means to make you unfortunate? Yes, Madam, replied he with a sigh; that precious and charming esteem, I was made believe, could never be gained, which I would have purchased with all I have dear in the World— He stopped there. Well, said I, what of that esteem? Ah Madam, answered he, they have made me renounce it. I had no sooner heard these words, but I went on my way, having given him some looks full of indignation; but seeing him follow me, and not able for very grief to speak to him, I made signs to him with my hand, that he should come no further. It is beyond imagination what a desperate condition I was in that night: Rage, shame, spite, fury, repentance; in a word, all the Vexations of a Lover, mocked, betrayed, assaulted me by turns. I fell so sick, that for many days I kept my Bed; however I resolved to speak to him once more, to know who had caused him to renounce my esteem, as he had told me. I presently fancied it was Don Alphonso; but was very desirous to learn how the matter had been managed, and expected every day to see him with his Friend, or with the Viceroy's Lady, and that I should find an opportunity to speak to him of it. In the mean time he came not to my Chamber, though all the Court did me that honour, for the short time I continued indisposed: this surprised me extremely, and hearing one day he was in my Antichamber, I sent Clarice my Servant to desire him to come and see me, having something to say to him. He would have come instantly, as the Maid brought me word; but the Viceroy's Lady, with whom he was discoursing, stayed him: at which I was not a little astonished; but much more, when soon after I saw him come in, in the company of that Lady. He looked very pale, and his countenance much altered, which contributed not a little to allay my bitterness against him, though I had small reason to think myself concerned in honour of that change that appeared in his looks. You see, Madam, said I to the Lady at their entrance, this Gentleman must be sent for, if we desire the pleasure of his Company. These are favours, continued I, not usual with me, and such as I would not by any means have done him, while it was in my power to have any esteem for him. But since he hath told me, they have made him renounce my esteem, you may believe, Madam, I am not much disposed to have any esteem for him; and that what I now do, proceeds not from any such cause. 'Tis true, answered the Lady, he does not deserve your esteem but you must pardon his Youth. I will pardon him, replied I, on condition he will tell me who had the power over his Heart or Wit, to make slight of an esteem not altogether unworthy a Gentleman of his Quality; and 'tis for that purpose I have sent for him hither. He stood mute; so that turning my Head towards the Lady, to ask her the reason of his silence, I was again surprised to find the Lady in greater disorder than he. I was just speaking to him again, when I saw him rise to tell me, with trouble in his face; I will satisfy you, Madam, in that particular, but entreat you let me take a fit time. A fit time, said I, and why not now? Is it my Lady that hinders you? You know I conceal nothing from her. Ah, if it be I, said the Lady, I will withdraw to leave you at liberty; and with that she retired towards a Window, in far greater disorder than if she had been angry. This made me more curious than ever to hear what the Marquis would say to me. Yet he declared himself no further, but reaching forth his hand towards me, he shown me a Billet, which I would not have received on any other occasion; but in this Conjuncture I made no scruple of it, believing I should find in it the Secret I longed for: Hereupon he withdrew without saying a word. And the Lady returning towards me; Well, Madam, said she, how comes it he is gone, without naming to you the Person you have so much cause to hate? I must tell you, 'tis I, and that will surprise you. It really did so, the word she had spoken having astonished me, I could scarce make her an answer: You must know then, continued she, that having told me he had been obliged on the account of my Son to change his thoughts of you, and engage himself to another Beauty; I pressed him for your sake to tell me who it was; and after a long refusal, he had the insolence to tell me, 'twas I. You may imagine how I used him on such an occasion: However, I was of Opinion, that a little more than ordinary complaisance I had expressed for him, had given him that Confidence. But finding him sensible of his error, I was a little better pacified, and let him see he was mistaken on all hands. That he should not have quitted the design of serving you, being unquestionably the best deserving in this Court of Passion, and esteem of a Person of his Quality, and that he was very ill advised to make addresses to me, who was neither for Gallant, nor Gallantry. I was no stranger to the Character of this Lady, and knew very well what she said was quite contrary to the inclinations of her temper. And having had leisure while she spoke, to recover myself from the astonishment she had cast me in at the beginning of this Discourse, and to observe the alteration of her Countenance, I made no doubt of her perfidiousness. This, Madam, said I very seriously, was to engage further in my concerns than I deserved, and in truth than I desired. You had formerly told me, this young Gentleman would have pleased you, had you been as I; and since he preferred you before me, it was too much for you to part with him for my sake. I did, says she, but what I ought both for you and myself. This, Madam, replied I, is a piece of more than ordinary Friendship; and I question very much, whether among the best Friends of our Sex, the pleasure of being beloved by a Person whom all the Ladies of the Court own to be the handsomest and best accomplished in Naples, would not prevail over their Friendship, and make it appear that one Woman seldom scruples to be treacherous to another in cases of this Nature. But, Madam, methinks what you now say, is somewhat contrary to what you formerly told me of the Passion of the Marquis then wholly for me, I thought so then, I confess, said she, but I was mistaken. And is it not possible, you should be now also mistaken, answered I, for I have some reason to doubt it. You do but deceive yourself, replied she. Well, Madam, said I with some heat, let us try which of us is deceived; peradventure it will appear in this Billet I received from him. Whereupon I fell to the opening of it. The Lady much surprised, asked me, if it came from the Marquis. I told her, it did; and that nothing but the curiosity I had to clear this Affair, could have prevailed with me to take it from him, Alas, says she, what assurance can that give you of the inclinations of a Man who changes them every moment; and will, it may be, tell you the same he hath told me already. I was in such haste to open the Letter, that I made her no answer, but fell to reading it, being to this purpose. How great an unhappyness is it, Madam, in matter of Affection, and great trouble of Heart, to follow other Counsels than those of our Passion! Never was Person so deeply in Love, as I was with you, from the day I first had the happiness to see you. And I may very well affirm, I continue so still, notwithstanding the many Oaths I have been forced to the contrary. But some Persons, whom I had not the least cause to suspect of design, having taken the pains to represent your humour so haughty and insensible, that I almost despair of gaining your esteem, I was obliged to address myself to some more indulgent Beauty; not out of inconstancy, but to cure myself of a Passion, the consequence whereof I extremely apprehend. Those who advised me to it, were so kind as to condescend to serve me in it: And the truth is, their Compliance was such, being Persons of Quality, that had not I desired their Assistance, I could not have refused it. But, Madam, there are some evils for which there is no Remedy. That which your Eyes have done me is of this nature. If I have committed a fault, in entertaining thoughts of breaking my Chains, I smart for it more cruelly than you can desire. I know not to what extremity my grief would drive me for the time I have lost, were it not for the hope I have to redeem it. Be pleased, Madam, to give me leave to wait upon you with more Love than ever, and by serious Repentance to deface those ill impressions my error have wrought on you, concerning the constancy of my Affection. For should you be more haughty and insensible than you have been represented, yet I am resolved to die altogether yours. Hippolito. Ah, Traitor, cried the Viceroy's Lady, as soon as I had done reading the Billet, is it possible he should have the Confidence to justify the most visible inconstancy man was ever guilty of, and to accuse others of it? Madam, said I without any Passion, 'tis fit we should hear him speak for himself; and if you please to stay, we will send for him, and see how he will defend himself against you. Alas, says she, what should I stay for? I am not otherwise concerned than on your account. You may now do as you please, but if you will be advised by me, see him no more. That must not be Madam, replied I, though it were but to know who they are he speaks of in the Billet; I must see him once more, and then I shall understand what measures to take. I had hardly done speaking, but the Murquess came in. He thought without doubt the Viceroy's Lady would not have favoured me so long with her company, after he had been gone; and the impatience he had to know how I took what he wrote in the Billet, or perhaps to tell me what made me so earnest to be informed of, made him presently return. He was not a little surprised to find us together. He was just stepping back to be gone, but I prayed him to come in. The Viceroy's Lady seeing him, and confounded at the sight of him, or for fear I would put him upon making the discovery before her, as I had certainly done in the condition things were in, stood up, and taking him by the hand, turning towards me: I have something (said she) to tell him; after which you may satisfy yourself. This action of hers moved more my pity than my jealousy. I know very well she was not a Woman of the best, conduct in the World, but I should never have imagined her Passion could have carried her so far (after all she had said to me) as to make her give in my presence such an instance of her weakness. I let them go without saying a word to one or other, but expected to see the Marquis again, and assured myself of very pleasant divertisement by what he should tell me of the Lady: But he came not at all that day, which angered me not a little. On the morrow I perfectly recovered. My malady was a pure effect of jealousy and vexation, and when I knew how matters stood, I was soon cured of both: Not but that I had reason to fear the Viceroy's Lady. But the sorry course I saw her take, and her pitiful conduct, secured me from the apprehension of any harm she could do me: I was well enough to appear at Court, but hearing there was a Ball at night, I resolved to be sick one day more, that I might steal at night in Masquerade to the Ball, and there speak with the Marquis. My design took not, for he came not thither all the while I stayed. But by reason of my going to and fro to seek him out, the Viceroy's Lady knew me, and being Alarmed at my Disguise, followed me to my Chamber, where I was amazed to see her, and could not believe it was she. Well, and what News of the Marquis, said she? I must know that of you, Madam, answered I, for I have not seen him since yesterday, when you denied me the pleasure to discourse him one moment in a business you and I were sufficiently concerned to be satisfied in. I believe, replied she, you are not now to seek for satisfaction. How can that be, replied I, when I have not spoken with him ever since. It is reported however answered she, you were this Evening together in Masquerade. Those, said I, who report it, are very much mistaken; but I must beg your pardon, Madam, if I tell you there is not any one but you capable of such a mistake. I know what becomes me, and there are but few who make a doubt of it: Persons of my Honour are seldom guilty of such faults. The Viceroy's Lady having a desire to vex and fall out with me, never gave over till I had told her part of my mind, and let her understand I was not to be fooled by her. The truths I told her, madded her to that degree, that she broke out into expressions so cruelly offensive, I could not forbear crying, and unwilling she should have the pleasure to see the Tears run down my Cheeks, I risen up to retire into my Closet What, says she, I interrupt your Meditations in the Charms of your fine Marquis, is not that the cause of your withdrawing? Or rather, continued she, to provoke me yet more, are you going to seek him in your Closet where you have hid him? That which you say, Madam, doth so little become you, that nothing but extreme madness could have made you think so unworthy of me; but I see what pleads your excuse. What, replied she, I hope I have no great reason to trust her that will not trust me. And the right I have to oversee and regulate your Conduct gives me the privilege to visit any place I suspect. With that she took up a Flambeau that lay lighted on my Table, and went up towards my Closet: I looked upon her with that slight and indifference as wholly unconcerned at her Action, which angered her more than any thing I could have said to her. I do not yet know what was her design; for she knew me too well to have the least suspicion of what she charged me with, but it seems she was resolved to try me to the utmost, and be revenged of me that way. In the mean time, by very ill Fortune for me, the Marquis was in the Closet, and she was the first that discovered him; she shrieked out with the surprise of it, which made me turn about that way, and put me into such a fright, that together with the displeasure that accident gave me, cast me into a swoon, and made me fall as dead upon the Bed near which I then stood. The Marquis, seized with true or feigned grief for his being the cause of so unhappy an accident, begged my pardon on his Knees with Tears in his Eyes. What the Lady said to this I know not, but one of my Chambermaid's, who came to help me, told me she saw her go out so angry, that fire seemed to sparkle out of her Eyes. When I was come to myself, I saw her not, but the Marquis kneeling before me with a countenance so sad and so dejected, it melted me into pity, and e●sed me of more than half of my anger. What have you done, Sir, said I? you have utterly ruined me. Go and see me no more but at seasonable Hours, and when every body might see me; after which, though I was very well pleased with his Company, I prayed him to withdraw, to prevent further occasion of Discourse. I am sensible, dear Assen, I spend too much time in relating particulars so inconsiderable, and abuse your Patience in entertaining you with such trifles. But this having been the best of my time in that Court, and best part of my story, you will excuse the difficulty I find in myself to come to the relation of Accidents so shameful for me, that the memory of them is more terrible than Death. Assen having answered; that all she had said was very material; and that he thought himself equally concerned in the smallest Circumstances of her Life, as well as the greatest, she proceeded in this manner. The Viceroy's Lady having fallen out with me, and finding reason enough of difference with the Marquis, who in spite of her visited me often, you may believe she passed her time very melancholy and sad. The first time the Marquis came to see me, I insisted, that if he designed to please me he should begin to do it by telling me in particular all the kindness and caresses passed between the Viceroy's Lady and him. But he entreated me with so much Ingenuity, not to make use of the power I had over him, to oblige him to a thing so mean, that his Discretion prevailed over my Curiosity, and made me esteem him the better for it: however he let me know 'twas of her he spoke in the Billet, as I had easily guessed. The disconsolate Lady, who could not but be concerned for us, was willing to seek Peace, and having found a fair pretence for it, sent me word by one of her Women, that I might do her a pleasure if I would give her a Visit, which I failed not to do. She received me cheerfully, and with smiles in her Countenance, she being an Excellent Mistress of the Art of Dissembling, after some Civilities shown me, she brought me to the Closet, where beginning her Discourse with a very great sigh, Well, my dear Elinor, said she, are you still angry with me? I am hearty sorry, Madam, said I, that you gave me cause, who never deserved it. Come, let us agree, said she, to say nothing of what is past, and give me leave to let you see I am your Friend. It is that I desired, Madam, replied I; and the Honour I have always had for you, must needs make you believe your Friendship very precious and dear to me. 'Tis enough, said she; come tell me presently, if there were a proposal of Marriage between the Marquis and you; do you love him so well, as not to refuse him? Such a Proposal from her appeared very suspicious, and seeing me laugh, as one who would not be caught in that Trap, I do not speak to you now (continued she, as a Rival) as you have believed me to be, and as perhaps (added she smiling) I have formerly been; but as your true and sincere Friend I tell you, that if you desire to Marry the Marquis, it shall be your fault if it be not done; with that she shown me a Letter from the Viceroy to my Father, written to that purpose at the request of the Marquis, and said, your Father hath so much respect for my Husband, that there is no doubt but it will take effect; the Marquis having desired my leave to speak of it to the Viceroy: and finding by the Character of the Letter, they endeavoured in good earnest to unite me to a Man who was furnished with all I could wish, as well for a settlement, as to please my affection; I was ravished with Joy, but let it appear as little as I could, mistrusting my Fortune, especially being in the hands of a Person who would dearly repent it, before it could be effected. I thanked her with the most acknowledging and affectionate expressions I could invent; and there passed so many Caresses on the one side and on the other, that you would have thought we had never been so great Friends before. At my return I found the Marquis in my Chamber, where he waited to bring me this pleasing News, with a Countenance full of Joy; and that the Viceroy had given him free liberty to visit me. I told him I had heard all this from a Person he could not easily guests, and in truth it was hardly credible it should be the Viceroy's Lady. I told him it was she, and related all our Discourse. The Liberty granted the Marquis to visit me when he pleased, having heightened the affection we had one for another, degenerated by degrees into a kind and tender familiarity. He took a little more upon him than had been allowed him, and more indeed than I ought to have permitted him. But 'tis hard for one in Love, so deeply as I was, to be proof against the Amorous assaults of a Man she expects to be her Husband on the Morrow. At first I made resistance enough, and would not so much as give him my hand to kiss; but Love blinds so, that he doth insensibly lead us away, and accustom us to things we never durst think of. After the first blush, the rest follows of course. We expected with equal impatience my Father's answer. We were already mutually engaged, so that if his answer should not have proved favourable, we were resolved to complete our happiness: Such engagements given to save a Maid's Honour, are but snares Love lays for her Virtue. The Marquis, as all true Lovers, being impatiently earnest for the possession of my Person as well as Affection, whereof he was assured, and fearing cross Accidents that might hinder our Bliss, let me know, amongst some little favours I allowed him to take, that he was very desirous to obtain of my gift what I had forbid him to hope without my Father's consent; and that if I loved him, I would make it appear in obliging him in that particular. I made as if I did not understand him, but by degrees he spoke so intelligibly, that I was under the necessity of being very angry with him, or of defending myself with Arguments: Finding it impossible to be angry with a Man I loved, I fell to Disputing, but he was too hard for me. And certainly, in matters of Love, a Maid that comes to reasoning, is in danger of being lost. However our combat lasted long enough, to make me fancy I had satisfied my humour; but at last I must yield. I thought there needed not so much caution, with a person who had given the Viceroy his word that he would marry me, and assured me, (as I believed) by a thousand Oaths, that he would make me his Wife. He was to come to me in my Chamber at night, an hour after all should be in bed; and because my Chamber was near that of the Viceroy's Ladies, where I had liberty of entrance at my pleasure, I told him I would leave the door open, and prayed him not to make a noise, or speak a word, lest the Lady should hear us. You see, Assen, I conceal nothing from you; though I might allege many reasons in excuse of my fault. I cannot tell you all this without blushing; for I must confess had I been more wise, or more prudent, I could not have been so unfortunate as I am. The Viceroy was gone that day out of Town; all things seemed to favour us, but it was for my ruin. The hour was come, and I heard a man entering softly into my Chamber, for there was no light to see him by, and I easily believed it was my dear Servant. I received him with the kindness of a Woman in Love, and made no doubt but it was he; for he had the same embroidered Waistcoat, which he had caused to be made against our Wedding, being one of the richest ever seen in the Court. Part of the night we passed in an amorous silence, till at last he fell asleep. As for me, I found myself a little indisposed, and wanting a light to find something to take, I ventured to go into the Lady's Chamber, which commonly had a watch-light burning all night. Having opened the door from my Chamber to hers, I was not a little surprised, when approaching the watch-light, and casting my eyes towards her to see if she were a-sleep, the Curtains being all open because of the hot weather, I saw a man in his lying by her. I doubted very much whether it were best to go back whence I came, or take away the watch-light; but the need I had of this prevailed with me to go on, and light the candle I had in my hand; and having seen so much, I was possessed with a Spirit of curiosity to know who that fortunate Gallant might be; I perceived him in the habit of Marquis Hippolito. I was surprised at the adventure, and had I not been fully persuaded I had newly left him in my Chamber, I do not know what extravagances I might have run into. However this Circumstance inflamed my desire of knowing who it was. I perceived he was of the same stature with the Marquis, and had the same hair; the Lady's arm was over his face, so that I could not see it. I was at the bed's feet, and could not be mistaken; I trembled all over, as an Omen of my misfortune. Heavens! said I within myself, am I awake or asleep? is not that the Marquis? could he quit me this night to come to this Lady? perhaps they held correspondence together, and she knew he was to pass this night with me. All these Reflections were made in a moment, and the next moment after that, I came into my own Chamber, to find out the truth. But how was I astonished to find the Marquis there too? Oh Heavens! cried I, which of the two is the counterfeit? And drawing near him in my Chamber, I perceived by the colour of his Hair, how unhappily I was deceived, and that it was Don Alphonso was there. What a Fury, what Rage did this put me in? I seize d the Poniard he had laid on my Table, and not knowing with which of the three to begin, being all equally perfidious, I thought the Marquis as most criminal, was first to be sacrificed to my just revenge, for fear of an Escape. So that I went into the other Chamber; but the noise that I made, having awaked Don Alphonso, he was amazed to see a Light, and perceiving me enter his Mother's Chamber, he got up in a trice, and frighted at the sight of the Poniard in my Hand, he ran after me, and laid hold on me by the Arm, just as I was going to stab that Traitor the Marquis; but he was also sufficiently surprised to see me lifting up my hand to kill the Marquis, lying by his Mother's side. He was enraged at the sight, and to wash away the stain of his Family with the blood of the Traitor, was ready to execute that vengeance he had hindered me to take; but I stayed him, and throwing myself upon him, Traitor, said I, this blow was not reserved for thee, thou shalt not have the pleasure of being first revenged. At these words, and the bustle that we made, the Marquis and the Viceroy's Lady awaking, were at their wit's end, not knowing what resolution to take. The Marquis judging that the Poniard Don Alphonso had in his Hand, threatened only him, made use of the time I held him, to lay hold of his own, and stand on his Guard. I left them in this furious Disorder, hoping they would sufficiently revenge one on another, for their Treason against me; and re-entering my Chamber, I shut the door on that side, and having taken with me all that was considerable in money or Jewels, I went out at another door, and ran through the Streets like a mad Woman, to seek a Felucca in the Port, to carry me to any place my despair would lead me. I was so unhappy as not to find one ready, and had not the patience to stay, for fear of being pursued, and forced back to that Court, where I had rather die than appear. At last with much ado I found a Bark bound for Barcelona; provided they went far enough from Italy, and that my Name and my Birth were concealed, I cared not whither they carried me; so that I went on board, without taking a moment to consider. 'Tis not a single Accident makes us unfortunate; the greatest disasters have commonly a large train of misfortunes: Thus far my soul entertained not a thought, but what the transports of despair and resentment had suggested. But when I saw myself at Sea, and in no other Company than that of five or six poor Mariners, who knew not what to think of me, my heart was so full, that nothing could ease it but a torrent of tears. I will not trouble you with a Relation of the sad thoughts I had for two or three days that I had the opportunity of a solitary entertainment; but on the fourth I found myself plunged into new afflictions. About Sunrising the Seamen put up such a lamentable cry, it almost broke my heart: I thought we had been Shipwrecked, and asked what the matter was, more out of curiosity than any fear of death, being the thing I hearty wished for. I found the Galleys of Biserti had us in Chase, and took us an hour after: I received this disaster with such tranquillity of spirit, as really astonished all the Spectators. All my fear was for my person, having fallen into the hands of men who are the most barbarous and inhuman on earth, and have no respect for our Sex. However, whether it was my particular good fortune, or that they had some regard for a Woman which appeared of more than ordinary Quality, I may truly say, that setting aside the haughtiness and rudeness of their first approach, in forcing open the door of my with their feet; I was better used than the rest, and more favourably than I expected. As soon the Soldiers saw me, not one of them entered; only the Captain of the Galley took that liberty, and very civilly asked me in Italian who I was, and for what place I was bound. I hide from him both my Name and my Quality, telling him, I was called Laura, and went for Barcelona to my Father; then in the service of the King of Spain. Then I put into his hand a little Box, in which were my Money and my Jewels; and the more to oblige him, I told him I made him a Present worth above twenty thousand Crowns (as in truth it was) and that I might have thrown it overboard, as most of the Seamen had done their and their Merchandise. The acknowledgement I desired of him, was that I might be civilly used; which he promised me, and the same time told me, I should say nothing of the Box, assuring me of a share at our arrival at Tunis. I was ravished at this Conjuncture, not so much for the hopes he gave me of restoring part of my Jewels, but because this secret rendered me useful and necessary to the Captain, and obliged him to a greater care of me. And the truth is, I had no reason to complain; he caused me to be presently carried aboard his Galley, and gave me his own , and never came into it till we arrived at Biserti. Our Voyage was not long; we had a great Calm, and having in three days gained the Cape of Carthage, we got safe into the Port of Biserti; where being landed, I was put into a kind of Litter carried by a Camel, and so carried to Tunis, under a Guard of five or six Horsemen. I fell to the Bassa's share, who, joyful of it, made a Present of me to his Lady. Thus you have, dear Assen, the fortune of a Maid born of an illustrious Family, and to a plentiful Estate, as you very well know. The Turk being perfectly acquainted with the condition of her Family, could not sufficiently admire the strangeness of her fate, and assured her of his best endeavours to make her more happy for the future, and to gain her liberty to return to her Country, which she had no cause to scruple; That the Accident at Naples was a disaster to be remedied by her Marriage with the Son of the Viceroy, who doubtless would be glad of it: That if it should fall out otherwise, she had many excellencies and advantages to comfort her against all the disasters of her life: That her misfortune in the Neapolitan Court could not be laid to her fault, but the infamous Treason of a Man, who sooner or later was sure to be punished for his Crime. In a word, after long discourse to this purpose, he renewed protestations of his readiness to serve her, and to leave no stone unturned to free her from her misery: That he had many good Friends about the Dey, and was very well assured he could not take any sinister resolution against her, but he must have notice of it time enough to prevent, or escape it. Laura was not wanting to her duty of gratitude, for these signal testimonies of Affection to her Family and her; and could not sufficiently thank Heaven, that in the midst of her misfortunes she had met a Man so devoted to her Service, and of unquestionable fidelity. Thus Assen left her a little comforted against the malignity of her destiny, and promised to come again, and pass part of the night following with her, being obliged that day to wait on the Dey, to see how Matters were carried. The End of the Second Part. THE HAPPY SLAVE. The Third Part ASSEN got home, but was extremely astonished the Moor was not returned: he went to Bed, but had very bad rest, fearing some ill accident had befallen the Moor. And considering of what dangerous consequence it might be to him in the present conjuncture, to be found to have held correspondence with Mahomet, he began to repent he had so rashly exposed himself to discovery. The thought of this kept him from sleeping; but at length the Moor arrived, and having given him an account what had stayed him so long, dissipated his fears, and quieted his Spirits. Assen was satisfied, took the Bassa's Letter, read it; and instantly dispatched the Moor back again, it being a pretty while before Day, and a fit time than at the fourth Watch, as the Bassa had appointed by his Letter. The Bassa was surprised to see the Moor so quickly returned; but having heard the reason, he was not displeased, but hide him in his Tent; and as soon as it was night, sent him in search of his General confident and dearest Friend the Master of the Galleys. Romadan, says he to him, with some disorder in his looks, what think you of me when I tell you I intent to lie at Tunis to night? I must tell you Sir, says Romadan the Master of the Galleys, I think you too wise to expose yourself to that hazard, without assurance from our Friends there, that they will open you the Gates; nor do I believe you can take pleasure in putting your Country to Fire and Sword. You understand me not, replies the Bassa, when I tell you I design to lie at Tunis to night, 'tis not to execute my just vengeance against it; I am too tender of the Blood of my Friends, to revenge myself by night, when I cannot distinguish my Friend from my Foe; I speak of going thither, only attended by a Moor I have here, to speak with Assen, to learn what passed at the Divan, to enter the Castle, see Laura, and return. Romadan heard him with that attention and silence, which sufficiently expressed his wonder and astonishment. He thought it unnecessary to use reasons to dissuade him from a design so rash and extravagant. The Bassa who read in his looks the substance of what he might have said to him. I confess, says he, I expose myself to some hazard, and that it is imprudence, or (you may call it) folly to run such a risk; but that matters not, and to ease you of the fear of being charged for not telling me what you think of the business, I declare to you, I sent not for you to ehav your advice, whether I ought to put it in execution or not, for that's already resolved. The story they tell me of my Wife, that she is gone away with the Christian, and that Laura is at home with the Dey, are the things that prevail with me, nothing but a sight of her, can convince me 'tis true; the more I think of it, the more it perplexes me: I would be satisfied at least how the business was carried, and there is no knowing it but by the Slave. However, were the reasons I have told you not sufficient to make you approve of the design, I cannot refuse an irresistible passion to so small a compliance. The Bassa having said this, held his peace, in expectation of Romadan's answer, who having for some time fixed his eyes on the ground, lift them up on the sudden, saying, God preserve you Sir from the mischief you run into; but if it be so ordained, you cannot avoid your destiny. Then he shown him the many obstacles and dangers he should meet with before he could get to Assen. How impossible it was to effect some of the things he desired; that he could not enter the Castle without being discovered, and that for a sight of a Christian Girl his Slave, he hazarded the ruin of himself, his friend, and his party, that a little patience would make him master of his designs without pains or danger. The Bassa, instead of being persuaded by Romadan's reasons, expressed by his countenance a visible impatience to hear a discourse so unnecessary and useless after the resolution he had taken. His passion tempted him to try his fortune, and deprived him of patience as incompatible with love. The night being pretty well advanced, he disguised himself the best he could; and having given Romadan such orders as were necessary, that his absence might not be perceived, he went away with the Moor, who led him a way he came the night before: they entered the Town without meeting any, but being hard by Assen's House, they fell among a company of People belonging to the Divan, the Bassa's sworn Enemies: But by good fortune he passed undiscovered, for which he was obliged to the Moor, who being a witty fellow, told those who would have stayed them, that he was one sick of the Plague, whom he had in charge to carry to the Pest-house. This made them stand at a distance, and give them free passage; though that disease be not so dreadful there as in other places, being very common and ordinary in those parts. The Bassa was glad of so easy an escape; and when he got to Assen's, he rewarded the Moor according to the merit of so considerable a service. Assen was abroad at the Bassa's arrival, but was extremely surprised at his return to see the Bassa there. Ah! Sir, said he, embracing him, is it possible you would hazard yourself thus? it might have been excusable in a harebrained young fellow, who had nothing to lose but his life, but for a man of your prudence and conduct, (being the second Person of the Kingdom) to come, without design perhaps, at least without necessity, to throw yourself into your Enemy's hands, and expose your life to a thousand dangers. This Sir, how ill soever you take it, is a thing I can never pardon you: For Sir, adds he, what could have obliged you to hazard yourself thus? The Bassa fell a laughing, and taking all in good part that was spoken by Assen, whose kindness he was assured of, asked him if he had ever been in love, and whether he knew not that love had made the greatest of men guilty of faults, and that those faults had always their pardon. But Sir, said Assen, what have you to do with love? is it not Laura you are in love with? and is not she in the Castle? Yes, replies the Bassa, but being in your custody, it cannot be impossible to have a sight of her. Assen would have dissuaded him from the design, as the most extravagant and rash he had ever enterprised; but prevailed no more than the master of the Galleys. Strength of reason and fear of dangers are obstacles too weak to stop the progress of a passionate Lover. Love feeds upon hope, and death is not half so formidable as the happiness of seeing a Mistress is charming and pleasant. The Bassa resolved, whatever befell him, to go into the Castle. But it was impossible to do it by Night, the Gates being then open only for Assen, and others the Dey's principal Officers. So that it must of necessity be between Nine in the Morning and Six at Night; and the strict Examination they used in that time would have cooled any Man but the Bassa from proceeding in so desperate a design. But those Southern Lovers are too hot to be cooled by Obstructions that appear invincible to others. Assen told him, he had no better way than to put him into one of the Meal-sacks he had order to send into the Castle on the morrow in a Cart. The Bassa was content, and thought it an excellent invention; and that there could be no danger in it at all. Having resolved on this, they past part of the Night in Discourse of the present posture of Affairs, what passed at the Divan, what designs the Dey had, what Forces were raised, and such other particulars as were necessary for the Bassa to know. After this, they went to Bed, where Assen took his rest; but as for Mahomet, he had no mind to sleep, he dreamt waking of the happiness of seeing the fair Laura on the morrow. At length the day appeared, and the Cart was loaded with Meal-sacks for the Castle, and among them the Bag with the Bassa in't, was so placed, that he lay pretty conveniently. The Moor led the Horses, and Assen walked at some distance before; the Castle-gate was opened, and no search made in the Cart, the Dey's Secretary was Personally Convoy to. They passed freely to the Magazine of Victuals, where several Moors instantly attended to unload; but Assen very dextrously got rid of them, sending them away on several Errands. This was well for the Bassa, who having been almost stifled in the Bag, had untied it, to take a little breath, and had certainly been discovered, had those Moors stayed in the Magazine. Assen left him there all that day, not thinking it fit to bring him to Laura till Night; so that he locked him up there, took the Key in his Pocket, and went to the Dey's Palace to learn what News. Poor Laura being all day alone, thought it very long, and with great impatience wished for the Night, that she might have a sight of her dear Friend Assen. At length the hour came he usually visited her, but no news of Assen, which troubled her extremely. At last, she heard the Door open, and rising to meet him, Did you but know, Assen, says she, the Sufferings I lie under in the condition I am in, having no Friend but you, you would not have made me pine so long for a sight of you; for in good truth, I am half dead with staying for you. Assen fell a laughing, and turning about to the Bassa, who followed him, here is one, says he, knows how to bring you to Life again, and I doubt not but for his sake you will pardon my long stay. Assen had not told the Bassa of the Ancient intimate Acquaintance he had with Laura; this made him interrupt her so quickly, to make her take notice of him. But he was so white all over with lying in the Meal-sack, that she took him for one of Assen's Men; but seeing him laugh, she viewed him more narrowly, and knew him, Oh Heavens! is it you, Sir, says she. Oh? whither are you come in search of an unfortunate wretch, which hath already given you so much trouble, and too great cause of complaint! It is easy, answers the Bassa, to pardon those we love. But is it possible you are here, and that the Sultaness is gone away in your stead? tell me, was it she that betrayed you, or was it Alexander? I know not what to think of it; but when I consider his proceed in this last adventure, I cannot suspect him tracherous. For 'twas not his fault I discovered not the Sultataness, it was I hindered him to take off her Barnus, that I might see her. However, if he loved you, I am sufficiently Revenged of you, for you have lost more than I; and if he was false to you, you may comfort yourself with the assurance of the affection of a Person not so unworthy of your favour as he was. These last words put Laura to the blush; but making no answer to them, As for me, Sir, said she, I neither lost a Lover in him, nor have cause to charge him with falsehood, but must lay on my ill Fortune all the blame of my being left behind him. You surprise me much, replies the Bassa, and make me conclude you an excellent Dissembler, or myself the most abused Man in the World. Call to mind, Sir, says Laura, What I told you so often, that my affection for Alexander was very indifferent; and to be taken off when I pleased. The Ladies of your Country differ very much from those of Christendom in their course of Love; yours are very susceptible, easily take impression, and are equally unconstant. Ours are more shi● of engaging in Love, but when engaged, their love is more lasting. You believed me a Turk, and several times did me Honours, due only to the Sultaness whom you often mistake for me. The Sultaness, replies the Bassa, much surprised at the News. The very same, Sir, says Laura, for 'tis now time to disabuse you; and since I may justly glory to have made of my Passion for Alexander a Sacrifice to her Love, I may now be allowed to declare it, when she is out of all danger of inconvenience by my owning it. The Sultaness, Sir, continued she, more affected than I with the good qualities of that Christian, looked upon him as worthy of her Love. But permit me to say, you may thank yourself for it, who first sought out the means to gain the Honour of finding a Gallant for your Lady. You may believe, replies the Bassa, I designed no such matter, yet I pardon it in a Woman I had no kindness for. But the falseness of the Christian was unpardonably base, who besides the regard he should have had for the daily favours I did him▪ aught to have observed at least the Laws of Hospitality. The Sultaness, Sir, said Laura, had a Beauty of power to corrupt the most upright of Men; and had she been another's Wife, I durst not have undertaken for your integrity in the case. I had a desire to see the Christian; you brought him into the Seraglio; she had a sight of him: He was handsome, she loved him, and told him so; what could he do? The Bassa could not forbear laughing at her relating the story. And 'tis all the concern the Turks express for the falseness of their Wives, especially those they have no love for, having Seraglios well stored, and the privilege to change Wives at pleasure. The Bassa very patiently took the loss of his Sultaness, and told Laura it must be her fault if he should not be now more happy than ever. The subtle Slave, very sensible how useful he might be to her in the present conjuncture, thought it unseasonable to give him a repulse, but resolved to manage to advantage so good an overture; she told him only, that was not a time to make Love. You see, Sir, continueth she, I am here in a Prison, I know not how to get out of. But I know how to do it, replies the Bassa haughtily; and if within three days you be not at Liberty, I'll fill the Streets of this Town with the Bodies of the Inhabitants. Ah Sir! answers Laura, that were the way not to save me, but to hasten my Death. And it being known I am the cause of this Disorder, you may easily guests what Mercy I shall find. If you have, Sir, any value for my Life, since it may be saved without shedding Blood, and that matters are now in a way of accommodation, let me entreat you not to think of those horrible extremities. Believe me, says the Bassa, 'tis their design to amuse me, till the Troops they expect from Tripoli be arrived; but I shall take Order for that, and if you will prevent inconveniences that may happen, you must resolve to get out hence this Evening, and go along with me. Get out hence, Sir, replies Laura, and how shall it be done, out of a Castle where I am under Guard, and have so many Gates to pass? You see, says the Bassa, spite of all those Guards, and those Gates, I have entered, and resolve to get out again; and may not you so too? But, Sir, says Laura, consider I am a Woman, and however disguised, may be easily discovered by my gate, or my stature; and the least obstacle we meet with, will put me into such a fright, will infallibly ruin both you and me. Assen fortified her Reasons with his, and absolutely condemned the Enterprise proposed, as exposing the Bassa and her to apparent danger of inevitable ruin. You shall see, Sir, adds he, by the difficulty you and I shall find to get out, the trouble we should have to get a Woman along with us. I am of Opinion with the rest of your Friends, 'tis best to come to an accommodation. The Troops from Tripoli will be long a coming, and if you keep the Town straight blocked up a few days longer, you will oblige the People to Petition the Dey to make Peace, which we of your Party will not fail to help forward: And the Dey being of a timorous irresolute temper, will be glad of the pretence to come to an Agreement. The Bassa, though more inclined to violent than moderate actions, yielded this time to the persuasion of two Persons who were the dearest to him of any, and whose interest he knew it was not to give him any Counsel to his disadvantage. He told them he would stay a Week longer, but if in that time neither the Threats nor Intercession of his Friends should prevail, he would make use of some Stratagem to reduce the Town; and if that failed, he would employ all his Force to bring the Dey to Reason. Assen was easily induced to assent to all this, knowing the Town was ill provided of Corn, and that the Inhabitants began already to be straightened, and murmured at the exigences they were reduced to, and not without cause, although it was given out these murmurs were raised by those of the Bassa's Party, in favour of his designs. The Bassa shifting his Discourse from the general affairs to his private concerns, desired Laura to give him a particular account of Alexander's Amour with the Sultaness, which Laura related in the most civil expressions she could, not forgetting the Adventure in the Chamber of Repose, where the Bassa had mistaken his Lady for her: the Bassa could hardly believe this, and was more vexed at it, than all the rest of the story. Then she told him the design the Sultaness and she had to go both aboard, and why the Sultaness had put herself into the Basket without acquainting Alexander with her intentions. I do verily believe it, said the Bassa, for I was in the Chamber when the Basket was brought in, and feigned it was you; and was unwilling Alexander should do you the least violence. I gave Order myself to have it carried aboard, and together with Alexander went along with it to the Port. Assen and Laura could not forbear laughing. The Bassa told them he was as ready to laugh at it as they, but that Laura made one of the party, and had a hand in putting the trick on him. For as for his Wife, the hatred he bore her Father, and the small kindness he had for her, were sufficient assurances he was not sorry to be rid of her. But he expected satisfaction from Laura for the ill Offices she had done him; none being more guilty than she of the Treason of the Sultaness. Raillery made up the rest of the Discourse, and the Night being far gone, Assen, not affected as the Bassa with the Charms of Laura, told him it was time to withdraw. The Bassa entreated him to stay a little longer, and said, while Night lasted, he thought there was no danger; and that he had not taken so much pains to enjoy that lovely Girl only for a moment. At last, Laura acquainted him with the fear she was in, having been so long together, which heightened the danger; giving the Guards cause to suspect so long an interview, and to stop his passage if he stayed much longer. The Bassa, to satisfy her, retired, making new protestations of a Passionate Lover, who would rather perish a thousand times, than not see her delivered from the hands of her Enemies by an Honourable Peace, or a bloody War. A new invention must be thought of for the getting out of the Castle, where the Examination was as strict almost at going out as at entrance. Assen led the Bassa back again to the Magazine, and having daubed his Face sufficiently with Meal, laid a parcel of empty Sacks on his shoulders, without any disturbance, past all the Guards with him, as a Servant of Assen's. It was not yet day; and the Bassa thought it fit to make use of his time, to return before Morning to the Camp, where he thought his presence very necessary. Assen bore him company to the Walls of the Town, and having belped him over, took his leave. Laura longed extremely to hear what was become of him, and could not rest till she saw Assen. Cheer you, Madam, said he, as he entered her Chamber. The Bassa is out of danger, and all will be well. Alas! dear Assen, answers she, peradventure things may go well, but not for me. You will be certainly set at Liberty, replies Assen, and in very few days. Yes, says Laura, I shall be set at Liberty from the Dey, to be made Prisoner to the Bassa, whose Passion will render my Imprisonment a thousand times more unfortunate than my present restraint. Herd you not what he said? And what will become of me, when in his power? Ah, Assen, adds she, with Tears in her Eyes, I did but too clearly foresee the misfortunes that did threaten me, unless Heaven divert them. A Maid of my Quality had better die a Prisoner, than buy her Liberty at that rate. Assen sighing for pity, answered, he had already thought of all she said, and that it was not without cause, he so much opposed the Bassa's designs of taking her away that Night. That he could have found means enough for it, had he thought it for her advantage; But that he resolved to represent to her first, how much harder it would be for her to get out of the Bassa's hands than the Dey's. And that he was very glad she had first spoken of it; that he would keep his word with her, to do her all the Service he could, to help her back into her Country; that he was very sensible it was as much as his Fortune was worth, and perhaps his Life; both which he must hazard in the case: but that he never scrupled to expose the one, or the other, but was ready to sacrifice both for the interest of a Family he was more indebted to; and that he was very willing to return among the Christians, whose Religion and Customs he loved far better than those of his Country. This ushered in a long Discourse of the Business in hand; the Conclusion was, that Assen should use the interest of his Friends with the Dey, to persuade him to set Laura at liberty, and send her back into her Country, to prevent the Confusion to be feared, if he should be obliged to restore her to the Bassa, and see her supply his Daughter Seat and Room. That, if this would not take, he should try the utmost extremites, to endeavour the getting her on board a Brigandine of his, which should be made ready to carry her away with the first Opportunity. Poor Laura, deeply sensible of the Obligation she had to so honest a Man, told him more than once, he might assure himself, she would not be ungrateful for so considerable Services; and that he should never fail of a Friend while she lived, but might command any thing in the power of her Family. Assen, who needed no promises to persuade him in this particular, took his leave; and went to spend the rest of the Night in thinking of the business, for which his inclination and gratitude were motives sufficiently powerful to engage his utmost endeavours. He slept not a wink, but as soon as it was day, he went to visit those he thought to make use of, to speak to the Dey. Of these, Beyran-Aga, the Dey's Favourite, was one, in whom he placed most confidence, as most favouring the Christians, and his particular Friend. He found him ready to serve him, but at the same time, he desired the favour of seeing the Slave. Assen fearing the effects of her Beauty on a young man, as the Aga, might obstruct the design, was so far from expressing a willingness to comply with him, that he strained his invention to find the most specious pretences to divert him. Beyran took it for a denial of his Request, and was somewhat displeased. He thought Assen was in Love with her, and told him only, he would do him all the Service in his power to persuade the Dey to give the fair Slave her Liberty. But the truth is, he endeavoured it but coldly; so that either the Dey believed, a time might come he might give Laura in exchange for his Daughter, or that the Bassa loving her as he did (in case of necessity) to make Peace with him, would for her sake grant him better Conditions, he was not of Opinion with Assen's Friends, who advised him to be rid of her. Assen much troubled his project had failed, resolved to put himself into a condition of stealing her away, hoping to effect it as a thing depending entirely on himself. Beyran whose desires to see Laura increased, by the difficulty he found of obtaining it from Assen, would not ask it of him the second time; but went straight to the Dey, to beg leave to see her, under pretence of learning from her, the truth of what was reported concerning the Sultaness, and the Christian, who was fled. The Dey too well assured of the amour betwixt them, by the evidence of the Moor, who carried the Basket; and of several Women of the Seraglio, and other Circumstances, little needed further Information. But Beyran being his Favourite, and thinking his request proceeded merely from curiosity of seeing the fair Slave, he granted it; and gave order to Laura's Guards to let him see her. This Favourite had heard the Slave was very handsome, but could not learn how long she had been at Tunis, nor how taken; fortune having so ordered it, that he addressed his inquiry to Persons that could give him no certain account. Assen had been busy that day, arming his Brigandine under pretence of sending her a cruising, and commanded his People, being almost all Christian Slaves, to be ready at the Cape of Carthage to sail with the first Orders. Laura was disposed the the night before, to venture passing the Sea in that little Vessel: The weather was fair, the Season pleasant, and they hoped, if the wind served, to reach the ●sle of St. Peter in two days. Assen goes to visit her, and finds her trembling for fear: Madam, says he, this is not a time to tremble, but to arm yourself with Resolution and Courage. I am a Woman, Assen, answers she, and one unhappy enough to have cause to fear the worst, both for you and myself. Assen endeavoured to hearten her, saying, she should be set at liberty on the morrow, and that he would take her out of the Castle without difficulty or danger. Laura was in fear still, and so much disordered, she knew not where to begin to provide for her escape; when on the sudden, she heard her Chamber door open, and turning about, saw a man enter, which frighted her so (apprehending a discovery) that she fell in a Swoon with these words in her mouth; Ah! Lord we are undone! Assen extremely surprised at the accident, and the Moor foreseeing the Aga, knew not what to think might occasion his coming thither, believing it could not be, but in behalf of the Dey. Both Beyran and he were busy about Laura, holding her up, but of the two Beyran seemed most concerned. He viewed and reviewed her Countenance, her stature, her hair, her hands, with a diligence and trouble too extraordinary, not to surprise Assen to whom he had not yet said a word. But all on the sudden, giving free passage to a thousand sighs, his surprise had stopped or suspended: Oh Heavens! Cries he as a man transported, 'tis she, 'tis she, my Dear Eleanor. And at the same time falling down at her knees, embraced them with that tenderness and height of affection, you would have thought he would have died there for joy. These words and transports, and hearing him call her Eleanor, surprised Assen, he knew not whether it was the Aga, he saw there, or some other that had borrowed his shape. Laura the mean while was pretty welcome to herself, and angry at seeing at her feet a man she knew on no other account, but that the sight of him had almost cost her life, struggled the best she could to get from him. But the Aga, with eyes full of tears, and not able to say a word, held her so much the faster. Laura extremely astonished, Sir, says she, if this be an effect of pity, you have for the fortune of an unfortunate Slave, have done 〈◊〉 to be so much alarmed at the sight of you. But I thought you came on a design contrary to my wishes. You little know, Madam, says the Aga, with a languishing tone, the Person prostrate before you. Laura, feigning she knew the voice, fixed her eyes on him to take a better view: Heavens! cries she, what do I see, is it possible it should be he? With that she falls into a second Swoon into the arms of Assen, who much troubled at it, entreated the Aga to withdraw a little, fearing the sight of him might be the death of the poor Maid, not knowing who he was. What say you, says the Aga? Alas! she knows me too well, being the sole cause of all her misfortunes. Assen, I know you to be honest, and my very good Friend, and therefore I apprehend no danger in telling you, she is a Person whose Merits as well as Birth make her worthy your Care; and one for whom I would lose a thousand Lives to save her from harm. Assen hearing this, fell from one astonishment to another, and would have fain cleared the Mystery of the Adventure, but was so busied with endeavouring to fetch Laura again, that he thought it convenient to respite the Discourse to a fit Opportunity. The Aga extremely concerned, assisted him with extraordinary diligence; and Laura beginning to take breath, Assen asked her, if she desired that Turk should quit the Room, and told her, he was the Aga, the Dey's Favourite, he had told her of. She making no answer, turned her dying Eyes towards the Aga, and with a languishing voice, Ah cruel, said she, What Fate brought thee hither to persecute me to Death? Beyran could not hear that Language, without falling the second time at her feet, and washing them with a torrent of tears, without speaking a word: Leave me Traitor, says she, leave me, that I may die in quiet, rather than be deluded again with thy tears, which deceitfully as they are, have but too strong an effect on my feeble heart. Assen the spectator of so tender a Scene, having fresh in memory the story of Laura, with Marquis Hippolito, and Don Alphonso, knew not what to think of it. The Aga was a Renegado arrived at Tunis a year before; and Assen fancied he might be one of those Lovers, and rather the Marquis Hippolito, than Don Alphonso. Laura in the height of her anger, having expressed a tenderness for him, which she could not have retained, but for one she had loved. He had a desire to know the bottom of the business, but thought it unseasonable to interrupt them, and was in hopes this Sense would end in a discovery of the Mystery. Yet being himself straightened in time, and that they were fallen into a deep silence, using only expressions of mutual sighs. He thought fit to say to the Aga (whom he sufficiently perceived no Enemy of Laura's) Had my former acquaintance with you been too small to give me hopes, you would not cross the design we have in hand; yet Sir, what I have but now seen and heard, were enough to persuade me, you will be so far from obstructing it, that I assure myself, we shall have your assistance to compass it. By my request to you yesterday, you know my endeavours for the Liberty of this Slave: those proved ineffectual, but I have thought of other means, which if you please, we will execute this evening. You know well enough the Bassa is passionately in love with her, if we give him time to see her once more, it will not be in our power to get her out of his hands; If a War be resolved on, it will be equally difficult to save her: And who knows but she may be put to death here, the People being already extremely incensed against her, as the cause of all this disorder; and upon the noise of a War, they will be too apt to make her a Sacrifice. Let us be wise in time, all things are in readiness, and if you will make use of them presently, I do warrant the success. The Aga looked upon him as a man newly out of a Trance, and oppressed with grief. Let us do, Dear Assen, says he, whatever you think fit, for in the condition that I am in, I am not capable to give you any reasonable Counsel, but will do all you shall desire of me, and employ my whole power in the Castle to favour your design, and help this Lady out of danger. Ingrateful man, answers Laura, do you speak of helping me out of danger? you who are the cause of all my misfortunes. Go wretch, go, I'll never be so much obliged to you, but choose rather to die here in Prison, than not to have still just cause to reproach you. This is not time, Madam, says Assen, (whose conceptions were too gross to apprehend the delicacy of her Sentiments) to refuse any help, especially the Aga's, who being Captain of the Guard, can give order for opening us the Gates; when we please, without stop or examination. What confidence can we repose, answers she, in the most perfidious of men? No, no, Assen, were it possible for him to be more honest on this occasion, than he was faithful in his love, I will rather die than make use of his assistance, after the double Treason he committed against me: The very thought of it, adds, she with tears, is more cruel than Death. 'Tis true, Madam, says Beyran, with the most moving action imaginable: I have deserved death, yet peradventure I am not so guilty as you think me. Don Alphonso and Clarice, who betrayed us both, have expiated their Crimes with Death, and if mine must be punished with equal rigour, my life is at your dispose. You see me in a Country, Madam, whither nothing but despair on the news of your death occasioned my coming; for after diligent search of the way you had taken, having been told you were embarked for Barcelona, I took the same road, and arrived at that City, where soon after it was reported, the Vessel you embarked in was cast away, and not one Person saved. Never was grief equal to mine, every one pitied me; nor had I escaped death, but that Heaven moved at my tears, reserved me the happiness of seeing you again, to justify myself before you, and not to die in your ill opinion, the thing next the loss of you, I was most of all troubled for. The life I have since led, hath been full of afflictions sufficient to expiate any Crime, if not committed against you. Laura took pleasure to hear him, and hearty wished to find it true. He was not so much to blame as she believed. But the evidence was so apparent against him, that the very thought of what she had seen, made her more angry than ever, so that she commanded him out of her sight, bid him quit the Town, and never see her more. Poor Beyran be-being still on his knees, endeavoured with the kindest and most tender expressions imaginable to pacify her. Assen, who by this time was sufficiently assured he was the Marquis Hippolito under the name of Beyran, moved with his tears, took his part against Laura, whom he thought not inflexible, and entreated her to have some regard to the penitence of so tender a Lover, ready to deliver her out of all her troubles, and free her from Slavery which he had occasioned; but perhaps without any fault of his, and so against his will. But Laura more angry than before (at least in appearance) answered, she valued not her Slavery, but would choose rather to return to the Bassa, than go away with a man she hated worse than Death. This troubled Assen, but he could not despair to see the fair Lady yield at last to the pains and tears of a Lover, though she appeared unwilling to be overcome by the persuasions of a Friend. For anger in a Lady's heart, Is but short lived, though it may be smart, Against their Crimes who have the Art To please; For these No sooner at the Bar appear, Kneel, sigh, look sad, and drop a tear; But they with ease, A pardon for the offence obtain, And are admitted into Grace again: While the fair Judge, whose angry brow, Loured, and looked terrible but now, To the poor Lover there below, Finding her tender heart relent, Gins her Anger to repent; Thinks herself Criminal, that she So rigorous to him could be; Owns her Severity a fault, And that she may it expiate, Submits his Prisoner to remain, Bound in her own affections Chain. Laura's heart was of this temper, she thought herself concerned in honour not to yield too soon. Assen did her no small pleasure in taking the part of Marquis Hippolito, whom we will yet call Beyran. And she was very willing Assen should have the honour of obtaining from her a pardon for the ungrateful Beyran, if he could plead any thing to justify himself, or extenuate the Treason he was guilty of, but that would have ushered in a Discourse too long for the present conjuncture, and Assen told the Aga, if he had a mind to execute the design he had told him of, he must be at the Cape of Carthage before day; for there the Brigandine waited their coming. Beyran answered, it was impossible to get that night out of the Castle, the Dey having not above two hours since had news from the Spies, he maintained about the Bassa, that the night before, the Bassa entered the Town, whereupon the Dey gave strict order no Person should go out or in but by day. Laura and Assen were surprised at the news, and perceived the Bassa had been in danger. Beyran seeing Laura a little mollified, was extremely desirous to improve so happy a beginning by a suitable progress to an entire pacification. But though she saw him much troubled and very penitent, she gave him not the comfort of a kind expression or look, but against her inclination forced herself to appear harsh, and act the cruel against him. Assen, who thought one night at least necessary to be afforded Laura, to dispose herself for an entire Reconciliation; and that being upon the point of executing so hazardous a design, care should be had to take their measures aright, asked the Aga whether he thought it not fit to retire, lest being seen to come from Laura so late, he might give cause of suspicion. The Aga answered, he need fear nothing, the Dey having given him full power to stay as long as he pleased. But Laura, who had more reason to be of Assen's than of the Aga's opinion, who was wholly led by his passion, spoke to him, though somewhat against her will, to withdraw. The Aga ready to obey this order, begged the favour of her to give him hopes at least, she would pardon him, if he made it appear he was altogether innocent as to the matter of Alphonso, and that her hatred of him should be at an end. She made him no answer, but her eyes betrayed her heart; and spoke clearer in his favour than her voice could have done, Beyran kissed one of her hands, which she could not refuse him, and left her full of that evenings adventures which found her entertainment. The rest of that night not knowing what to think of Beyran's fortune, whom she believed turned Turk for despair; at the thought of this, the tears trickled down her Cheeks, and she perceived, that if what he told her was true, of her having been betrayed by her Maid, and that he had not any hand in Alphonso's base action, as in truth it was scarce credible he had, she would love him more than ever, and pardon his being found with the Vice Queen, though this was a tender point, and not to be remembered without a volley of sighs. Assen found the Aga's news true, and not able to get out of the Castle, went with him to his apartment, where the pretended Renegado caused a Bed to be provided him, but they spent the whole night in discourse. Assen you may believe had an itching curiosity to hear the story of Marquis Hippolito▪ having heard Laura's; Assen as soon as they were private, fell into that discourse. The Aga, who knew how much he wanted Assen's help to plead for him to Laura, was ready to pleasure him with the relation, and having understood Laura had told him part of What concern d her, he was willing to acquaint him with what came not to her knowledge, and began thus. When I arrived at Naples, I found there the Viceroy's Son, whom I was acquainted with in my younger days, and renewed our friendship, established rather in the conformity of our age, than of our Inclinations: he brought me to Court, and esteemed it necessary a new comer should be a little instructed in the passages there, he took the pains to tell me all the principal Intrigues and affairs of Love, and made me the Confident of his Passion for the fair Eleanor, expecting from the fair friendship between us, I would, when acquainted with her, do him the best service in my power; I had a sight of her and by the first effects of that view, could easily foresee there was no continuing Alphonso 's Friend, without becoming his Rival: I was troubled at it, and reproached myself for my unfaithfulness; but what signified that when there was love in the case? There was no resisting Eleanors charms, and I had instantly taken the resolution to love her, had not the Vice Queen used all possible arts to divert me; she expressed no small complaisance for me, which I attributed to the friendship between her Son and me. But having found me one day in deep meditation, she asked me, whether I would freely acknowledge the cause of my melancholy; if she could guests what it was, and might serve me in the business? I assured her I would; she adds, I was under the Fate of many other unfortunate Lovers, who could not see Eleanor, without being affected with the excellency of her Beauty. I was strangely surprised, to find a passion scarce entertained in my Soul, already known to the Vice Queen, and could not imagine how she came by the discovery of a secret, I had resolved to keep close as long as possibly I could: it was not in my power to deny it; the trouble in my face and change of my colour, having given her sufficient evidence, how truly she had guessed. I told her I found myself too weak to resist the Charms of that beautiful Maid, and was sorry only Don Alphonso her Son, and my Friend was concerned: she answered, that a passion we cannot master, was not to be complained of, nor blamed, and that her Son could not be so unreasonable, as not to pardon my falling into a distemper, himself had been afflicted with. But she believed, I should prove as unfortunate as her Son; but to keep her word with me, she would let me see, my concerns were more dear to her than the Interest of her Son; but I must not blame her, if her endeavours should prove ineffectual, which she had too much cause to expect, from the strange and unparallelled insensibility of that fair Maid, that she would speak for me that very day, and see what hopes of a favourable reception, and whether she defied love, out of a general aversion for Mankind, or a particular disgust against some of that Sex. The same time she assigned me Ten a Clock at night, to meet her in the great Walk in the Garden, to receive an account of her Negotiation: I was there to wait for her, and she kept her Assignation. I saw her come with one of her Maids, who was her Confident; and having given her my hand to lead her into a Bower, I went in with her trembling, for fear of having ill News, which I presently apprehended from her Countenance. Poor Marquis, says she, you have no better fortune than others; this Girls heart is proof to all Essays; and did you but know that ill-favoured description and scurvy character she gave of you, you would soon judge it to no purpose to apply yourself to her: but I would have you believe, I say not this to discourage you, but should be sorry to see a young Gentleman as you, having qualities worthy the esteem of a fair Lady, should employ them where there is not any hopes to prevail. I had certainly suspected this extraordinary condescension, and goodness of the Vicequeen, had not what she said been agreeable to the report of the whole Court, that the fair Eleanor was the most insensible person in the World. I knew well enough, 'twas not any concern she had for the Passion of her Son, made her speak as she did; she loved him very little, and the complaisance she had expressed for me, secured me on that side. I might have been so sagacious and quicksighted, as to see she spoke for herself, and advised me to quit the thoughts of Eleanor, to gain herself Advantage; but I was so oppressed with grief at the News, that I was utterly incapable of making any reflection: she was a Lady, the most dexterous and insinuating on Earth, and made so good use of the power she had over me, that she not only shook the passion I was under, but helped me to take resolution to rid myself of it, though with the loss of my life. To bring this about, I thought it necessary to find another Beauty to amuse my Affections; but where ever I cast my eyes, in the Court, or out of it, could discover nothing capable to make me forget one moment, the Charms of the beautiful Eleanor. The Vice Queen having after that evening said nothing to me of it, saw me one morning alone in her Chamber, where her Son had newly left me; she asked me smiling, Whether I had taken her advice; and followed her Counsels? Madam, answered I, that cannot be done without my having equal command over my Affections, as you have over yours; or ●nding at least in another Lady, those Excellencies I admire in the fair Eleanor. This Discourse had not pleased her, could she have thought herself of the number of those I mentioned, not comparable to Eleanor. But the good opinion she had of herself, and the respect due to her quality contributed to the good construction she made of my expressions, so that my words gave no offence; but on the contrary, being extremely glad, no Beauty at Court but Eleanor's pleased me, she told me smiling, She would find me out a Person, that wanted nothing of what might engage the affections of a gallant man, and that she was very well assured, I would not deny it. I gave her a thousand thanks, not doubting in the least of the good success of her choice, but was very unwilling to abuse her great goodness: that as to Eleanor, she had done her pleasure; but that the respect due to her, would not permit me to give way, she should be at the trouble to find me a Mistress. She told me, she took delight in't; that she was loath any one's Affections should be lost for want of being engaged; and that knowing my merit, she would think it a pleasure to serve me, and take care I wanted nothing in her Court. All this she said with an air so free, so full of goodness, it charm d me: And I had almost answered, She might without further search, find in herself what she promised me elsewhere. The truth is, setting aside her Age, she might have passed for one of the fairest and best humoured Women of the Kingdom; but I was not willing to venture so far for fear of miscarriage, and was content to wait for a sight of her, she would provide for me. I desired her not to make me languish, being an impatient Lover, and in a condition required present remedy. She assured me, I should hear from her that day, and that I had no more to do, but prepare myself to be deeply in Love. At this we were interrupted by company coming in, which oblige d me to withdraw I spent the rest of the morning in musing of what passed between us, guessing sometimes she meant one Lady, sometimes another of those I knew most intimate with her, and most proper for the design, but could not fix my judgement on any. This gave me some disquiet and trouble, with an impatient desire to see the Vicequeen again. I made in the afternoon forty journeys to Court, to see if she had any thing to say to me; she laughed at my haste, and at length told me, my hour was not yet come, nor the day gone; that I should go home and have patience, and when the time came, she would send me news. Night came, but no news from the Vicequeen, which made me believe, she fooled me; so that I could not forbear returning to the Palace, where I heard she was gone to visit a Lady her Friend. I was so ready to imagine it was the Lady she spoke of, that I enquired her name, and where she lived; but could not learn either. The caution she had used in that particular, fully convinced me, she was gone about my business, and that she made the visit private, that my love might be as secret, and the Court kept ignorant, how far her complaisance had carried her to serve me. I returned in all haste to my Lodging, as assured of all this; nor was I much mistaken, for I was scarce got thither, but I received from her a Billet, brought me by a Lady attended with two Chairs, and expressed as follows. I have done what you desired, and I think, found out the person you wanted; you will easily confess I am very much your friend: the sole acknowledgement I expect is, you would not make me a Liar, having promised the Lady that upon the bare description I made you of her, you would bring her a heart full of love. See you do it, for if you deceive me in this, I shall never pardon you the fault. You have no more to do but follow her that brings you this Billet, without noise or attendance; for you are to come into a place of safety. Had it come from any other, I should not have gone without a Guard at distance, but coming from the Vicequeen, I could not suspect danger. All I thought of it was, that being a jovial and pleasant Lady, she had a frolic in her head, and resolved to put on me some pleasant trick: without more ado, I made me ready to laugh with her in good earnest: I went into one of the Chairs, and followed her who brought the Billet, and was got into the other. They carried us a great way into a private part of the Town, and there set down the Chairs, which my Guide sent away, and we marchcd a little further, till we came to a house which made a fair show; I learned afterwards it belonged to a Lady of her Bedchamber, her Confident, who indeed was my Guide, and having opened the door, made me go in without noise: I saw neither Lackey nor light This surprised me, and made me the more confident, some frolic intended: I said not a word, but prepared, in case things went not as I could wish, to have my share of the mirth with them, who came to laugh at my cost. At last the Lady took me by the hand to lead me up a pair of stairs in the dark, which brought us to a room no lighter than the stairs, and thence into a Chamber where were two Flamboys lighted. It appeared a good room, but what pleased me most was, the sight of a fair Lady, who carelesy laid on a very rich bed, seemed asleep with her hood over her face. I began to repent my censure of the Vicequeen, whom I then thought to have written in good earnest: I saw nothing in this Lady but what pleased me extremely, and to speak the truth, it was the sole moment I may be said to have forgot the fair Eleanor, since I loved her. She was in a lose dress, but handsome, and rich beyond expression: I had not seen the like at Court, and knew not what to think, the Richness of the furniture, as well as her dress declaring her to be a Lady of no ordinary quality: but I was very much perplexed to guests who she was. I made up to her, and spoke; and the amorous impatience I had to know her not permitting the use of much Ceremony towards the Lady that stayed for me, I put my knee to the Ground, and laying hold on one of her fair hands, which she allowed me to kiss; It was but reason, Madam, said I, I should have languished all this day as I have done, who could not expect this happiness, without being put to the pain at least of longing for it. I looked for an answer, in hopes to know the voice, but she said not a word. I entreated her to ease me of the pain, she might believe I was in, and that if she resolved not to be seen, she would however vouchsafe to speak to me, that where I was directed to bring a heart of love, I hoped to see a Lady that had Beauty and Wit; that as yet she had only moved my curiosity, but if she meant to reach my heart, I must see her. As I spoke thus, I perceived her laugh, which gave me the boldness to lift up her hood: She put back my hand, but so weakly, I thought it would not displease her to press a little further: there were but we two in the Room, her Confident having doubtless received Orders to withdraw, and I was ready to put her to the squeak, when at last she threw off her hood. But how was I surpriz d to see 'twas the Vicequeen. Well Sir, says she, blushing, will you be content with your good fortune? And will it not be presumption in me to fancy myself capable to make you forget all other Beauties. I answered her more like a Gallant than a Lover: she was satisfied however, and without engaging further in the relation of a discourse, of which you may guests the consequence, I will tell you only that having spent two or three hours in her company, I returned to my lodging the way I came, and she to the Palace. I saw her on the morrow, and our Correspondence held for some time, but cured not my passion. Her Son with whom I had particular as well as general reasons to maintain a fair Correspondence, expressed more friendship for me than I could have wished: he was not content to make me the Confident of his affection, but employed me to speak for him to the fair Eleanor, expecting more benefit from the Intercession of such a Friend, than any addresses of his own: I did, and you have doubtless heard from her; she let me understand, I should speed better in speaking for myself than for him, 'twas then I thought myself the most unfortunate of men, for believing so easily what the Vicequeen had said to me, whose conduct convinced me sufficiently, how far she concerned herself in my business. I designed that moment to abandon her favour, and give myself up entirely to my first passion; but to prevent the trouble I might expect from the Vice Queen, if she knew it, I thought fit to dissemble a little, and disengage myself by degrees, without declaring on the sudden for Eleanor. I observed the best I could the measures I had taken, but 'tis a difficult matter to conceal a passion from a jealous and a witty Woman. The Vicequeen perceived my relapse, before I made Eleanor acquainted with it; she punished my Apostasy with a thousand reproaches, which were seconded with tears, and I (the better to manage her) pretended a firm Re-ingagement to her. But what will not a slighted Lady do? or what more dangerous than a jealous Woman? I was thenceforward more curious of seeing and speaking with the beautiful Eleanor, and avoided the occasions of being found in her company, while the Vicequeen was by, but all to no purpose: the Vicequeen knew all, and so well discerned what was true, from what was feigned, that she guessed exactly right of the privatest of my thoughts. One day as I walked with her in the Garden, she told me, we had both lost time to no purpose, I inforceing myself against my Inclination, to pretend continuance of affection for her, and she endeavouring to make me love, though against my will: That she saw well enough what I now did, was but the effect of my civility to a Lady of her quality, who had expressed kindness for me. But 'twas time to put an end to our pain, and to satisfy me she intended it; she assured me, she would no longer oppose my Inclination, and that I would believe it, upon the Confession she made me, that I might expect from Eleanor not only a kind reception, but something of love; yet I put no great confidence in all these good words, as coming from a party too liable to suspicion: But when by an Excess of goodness she added, that to convince me, she was more my Friend than I could imagine, she would contribute more than any other to my satisfaction; and procure a Letter from the Viceroy to Eleanor's Father, to persuade him to consent I should have his Daughter. I was so transported with joy, I could not forbear making her very large acknowledgements. She told me, I should see by the answer to that Letter what good Service she had done me: She did as she promised, and after the Letter she procured from the Viceroy, I doubted not of being completely happy in few days. The news was confirmed by the beautiful Eleanor, and I had the pleasure to see her glad of it as I was: nothing troubled me then but the slow pace of time. The Viceroy had sent an express to Genes, but the Courier was scarce got a Horseback, but I wished him returned: every moment seemed a year by my longing and impatience: the only pleasure I had, was the time I was in Eleanor's company, who assured on her part of the success of the Viceroy's Recommendation, who had great Interest with her Father, and sensible of the pain I was in to have the matter confirmed; had not the power to deny my passion the favour of a visit, which I begged I might make her, having engaged myself to her with all the promises and oaths, to be expected on such an occasion from a Lover beloved. The assignation was made, and her Chamber agreed for the place of Rendezvous. Pardon me, my dear Assen, for fetching a sigh at the remembrance of that day, which should have been a time of love and of joy, but was the most dismal and unfortunate of my life. Night was come, and when I thought myself just ready to be possessed of so great a happiness, Clarice, who waited on Eleanor in her Chamber, and was her intimate Confident, brought me a Billet, I will show you, having by good fortune kept it safe to this minute. With that he took out a little Purse from his pocket, and out of the Purse the Billet, which he read to Assen in these words. I am hearty sorry, my dear Hippolito, I must fail my assignation. But an unhappy accident I must not now tell you of, will for a few days retard our happiness: you may believe me, as sensible of it as you are, but love me as you have done Love will furnish us with opportunity enough. Adieu I had never received a Letter from Eleanor, nor knew her Character; so that it was easy for Clarice to make me believe that Billet came from her: I asked her what her Mistress ailed; Nothing, says she laughing, but that she is not very well this evening. I fancied! understood her meaning, and examined her no further; but withdrew sufficiently displeased with my ill fortune that night, when a Page of the Vice-Queens met me coming down stairs, and told me, his Lady desired to speak with me. In the humour I was in, I could have wished a Dispensation from waiting upon her; but not knowing what excuse to make, being so near her, and fearing she might have something to tell me from Eleanor, being the common subject of her discourse with me, I followed the Page into her Chamber, where I found her expecting my coming: she was at her Toilet, and the Viceroy being out of Town, as soon as she saw me, she reproached me for deserting her so, she could of late scarce see me in the crowd; that if I would not out of Gallantry, I should at least out of civility have afforded her my company, when destitute of other. I was not disposed for giving her so pleasing an answer as I would have done another time, however I said not any thing to disoblige her: I was melancholy and vexed, but so deeply in love, I had a stock of kindness, and complaisance which abundantly furnished me with pleasing expressions, which the Vicequeen did not disapprove of: I had not seen her in a better humour; and falling into discourse, she kept me with her a great part of that night; but she thought me out of humour, and quarrelled with me upon't: I excused myself, as having sat up all the night before at play. Hereupon she invited me to lie on her Bed; I was privileged to be familiar, and without further entreaty made use of my liberty: for the truth is, I was almost dead for want of sleep; within less than two hours I was awaked on the sudden by the light of a Flamboy, held before my eyes, and the first object I saw, was Eleanor with a Poniard in her hand, to take away my life, had not Don Alphonso laid hold on her arm, and prevented the stroke. Judge you what amazement I was in, I might with some reason have suspected all this a Dream: But my Rival having seized the Poniard, to execute what he had hindered Eleanor to do, had she not done me in her turn the like Service. I thought it high time to take care of my life, and running to my Arms, put myself in a posture of defence. The Vicequeen half dead with the fright, came running to part us, but was like to have been killed by her Son, who seemed as eager to dispatch her as me: I happily saved her two or three times, and at last standing before her, the fury Don Alphonso was in, made him run on my Weapon, and kill himself rather than be killed by me: I saw him fall, which troubled me extremely, foreseeing the dreadful Consequence of such a misfortune. I turned towards the unhappy Mother, to ask her what she would do, and found her swooned away, and lying without motion: I was so much afflicted with the spectacle, I wished myself dead: at last necessity pressing me to withdraw, I entered Eleanor's Chamber, to see her once more, and die at her feet, if she desired my life to expiate my fault, but I found her not, and so left the Palace without any obstacle. My design was to pass into Sicily, and being in search of a Felucca to embark in, found Clarice almost drowned in tears at the Port. I knew her, and asked whither she went, and what she would have, Ah Sir, said she, I have been looking for my Mistress, who the Mariners tell me, is embarked not a quarter of an hour since for Barcelona. I was strangely surprised at the news, and without further deliberation, took the first Felucca I met, and Clarice being very willing to go with me in search of her Mistress, or rather to get away from a Court, where she had reason to fear the severest extremities, after the disorder lately happened, wherein she knew herself concerned; I put her aboard, and had the weather so favourable, we hoped to reach Barcelona before Eleanor could be there. I took care to inquire the Name of the Felucca she was embarked in, and the Masters. I was till than so distracted and oppressed with grief and despair, it was not in my power to make any resolution on all these misfortunes; but being got to Sea, I recollected myself, and considered all those disasters; but the more I thought on them, the more was I perplexed about them. I could not imagine by what accident Don Alphonso and Eleanor should be together to surprise me in the Vice-Queens Chamber; unless we had been betrayed, or Don Alphonso more in favour with Eleanor than I believed: and if that were so, why should my Rival prevent my death, as he did, and why did she take her turn too, to save my life from Alphonso, unless both were ambitious of the honour to have killed me? However I must confess I deserved death, and wish I had received it at Eleanor's hand; I should not then have had the displeasure of imbruing my hands in the Blood of a Person, who had all the reason in the World to be revenged of me. Clarice was very ill in the Felucca, of the fright she had taken, or else Sea-sick. I had not seen her all the time of the disaster at Naples, I told her part of the story, and found it so much afflicted her; especially when I acquainted her with the death of Alphonso, she grew worse and worse: I asked her several questions, which she answered with a great deal of trouble, pretending Ignorance, but in such a manner as gave me cause enough to suspectned the contrary, and believe she was more concer in this business than I was ware of: I was unwilling to press her in the condition she was in, to reveal the secret, though I was curious of a discovery, but hoped to make it, when she should be a little better. We arrived at Barcelona, but no news of the Bark Eleanor went aboard of: I resolved to have patience a while, as well as the Merchants, who had effects in it of great value: But how careful soever I was of Clarice, she grew worse than at Sea, and all the Physicians could do for her, prevented not her being reduced to that extremity, they gave her over as desperate; so that finding herself at death's door, she sent for me to her Chamber, and having desired to speak with me in private, the rest of the company quitted the Room, and she told me, that Don Alphonso having gained her, she did him all the Service she could against me with her Mistress; and having overheard part of my last discourse with Eleanor, she instantly acquainted my Rival with it, who transported with rage and despair, against a design so fatal to his Affection, resolved by any means to defeat it, and if possible make advantage of it for himself. That in order to this, he made her write a Letter, and carry it me, as from her Mistress; that Don Alphonso took his time, and his measures accordingly; having learned from her the hour, and the manner of my coming to Eleanor's Chamber; that he got in without difficulty: but what passed further, she knew not; only some hours after, hearing the noise of Swords, she ran in, where she found her Mistress all in disorder, packing away; that she would have followed her, but her Mistress begged of her to let her go alone. At last finding the noise increase in the Vice-Queens Chamber, she was frighted, and went towards the Port, where I found her; with that the unhappy Girl with abundance of tears, begged that now at her death, I would pardon her a Crime had cost her her life. She said no more, but two hours after died: I will not tell you the different motions of my heart, during the dismal Relation this Wretch made me; but the appearance of Death in her face made me pardon her. As for Don Alphonso, I hearty wished him alive again, as not sufficiently punished by one death for his Treason; but the Traitors being both in another World, I had no Subject to exercise my Revenge on, unless my ill Fate, against which I spent my time in fruitless Complaints. To Complete my misery, News came, the Bark we expected was lost, which was confirmed by Advice from several Parties. Never man in such despair as I; I will not tell you the extravagancies it made me run into; it distracts me to think on't: there was no other remedy to bring me to myself, but to persuade me the News from Sea were not so sure, but that we had reason to expect further Confirmation, and that Vessels reported cast away, came frequently safe into Port: that the Sea was a large Country, and one Vessel might be easily mistaken for another, and that many fell into the hands of the Turks, which were supposed to have been wracked, because they were not heard of. This gave me but small comfort; yet I thought I had some reason of hope, undertaking a Voyage to visit all the Ports of the Levant, till I should learn some certainty of the Felucca I was in search of. The Aga having finished his Story, Assen told him, he was very glad for his sake, that Matters passed otherwise than Eleanor believed; that it would be no hard matter to make his peace, when she understood the Treachery of her Chambermaid; that he was not to wonder at the Anger she expressed against him, for that she knew not any of the Particulars he related to justify himself, but suspected him of Intelligence with Don Alphonso to betray her. Heavens! is it possible, cries Hippolito, she should do my Love the injury, to entertain such a thought of me! had I not loved her as I did, could she fancy me capable of so much baseness? Sir, said Assen, when there's Evidence against us, and no Plea in defence for our justification, we are easily cast: what could you expect a Lady dishonoured by the Son, should have believed of you, whom she found in the Arms of the Mother, but that he sacrificed the one to you, that you might leave him the other. Ah! Assen, replies the Aga with a sigh, let's talk no more of what's past; as innocent as I am of the one side, I must acknowledge myself guilty of the other. But let me entreat you to excuse and extenuate the fault as much as you can before her; or rather never speak of it, but endeavour only to disabuse her, and alter the ill opinion she hath of me, and assure yourself, Fortune befall me, I will not be ungrateful for the Service you will do me. I believe you have heard from her who I am, and if the condition she is in, or any other Reason, hath obliged her to conceal her Birth, and other things concerning her, that might render her more worthy the zeal you have for her Service, I will satisfy your curiosity in every particular. Assen thanked him, and fell a laughing, and answered, he had known her too long to want Instructions in those Particulars, and could give a better account of her Birth and Family than any Person . The Aga, surprised at it, entreated him earnestly to let him understand, how he being a Turk, should so long and so particularly know her. Assen told him the Story, and part of what happened at Genes. It was day by that time Assen had done, which put them in mind of taking some resolution about the design in hand, and the means to be made use of, to get Laura out of the Castle without danger. They thought of several ways, but all appeared full of uncertainty and inconvenience; yet they two could best do it of any, the one having all the power over Laura's Guards, and the other over the Garrison of the Castle. But all things were so strictly examined by the vigilance of the inferior Officers, whom the Dey (a man as vigilant as fearful) had strictly commanded to be always on Guard, and not permit any to come in, or go out, without taking exact notice of them, that it was absolutely necessary to take right measures, and still fear the success. Assen at length bethought himself of a Stratagem, the less subject to discovery, as covered under a cloak of Religion, though in truth, apt to startle a nice Girl as Laura. There was a Soldier of the Castle dead the night afore, to be buried that day; he resolved to lock up the Corpse in a Chamber, and carry out Laura on the Bier, as if she had been the Soldier, to be buried in the Churchyard behind the Castle. The Aga was of opinion, there could be no danger in the expedient, but doubted much whether Laura could be induced to make use of it; yet after long consultation, and discourse of other means, they thought that not only the best, but the only one they could promise themselves a good design from. But to prevent the trouble Laura might have upon the apprehension of Death, or other sad Accident, they agreed not to tell her of the Bier, but propose carrying her out in a Chair. This being resolved on, Assen, who was to see her that morning, undertook to persuade her to it, and the Aga in the mean time gave order, the dead Soldier should not be buried till the Evening. He recommended to Assen, the care of his Affairs with his Mistress, gave him Clarices' Letter to produce in justification of him; and after a great deal of Civility and Kindness on both sides, they parted, to meet again at Dinner at Assen's, for fear their long Conferences in the Castle might occasion suspicion in the Garrison, being extremely jealous and mistrustful. Laura, who had scarce rested all night for Dreams, which troubled her, was very joyful to see Assen come so early, to divert her from the thoughts of them. Well, dear Assen, says she, shall we be once eased of our Chains? and must we carry this Traitor along with us? Traitor, Madam, answers Assen, he is the most honest and most passionate of Lovers. Ah! says she, I foresaw he would corrupt even your fidelity; I know too well the power he hath to gain affection, and had reason enough to distrust him. Be not so hasty, Madam, replies the Turk, to condemn a man unheard. Why, what says she, can he offer against what what I have seen? Did not I find him with the Vicequeen? Was it not he that helped the Traitor Alphonso to abuse me? No, Madam, I assure you, answers Assen, be pleased to let me tell you, what you know well enough, that he loved you too well, to be capable of an action of that kind; and to clear all your doubts, adds he, showing her Clarices' Letter, Know you that Character? Well, said she, somewhat surpriz d, 'tis my Chambermaids: Read it, replies Assen, and you shall see who was guilty of the Treason. Laura read it, and had searce done, when relenting at the Injury done Hippolito, or troubled for the Treachery of a Maid, she had so much confided in; O God of Vengeance, cried she with tears, wilt thou leave unpunished a Wretch so treacherous, and one who bath been the cause of so many disasters? No sure, says Assen, for she is already dead, if not as her Treason deserved, yet for grief of having committed it. With that he related to her, what she knew not of the Story of the Marquis, and found it no difficult business to appease the great wrath she had expressed against him, to procure him her general pardon, and obtain her consent for his going along with them. Assen, like a dexterous Confident, said not a word of what concerned the Vicequeen; and Laura, who had no desire to be any more angry with her dear Servant, was not very curious to question him on that point: she was content to believe him innocent of one side, and to be furnished with a pretence not to hate him; so hard a matter is it to use ill those we love, how criminal soever. Assen then told her of the resolution taken by the Aga and him, to have her carried out in a Chair, and found her disposed to do they should think fit, but with condition there should be no more danger for them than for her. Assen undertook it, and told her, she had no more to do, but make ready against the first Watch, whilst the Aga and he took Oorders for other things. Assen went home, where Beyran-Aga came shortly after, and gave him an account of all he had done. Assen laboured with much diligence and dexterity to see the Brigandine well stored with Necessaries; you may believe, Beyran failed not, as busy as he was, to desire an account of what most concerned him, the state of his Affair with his Mistress. His dear Confident Acquainted him with what success he had discharged the Commission he gave him, which Beyran was so galled of, as it was not his power to express his Acknowledgement. All was ready, and Assen had given out the necessary Orders, as well for the Brigandine, as for Horses and Men. The Aga and he went together to the Castle, where the Aga made him a Present of all the Jewels he had received at several times from the Dey, and entreated him to accept them not as a satisfaction, but a pledge of the assurance he had given him to be ever his Friend, and serve him on all occasions. Assen, who endeavoured, but in vain, to refuse his liberality, would not accept of it, but on condition the Aga would make use on all occasions of what he had bestowed, as still his own, and believe Assen sensible, he had not sufficiently obliged him to merit so rich a Present. They went From the Castle, to make their Court to the Dey; and the hour being come, Assen first changed Laura's Guards, relieving them by three of his Servants, whom he was to take with him, that none might be left behind to discover the Design, or the Road they should take. The Aga quickly followed him, longing to see Laura; he fell down at her feet in such a Transport of Joy and Love, it moved to that tenderness, she could not forbear embracing him. As she raised him from the Ground, they were falling into amorous Discourse; but Assen told them, it was not a time to discourse, but to put their Design in execution, unless they had a mind to see it miscarry; and that when they should be once out of danger, they should have leisure enough to say what they pleased. Laura and Beyran, who desired nothing more than to see themselves at liberty, were easily persuaded to follow his Advice. And the Chair being brought by the Aga's Order, who had hidden the Corpse, they wrapped up Laura in a clean Sheet, and without saying a word of the Bier, put her in it, and caused it to be carried out of her Chamber, where having according to the custom of the Place, thrown a Carpet over her, one of Assen's men took the Lantern, and the other two carried the Bier; Beyran leading the Van, and Assen bringing up the Rear. A Corpse is a sacred thing among the Turks; nor would any of the Guard have thought of searching the Bier, though neither Beyran nor Assen had been with it. They went to the Churchyard, where having taken Laura out of her Grave, they marched towards the Carthage-gate, which the Aga commanded to be opened, that they might take Horse, which attended them hard by Laura and the Aga, whom we will hereafter call by their names, could not yet take any pleasure to see themselves out of the Castle and City, for fear of ill Accidents, but longed to see themselves at Sea; however they were glad they got happily so far, in hopes Fortune would in favour of Love, improve that lucky beginning to a suitable end. But this small Lightning of Joy quickly vanished, being dashed out by the cruelty of their Fate; for being arrived, where they expected to take Horse, they found by Assen's Servants, the Bassa's Sophies had taken them away. In what perplexity then was this unfortunate Company? they were five or six Leagues distant from the Cape of Carthage, where the Brigandine was; they had no time to lose, and knew not what to resolve on, when on the sudden they heard the noise of Horses making towards them. Assen hid Eleanor and Hippolito under an old Wall, and advanced with some of his people towards the Horsemen: They marched apace, and quickly asked, who is there? Assen told them who he was, and by good fortune, found it was Romadan, the Master of the Galleys, coming from Port-farm with a Guard. He told him, the Bassa's Sophies had taken from his people some Horses he had in readiness to go for Cape-Carthage, to see a Brigandine he was sending out to Sea. Romadan, who knew the respect the Bassa had for Assen, was angry for what was done by the Sophies; and to remedy the inconvenience, told Assen, he might take his choice of what Horses he pleased out of his Troop, and not trouble himself for his own, they should be sent him where he pleased to order. Assen, glad of the opportunity, accepted his offer; and Romadan taking him aside, told him, The Bassa had a design to come again to him, and by any means to get Laura out of the Castle, and that he would do well in his return from Cape-Carthage, to take the Camp in his way, and endeavour to divert the Bassa from so dangerous an Enterprise. Assen having promised it, dis-engaged himself from Romadan as soon as he could; but Romadan would oblige him at parting, with two of his Horsemen, to accompany him, and serve him from the Parties that were abroad, and might set upon him unknown. This put Assen into a little perplexity, but he would not refuse the kindness, for fear of giving cause of suspicion: And having taken his leave, he advanced towards his company, and acquainted the two Lovers in few words, what fortune he had met with. All mounted, and Eleanor in Boys , passed for a young Slave of Assen's, the night helping to cover the disguise, they made all the haste possible, Hippolito being still at Eleanor's elbow, the Master of the Galleys Horsemen led the Van, to answer those they met; and Assen, as Commander in chief, sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other, without affecting much to be near Hippolito or Eleanor, by the help of the Horsemen they had free passage; and were several times saved from being taken and carried before the Bassa. At last being come to the Brigandine, they delivered the Horses to be restored to the owners, and having rewarded them well for their pains, Assen sent them back with this Letter to the Bassa. Sir, Be not displeased with me for endeavouring the liberty of a Maid, to whose Family I own mine: you have often heard me speak of my obligations to my Patron, when I lived among the Christians; I have met with an occasion to satisfy them in the Person of his Daughter, being that same Laura the Dey kept Prisoner. Wonder not my gratitude hath prevailed with me, to expose my life for those who saved mine. The Dey perhaps may have as much reason as you to excuse me, but in actions that honour and reason inspire, I fear no reproach. Laura was the 〈◊〉 of the difference betwixt you, the Peace will be easier made now she is gone. Thus doing my duty, I procure the good of my Country, which every honest man wishes, and will certainly thank me for. Adieu, live content, and prosper in your designs, and be so just as not to condemn Assen. They instantly hoist sail, and the Wether being favourable, they doubled the Cape, passed Port-Farine, and were got a great way to Sea, before the Horsemen could have come to the Bassa, whom we will leave foaming with rage and fury against Assen, and return to the happy company, now beginning to take pleasure in seeing themselves out of danger at least from Land; for as to the Sea, while you are on it, there is no security against it. Hippolito sat sighing by his beautiful Eleanor, and she feasted herself with the sweetness of liberty to enjoy in safety the conversation of a Lover she had given over for lost. Assen was busy giving orders in the Brigandine; but being becalmed on the sudden, and no way to be made but by rowing, he sat by them to congratulate their happiness. 'Tis true, says Eleanor, I should esteem myself the most fortunate person on Earth, if after what you have assured me of the Marquis, you could ease me of the scruples, the Turks habit he wears, raises within me. Was it possible, adds she blushing, you should change your Religion? 'Tis the very thing I longed to know of him, Madam, and how he came to Barbary, for he hath not yet told me. No, Madam, answers Hippolito, I am still a Christian, and had I been threatened with Death, or with Torments, I should not have changed my Religion, but 'tis true I have been long thought a Turk. Assen, who could not conceive how it could be so in a Country like his, where in matters of Religion, there are Formalities not to be counterfeited, prayed him to declare what course he had taken, and how it was possible for him to escape Circumcision, being the first of the Ceremonies used in that case. Hippolito to satisfy him, knowing he should at the same time do Eleanor a pleasure, went on with his story. I told you formerly of the resolution I took, of searching every Creek of the Mediterranean, for the Vessel this Lady embarked in: I did so for seven or eight months, in a little Frigate with six pieces of Ordinance, wherein I was at last taken by a Vessel of Tripoli of no less than thirty Guns, after six hours' Fight, and the loss of almost all our men: I was carried to Tripoli, where they presented me to the Bassa, who upon the good report they gave of my behaviour in the Fight, used me very civilly, and having in few days expressed no small affection for me, wished I would turn Turk, and sent me for the purpose to a famous Cady to be instructed in their Faith: this Mahometan Doctor was a very honest man, and witty; he was the Son of a Renegado, and had less Faith than his Father in what he taught others; he spoke very freely to me, and I opened myself to him, and prayed him to make the Bassa believe I was turned Turk; he did so, the Bassa believed it on his word, and expressed for me more kindness than ever; but he had a Nephew who was jealous of it, and often quarrelled with me on that score, which might afterwards have produced further inconvenience. The Bassa, who had a tender love for this Nephew, foresaw what might follow, and resolved to part us for some time, till this Nephew were cured of his jealous and tempestuous humour; he sent me with great Presents to the Dey of Tunis, his intimate Friend, recommending me very earnestly and affectionately to him. The Dey within a week after my arrival, made me his Aga: You know Assen, what a sad life I led; but who would have thought, says he, addressing himself to Eleanor, I was so near what I searched for, and loved above all the World, yet knew nothing of it; and that my Fate should make me so happy, when I was just upon losing you. The Marquis and Eleanor entered into further discourse of their adventures; and the Masters of the Vessel coming to consult Assen, he left them together to go on with their stories. The wind chopped about, and threatened a Storm, the Vessel being small, they thought it inconvenient to venture further to Sea: They tacked about, making towards Biserti, intending to sail near the Coast of Barbary, till they should come over against Sardinia, that they might cross over (as soon as the weather served) into the Isles of St. Peter, where they hoped to anchor. This was their resolution, and 'twas well for them they followed it, for the Storm was so great, they were forced to lie at Anchor three or four days among the Rocks on the Coast of Barbary. They were so far from Tunis, they had no cause to fear pursuit, being at Anchor in a place where a thousand Vessels might have passed by without discovering them in the storm. The storm at length was pretty well over, and thc Brigandine pursued her Voyage along the Coast of Barbary; meeting by the way several Creeks, floating Hogsheads, and Planks, and other pieces of broken Ships, which they doubted not were cast away in the last storm. For two days they cruised along that Sea; they were frequently entertained with those lamentable spectacles, and at last heard the voice of a Man, which they fancied must have come from a Rock at least three miles distant from Land; they presently concluded it was one escaped out of the late Shipwrecks. Eleanor was moved to pity at the cry, and Assen at her re-request, turned the prow of his Brigandine towards the Rock. The Sea was then calm, and when they got within some paces of the Rock, they saw a man almost naked, without Hat, without Stockings, without Shoes, so maimed and disfigured, they knew not whether they should more fear him or pity him. Assen having ordered the Seamen to cease rowing, asked him in Moresque, how he came upon that Rock, and what he would have. I am an unfortunate Christian (answers he in Italian) and not unknown to you, and if you will take the pains to get foot on land here, you will find what perhaps you are in search of, but you must lose no time, otherwise your help may come too late. Assen amazed to hear him speak so, observed something in his Countenance, made him think he had seen him elsewhere. Eleanor was particularly astonished at his voice, and fancied she knew it; but the man was so disfigured, she could not possibly call to mind who he was. Assen asked his name, and where he had seen him to know him: I tell you, answers the man, I have here what you perhaps go in search of much further; the man you see is Alexander the Bassa's Slave, and if he has sent thee for his Wife, thou may'st find her on this Rock half dead with her Sufferings these two days we have been here: he had scarce done speaking, but Eleanor invaded at once with joy and grief cried out, which made the man turn his face, and she knew him to be Alexander. Ha' Sir, says she, is it possible it should be you, and not know Laura? As she spoke thus, Assen having commanded the Oars to turn the prow to land, ordered a Plank from the Vessel to the Rock, and passed over it first, Hippolito following with Eleanor by the hand, and all to embrace poor Alexander, who was so transported with joy, he could not say a word: he prayed Assen to get him something from aboard to comfort his dear Sultaness, who had not eat any thing for three days past. They gave order accordingly, and instantly ran towards the place where the Sultaness lay under a Bush, where they found her half dead; a sad sight for Laura, yet mixed with joy to see her; but what an astonishing surprise was this to the Sultaness, who could scarce open her eyes, and knew not whether she were awake or in a Dream, and whether what appeared to her, were Persons or Spirits. You may imagine the haste Eleanor made to help her, being readily seconded with Hippolito's assistance: What are you here Laura, says the Sultaness with a feeble and languishing tone, and am I not mistaken? what good Angel hath sent thee to rescue me from the Jaws of Death? Heavens! my dear Sultaness, answers Laura, not able to forbear crying, Heavens! which hath had pity on us, and delivered me also out of the hands of the Bassa. The Sultaness began to recover, but had not strength to speak long. Assen told Alexander she would be better aboard than at land, the Sea being still. The Count, who had not yet had leisure to discourse them, asked where they were bound for, and having understood they sailed for Italy, he could not sufficiently bless Heaven for so happy an accident. The Sultaness was carried aboard, and the weather being fair, they resolved to put out to Sea, and direct their course for Sardinia. Laura was so careful of the Sultaness, that she began to gather strength; Assen and Hippolito did their part with the Count, who had no less need of nourishment and rest: This took up one day; on the morrow the weather continuing fair, and the Sultaness finding herself in a condition to discourse, they related to her what passed at Tunis since her departure, and desired Count Alexander to inform them how they came to be wracked, and by what Fortune they got upon the Rock; he answered to this purpose. You have heard without doubt, how the Sultaness was carried aboard by the Bassa's order, who thought (as well as I) it was Laura: You may imagine my surprise great, and my joy inexpressible At our putting to Sea we had a good wind, but scarce past the Cape of Carthage, but we saw the Heaven's cloudy on the sudden, and had the wind in our Teeth, and so strong a Gale, that our Vessel being small, and the storm increasing, we were driven on this Coast and cast Anchor; presently a violent and most terrible Hurricane broke out Cables, set us a-drift, and cast us upon the Rocks. I leave it to you to guests, what an extremity this was for a Lover, having her he loved above the World ready to be lost before his face, which heightened to the utmost the terrors of danger and death: I stood by the Sultaness, who with grief and fear was already half dead; and reaching out her hand, Dear Alexander, says she, since the hour is come we must die, let us die together. These words so resolute and kind, pierced my very heart, and turned me into a Statue, leaving me without sense or motion. All I could do, was embracing my dear Sultaness for a final Adieu, when the Vessel giving a great crack, made me turn my eyes towards the Window of my Cabin, where I saw a Rock almost touching the Poop; this surprised me not a little, and taking a sudden resolution, I placed the Sultaness on my back, got upon the Deck, and in spite of the Seamen, who would have diverted me, I leapt on the Rock without doing myself or the Sultaness harm. A moment after, the Sea which cast the Vessel on the Rock, carried it off again, leaving me and the Sultaness there helpless of help, unless our Seamen would pity us, but they could not master the winds, and the night was far gone, so that no good was to be expected from them till the morrow, if the storm would over. A sad night it was, the poor Sultaness endeavoured to comfort me with hopes the Mariners would not forsake us; but what a lamentable spectacle had I at break of day, to see some League's distance half a Ship a float, which by the number of People I saw returning from one end to another to get nearer land, was sunk by the greatness of the waves, and all the men drowned. What afflicted me most, was the sight of the Sultaness, though she, by I know not what presage, would not despair of good Fortune, but would tell me still, Heaven had not saved us from the Sea, to let us perish on that Rock; but would send to our aid one of the many Vessels that passed by that way. It was a piece of good Fortune I did not expect, yet I looked constantly about to discover some sail, when at last having almost lost hope, having for two days seen nothing on the Sea, I kened on the sudden something floating on the water, but being at distance, and discovering no sail, I knew not whether to think it a Wrack, or some small Vessel with Oars; yet seeing you draw towards the Coast, and the nearness of the objects magnifying them every moment, I knew it to be a Brigandine, and brought the Sultaness the News, who was not much pleased with it, fearing the Vessel came from Tunis, and being more willing to die on the Rock, then return thither, I hollowed, and cried, and had the luck to be heard by you; and if I did not presently express that joy which might have been expected upon knowing you, you will pardon it as an effect of the miserable condition I was reduced to, and will easily believe it could not but be great. Count Alexander having ended his discourse, every one spoke his thoughts of all these adventures, mingling sighs with their joy, which increased at the news of one of Assen's Servants, that he discerned land, and that it could be no other but Sardinia: He was in the right, but they could not anchor till the morrow; and the weather continuing good, within eight days they arrived at Genes, to the infinite satisfaction of this happy company, and all Eleanor's Friends. Her Father was dead, and those who were entrusted with the tuition and disposal of her (if heard of) were easily induced to consent she should be married to Marquis Hippolito, who found means to make his Peace with the Viceroy of Naples. The Sultaness turned Christian, and Count Alexander married her: Assen followed the example of the Sultaness, and Count Alexander as well as Marquis Hippolito served him with their Credit and Estates, to make his Fortune, and live happily the rest of his days. Books Printed for R. 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