— >— mifl 
 
 ST.ITIOXEU, 
 
 i_ I B R.AFLY 
 
 OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 623 
 1142)3
 
 TALES 
 
 OF 
 
 REAL LIFE 
 
 FORMING A SEQUEL 
 TO 
 
 MISS EDGEWORTH'S 
 TALES OF FASHIONABLE LIFE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LO N D ON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 ENGLISH AND FORtlGN PUBLIC LIBRARY^ 
 
 CONDIJIT-STRCET, NEW BOXD-STREET. 
 
 1810.
 
 B. CtARKE, Printer, Wcll-Strcet, Loudon
 
 8^5 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 The Chapel on the Shore of the Adriatic Sea Page 3 
 
 ^ The Sport of Fortune 41 
 
 jFrederic 58 
 
 ^The Conspiracy 137 
 
 P-The Apparition 167 
 
 ^) 
 
 cr^The Robber 193 
 
 4 
 
 I 
 0)
 
 TALES, 
 
 MORAL, HISTORICAL, 
 
 AND 
 
 SENTIMENTAL. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 TALES, 
 
 MORAL, HISTORICAL, and SENTIMENTAL. 
 
 THE CHAPEL 
 ON THE SHORE OF THE ADRIATIC SEA. 
 
 Proceeding along the coast of the Adriatic, 
 from the little island of Milete toward Ragusa, the 
 navigator perceives on the shore to the right a chapel, 
 "with a gilded cross, and on a rock at a little distance 
 the ruins of a castle. The seaman instantly suspends 
 his labour, and vv^ith his red cap between his folded 
 hands utters a pious ejaculation. Not long since, 
 one of these coasting vessels sailed by with several 
 passengers on board, and among the rest a German 
 and a Ragusan. The latter had resided several years 
 at Vienna ; the former, after the manner of his coun- 
 trymen, was curious to know the bottom of every 
 thing, and consequently the origin of this chapel, 
 which, to judge from its architecture, could not be 
 Tery old. The courteous Ragusan, seating himself 
 on the deck beside his inquisitive companion, began 
 the following narrative : — 
 
 It was at Carlsbad that Louisa and Robert first 
 beheld each other; she a fatherless orphan, attending 
 an infirm mother; he the younger son of a respectable 
 house; she, young, beautiful, poor, and sprightly;
 
 he, ten years older, rather grave and gloomy, but 
 equally handsome and poor. '' Your father," said 
 Louisa's mother to her, '' was an excellent man, of a 
 good ancient family : he filled for many years a high post 
 in the department of finance, and yet died in poverty. 
 The prince loudly lamented that he had lost one of 
 his most faithful servants, who had saved him mil- 
 lions, and settled on me a pension of — twenty pounds. 
 Your future fortune, therefore, must depend on your 
 
 beauty and your virtue." '' Your brother is the 
 
 eldest son," such was the way in which Robert's fa- 
 ther had addressed him, '' consequently you, poor 
 fellow, have no other resource than to seek your for- 
 tune in the military service. My influence has pro- 
 cured you a lieutenant's commission. I can give you 
 a couple of handfuls of ducats a-year besides, and for 
 the rest you must fight your way through the world 
 as well as you can." 
 
 These admonitions produced the desired effect on 
 both. Louisa set off her personal charms with vir- 
 tues and accomplishments, as did Robert his courage 
 with assiduity and a high sense of honour. Both had 
 also hitherto scrupulously followed the warning of 
 their prudent parents, to guard against that love 
 which, w ithout rhyme or reason, insinuates itself by 
 the eyes into the heart. " You must not like any 
 but a wealthy man," was the injunction of the mother, 
 when her daughter had attained her fifteenth year ; 
 and as the heart at that age is still a stranger to love, 
 Louisa nodded assent, and replied, " That is 9 matter 
 of course."
 
 *' You must not think of a wife without a good 
 fortune," said the father, when his son entered into 
 the world ; and as Robert had just returned from the 
 first parade, and was looking at his new uniform with 
 great delight, he smiled, and replied, '' That is a mat- 
 ter of course." Fate, however, decreed otherwise; 
 for no sooner had they met at Carlsbad, than the 
 spring at that place appeared, in respect to this 
 warning, to be to them a very Lethe. Their hearts 
 sickened, while all the visitors around them drank 
 deep draughts of health. Louisa's vivacity and Ro- 
 bert's gravity tempered each other: both becama 
 more amiable, but only when they were alone toge- 
 ther, for in large companies they were seized with 
 an awkward embarrassment. They were at infinite 
 pains to conceal what, w ithout this effort, not a crea- 
 ture would have observed, but which was now per- 
 ceived even by the gentlemen who frequented the 
 rooms with spectacles upon their noses. " The poor 
 things are in love." had long been whispered through 
 the company, before Robert and Louisa had yet ven- 
 tured by a single syllable to confide the public secret 
 to each other. 
 
 At length he once chanced to meet her, plunged 
 ia soft melancholy, at the monument known by the 
 name of Dorothea'' s Stone, The genius of love, who 
 is known to hover over this stone, erected in memory 
 of the most enchanting of mortals, inspired them with 
 courage to declare their passion in faltering accents. 
 An interchange of hearts was instantly followed by 
 that of the first embraces.
 
 6 
 
 Ercry body inows, or if there be" any who do 
 not, how much are they to be pitied ! — that the first 
 kiss transfuses the whole soul upon the lips, while the 
 other senses keep holiday. It was, therefore, no 
 wonder that the lovers heard not the rustling of foot- 
 steps in the grass, and saw not the red shawl that 
 fluttered in the wind. It was the young and merry 
 Madame Wickenfeld, who suddenly cried, " Bravo!'* 
 and clapped her hands with a loud laugh. Louisa, 
 blushing like scarlet, rose from her seat, upon -which 
 she again sunk back trembling, and almost wished the 
 earth to open and receive her. Robert stood and 
 fixed his eyes on the fair listener with an expression 
 of doubt and indignation. 
 
 " Why so terrified, my dear?" said Madame Wick- 
 enfeld : '' ami not a woman as well as yourself? 
 Why so grave, lieutenant? Is it because you once 
 courted me ? That makes no difference. I am your 
 friend, your confidante, if you please." It was ac- 
 tually true that Robert had paid some attentions to 
 this lady before he knew Louisa; and it was even said 
 that one dark night he was admitted to her by a pri- 
 vate door, while old M. Wickenfeld, who then lay on 
 his death-bed, was making his will. Louisa had for- 
 tunately heard none of these unfavourable reports, 
 otherwise Robert, with all his excellencies, would 
 scarcely have captivated her heart; for every female 
 requires of her lover, and frequently even of her hus- 
 band, that she should be the first and only woman for 
 whom he ever conceived a passion, and above all 
 that she should be the first and the only one in whose
 
 arms he has tasted the intoxicating cup of pleasure. 
 Of this last point women are so tenacious, that the 
 greatest mischief would often ensue, if they were not 
 fortunately on the other hand so credulous as cheer- 
 fully to beliere every hardy assurance of the dear de« 
 ceiyer. Louisa, like the rest of her sex, believed her 
 Robert when he declared that the only partiality he 
 had ever shewn for Madame Wickenfeld consisted in 
 a few unmeaning compliments. It is not improbable, 
 however, that there might have been something more 
 between them, for the young and handsome widow 
 but too ill concealed her vexation, though it escaped 
 the notice of two lovers who had no eyes but for 
 themselves, and who had so much need of a confi- 
 dante. Yes, indeed, love not only makes people 
 blind towards the object of their passion, but also to 
 every one who kindly lends an ear to their hopes or 
 complaints. Robert and Louisa poured forth their's 
 into the bosom of Madame Wickenfeld, by whom 
 they were encouraged and ridiculed, consoled and 
 laughed at. 
 
 As Louisa's sickly mother never went into com- 
 pany, but ardently wished that her daughter might be 
 noticed in the great world, she was highly delighted 
 to hear that a lady of fashion had conceived a parti- 
 ality for her darling, and offered to introduce her to 
 all her acquaintance. Accordingly, Louisa was sel- 
 dom absent from her patroness, by whom she was 
 watched with such maternal care, that she had very 
 few opportunities of speaking to her lover, and then
 
 B 
 
 only for a few minutes at a time ; for, under the pre- 
 text of preventing surprises which might not always 
 terminate so favourably as that at Dorothea's Stone, 
 Madame Wickenfeld accompanied her unexperienced 
 rival in all her walks, was a witness of all her conver- 
 sations with Robert, and even seemed not to perceive 
 how troublesome her presence was to them both. 
 
 The lovers nevertheless felt happy, for they 
 were daily together, and what they durst not say 
 aloud they read in each other's stolen glances. Thus 
 passed several weeks. Robert unexpectedly received 
 a letter from his father, informing him that he had 
 been appointed captain in the Hanoverian legion, and 
 that he must return home immediately to embark for 
 England. On this occasion the old gentleman in 
 strong terms repeated his admonition not to throw 
 himself away upon any female without fortune. This 
 was a point that he had not touched upon for several 
 years, for which reason his son was rather surprised 
 that he should be reminded of it just at this juncture. 
 He mustered in idea all his country-people who were at 
 Carlsbad, to discover which of them could have given 
 his rigid father a hint; but his suspicion never rested 
 on the handsome and complaisant Madame Wicken- 
 feld. His promotion was doubly welcome, as it 
 brought him a step nearer to the wished-for accom- 
 plishment of an union with Louisa : the order for his 
 departure was on the other hand most painful. But 
 he was a soldier — honour called, and he was obliged 
 to obey. Madame Wickenfeld, affecting wonder and
 
 pitj-j herself contrived a private interview, that the 
 lovers might exchange their last tender adieus, and 
 they were even left a few minutes alone. It were 
 needless to observe that embraces and protestations 
 converted these few minutes into seconds. On the 
 return of their confidante they both fell upon her 
 neck, and with tears entreated her to be the channel 
 of a private correspondence. This request was grant- 
 ed in the most obliging manner, and Robert departed 
 with the pleasing persuasion that not a man on earth 
 possessed a more generous friend or a more faithful 
 mistress. At each stage he wrote long letters, re- 
 lating how he should fight and obtain promotion, 
 riches, and laurels, which in a few years he would lay 
 at the feet of his beloved Louisa. 
 
 These long letters were all punctually delivered, 
 and as diffusely answered by Louisa, who found, in 
 this incessant reading and writing, such inexhaustible 
 pleasure, that she felt not the want of any other. It 
 occupied her whole time, for when she had learned 
 Robert's last letter by heart, she began again with 
 the first. This delightful employment, together with 
 the recollection that Robert had now and then mani. 
 fested a disposition to jealousy, led her to the reso- 
 lution to withdraw herself from the circles to which 
 she had recently been accustomed, and to live only 
 for her mother, or rather for her passion. Madame 
 Wickenfeld, however, soon demonstrated that she 
 would be a laughing-stock to all the company at 
 Carlsbad, if she were to bury herself in solitude, im-
 
 10 
 
 mediately after the captain's departure. " People 
 begin to whisper already," said the artful woman, 
 *' and God knows what they might then take into their 
 heads — You know what I mean. In short, let me 
 beg of you, for your own sake, to relinquish your 
 intention." 
 
 These persuasions were reinforced by the com- 
 mand of her mother, who was extremely anxious that 
 her beautiful daughter should be seen and admired. 
 O ! that Louisa had but opened her heart to this weak 
 but virtuous mother ! that she had not forgotten that 
 even for a guilty daughter there is no refuge more 
 secure than the maternal bosom ! Unfortunately she 
 was afraid of afflicting the sickly old lady, who 
 seemed to have set her heart upon a rich son-in-law ; 
 and though she was firmly convinced that her lover 
 would shortly return with high rank and a large for- 
 tune, she knew her mother much too well to flatter 
 herself with the hope of impressing her with this per- 
 suasion : she was therefore silent, and accompanied 
 Madame Wickenfeld as before to balls and assemblies. 
 
 But she began to look pale and languishing, and 
 this paltness and languor increased as Robert's letters 
 became less frequent. This only heightened her 
 charms, and augmented the number of her admirers. 
 She was distinguished above all by the rich Baron 
 Frauenthal, a man already indeed in the autumn of 
 life, but the proprietor of the finest estates in Hun- 
 gary, Transylvania, and even in Dalmatia. He was 
 moreover well-bred and accomplished, possessed an
 
 II 
 
 imposing person, and was thoroughly acquainted with 
 the tone and manners of the world. He formally 
 paid his court to Louisa, and soon gained Madame 
 Wickenfeld, Mhose preponderating influence over 
 the beautiful girl had not escaped him. He even ob- 
 tained an introduction to her mother, Madame Dal. 
 ling, on whom the mere idea of such a son-in-law had 
 a more invigorating effect than all the baths and 
 springs in the universe would have produced. Ma- 
 dame Wickenfeld favoured as much as possible the 
 •wishes of the baron, often left him whole hours alone 
 with Louisa, and took no notice of the enjbarrassment 
 and complaints of the latter. 
 
 It was now several weeks since she had received 
 a letter from Robert, though the packets regularly 
 came to Cuxhaven. Madame Wickenfeld did not 
 fail to point out the account of their arrival to 
 Louisa in every newspaper ; and it was also known 
 that the Hanoverian legion had landed safely in 
 England. But in vain did the mourner wait from one 
 post-day to another ; not one sigh of love did the 
 winds waft across the ocean. 
 
 *' He must be dead !" said she at last. " No such 
 thing," rejoined her confidante; "heislikeall the rest 
 of his sex." Louisa of course did not believe her, for 
 a female would rather suppose her lover to be dead 
 than to be like all the rest of his sex. Her experienced 
 friend was not discouraged; she was not weary of 
 giving gentle hints, and occasionally related instances 
 of mens' inconstancy, till the dejected girl at length
 
 13 
 
 began to conceiTC the possibility that she might her- 
 self experience something of the kind. Though Ma- 
 dame Wickenfeld had thus succeeded in shaking her 
 faith, her hopes however she was unable to destroy. 
 
 Meanwhile the baron daily became more ena- 
 moured, and daily grew more importunate. No fe- 
 male had ever before resisted him ; he therefore as- 
 cribed Louisa's reserve merely to childish bashfulness, 
 and thinking it prudent, at his time of life, to deviate 
 a little from the ordinary course, he applied directly 
 to the mother for her daughter's hand. The good 
 woman melted into tears of joy; she requested, for 
 decency's sake, only a few days to consider the pro- 
 posal, which the baron granted with a condescending 
 smile. With transport she clasped Louisa in her 
 arms, congratulating her and herself on their future 
 prospects. But what was her astonishment, when 
 Louisa, sobbing, embraced her knees, and made a con- 
 fession which filial duty should two months before have 
 dictated. The tender mother pardoned her darling 
 for withholding a confidence which nothing but the 
 pressure of circumstances had now extorted from her, 
 and even felt strong enough to sacrifice her own wish 
 to that of her only child; but this wish, she thought, 
 should not be nourished entirely by the imagination, 
 neither should love dwell in an aerial castle, but b« 
 able to descry, though at a distance, some port to 
 which to steer her variegated bark. Now, as the 
 eaptain maintained such an equivocal silence, it would 
 certainly appear too capricious to reject on his ac-
 
 13 
 
 count the proffered happiness. Louisa herself could 
 not object to the justness of this reasoning, and 
 though she could by no means consider the happiness 
 in question as any happiness for her, still the idea of 
 relieving her old and infirm parent from all future 
 anxiety had powerful charms for her mind. The ten- 
 derness of this parent, her affecting readiness to sacri- 
 fice her own comforts, if by so doing she could ensure 
 the felicity of her only child, roused the courage of 
 the daughter. She only requested the favour of be- 
 ing permitted to write a long letter to the captain, 
 and positively declared, that if this remained unan. 
 swered, or flattered her with too distant hopes, she 
 would then resign herself without murmuring to her 
 fate. 
 
 Throughout the whole transaction, Madame 
 Wickenfeld was duly consulted. She approved of 
 every thing, and undertook to forward Louisa's letter 
 safely. The baron meanwhile pressed for au answer. 
 The honest mother thinking it wrong to conceal from 
 him the state of aff"airs, communicated every thing 
 to him. At this disclosure he seemed neither sur- 
 prised nor discouraged. A scornful smile played 
 upon his lips. He^signified that this last trial would 
 be wholly superfluous, but yet he was ready to ac- 
 quiesce in the whim. One thing only, he said, gave 
 him pain. The season was nearly over: Madame 
 Dalling was making preparations for her departure: 
 her residence was in a remote province, to which he 
 was prevented from attending her : how then should
 
 14 
 
 he be informed as speedily as he wished of the cap- 
 tain's answer ? — and if it proved favourable to him, 
 how could a man of his age be expected to lose so 
 much precious time in travelling backwards and for- 
 wards ? He therefore proposed in the most flattering 
 terms, that Madame Dalling should in the mean time 
 go to Prague, as the diversions of that agreeable 
 city, the residence of numbers of genteel families, 
 would prove of great benefit to her on leaving the 
 waters ; adding, that he had there a house completely 
 furnished, which was perfectly at her service, and that 
 his presence would not lay any restraint upon the 
 young lady, or injure her reputation, as business 
 called him to Vienna, from which capital he should 
 not return till he received a hint to that effect from 
 Madame Dalling. 
 
 Louisa manifested a great aversion to this ar- 
 rangement. It was indeed much too early to acquiesce 
 in such a proposal, which was certainly an anticipa- 
 tion of a closer connection; but the weak parent 
 could not resist the temptation of acting a brilliant 
 part at Prague at so cheap a rate, Madame Wicken- 
 feld tendered herself as a companion, and the offer 
 was accepted. The baron immediately dispatched a 
 messenger with orders to prepare every thing for their 
 reception. At their departure, he respectfully at- 
 tended his guests to their coach. At every station the 
 travellers found relays of horses, and refreshments 
 provided ; they were every where treated with the 
 utmost politeness ; nobody demanded or would take
 
 15 
 
 any money of them. This was extremely agreeable 
 to Madame Bailing; and on the second night, when 
 they reached Prague, and the coach stopped before an 
 elegant house, brilliantly lighted up, where they were 
 received by servants in rich liveries, and conducted 
 into a mansion, respecting which it would be difficult 
 to decide whether it was the temple of Luxury or of 
 Convenience, she fell upon the neck of her daughter, 
 exclaiming, " Ah, Louisa !" Though she then threw 
 herself in silence upon a sopha, yet her secret wishes 
 were perfectly legible in her sparkling eyes. 
 
 Madame Wickenfeld smiled as she drummed with 
 her fingers upon the windows of plate-glass, and ob- 
 served, that in such a fairy palace it could not surely 
 be a difficult matter to forget an ungrateful mortal. 
 Louisa with a heavy heart remained silent. The fol- 
 lowing day several letters of recommendation, with 
 which the baron had furnished them, were delivered, 
 and there was none but what produced the most 
 pleasing effect. The strangers were instantly intro- 
 duced into the first circles, and treated with the most 
 delicate attention. Though Madame Dalling had no 
 demands upon her purse in the baron's house, yet the 
 companies which she daily frequented, and in which 
 maternal vanity hoped to see the tribute of admira- 
 tion paid to the fair Louisa, obliged her to expend 
 much more than her circumstances would afford. Her 
 solicitude on this account was, however, soon re- 
 moved by Madame Wickenfeld. 
 
 " Why don't you borrow?" said she in an easy,
 
 16 
 
 confident tone: " the mother-in-law of such a man 
 will obtain credit any where ; and then what are a 
 few hundreds, more or less, to the rich Baron Frau- 
 enthal ?" 
 
 The weak old lady suffered herself to be per- 
 suaded, and in a few weeks contracted so many 
 debts, that, had her hopes been disappointed, she 
 would have been obliged to leave Prague as a beggar 
 or an impostor. Louisa herself protested, but not 
 always with sufficient warmth, against the quantity of 
 finery and trinkets with which her mother daily co- 
 vered her dressing-table, for she still remained a wo- 
 man ; and though it is a common saying that love 
 iubdues all things, it very rarely happens that female 
 Tanity is conquered by it. 
 
 Meanwhile, the time in which Robert's answer 
 was expected had elapsed. Louisa was reminded of it 
 in a whisper — she was silent. The information was 
 repeated in a louder tone, on which she begged for 
 another week, after that for a second, and then for 
 the last. In this last arrived at length the wished-for 
 letter, addressed, however, not to Louisa, but to 
 Madame Wickenfeld. It was as follows : 
 
 " Dear Friend, I regret the time and paper you 
 have wasted in reminding me of a person whom I 
 wish I had never seen. I am deeply impressed with 
 the honour shewn me by Mademoiselle Dalling, but 
 deem myself unworthy of her. Let her in God's 
 name bestow her hand on the Baron Frauenthal, or 
 any other of her numerous admirers, I am firmly
 
 17 
 
 resolved to remain at a distance a tranquil spectator 
 of her felicity." 
 
 Unfortunate Louisa ! How she trembled when the 
 letter was opened ! — how wildly she laughed when 
 it was read by her cruel friend I — how eagerly she 
 snatched it from her, recognized the hand, and was yet 
 unwilling to believe her eyes ! What a night succeed- 
 ed that evening ! — what a morning followed that 
 night! " Be not childish," said Madame Wicken- 
 feld, " and learn at last to know men, whose hearts, 
 as they call them, reside in their eyes, and when 
 the latter turn so do the former along with them. This 
 is your first lesson, and for that reason it is so painful. 
 I, who still fancy myself young and handsome, 
 have had many of the kind, and none of my acquaint- 
 ance can boast of being more fortunate." 
 
 The fair lady knew neither Louisa nor love, if she 
 expected any benefit from such consolations. The 
 forsaken Louisa indeed never attempted to justify 
 her inconstant lover, but a secret wish that she had it 
 in her power to justify him was still uppermost in her 
 soul — consequently she did not hate him. Madame 
 Wickenfeld, judging of Louisa by herself, had vainly 
 calculated upon the irritation of her feelings and 
 wounded pride ; for even now she manifested not the 
 smallest desire of becoming Baroness Frauenthal, and 
 would fain have devised some specious pretext for a 
 fresh delay. Her mother, however, gravely hinted 
 at a multitude of bills unpaid, and declared, sighing, 
 that she should be obliged to leave Prague with dis- 
 grace, unless her daughter fulfilled her promise. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 
 
 This decided her. Madame Wickenfeld sent an 
 express to Vienna ; the Baron returned in less time 
 han the messenger, and in a few days dragged his vic- 
 tim to the altar. The bridegroom's eyes sparkled, 
 those of the bride appeared languid ; the mother's 
 overflowed with tears of joy, and those of her friend 
 expressed the highest exultation. 
 
 Louisa was now a rich lady. She had it in her 
 power to make her ears half an inch longer by means 
 of diamonds, to heighten the whiteness of her bosom 
 with yellow laces ; she could go abroad whenever she 
 pleased with the most splendid equipage, convert her 
 staircase in winter into a flower garden, and possessed 
 all the other envied advantages of that kind : but her 
 peace and her engaging vivacity were fled. Jealous 
 as a tiger I had almost said, if slander even of ti- 
 gers were excusable — jealous, however, as a man 
 who knows that he is ;^lmost thirty years older than 
 his handsome wife, did the baron shew himself imme- 
 diately after the nuptials. The generous confidence 
 towards him evinced in the communication of Loui- 
 sa's affection for Robert, now became an inexhausti- 
 ble source of torment to the unfortunate baroness. 
 Not a day passed but she was jeered and reviled, some- 
 times with cutting sarcasms, and at others with se- 
 rious asperity. Whenever she appeared pensive, he 
 spitefully observed that she was probably thinking 
 of Robert. If an officer in scarlet regimentals hap- 
 pened to pass by, he raved like a lunatic, and main- 
 tained that she had looked after him with a sigh. A 
 thousand times he reproached her with having only
 
 19 
 
 given him a hand which Robert had rejected ; and 
 when she humbly reminded him that nothing had beea 
 concealed, but that he was previously acquainted with 
 the whole affair, the sense of his injustice only served 
 to exasperate him still more, and often hurried him in- 
 to the greatest indecorums. In this melancholy si- 
 tuation Louisa had no other comfort than the satis- 
 faction of her mother, from whom she concealed her 
 sufferings as much as possible. In this attempt she 
 could scarcely have succeeded, had it not been facili- 
 tated by her mother herself ; for the good old lady 
 finding her new quarters extremely comfortable, 
 would neither see nor hear, and never asked any 
 questions. 
 
 Madame Wickenfeld passed her time in appa- 
 rently thoughtless trifling about her languishing 
 friend, abusing the men, and striving to revenge their 
 inconstancy on one of their sex every month. As the 
 carnival approached, the baron conducted the ladies 
 to Vienna, chiefly out of vanity, that he might exhibit 
 his charming w ife to the inhabitants of that city. Her 
 beauty was the more fascinating as her cheeks had yet 
 no occasion for paint. The Viennese, highly suscep- 
 tible of beauty of every kind, whispered to each other 
 with evident pleasure, whenever the Baroness Frau- 
 enthal entered a ball-room or a box at the theatre. 
 
 Being onCfe at a brilliant masquerade, she had cho- 
 sen a quiet place to look about her, and had, as it 
 were, entrenched herself behind a row of ladies, when 
 a domino approached the person that was seated just
 
 20 
 
 before her, and taking off the mask, stooped down 
 to speak to the latter. Louisa acciden tally turned 
 her eyes that way, recognized Robert, uttered a loud 
 shriek and fainted. When she came again to herself, 
 she was lying upon a sopha in her bed-chamber ; 
 her mother sat weeping at her feet ; Madame Wick- 
 enfeld stood watching at the window, and the baron 
 hastily pacing the room, cursed, rayed, gnashed his 
 teeth, clenched his fists, and seemed with difficulty 
 to refrain from acts of violence. He was dishonour, 
 ed, he cried, foaming with rage, and in accents scarce- 
 ly articulate ; he had been made a laughing-stock in 
 the face of the public, to every 'prentice-boy, and to 
 every servant-maid in the city. 
 
 This was not the fact ; for when Louisa was so 
 suddenly surprised, though she was instantly sur- 
 rounded by a circle of inquisitive spectators, through 
 which the baron, who hastily repaired to the spot, 
 could scarcely force his way; yd it never entered 
 into any one's head to put an unfavourable construc- 
 tion on this accident, as Louisa was sitting in the 
 midst of ladies only, and not a person of the other 
 sex had spoken to her. It was naturally ascribed to 
 the heat of the place. Robert, the only one who 
 suspected the real cause, had immediately retired, but 
 unfortunately not unseen by Madame Wickenfeld, 
 who on her way home with the senseless' Louisa and 
 the baron, with the utmost simplicity dropped a hint 
 of the matter, and took care not to contradict the 
 conjecture that Robert had spoken to the baroness.
 
 21 
 
 Her husband was now anxious to know the purport 
 of this supposed conyersation, -which he demanded 
 in a harsh and imperious tone ; and when Louisa in 
 few and gentle words, and with a serene look, pro- 
 tested that he was mistaken, he foamed with fury, and 
 rushed out of the room denouncing yengeance. 
 Louisa was still reclined on the sopha. Two big 
 drops trickled down her pallid cheeks, [but she wept 
 not. She calmly requested to be left to herself, and 
 resting her head upon her hand stedfastly gazed till 
 day-break at the flame of the nocturnal taper. At 
 length she rose, went to the table, wrote a few words, 
 rung the bell for her maid, and gare her a note to carry 
 to her husband. 
 
 In this note she expressed a wish to retire to a con- 
 Tent. The baron " grinned horribly a ghastly 
 smile" at the affrighted girl. " Tell your mistress," 
 said he, " that her wishes are commands for me, 
 and that she shall soon enjoy the profoundest soli- 
 tude." 
 
 Condoled by this answer, Louisa anxiously expect- 
 ed a Tisitfrom her mother, in order to communicate to 
 her the resolution which she had taken. Noon came, 
 eyening arrived, but still her mother neyer appeared. 
 Her anxious daughter imagining that she was unwell, 
 would have sent her maid to her, would have gone 
 herself to her mother's room, which was in a wing of 
 the bouse ; but what a mixture of opposite feelings 
 suddenly overwhelmed her, when she found the door 
 of her sitting-room locked, and the girl informed her
 
 22 
 
 with tears that she was a prisoner, that nobody was 
 permitted to see her, not even her mother, who had 
 already in vain tried every means to soothe her enraged 
 son.in.Iaw. 
 
 Louisa folded her hands, raised her eyes toward 
 heaven, and sunk upon a chair, where, plunged in 
 gloomy silence, she remained till night arrived. A key 
 now grated in the door of the ante-room, her prison 
 opened, the baron with a stern look entered, and offer- 
 ed her his arm, with the words, " Come along, ma- 
 dam." She rose and accompanied him, without 
 deigning to ask a single question, or to prefer a single 
 iutreaty. He conducted her down a back staircase : 
 a travelling carriage stood at the door ; a domestic 
 with the physiognomy of a bandit opened i\\Q door : 
 the baron handed in the silent sufferer, and with a loud 
 laugh wished her a good journey. The bandit 
 mounted the box, and in a few minutes Louisa had 
 passed the gates of Vienna. 
 
 The night was very dark. As long as the coach 
 rolled along the pavement of the streets, Louisa 
 thought herself quite alone ; but when it proceeded 
 with less noise she heard a slight rustling by her side; 
 she was somewhat affrighted, and asked : " Is any bo- 
 dy here ?" 
 
 " I am," replied a hoarse female voice — '' And 
 who are you ?" — ^' Old Bridget, at your ladyship's 
 service." — This Bridget, who had not long before sat 
 to a painter at Vienna as 3, model for the Witch of 
 Endor, was a kind of overseer of the linen and
 
 2S 
 
 plate in the baron's house, though she had formerly 
 followed a lery different profession. Louisa had 
 scarcely seen her twice, and had conceived a strong 
 dislike of her physiognomy. 
 
 " How came you hither ? What is your business 
 here ?" 
 
 " I am to have the honour of being your ladyship's 
 maid." 
 
 *' At the place to which I am going I shall want 
 no maid." 
 
 The witch made no reply ; Louisa was likewise 
 silent, and the coach proceeded at a great rate. In 
 two hours they arrived at the first stage ; the horses 
 were changed, and in a few minutes they continued 
 their journey. Louisa uttered not a word ; but 
 when at day-break, they had already passed the third 
 stage, she could not forbear turning to her attendant 
 with the question : '* Are we far from the con- 
 vent?" — " What convent ?" '' That to which you are 
 taking me." — He, he, he, it would be a pity indeed 
 to shut up such a handsome lady in a convent. No, 
 no, his lordship won't do that. I've known him fron> 
 9, child ; he need not be told that moments may come 
 when anger subsides, and the heart longs for reconci. 
 liation ; and for this a convent does not afford the 
 best opportunity." 
 
 '' My God ! whither are they dragging me ?" 
 
 ''Dragging' Nay, heaven forbid! We are tra- 
 velling post in a fine convenient coach, and then the 
 sun shines wherever we go. If your ladyship will 
 but place confidence in me, matters will all go well."
 
 24 
 
 The witch in fact appeared not disinclined to re- 
 commence her old trade. She had long been dissatis- 
 fied with the baron, becansc he seemed to keep her 
 merely out of charity, and after such long and faith- 
 ful services, he often went from one year's end to 
 another without speaking to her, though she so dearly 
 loTcd to talk of past and consequently better times. 
 On this occasion, indeed, he had suddenly sent for 
 her, received her with talkative affability, and even 
 conferred on her the honourable office of a Duenna ; 
 but this could not completely remove her spleen, be- 
 cause she was well aware that it was only done because 
 the baron stood in need of her assistance, and could 
 find no better tool to execute his vengeance. Hence 
 it would have been no difficult matter for Louisa to 
 gain over Mrs. Bridget, had she but chosen to descend 
 from the pinnacle of innocence into the abyss of de- 
 pravity. But the abject baseness betrayed by all 
 that proceeded from the old woman's lips, excited 
 such a strong disgust, that she would not only have 
 no more to say to her, but even gravely commanded 
 her to be silent. Mrs. Bridget merely muttered that 
 she thought people in such a situation owed some re- 
 spect to certain persons, and afterwards maintained 
 a sullen silence. She had not yet betrayed the only 
 thing that Louisa wished to know, which was, to 
 what place they were going. Neither would the 
 coachman answer this question, which the injured 
 wife was too proud to repeat. She calmly resigned 
 herself to her fate, merely mourned with silent tears 
 her separation from her mother, and reclined in a
 
 25 
 
 corner of the coach, beheld the passing cities, villages, 
 and fields. 
 
 At length they reached the shore of the Adriatic, 
 a magnificent prospect for one who had never yet 
 beheld the sea. For half a day together her eyes 
 would be fixed on the immense liquid mirror, and 
 pursue the waves, as they rose, increased, and at last 
 foaming, overwhelmed and buried one another. So 
 fares it, thought Louisa, with the hopes of the human 
 breast, and she felt a kind of satisfaction in the specta- 
 cle of this incessant rising and sinking. She was now 
 in Dalmatia. Not far from Ragusa, a republic now 
 also overwhelmed by the turbulent billows of time, 
 stood an ancient castle upon a steep rock near the 
 sea, inhabited only by owls, bats, and a paralytic 
 keeper — an inheritance which had devolved to the 
 baron from his mother's side, and was now destined 
 to be the prison of Louisa. She shuddered as the car- 
 riage proceeded across a dreary, grass-grown court- 
 yard; and the striking of an old castle-clock resem- 
 bled the tolling of a sepulchral bell. The driver de- 
 livered a written order to the keeper, who read it 
 without uttering a word, rattled his keys, scraped the 
 rust from them, opened a creaking door, and con- 
 ducted his prisoner up a damp marble staircase to the 
 best apartments, in which the gilt leather tapestry 
 hung in tatters from the walls. Louisa summoned all 
 her fortitude, and not a single sigh escaped her. 
 
 It was evening when she arrived ; in the castle 
 itself it was already dark, and this increased the hor-
 
 26 
 
 TOT of the place. As soon as she was shewn her 
 cbamber, she desired to be left alone, threw herself 
 dressed as she was upon the bed, and wept till her 
 wholly exhausted body could no longer resist the soft 
 embraces of sleep. The tempestuous wind which 
 howled through the apartments of the castle, and 
 played with the loosened tiles, as a swallow would 
 with a feather, presented to her half wakened senses 
 terrific dreams, which it again destroyed, when with 
 the first dawn of morning it chased sleep from her 
 weary eyes. She rose and went to the window, which 
 commanded a view of the sea. The first beams of the 
 sun trembled like liquid gold on the bosom of the 
 waves. The majesty of the prospect bowed the knees 
 of the unhappy baroness : she prayed with fervour, 
 and felt herself invigorated. The consciousness of 
 her innocence gave her sufficient strength to form the 
 firm resolution to endure her afflictions without a mur- 
 mur, to suffer neither a tear nor a complaint to escape 
 her in the presence of her keepers, and thus to spoil 
 the malicious pleasure of her tormentor. She accom- 
 modated herself to her situation as well as she could. 
 The place alTorded no books, and she was denied the 
 use of pen, ink, and paper : she nevertheless devised 
 a thousand little occupations. She made neat baskets 
 of rushes ; she formed rosaries of corals which are 
 found upon that coast ; she collected variegated 
 stones and sea-weed; she fed the young swallows in 
 the nests under her wiadow, and watched the sea- 
 mews sporting on the surface of the water, or diving 
 deep beneath the waves.
 
 27 
 
 She was allowed to walk once a-day by the sea-side, 
 and of this privilege she never neglected to avail her- 
 self, though the witch of Endor, and the bandit were 
 invariably her disagreeable companions. Fortunately 
 these keepers were soon tired of their troublesome 
 office : the old woman several times affected severe 
 illness, and the licentious bandit, to whom solitude 
 was a much greater punishment than to his prisoner, 
 often spent whole weeks in the ale-houses of Ragusa, 
 thoroughly persuaded that in so remote a country the 
 baroness was utterly destitute of the means of escape. 
 
 He was not mistaken. Neither did Louisa ever 
 conceive the idea of quitting a solitude to which she 
 gradually became accustomed. It was my wish, thought 
 she, to bury myself in a convent. God is omnipre- 
 sent: why may I not make a convent of this castle ? 
 Heaven listens to the child-like prayer, be it offered 
 up wherever it will. 
 
 With such a disposition, she soon acquired a sort 
 of content. Nothing but the separation from her 
 mother, and the idea of Robert's inconstancy, ex- 
 torted tears from her eyes. One day, she had strolled 
 farther than usual along the sea-shore, sometimes 
 seeking beautiful shells in the sand, at others pursuing 
 her silent meditations, and was not aware of the cir- 
 cumstance till a peal of thunder awoke her from her 
 reverie. She looked up, and beheld with affright a 
 black cloud advancing across the Adriatic, and the 
 castle at a considerable distance before her. She in- 
 stantly quickened her pace, but the obstructions oc-
 
 28 
 
 casioncd by the sand, frequently obliged her to pause 
 and take breath. The rolling thunder approached 
 nearer and nearer : her alarm increased, and soon 
 attained its highest pitch, when she observed a man, 
 with his face muffled up in a great coat, apparently 
 hastening after her at the distance of a few hundred 
 paces. 
 
 She now began to run, but was not long able to 
 continue this exertion, and on casting a timid look 
 behind, she perceived that the stranger was also run- 
 ning. Her knees trembled ; terror paralized her 
 limbs; she sunk upon a stone on the shore, heard the 
 footsteps of her pursuer quite close to her, and in the 
 next moment, while the thunder burst awfully above, 
 Robert was prostrate at her feet. She fell backward 
 as though struck by the lightning, and became stiff 
 as a marble statue. The big drops that fell upon her 
 face restored her to her senses. Robert still lay at 
 her feet, embraced her knees, and sobbed ; but was 
 unable to utter a word. To her female pride first 
 imparted the power of speech. 
 
 " What is your business here ? Are you come to 
 feast yourself with the spectacle of my misery?" 
 " Hear me 1" stammered Robert — '- 1 am innocent." 
 At this moment Mrs. Bridget's screeching voice was 
 heard at a distance. Robert threw himself behind the 
 stone ; Louisa went to meet her. She brought um- 
 brellas, and loudly grumbled about Louisa's fondness 
 for incessant rambling. Fortunately she had not 
 perceived Robert, as the umbrella which she held
 
 29 
 
 directly before her to preyent the rain from beating 
 in her face intercepted the Tiew. Louisa reached the 
 castle in the most vioknt agitation. The words — " I 
 am innocent" — words which she would so fain believe, 
 continually reyerberated in her ears. '' He must be 
 innocent," responded her heart ; " he must still lore 
 me, otherwise what should bring him into this desert? 
 Why should he seek me in this inhospitable corner of 
 the Gulf of Venice ? What would he care about my 
 fate if that odious letter were his work, if it conveyed 
 
 his sentiments ?" With what impatience did she 
 
 await the succeeding day ! With what anxiety did 
 she look towards every point of the heavens, fearful 
 lest the weather might prevent her accustomed walk 
 on the shore. She indeed would have defied all its 
 rigonrs, but what would Mrs. Bridget, nay, what 
 would her own pride have said on such an occasion ? 
 The next day was fortunately quite serene, but even 
 then she could not disguise from herself that, to use 
 the mildest term, it was not decorous to run, as it 
 were, into the arms of her lover, with whom, it is 
 true, she had not concerted an interview, but whom 
 she was nevertheless sure of meeting. 
 
 Long did she struggle with these scruples, and in or- 
 der to weigh them with due deliberation, she went half 
 an hour earlier than usual to the shore, because the 
 murmur of the waves is favourable to profound me- 
 ditation. She could, she thought, at any time turn 
 quickly back, if she perceived the light great-coat at 
 a distance : but she soon descried it, and still did not
 
 30 
 
 return. Robert, indeed, was already much too near 
 to permit her, for suddenly springing from behind a 
 rock, he embraced her knees, and it was then too late 
 to think of flight. 
 
 " For pity's sake," exclaimed he, " listen to my 
 justification. We have both been dreadfully deceiv- 
 ed. Before I saw you, I was attached with a vacant 
 heart to Madame Wickenfeld. She was young, hand, 
 some, vain, and a coquette ; she distinguished me by 
 her partiality, and I, out of gratitude, flew without 
 reflection into the net she had prepared. No sooner 
 did I behold Louisa, than it proved too weak to de- 
 tain me. You recollect the manner in which she 
 surprised us. I had a presentiment of her malice; 
 but she dissembled her vexation with such consum- 
 mate art, she assured me with such apparent sincerity 
 that her love for me was by no means selfish, but 
 that my happiness was her's, let it proceed from 
 whomsoever it would, that she soon acquired my un- 
 reserved confidence. I observed her attach herself 
 to you as a sister; I heard her daily speak concerning 
 you with transport ; we were indebted to her for so 
 many delicious hours — how was it possible to enter- 
 tain the slightest suspicion? Once or twice, indeed, 
 she seemed as if she wished to excite in my mind some 
 doubts of your constancy ; she called my attention to 
 every little inadvertence which sometimes escaped 
 your infantine vivacity; she strove to create jealousy, 
 and occasionally dropped a word concerning your 
 poverty and obstacles to an union with you. AU this.
 
 31 
 
 liowever, was done with such good-nature, and 
 seemed so entirely to proceed from solicitude for my 
 happiness, that it only riTctted my attachment, and 
 daily increased my confidence in her. When my fa- 
 ther's commands parted me from you, a fair field was 
 opened for calumny. It was not all at once, but 
 only by slow degrees, that Madame Wickenfcld ven- 
 tured to undermine the perfect confidence which I 
 placed in you. At first it was only instances of 
 thoughtlessness and levity, and at length equivocal 
 anecdotes, that she communicated in terms of the 
 deepest regret, complaining that the sincerity of her 
 friendship imposed on her the painful duty of ac- 
 quainting me with the truth. In this manner she 
 plunged me with every post into fresh affliction and 
 despair, and so far was I the dupe of her artifice, that 
 I determined to renounce you. I ceased to write, 
 and received no more letters from you till the last, 
 which seemed to me to contain the keenest mockery; 
 for Madame Wickenfeld had informed me that you 
 had long kept up a suspicious connexion with the 
 baron, the consequence of which rendered a speedy 
 union absolutely necessary. 
 
 *' This was the cause of my precipitate declaration. 
 Half a year afterwards my brother fell in a duel, and 
 my father in a very short time died of grief. The fa- 
 mily estate consequently devolved upon me ; I there- 
 fore resigned my commission, and hastened home, 
 where, to my extreme surprise, I found among my 
 father's papers a letter from Madame Wickenfeld,
 
 32 
 
 written at Carlsbad, in which she acquainted him 
 with my attachment to you, depicting you in the most 
 odious colours, and advising him to call me away as 
 speedily as possible. The veil was now removed 
 from before my eyes. The malignity of this abomi. 
 nable woman, Louisa's innocence, my scandalous 
 behaviour, and the felicity ^^hich I had wantonly re- 
 jected, were suddenly exposed to my view. I wander- 
 ed about like one lost in thought, or raved like a lu- 
 natic. As soon as I again became master of myself, 
 and could form a resolution, I determined to see you 
 once more, in hopes of becoming more tranquil if I 
 found you happy, or at the risk of tearing open 
 afresh the wounds of my bleeding heart, if you also 
 were doomed by villainy to a life of wretchedness. 
 
 " I hastened to Prague, but you had left that city. 
 I flew to Vienna, where I arrived in the evening, and 
 hearing of the intended masquerade, procured a do- 
 mino, thinking that I might perhaps meet you there, 
 and have an opportunity of observing you in silence. 
 Neither was I mistaken. In the first quarter of an 
 hour my heart discovered you among thousands ; I 
 followed all your steps, I beheld you more beautiful 
 than ever, but the air of sadness impressed on your 
 countenance did not escape my notice, and, to tell 
 the truth, it gave me pleasure. 
 
 '' You sat down. I stood still at a distance, and 
 conceived a desire of shewing myself to you, to ascer- 
 tain what impression my sudden appearance would pro- 
 duce. This desire gradually grew stronger and stronger.
 
 33 
 
 Some e¥il spirit must certainly hare inspired me with 
 this idea, tormented me to put it in execution, and 
 faroured my silly temerity with an opportunity for 
 that purpose, for a lady of my acquaintance was 
 seated just before you. What followed, I need not 
 repeat; you were carried out, and I, scarcely master 
 of my senses, sunk upon the same seat which you had 
 occupied. Madame Wickenfeld had recognized me, 
 and merely whispered as I passed the words : ' Are 
 you mad?' The serpent was not aware that she 
 stood unmasked before me. I was unable at that mo- 
 ment to give her any reply ; but she might have per- 
 ceived in my looks the most sovereign contempt. She 
 disappeared. I mixed among the crowd, where I 
 heard every body speak of you with the highest ad- 
 miration and sympathy, and my heart was ready to 
 break. During the ensuing days I tried every means 
 to obtain some inteiligence concerning you ; I was 
 told that you had suddenly departed, and that your 
 mother and husband remained behind; but nobody 
 could inform me whither you were gone. I chose an 
 hour when I knew that the baron was at court, to 
 pay a visit to your mother, whom I found in tears. 
 She was affected by the account of my fate, and by 
 the violence of my sorrow. I mingled my tears 
 with her's : pity was the only consolation which she 
 had it in her power to give me, for, like myself, she 
 was a stranger to the place of your exile. Ma- 
 dame Wickenfeld, however, could not she thought 
 YOL. I. D
 
 34 
 
 be ignorant of it, as she was then living on the most 
 intimate footing with the baron. 
 
 " My resolution was instantly formed. I hastily 
 repaired to Madame Wickenfeld ; without mention- 
 ing my name, I pushed forward, as an old acquaint- 
 incc, to the door of her apartment, which I suddenly 
 threw open, and fortunately found the lady alone. 
 At the first sight of me, she £eemed somewhat alarm- 
 ed, but soon recoTered herself, and welcomed me in 
 her usual easy tone. Trembling with secret rage, I 
 took her letter to my father out of my pocket, and 
 held it before her eyes ; she blushed, and looking at 
 me, after some pause, said with the utmost unconcern : 
 * Well, what then V — Her impudence put me out of 
 all temper, and I reproached her in the warmest terms. 
 ' Patience, sir,'* said she haughtily : ' is it my fault 
 that you were deceived ? People always purchase ex- 
 perience at their own cost. You have learnt that you 
 must never make a confidant of a deserted rival. 
 If Ovid has omitted this wise precept in his Art of 
 Love, that is no fault of mine.' Bursting into a loud 
 laugh as she finished these words, she endeavoured to 
 give me the slip, but I suddenly seized her by the arm. 
 
 " From this spot, madam, you shall not stir,' cried 
 I furiously, ' till you have informed me to what place 
 Louisa has been conveyed.* 
 
 " That is no business of mine, sir,' stammered she 
 with aftright; how should I know?' On this she 
 attempted to disengage herself, and to escape into her 
 bed-chamber. ' You shall not get away from me,'
 
 35 
 
 said I, in a resolute tone, and drew her toward it 
 myself. She looked at me with timid, sidelong glan- 
 ces, as a person would at a madman. 
 
 " I will call my servants,' said she with a tremu- 
 lous voice. I quickly locked the door, drew my 
 sword and swore upon my honour that I would plunge 
 it into her heart, unless she instantly gaye me the 
 information that I wanted. ' Ovid has probably 
 omitted this precept also,' added I maliciously, 
 ' that a real lover must not be driven to despair.' 
 
 " Her whole body trembkd most yiolently. ' Would 
 jou bring yourself to the scaffold ?' stammered she ia 
 a voice scarcely audible. I pointed the sword to her 
 bosom, and she confessed every thing. I now releas- 
 ed her with the serious warning that she would not 
 escape my rage, if she communicated to the baron a 
 single syllable concerning this aifair. I left the 
 wretch lying either in real or aflfected convulsions ; 
 returned to my inn, threw myself into a coach, and 
 flew to this coast, where, concealed for these three 
 days in a fisherman's hut, I have been watching for a 
 favourable moment to protest to Louisa my innocence 
 and my unabated affection." 
 
 '• And," sobbed she, '• to render me still more 
 wretched I" This complaint, however, proceeded 
 not from her heart, for that heart felt a sweet allevi- 
 ation of its woes, when she was apprised of the in- 
 nocence of her lover. They now passed delicious 
 days on the inhospitable coast: every rock now 
 became a Dorothea's stone, and the lovers daily met
 
 36 
 
 at tbe solitary walk, where they could not be obserr- 
 ed except from a single window of the castle. This 
 window, Louisa well knew, belonged to an unin- 
 habited room, which had not been opened for many 
 years. Robert, however, thought it possible that 
 Mrs. Bridget might happen to take it into her head 
 to watch her from this spot. The anxious Louisa 
 acknowledged the justice of this apprehension, and 
 therefore suffered herself to be easily persuaded to 
 walk with him to the fisherman's hut, which was not 
 far distant. Here, screened from every inquisitive 
 eye, they indulged in reveries of a happy futurity, 
 and daily consulted by what means it was to be at- 
 tained. It was naturally Robert's first idea to re- 
 move Louisa from this place of confinement — a plan 
 which might have been so easily executed, as he had 
 only occasion to hire a fishing-boat and to proceed 
 with her to Venice: to this proposal, however, she 
 peremptorily refused her assent. 
 
 '' Now that I am the baron's wife,'* 8aid she, " I 
 must not sacrifice my honour to my love." It ap- 
 peared much easier to her to persuade her husband, 
 whom she had so much reason for hating, to a sepa- 
 ration, or to wait for his death. The latter Robert 
 rejected, as by far too prospective ; the former he 
 promised to use every exertion to effect. Both' were 
 fain to persuade themselves that these measures were 
 easy of execution ; both were daily more certain that 
 when the time of trial \vas past, they should be 
 united, and be wholly each others^ and resigning
 
 37 
 
 themselves to this soothing illusion, in an unguarded 
 moment they stumbled and fell. 
 
 Louisa suddenly awoke with terror from the de- 
 licious dream. " We have seen each other here for 
 the last time !" exclaimed she, with poignant sorrow 
 and averted face. " Depart, Robert, and if you 
 should not succeed in dissolving my bonds, never re- 
 turn to embitter my days, and to rob me of ray last 
 and only consolation — the consciousness of my inno- 
 cence !" He durst not venture to justify the teme- 
 rity of his passion; but he swore, by compulsion or 
 intreaty, to oblige the baron to relinquish his claims 
 on Louisa, or to die in the attempt. 
 
 Robert departed. The solitary Louisa divided her 
 time between tears and hopes — now humbled by 
 conscious guilt, now elevated by the possibility of 
 reconciling herself with her conscience, by a legal 
 union with Robert. But what was her anguish when 
 conjecture was gradually matured into the cruel 
 certainty, that the unpropitious Moment in which she 
 was forsaken by her guardian angel, had been produc- 
 tive of consequences. She shuddered at the idea. 
 What scenes — what fate awaited her if Robert should 
 not speedily return with favourable tidings ! How 
 could she conceal hsr situation from the experienced 
 Bridget, or how debase herself so far as to implore the 
 compassion of such a creature ? 
 
 She now repented her opposition to the projected 
 flight to Venice : she was now sensible that without 
 speedy aid she must be irretrievably undone. In this
 
 38 
 
 dilemma she availed herself of the materials for writ- 
 ing which Robert had left her, together with his ad- 
 dress, ia case of any emergency. She informed him, 
 as plainly as shame would permit, of her cruel situ- 
 ation ; she conjured him to hasten to her without loss 6f 
 time, and to throw himself with her into the first hoAt 
 he could procure, in order to rescue her from impend- 
 ing destruction. This letter she entrusted to the care 
 of the artful fisherman, whose hut had afforded shelter 
 to the lovers, to whom she indeed had nothing to give, 
 but who had been so often and so amply rewarded by 
 Robert, that she could venture to rely upon his fidelity. 
 After he had solemnly promised to carry the letter to 
 the post-ofiice at Ragusa, she again enjoyed a gleam 
 of hope and tranquillity. She well knew that Robert 
 would not delay a moment to terminate her suspense : 
 she counted the weeks which the letter would be in 
 reaching her lover, and the days which his rapid jour- 
 ney to her would occupy. She a£:reed with the fisher- 
 man that he should fix up a white pole on the shore 
 under her window, as soon as he had any intelligence 
 to communicate. 
 
 With what anxiety did she every moment approach 
 the window — what timid looks did she cast towards 
 the shore — what numberless times did she turn away 
 sighing, till at length one day, at the setting of an 
 unclouded sun, the white pole caught her eye ! It was 
 with difficulty that she suppressed a cry of joy. She 
 stood trembling, and unable to remove her eyes from 
 the welcome object ; but was alarmed whenever Brid-
 
 39 
 
 get entered the room. She was uncommonly talkative 
 with the old woman, merely to prevent her going to 
 the window, for the pole, Louisa imagined, must 
 equally strike any other person, and announce the 
 parpose for which it was designed. She longed to fly 
 to the fisherman's hut ; but this would have excited 
 notice in the castle, and prudence commanded her to 
 ."wait till the usual hour for taking her walk. What 
 an eternity did it appear till the arrival of that hour ! 
 At length the old castlc-clock struck. Louisa, with 
 a beating heart, lightly descended the winding stair- 
 case; her feet scarcely touched the sand ; in a few 
 minutes she reached the hut, and was clasped in Ro- 
 bert's arms. 
 
 A delicious hour passed away with the rapidity of 
 lightning, in tender complaints, which the soothing 
 lover smothered in tender embraces. Robert sum- 
 moned up his resolution. 
 
 " We have no time to lose," said he hastily: 
 '' every thing is ready; the sails are spread; it is 
 but a few paces to the creek where the vessel lies, and 
 then you are free." 
 
 " I attend you," cried Louisa, and hung trembling 
 on his arm. The door suddenly opened. In rushed 
 the baron with a pistol in his hand. Robert seized 
 his sword — the pistol went off — Louisa fainted. When 
 she recovered her senses it was night. A small lamp 
 reflected a dim light around : she began to consider 
 where she was. The fishing-tackle upon the walls 
 soon reminded her of the last moment of which she
 
 40 
 
 had any recollection. She now cast her eyes on the 
 floor — Robert was extended at her feet ; his skull 
 shattered, and her garments besprinkled with his 
 blood. 
 
 She started back shrieking, and involuntarily ran 
 to the door, which she found completely fastened. 
 The murderer had not been able to devise a more 
 cruel revenge than to shut her up with her inanimate 
 lover. 
 
 The fisherman, whose fidelity was only to be pur- 
 chased with money, disliking Louisa's commission, 
 had disposed of her letter for a few piastres to the 
 1)andit, who sent it to his worthy master. The baron 
 laughed with rage when he read it, and immediately 
 resolved to make it the instrument of the most cruel 
 revenge. He sent the letter, safely sealed up, to the 
 person to whom it was addressed, and hastened 
 forward under an assumed name to Ragusa, where he 
 kept himself concealed till the bandit informed him of 
 Robert's arrival. In this manner he succeeded in sur- 
 prising the lovers. His first fire extended his 
 hated rival on the ground, and he had already seized 
 the second pistol to dispatch the senseless Louisa, 
 when Satan whispered him that his revenge would 
 not be consummated, for by a speedy and unconscious 
 death he would only anticipate the wishes of the 
 unfortunate baroness. Grinning he returned the 
 pistol to his pocket, walked out of the hut, and 
 secured the door. In his infernal expectation he was 
 not disappointed. After an agony of three hours
 
 41 
 
 Louisa was prematurely delivered, and expired close- 
 ly embracing the corpse of her lover. 
 
 It was not till some years afterwards that the mur- 
 derer, writhing under the pangs of disease, was seiz- 
 ed with remorse. He pulled down the fisherman's hut, 
 and on the spot erected a chapel, to which he remo- 
 ved the relics of his victims, and founded masses for 
 the repose of their souls and his own. 
 
 This is the chapel with the gilded cross, which the 
 navigator discovers in steering from the little island 
 of Mileteto Ragusa. 
 
 THE SPORT OF FORTUNE. 
 
 Aloysius Von G*** was the son of a gentleman in 
 
 the service, and the germ of his happy 
 
 genius was early developed by a liberal education. 
 While yet very young, but with a mind stored with 
 solid attainments, he entered into the military service 
 of his sovereign, who soon discovered him to be a 
 young man of great merit and stiil greater hopes. 
 G*** was in the flower of youth, and so was the 
 prince : G*** was bold and enterprising ; the prince 
 •was the same, and he was fond of such characters* A 
 rich vein of wit and an extensive fund of knowledge 
 rendered G*** a most agreeable companion ; by his 
 invariable conviviality he diffused cheerfulness through 
 every circle in which he mingled, and gave charms and
 
 42 
 
 animation to every subject that presented (self ; and 
 the prince knew how to esteem qualities which he him- 
 self possessed in a high degree. Whatever he undertook, 
 even to his very frolics, bore the stamp of greatness ; 
 lie was not to be deterred by obstacles, and no disap. 
 pointment could overcome his perseverance. The 
 value of these qualities was heightened by an agreeable 
 person, the perfect image of health and Herculean 
 vigor, animated by the energetic expression of an 
 active mind. His look, gait, and whole demeanor 
 displayed a natural majesty, tempered by unaffected 
 modesty. If the prince was fascinated with the in- 
 tellectual qualities of his young companion, this sedu. 
 ting exterior proved irresistibly attractive. Equali. 
 iy of age, harmony of propensities and characters^ 
 soon produced a mutual sentiment which possessed all 
 the strength of friendship, and all the ardour and vio- 
 lence of passionate attachment. G*** flew from one 
 promotion to another ; but these external marks of 
 favour seemed a very imperfect expression of the 
 sentiments which the prince really entertained for 
 him. His fortune advanced with astonishing rapidity, 
 because the man to whom he owed it was his admirer, 
 his impassioned friend. Before he had attained the 
 age of twenty-two,4ie saw himself at an elevation with 
 which the most fortunate would be satisfied to termi- 
 nate their career. But his active spirit could not 
 long repose in the bosom of idle vanity, or content 
 itself with the brilliant appendages of a greatness, for 
 the genuine use of which he was conscious that he
 
 possessed sufficient courage and talents. While the 
 .prince was indulging in a round of pleasures, the 
 young favourite buried himself among records and 
 books, and devoted himself with persevering industry 
 to business, of which he at length so completely made 
 himself master, that every affair of any consequence 
 passed through his hands. From the companion of his 
 .pleasures, he soon became the chief counsellor, and 
 the prime minister of the prince; over whom he, at 
 length, acquired a complete ascendency. There was 
 now no access to the sovereign except through him : 
 he conferred all offices and dignities ; and all re- 
 wards were received from his hands. 
 
 G*** had arrived at the pinnacle of greatness at too 
 early an age, and by too rapid strides, to enjoy his 
 good-fortune with moderation. His ambition grew 
 dizzy with the height at which he found himself ; his 
 modesty forsook him as soon as he had attained the 
 summit of his wishes. The humble submission paid 
 to so young a man, by the first people cf the conn_ 
 try, by all those who were so far above liiin in point 
 of birth, consequence and fortune, and even by those 
 who were venerable from their years, intoxicated his 
 vanity; and the unlimited power which he had as- 
 sumed soon brought to light a certain severity which 
 had ever constituted a feature in his character, and 
 which also accompanied him through all the vicissitudes 
 of fate. There was no service so troublesome or so 
 important but what his friends might venture to re- 
 quire of him ; but his enemies had reason to tremble,
 
 44 
 
 for as far as he extended his kindness on the one hand 
 so little on the other did he set bounds to his reyenge. 
 He made use of his influence not so much to enrich 
 himself as to found the fortunes of many others, 
 whom he expected to do homage to him as the author of 
 their prosperity : but caprice, not justice, directed him 
 in the choice of subjects. By his haughty, imperious 
 demeanor he alienated even the hearts of those whom 
 he had laid under the greatest obligations ; while at 
 the same time he transformed all his rivals, and those 
 by whom he was secretly envied, into so many irre- 
 concilable enemies. 
 
 Among those who watched his every step with eyes 
 of jealousy and envy, and were in silence preparing 
 the means of his destruction, was Count Joseph Mar. 
 tinengo, a native of Piedmont, who belonged to the 
 household of the prince. This man G*** had himself 
 put into the situation which he held, as a creature 
 devoted to himself, and from whom he had nothing to 
 apprehend, that he might occupy in the pleasures of 
 his master that place of which he himself now began 
 to be weary, and which he was desirous to exchange 
 for more important avocations. Looking upon the 
 count as the work of his hands, which he could reduce 
 at pleasure to its original insignificance, he thought 
 himself sure of him both through fear and gratitude ; 
 and thus fell into the same error which Richelieu com- 
 mitted, when he gave Louis XIIL the young Le 
 Grand to amuse him. But independent of his inabi. 
 lity to correct this error with Richelieu's sagacity, h«
 
 45 
 
 had to contend with a more subtle enemy than 
 the French minister had to deal with. Instead of 
 being elated with his good fortune, and shewing his 
 benefactor that he had now emancipated himself, 
 Martincngo kept up with the greatest care the ap- 
 pearance of his former dependence, and with feigned 
 humility seemed to attach himself more and more 
 strongly to the creator of his fortune. At the same 
 time, however, he neglected not to avail himself in 
 the fullest extent of the opportunities which his post 
 afforded him of being in the company of the prince, 
 to render himself gradually necessary and even indis. 
 pensable to the latter. 
 
 In a short time he was perfectly acquainted with his 
 master's mind ; he had discovered all the avenues to 
 his confidence, and imperceptibly insinuated himself 
 into his favour. AH those arts which a noble pride 
 and a natural elevation of soul had taught the minis- 
 ter to despise, were employed by this Italian, who re- 
 jected not even the basest means for accomplishing 
 his purpose. As he well knew that in no situation 
 man stands in need of a guide and assistant so much 
 as in the path of vice, and that nothing gives a better 
 right to bold familiarity than the knowledge of fail- 
 ings that are intended to be kept secret, he awakened 
 passions which had hitherto lain dormant in the prince, 
 and then obtruded himself upon him as his confidant 
 and coadjutor. He hurried him into such excesses as 
 least of all admit of witnesses, and thos insensibly 
 accustomed his master to entrust him with secrets
 
 4(> 
 
 which were kept from the kiwwledge of every other 
 person. In this manner he at length contriT^d to 
 found the scandalous plan of his future prosperity on 
 the depravation of the prince ; and precisely be- 
 cause secrecy was essentially requisite for its execu- 
 tion, he had secured his heart, before G*** con- 
 ceived the most distant idea that he shared it -with 
 another. 
 
 It may seem surprizing that so important a change 
 should have escaped the observation of the latter : 
 but the fact was thatG*** was too conscious of his 
 own worth to entertain the least jealousy of such 
 a man as Martinengo ; and the wily Italian was al- 
 ways too much upon his guard to rouse his opponent 
 by any indiscretion from his proud security. Over- 
 weening confidence, which had made thousands before 
 him totter on the slippery ground of princely favour, 
 was also the cause of G***'s fall. The secret fami?* 
 liarity between Martinengo and his master gave him 
 no uneasiness. He gladly ceded to him a distinction 
 which in his heart he despised, and which had never 
 been the object of his desires. The friendship of the 
 prince never had any charms for him, excepting inas- 
 much as that alone could open him the way to the 
 highest authority : and he inconsiderately kicked 
 down the ladder, as soon as it had assisted him to 
 gain the wished-for elevation. 
 
 It was not Martinengo's disposition to be content 
 with so subordinate a part. At every step which 
 he advanced in the favour of his master his wishes
 
 47 
 
 grew bolder, and his ambition began to aspire to a 
 more solid gratification. The humility which he had 
 hitherto alfected towards his benefactor became the 
 Hioreoppiessive, the more the increase of his influence 
 awakened his pride. As the behaviour of the minis, 
 fer to him did not keep pace in courtesy with the 
 rapid advnaces which he made in the favour of the 
 prince, but on the contrary was often evidently cal- 
 culated to check his rising arrogance, by a salutary 
 reference to his origin : this state of constraint and 
 contradictioii at length grew so intolerable, that he 
 projected a serious plan to terminate it at once by the 
 ruin of his rival. Under the impenetrable veil of 
 consummate hypocrisy he brought this plan to ma- 
 turity. He durst not yet venture to engage in open 
 warfare with his patron ; for though the first blossom 
 of G***'s favouritism was over, it had nevertheless 
 sprung up loo early, and struck too deep root in the 
 mind of the sovereign, to be so speedily eradicated. 
 The most ti i fling circumstance might have restored it 
 to its pristine vigour: for this reason Martinengo 
 judged that the blow which he intended to strike 
 must be a mortal one. What G*** had perhaps lost 
 in the prince's affection he had gained in his esteem ; 
 the more the latter withdrew from the affairs of go- 
 vernment, the less could he dispense with the man 
 who studied his interests with the most scrupulous 
 integrity : and dear as he had been to him as a friend, 
 BO essential was he now in the quality of a mi. 
 nister.
 
 48 
 
 The precise means by which the Italian accomplish- 
 ed his purpose remained a secret between the few 
 who received and inflicted the blow. It is conjec- 
 tured that he laid before the prince the original do- 
 cuments of a private and highly suspicious corres- 
 pondence, which G*** was accused of having kept 
 up with a neighbouring court: but opinions differ on 
 the question whether these were genuine or forged. 
 Be this as it may, he attained his object. G*** ap- 
 peared in the eyes of the prince as the most ungrate- 
 ful of men and the blackest of traitors, whose crime 
 was so clearly demonstrated, that any farther ex- 
 amination seemed totally unnecessary. The whole 
 affair was transacted with such secrecy between Mar- 
 tinengo and his master, that G*** had not the 
 slightest suspicion of the tempest which was gathering 
 over his head. 
 
 In this fatal security he continued till the dreadful 
 moment when from the object of universal reverence 
 and envy he was suddenly to be reduced to that of 
 the profoundest pity. 
 
 When the decisive day arrived, G***, according 
 to custom, repaired to the parade. From ensign he 
 had risen in a few years to the rank of colonel j and 
 this was but a modest term for the ministerial dignity 
 with which he was actually invested, and which ele- 
 vated him above the first people in the country. The 
 parade was the place where his vanity commonly re- 
 ceived the general homage, where for one short hour 
 he enjoyed a greatness and superiority, for the sake
 
 49 
 
 of which he submitted during the remainder of the 
 day to the fatigues of business. People of the high- 
 est rank here approached him with respectful timidity, 
 and those who were not perfectly sure of his favour, 
 with trembling. The prince himself, when he occa- 
 sionally appeared on the parade, saw himself neglected 
 for his minister, because it was much more dangerous 
 to displease the latter, than advantageous to have a 
 friend in the former. This very spot, where he had 
 once been almost worshipped as a God, was now 
 selected for the theatre of his humiliation. 
 
 Reentered unconcernedly the well-known circle, 
 ■which, ignorant as himself of what was to follow, 
 respectfully opened as usual to receive him, and 
 awaited his commands. Martinengo, attended by two 
 adjutants, scon made his appearance. No longer the 
 supple, bowing, smiling, courtier, he advanced to 
 G***, with all the arrogance and vulgar pride of a 
 low upstart, and in the name of the prince demanded 
 his sword. It was delivered to him with a look 
 of silent astonishment. Placing the point of the 
 naked blade upon the ground, he broke it in two, 
 and let the pieces fall at G***'s feet. At this signal 
 the two adjutants rushed upon him ; one of them 
 fell to work to cut from his breast the cross of an 
 order of knighthood, while the other began to strip 
 ofif his epaulettes, and the facing of the uniform, and 
 to tear the feather from his hat. During the whole 
 of this fearful operation, which was performed with 
 incredible dispatch, not a word, not even a single 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 
 
 respirationj was heard among the whole assembly of 
 more than five hundred persons who stood around. 
 With blanched faces, throbbing hearts, and death-like 
 stupor, the aflfrighted circle gazed at him, who, in 
 this extraordinary trim — a spectacle at once of risi- 
 bility and terror — experienced sensation* which can 
 be equalled only by those that are felt upon the 
 scaffold. The Yiolence of the first shock would have 
 extended a thousand others senseless upon the 
 ground ; but his robust system and his vigorous 
 mind were proof against this rude attack, and expos- 
 ed him to a complete consciousness of all the horrors 
 of his situation. 
 
 No sooner was this operation over, than he was 
 conducted through the prodigious concourse of 
 spectators to the farther end of the parade, where 
 a covered carriage was in waiting. A silent motion 
 commanded him to get into it, and he was accompanied 
 by an escort of hussars. The report of this transac- 
 lion had meanwhile spread through the whole town : 
 all the windows were open, and all the streets filled 
 with inquisitive persons, who followed the carriage 
 shouting and repeating his name with alternate excla- 
 mations of scorn, malicious joy, and still more pain- 
 ful compassion. The gates of the town were at length 
 passed, but now new horrors awaited him. The car- 
 riage turned oflf from the highway, into a solitary 
 road, the road to the place of execution, towards which 
 by the express command of the prince it slowly 
 advanced. Here, after being tortured with all the
 
 51 
 
 terrors of death, he was again conducted into a 
 road frequented by men. In the scorching heat of 
 the sun, without refreshment, he passed seven dismal 
 hours in this carriage, which at length stopped about 
 
 siin-sct at the fortress of , the place of his 
 
 destination. Twelve hours fasting, and the tortures of 
 thirst, had at length subdued his robust frame. In a 
 middle state between life and death, he was taken out 
 of the carriage, and with returning sense he found 
 himself in a dreary subterraneous dungeon. The 
 first object that presented itself, when he opened his 
 eyes to new life, was the dismal wall of a cell, faintly 
 illumined by a few rays of moon-light penetrating 
 through small crevices at an elevation of nineteen 
 fathoms. On one side he found a small loaf, with a 
 pitcher of water, and on the other a truss of straw 
 for his bed. In this state he remained till noon the 
 following day, when a small casement in the centre 
 of the tower opened, and two hands became visible ; 
 by these the same allowance that he found the preced- 
 ing day was let down in a basket. Now for the 
 first time since this dreadful vicissitude of fortune did 
 anguish and anxiety impel him to inquire how he had 
 come thither, and what was his crime. No answer 
 was however returned from above ; the hands disap- 
 peared, and the casement was again closed. Without 
 seeing a human face, without even hearing a human 
 voice, without any clue to the cause of his horrid 
 doom, in equally cruel uncertainty respecting the 
 past and the future, cheered by no genial ray of light, 
 
 UNIVERSITY Of 
 ILLINOIS LIBRARY
 
 52 
 
 refreshed by no salubrious breeze, cut off alike from 
 pity and relief, he counted in his dreary dungeon 
 four hundred and ninety tedious days, by the 
 scanty pittances which -with sad uniformity were 
 daily let down to him at the hour of noon. But a 
 discovery which he had made in the first days of his 
 confinement completed the measure of his misery. 
 He recognized the place — It was himself, who, 
 impelled by low revenge, had a few months before 
 ordered it to be built for the prison of an excellent 
 officer, who had been so unfortunate as to incur his 
 displeasure. With inventive cruelty he had himself 
 prescribed the means of rendering a residence in this 
 dungeon the more dreary. He had not long before 
 paid a visit to the place, to inspect the construction 
 and accelerate its completion. To increase his tor- 
 tures to the highest pitch, it so happened that the 
 very officer for whom this dungeon was prepared, an 
 old colonel of merit, had succeeded the governor of 
 the fortress, recently deceased, and from the victim 
 of his vengeance had become the ruler of his fate. 
 Thus was he deprived even of the last consolation, 
 that of pitying himself, and of accusiug fortune of 
 injustice, notwithstanding the severity of his lot. 
 To the corporeal sense of his misery was added a 
 sovereign contempt of himself, and the mortification, 
 than which the proud cannot feel a keener, of 
 knowing that he was dependent on the generosity of 
 an enemy to whom none had ever been shewn by 
 him.
 
 53 
 
 But this honest man was too noble to take aDiean 
 revenge. The severity with which his instructions 
 enjoined him to treat his prisoner was extremely 
 painful to his philanthropic heart, but accustomed 
 as an old soldier to follow the letter of his orders 
 with punctuality, he could do no more than pity 
 his fate. The unfortunate man found a more active 
 advocate in the chaplain of the garrison of the for- 
 tress, who, moved by the wretched situation of the 
 prisoner, with which it was long before he became 
 acquainted, and then only fiom vague, incoherent 
 reports, immediately resolved to attempt something 
 for his relief. This respectable ecclesiastic, whose 
 name I am extremely loth to omit, thought that he 
 could not fulfil his pastoral function better, than by 
 employing it in favour of an unfortunate man, whom 
 it was impossible to assist in any other w ay. 
 
 As he could not prevail upon the governor of the 
 fortress to grant him admission to the prisoner, he 
 set out for the capital in order to prefer his request 
 immediately to the prince. Throwing himself at the 
 feet of the sovereign, he implored his mercy for the 
 unhappy man, who, cut off from the benefits of reli- 
 gion, from which even the most heinous offences could 
 not exclude a criminal, languished without'comfort, 
 and was perhaps on the brink of despair. With all the 
 boldness and dignity resulting from the consciousness 
 of duty fulfilled, he demanded free access to the pri- 
 soner, who belonged to him as one of his flock, and 
 for whose soul he should be answerable to heaven.
 
 54 
 
 The good cause in which he exerted himself, rendered 
 him eloquent, and time had already somewhat miti. 
 gated the anger of the prince. He permitted him to 
 pay the prisoner a spiritual visit. 
 
 The first human face that G*** had seen for the 
 space of sixteen months was that of the benevolent 
 ecclesiastic. For the only friend that he had in the 
 world he was indebted to his misery ; for none had 
 his prosperity procured him. The visit of the 
 chaplain was like the appearance of an angel. I 
 shall not attempt to describe his feelings ; suffice it to 
 observe, that from this day his sufferings were allevi- 
 ated, because he saw a human being sympathize in 
 his wretchedness. 
 
 Horror seized the ecclesiastic as he entered the 
 dungeon. His eyes sought a man, and a hideous 
 figure crawled towards him from a corner, which re- 
 sembled the haunt of a wild beast, much more than 
 the abode of a human being. A ghastly skeleton, 
 his face, in which grief and despair had ploughed deep 
 furrows, exhibited not the least trace of the hue, of 
 life ; his beard and nails by long neglect had grown 
 to a frightful length ; his clothes with age were 
 half mouldered away, and from the total neglect of 
 cleanliness the atmosphere was impregnated with 
 pestilential effluvia. Such was the state in which he 
 found this favourite of fortune, and all this his iron 
 constitution had withstood. Deeply affected at the 
 spectacle, the chaplain instantly hastened to the 
 governor, to procure for the unhappy prisoner a
 
 55 
 
 second favour, without which the first would not be 
 of the least benefit. 
 
 The governor again excused himself on the score of 
 his instructions, on which he generously resolved up- 
 on a second journey to the capital to implore once 
 more the clemency of the prince. He declared that he 
 eould not without violating the sanctity of the sacra- 
 ment, upon any account exercise his ecclesiastical 
 functions in behalf of the prisoner, unless he were 
 first restored to the likeness of man. This wish 
 was also complied with, and from that day the cap- 
 tiTC again began to enjoy life. 
 
 In this fortress G*** spent several more years, 
 but in a far more tolerable situation, after the short 
 summer of the new favourite was over, and he was 
 succeeded in his post by others who thought more 
 humanely, or at least had no revenge to wreak upon 
 him. At length, after a captivity of ten years, the 
 day of his release arrived ; but it was unaccompanied 
 with any judicial investigation, and formal acquittal. 
 He received his liberty as a gift from the hand of 
 mercy ; at the same time he was enjoined to quit the 
 country for ever. 
 
 Here is a chasm in his history, for which I have 
 had no other materials than oral accounts ; and I am 
 obliged to pass over a space of twenty years. During 
 this interval G*** had afresh commenced his career 
 in foreign military service, which finally led him to 
 the same envied elevation from which he had in his 
 native country been so cruelly precipitated. Time,
 
 56 
 
 that friend of the unfortunate, slow but infalHBk 
 in the administration of justice, at length took up 
 the cause of the injured party. The prince was 
 past the years of the passions, and as his hair became 
 silvered with age, humanity gradually began to acquire 
 a value in his estimation. On the brink of the grav« 
 he longed for the society of the favourite of his youth. 
 In order to compensate as much as possible in the 
 decline of life for the severities inflicted upon him in 
 its prime, he graciously invited the exile back to his 
 country, to which. G***'s heart had long cherished 
 a secret desire to return. Their interview was aflfect- 
 ing, and G***'s reception warm as though they had 
 parted only the preceding day. The prince pensively 
 contemplated the face that was so well known, and 
 yet so strange to him ; he seemed as if counting th« 
 furrows he had himself imprinted upon it. His eye 
 iought in the face of the old man the beloved fea- 
 tures of the youth ; but these were no longer to be 
 found. A cold familiarity was all that they could 
 shew each other : shame and fear had for ever estrang- 
 ed their hearts. A sight that reminded the prince of 
 his cruel precipitation could not be agreeable to him, 
 and it was impossible for G*** to love the author 
 of his misery. He could however look forward 
 with serenity and comfort like one who rejoices on 
 awaking from an unpleasant dream. 
 
 It was not long before G*** was fully reinstated 
 in all his former dir-nities, and the prince overcame 
 his secret antipathy, in order to make him a splendid
 
 57 
 
 indemnification for the past. But could he likewise 
 restore him the heart which he had incapacitated for 
 ever for the enjoyment of life ? could he give him 
 back the years of hope ; or make him in old age any 
 adequate restitution for all that he had deprived him 
 of in the period of manhood ? 
 
 G*** enjoyed for nineteen years this serene even- 
 ing of life. Neither the vicissitudes of fortune nor 
 the infirmities of age had extinguished the fire of pas- 
 sion, or wholly overcast the liveliness of his disposi- 
 tion. At the age of seventy he still grasped at the 
 shadow of a good which he actually possessed at 
 twenty. He died at length governor of the fortress 
 
 of , where State-prisoners "were confined. 
 
 The reader will naturally imagine that he treated his 
 captives with a humanity the value of which he had 
 learned from experience. He was on the contrary 
 cruel and capricious, and an ebullition of passion 
 against one of them brought him to the grave in his 
 «ightieth year.
 
 58 
 
 FREDERIC. 
 
 How does it happen that what the heathen once 
 denominated blind cliancc, what the enlightened 
 philosopher denies the existence of, and what the 
 pious christian regards as probation, appears so obvi- 
 ously to persecute one individual, wjiile on the con- 
 trary, it as visibly promotes the interest and advan- 
 tage of hundreds ? This question I have frequently 
 asked myself, as I often shall again ; but have as yet 
 not been able to answer it with certainty. What 
 lias the wretch done, who, so evidently without any 
 crime of liis own, without any intervention or de- 
 sign of another, is plunged by this wonderful thing 
 into the abyss of misery, in which lie is frequently left 
 to languish out the remainder of his life ? Is this 
 punishment or probation ? Is it not more than cither, 
 is it not rather unjust cruelty, that, when exhausted 
 with laborious exertion, he has at length reached the 
 summit, this same incomprehensible fate should 
 again precipitate him still deeper into the abyss? 
 Thus, reader, you may very justly ask; and I can 
 only reply : The ways of Providence are inscrutable. 
 If this answer be not satisfactory^, yon must wait 
 for a futurity, which will perhaps clearly demonstrate 
 what appeared so inexplicable to you and a thousand 
 others. Till then let this be your consolation when 
 smarting beneath the persecutions of fate, and torment-
 
 b9 
 
 ed by nnmcritcd affliction, that hundreds of yoar 
 fellow-creatures are exposed to similar sufferings, 
 that thousands languish under misery still raorc 
 poignant. Real consolation accompanies the con- 
 Tiction of this truth, and I hasten to afford it. 
 Among many remarkable narratives which I collect- 
 ed for this purpose, I select the most extraordinary, 
 because in many an hour of tribulation, it has so 
 clearly convinced me that present suffering mast 
 be counterbalanced by a recompense in futurity. 
 
 Frederic II was the only son of the rector 
 
 of M in the principality of S . His mo- 
 ther loved him with the tenderest affection ; this was 
 the reason of his being brought up in a very delicate 
 manner, and treated with the utmost care and indul- 
 gence. *His father, who possessed more prudence, 
 frequently censured his wife^s conduct ; but words 
 were not sufficient to produce an alteration, and 
 Frederic continued to be indulged as before. It 
 was owing only to the strength of his constitution 
 that his body was not enfeebled and his health im- 
 paired by the excessive fondness of his too anxious 
 parent. He was always wrapped in furs and feathers, 
 and if a sharp wind blew abroad he was scarcely per- 
 mitted to play about the room. His every wbh and 
 desire were complied with, if they were within the 
 limits of possibility, that the sweet boy might not in- 
 flame his fine blue eyes with crying. In a thousand 
 other children such treatment would have produced 
 an invincible obstinacy of disposition, and have 
 given birth to improper desires ; but Frederic's heart
 
 60 
 
 remained virtuous and uncorruptcd. He was belov- 
 ed by every one, and particularly by the servants of 
 the family, because he never made mischief when he 
 had it in his power, but frequently interceded. for 
 them when their negligence deserved punishment or 
 reproof. He often sat quietly for a day together, 
 engaged in his childish pastimes ; he neither grumbled 
 when the servants sometimes refused to do what he 
 desired, nor did he complain when his too fond mo- 
 ther inquired whether all his wishes had been complied 
 with. It was only when he was required to learn 
 something, that he had recourse to his mother, and 
 she always had a thousand reasons for immediately 
 relieving her darling from the odious task. At the 
 time of her sudden and unexpected death, Frederic, 
 though he had completed his tenth year, did not know 
 his letters. The father, who had now no longer any 
 disturbance of domestic tranquillity to fear from the 
 opposition of his wife, procured a private tutor for 
 his son, and earnestly entreated him to instruct the 
 boy, who was continually occupied with play, in 
 more useful things. He fulfilled his duty with zeal 
 and unwearied assiduity, but Frederic learned very 
 little, and that little with extreme difficulty. He had 
 now nearly attained his sixteenth year; he read 
 very ill, and was a worse writer and accomptant : 
 this was the whole fruit of the unceasing exertions 
 of his teacher for five years. 
 
 The latter had till then lived in hopes, and had en- 
 couraged his employer to do the same ; but he now 
 frankly acknowledged that the boy was entirely
 
 61 
 
 destitute of talents for study, that it would be raucli 
 more prudent to put him to learn some handicraft 
 business, by which he might in time procure a sub- 
 sistence. He concludud ^vith advising the father to 
 leave his son for a few months to follow his own in- 
 clinations without restraint, to observe in what man- 
 ner he employed himself, and to regulate his future 
 destination accordingly. The father followed this 
 advice, and seeing that Frederic was for two whole 
 months engaged only in catching birds, and frequent- 
 ly expressed a wish to have a small fowling-piece, he 
 spoke to the overseer of the forests of that district, 
 and the latter immediately agreed to take his godson 
 Frederic under his tuition. 
 
 Frederic testified thfe greatest pleasure at this ar- 
 rangement. He promised the utmost diligence in 
 his new employment, and candidly acknowledged that 
 he should now begin to live, because he should no 
 longer be plagued with those detested books. He 
 instantly followed his instructor to his habitation, and 
 felt no desire to return to the paternal residence. 
 He performed every thing that was required of him 
 with zeal and activity ; but he was very much afraid 
 of the report of a gun, and earnestly endeavoured to 
 subdue the fear which overcame him, in spite of his 
 exertions, whenever he took in his hand a piece that 
 was charged. Convinced, however, by frequent 
 examples that no danger was to be apprehended, he 
 at length ventured to fire one, and by degrees became 
 courageous enough to take aim and fire at a mark.
 
 63 
 
 He had long expressed a wish to be dressed in a green 
 suit like his companions, but the overseer had always 
 denied him this request, saying, that only those were 
 worthy of that dress who could fire without betray- 
 ing any symptoms of fear; But perceiving that he 
 had acquired courage, he one day promised him a 
 green suit if he would go out and bring home with 
 him three birds of his own shooting. Frederic 
 piomised to fulfil his godfather's injunctions, and 
 went out immediately after dinner. It was the season 
 of harvest, and as he was strolling through the vil- 
 lage, he observed a number of sparrows upon a barn : 
 ignorant of the dangerous consequences that might 
 ensue, he took aim at the birds, and shouted for joy 
 when he saw five wounded sparrows fall fluttering 
 from the thatched roof. He had just picked them 
 up and killed them, and was about to return home in 
 triumph, when an old woman ran towards him, utter- 
 ing loud cries and lamentations: — '^ Oh, you unlucky 
 boy! you wicked rascal I — what have you done? 
 God in heaven have mercy upon us! Fire! fire!" 
 In this manner she cried without intermission. 
 
 Frederic looked up and trembled when he beheld 
 half the roof already involved in flames. He was 
 unable to comprehend how he could be the cause of 
 this fire ; but when the old woman told several other 
 females, *who hastened to the spot, that the graceless 
 boy had fired straight at the thatch, and thus set it in 
 flames, he was sensible of his indiscretion. Impelled 
 by fear and anxiety he ran to a neighbouring wood.
 
 63 
 
 The day was extremely sultry ; no rain had fallen for 
 a considerable time; >vheii just at this moment a 
 storm came on, accompanied with a violent wind. 
 All the inhabitants of the village that were able to 
 work were employed in the fields, and did not reach 
 their habitations till they were completely in flames. 
 Frederic, seeing the village involved in one general 
 conflagration, and hearing in the wood the lamentable 
 cries of the wretched inhabitants, hastened away with 
 all possible speed. He was urged forward by tlie 
 persuasion that as he was the cause of this dreadful 
 disaster, he would, if caught, be thrown into the 
 flames; avoiding, therefore, frequented roads and 
 villages, he proceeded along bye-paths, leaving behihd 
 him the theatre of his misfortune. On the evening of 
 the next day, being unable to proceed any farther, 
 he sank to the ground, exhausted with hunger and 
 fatigue, and was informed by a cowherd, who soon 
 afterwards passed by the place, that he was no longer 
 in his native land; but had advanced several miles into 
 the territories of B n. This unexpected intelli- 
 gence afforded him consolation, and relieved him from 
 all apprehension of pursuit and punishment. This 
 he knew from a circumstance which had recently oc- 
 curred in his native place : — some soldiers being 
 quartered there, one of them deserted, and was pur- 
 sued by the others, who, however, soon returned 
 without the fugitive, saying that all farther trouble 
 would be vain, because the deserter had passed the 
 frontiers, and was therefore secure. Applying this
 
 64 
 
 to his own case, Frederic considered himself out of 
 danger. Highly gratified with this discoYcry, he 
 summoned all his strength to enable him to reach a 
 village at no great distance, where a benevolent 
 peasant provided him with food and lodging. Whether 
 Frederic acquainted him with the cause of his wander- 
 ing is not recorded. On the following day he left his 
 kind host, and resolved to enlist for a soldier. 
 
 At noon he stopped in a small wood, where an iti- 
 nerant knife-grinder soon afterwards arrived, and as 
 the heat was very oppressive, sat down near him in the 
 shade. The knife-grinder spoke little at first, but 
 when he began to eat a piece of bread and cheese, 
 Frederic, impelled by the cravings of hunger, asked 
 him for a small portion of his homely meal, upon 
 which he inquired the reason of his leaving home. 
 Frederic frankly informed him of the cause, when the 
 knifc-griader, filled with compassion, offered to take 
 him apprentice, and teach him his business. 
 
 " If," said he, '^ you promise to serve me faithfully 
 and honestly six years, I will teach you my business, 
 and put you in the way of earning an honest liveli- 
 hood : I have no children, and will treat you as my 
 own son." 
 
 This offer Frederic accepted with joy and gratitude, 
 and entered into the service of the knife-grinder. 
 They used to set olF early in the spring, and con- 
 tinued, till towards ^the end of autumn, travelling 
 about among the adjacent towns and villages, where 
 they procured sufficient emploj^ment to enable theai
 
 65 
 
 to pass the winter ia a small village, where the knife, 
 grinder had a cottage, in careless ease and uninter. 
 rupted repose. Frederic soon learned the rndimcnts 
 of his future profession ; he went round to the houses 
 and villages, and employing the eloquence usual on 
 such occasions, he collected all the blunt knives and 
 scissars, and when they had been ground, carried them 
 all back to their proper places; was always correct in 
 his accounts, and in general so fortunate as to beg 
 some victuals, which he shared with pleasure >vith his 
 foster-father, who was delighted with his assiduity. 
 The latter was a singular character, and a real origi- 
 nal in his way; he was extremely reserved, worked 
 with unwearied diligence, but never entered a church 
 himself, nor did he require that duty of Frederic, 
 who soon forgot all the principles and precepts of his 
 religion. "Be industrious and honest!" This was 
 the usual maxim with which he excited Frederic to 
 diligence, and which he himself appeared conscienti- 
 ously to observe. 
 
 The property of his fellow citizens was sacred ; 
 and it frequently happened that when a stranger 
 brought him a knife to be ground, and forgot to call 
 for it, he staid several days in the place till the person 
 made his appearance and reclaimed his property. 
 "God forbid that I should unjustly obtain posses- 
 sion of any thing I" was his frequent reply to those 
 who expressed their wonder at his extreme conscien- 
 tiousness ; yet on some occasions his scruples were not 
 so powerful. If, in passing through a village, he 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 
 
 had received but a scanty supply of proTisions, and 
 had nothing left for his future necessities, he let loose 
 the large dog which was usually harnessed to his 
 wheel. The animal possessed sufficient sagacity to 
 return to the last houses of the adjoining fields, and 
 priyately seize a hen or a goose, which he immediate- 
 ly killed, and hastened with the prize to his master. 
 The latter then turned aside to some wood, made a 
 fire, roasted his booty, and regaled himself upon it, 
 together with his boy and his dog. Frederic's obe- 
 dience gained him the old man's affection, but the dog 
 was a much greater favourite, and Frederic several 
 times received a severe drubbing for having kicked or 
 beaten him. 
 
 Frederic had now attained his nineteenth year ; he 
 was perfect master of his business, and frequently 
 supplied the place of his foster-father, when one day 
 one of the stones belonging to the wheel was missing. 
 A stone of the kind could not be procured at any 
 price in that part of the country, and yet they had 
 reason to expect a good deal of employment there. 
 The old man, therefore, resolved to go to a town at 
 the distance of about thirty miles, for the purpose of 
 purchasing a new stone. Meanwhile he entrusted his 
 wheel and his dog to the care of his son Frederic, 
 directing him to go through several villages, where he 
 might proceed with coarser work, and to wait his re- 
 turn in the last of them. Frederic promised to obey 
 his injunctions, and to redouble his assiduity, that his 
 earnings might assist to defray the unexpected expence
 
 67 
 
 "which he had incurred. He kept his -word, and work- 
 ed very hard the first day; but after he had set oflF the 
 next morning, he recollected, when it was too late, 
 that he had forgotten to take with him some bread for 
 his dinner, and that he should consequently be obliged 
 to spend part of his earnings at some public-house. 
 Following the example of his foster-father, he there- 
 fore looked round him, and obseryed in a stubble- 
 field a great number of pheasants picking up the 
 scattered grain. He immediately loosed the dog, 
 which, as usual, crept slowly towards his prey, and 
 was fortunate enough to catch one of the birds just 
 as they were taking wing. At this very moment, 
 however, the report of a gun was heard, and the dog 
 fell. Frederic had not observed that a game-keeper 
 was sitting near the field, and watching all his motions. 
 He approached the youth at a great pace, crying : — 
 '' Stop! stop ! — I'll soon make you repent your im- 
 pudence in the house of correction." 
 
 Frederic, whom the fate of the dog had rendered 
 extremely miserable, regarded flight as his only re- 
 source. He left his wheel, and ran with all the speed 
 that he was able to a neighbouring wood; when he 
 had reached it, he observed that the garae-keeper had 
 desisted from the pursuit, and contented himself 
 with taking possession of the wheel, with which he 
 proceeded to a house situated in the valley. The loss 
 of the instrument of his subsistence afflicted him 
 much, but yet he did not venture to follow the game- 
 keeper : throwing himself in despair upon the ground,
 
 68 
 
 he loudly lamented his misfortune. While he was in 
 vain reflecting on the means of retrieving it, he felt 
 some animal close beside him, looked round and ob- 
 served his faithful dog, which, having somewhat re- 
 covered, had traced the footsteps of the fugitive. 
 Frederic examined his wound; it was very deep, and 
 situated in the neck of the animal ; he therefore 
 made a bandage of his neckcloth, with which he en- 
 deavoured to stop the effusion of blood. Undecided 
 whether <o repair to the village where his foster-father 
 had appointed to meet him, or to avoid for ever the 
 effect of his just indignation, he wandered to the road, 
 which was at no great distance, followed by the dog ; 
 but in half an hour, just as he had reached the end of 
 the wood, the dog began to whine, and expired at his 
 feet. 
 
 The death of the animal fixed his yet wavering re- 
 solution. Without wheel or dog he considered it as 
 impossible to appear before his foster-father. " What 
 I once before intended to do," said he to himself, " I 
 must now do;" and immediately determined to repair 
 to some town, and there enlist as a soldier. For above 
 three years he had served the knife-grinder with the 
 utmost integrity, and had honoured him as his father ; 
 now, when he was about to forsake him so suddenly, 
 and to lose him for ever, he, for the first time, reflect- 
 ed with anguish on his real parent, the remembrance of 
 whom he had hitherto anxiously endeavoured to banish 
 from his mind. At this time his efforts were ineffec- 
 tual ; he saw him in the midst of the flames, kindled
 
 69 
 
 through his ignorance, and distinctly heard his me- 
 naces of vengeance and misery. This image pene- 
 trated his heart; he turned aside from the road, and 
 lay down behind a shed to weep, unmolested, over his 
 loss, and the magnitude of his misfortune. He pass- 
 ed a considerable time in weeping and lamentation ; at 
 length, exhausted with anxiety, he fell asleep, and did 
 not awake again till sun-set. It began to be dark 
 •when he reached a village, and saw a public-house, 
 where he determined to stop. A number of peasants 
 and carriers were drinking in the house; he likewise 
 called for some refreshment, and sat down in a corner, 
 reflecting in silent anguish on his fate. A coach soon 
 afterwards stopped at the door of the public-house, 
 and three gentlemen entered the room to seek for 
 shelter. 
 
 As there was no other apartment, the strangers 
 were obliged to be contented with the common room, 
 where the host cleared his best table for the particular 
 use of his new guests. The company was conse- 
 quently crowded into a smaller compass, and several 
 of the carriers sat down near the place which Frede- 
 ric occupied. They first inquired his business and 
 the object of his journey, but as he answered those 
 questions in a very superficial manner, they asked him 
 to tell them some news. Frederic declared that he 
 knew of none, but they replied that a knife-grinder, 
 who visited so many different places, must hear 
 something wherever he went; upon which he told 
 them, that, according to authentic intelligence, the
 
 70 
 
 French and English had concluded a peace, and that 
 the latter had acknowledged the independence of the 
 American states. He likewise added that the carriers 
 would now obtain higher wages, and that the glass 
 and linen trade in particular would be extremely 
 brisk, because the Americans had been so long pre- 
 Tented from receiving those articles. While Frede- 
 ric was speaking, the strange gentlemen, who had 
 before been walking up and down the room, stepped 
 towards him and listened with attention. When he 
 had finished they asked him where he had heard this 
 extraordinary news. Frederic replied that he heard 
 it the preceding day, together with the observation 
 at a public-house in a neighbouring village, but that 
 the person who related it was quite a stranger to him. 
 When questioned farther he could not recollect either 
 his person or his dress. W^ith this account, though 
 true, the gentlemen appeared by no means satisfied; 
 they shook their heads, spoke privately together, and 
 at length asked Frederic whether he could write and 
 read writing. Upon his answering in the alRrmative, 
 one of them required him to produce his passport; 
 he informed them that was out of his power, as his 
 master had taken it with him ; upon which they order- 
 ed him to come out of the corner where he sat, and 
 to step forward to the light. With this desire Fre- 
 deric for a long time refused to comply, apprehensive 
 that he was detected in the affair with the pheasants . 
 but as the landlord inforced the injunction, and 
 threatened to employ violence, he was at length com-^
 
 71 
 
 pellod to obey. They inspected him Tery closely: 
 the gentlemen more than once pointed to the spots of 
 blood on his hands and clothes, which he himself had 
 not before discoTcred, and which had been caused by 
 the wounded dog. He trembled when he was asked 
 how they came there, and whether he had not had a 
 great brown dog. His answer to this question was 
 extremely confused ; he, at first, declared that he had 
 cut himself in grinding a knife, and that he had never 
 been accompanied by such a dog; but, being desired 
 to shew the wound, he was unable to find any. At 
 length, when they asked him where his neckcloth 
 was, he candidly confessed all the circumstances that 
 had brought him into his present situation. At the 
 conclusion he assured them with tears that the dog 
 had fallen upon the pheasants of his own accord, and 
 implored pardon, or at least a mitigation of the 
 punishment for his ofi'ence. The gentlemen smiled, 
 declaring that he was a perfect adept in the art of 
 lying, but would not, on that account, escape the 
 punishment he deserved. By their desire, several of 
 the peasants stepped forward and promised to guard 
 Frederic, while they, together with the host and 
 several other persons, went into another room. 
 
 Soon after some more peasants entered, and among 
 them a man carrying heavy fetters, with which he 
 loaded the arms and legs of the weeping youth. 
 This done, he was conducted to the gentlemen, who 
 were seated before a table in the room, and who took 
 down in writing their questions, together with his 
 
 f
 
 72 
 
 answers. My readers will doubtless inquire the cause 
 of^ this severe proceeding; I shall, therefore, en- 
 deavour to satisfy their curiosity. 
 
 These gentlemen belonged to the criminal tribunal 
 of a neighbouring town, which had received infor- 
 mation from the inferior court at L , that in the 
 
 wood belonging to that lordship, the body of a 
 murdered stranger had been found near the road. 
 As the laws for the preservation of public security 
 were at that time severely enforced, no exertions 
 were spared for the detection of the perpetrator of 
 the deed. Two magistrates, accompanied by a 
 physician, were immediately dispatched to investi- 
 gate a circumstance so unusual in that part of the 
 country, and, if possible, to discover the murderer. 
 They arrived the same morning at the spot, and found 
 an inanimate body perfectly naked; a ball had pene- 
 trated the head, and two deep and mortal wounds with 
 a knife appeared on the breast. Two wounds were 
 likewise discovered ia the right arm, which the surgeon 
 immediately declared to proceed from the bite of a 
 dog, and this supposition was confirmed by several 
 marks on the face, which could have been occasioned 
 only by the paws of an animal of that description. 
 The murdered man was not more than forty years of 
 age; he appeared to be above the common class, and 
 wore his hair powdered and tied. A whip that lay 
 near him led the magistrates to presume that he was 
 probably travelling on horseback, but none of those 
 whom curiosity attracted to the place could recollect
 
 73 
 
 haying seen a person answering this description upon 
 the road that morning; and yet the murder must 
 have been committed early the same day, because the 
 two peasants who discovered the body, by the start- 
 ing of their horses, positively declared, that though 
 the deceased shewed not the least sign of life, yet he 
 still continued to bleed. The magistrates continued 
 their search about the spot, and soon found a pistol, 
 and, at a little distance under a bush, an empty port- 
 manteau, and near it an open letter addressed to Mr. 
 
 Francis S r, merchant, then at Nurnberg, and 
 
 which was verbatim as follows. 
 
 " The minister has just received the unexpected 
 but certain intelligence that a peace has been signed 
 with France, and that England has declared the 
 American states free and independent. We inform 
 you of this important news by express, reminding 
 you at the same time of the speculation in which we 
 long since resolved to engage, upon such an occasion. 
 Hasten, therefore, with all possible expedition to 
 Bohemia, that you may arrive there before the 
 account of the peace reaches that country. The 
 glass and linen trade has been very dull for several 
 years ; the warehouses must all be overstocked, and 
 the price of those articles must be low. You will 
 make a capital job of it, if you should be the first; 
 and it will be of great advantage both io you and us 
 if you set off without loss of time. The enclosed 
 list will inform you what we wish to purchase of those 
 two articles, what sorts we consider the best and
 
 74 
 
 can immediately dispose of. Yet entertaining a high 
 opinion of your judgment, we shall be perfectly 
 satisfied, if circumstances should induce you to make 
 any deviation. At the same time we again assure 
 you that we shall punctually fulfil our engagement 
 with you, relative to a participation in the profits, 
 and will indemnify you against any loss. We in- 
 close also a bill on Messrs. , at Prague, 
 
 where you will find farther letters and instructions 
 from us. Only lose no time ; for other speculators 
 will be ready to take the same advantage : their 
 number will raise the price, and consequently diminish 
 the profit. Bear in mind the golden rule : " First 
 come- — " 
 
 Here the letter was torn, and the remainder, not- 
 withstanding the most careful search, could not be 
 found ; neither could the bill of exchange, nor the list 
 of goods mentioned in the letter be discovered. As 
 nothing farther could be traced to elucidate this affair, 
 a statement of all the circumstances was drawn up, 
 and the body was delivered to the inferior tribunal 
 to be interred. But as it was necessary previously 
 to examine several persons, and particularly those 
 who had discovered the body, the magistrates were 
 detained till towards evening. Having public busi- 
 ness to transact the next day, they nevertheless re- 
 solved to return to the town that night. This inten- 
 tion they would likewise have executed, had not a 
 new circumstance delayed their progress, and the 
 appearance of an impending storm obliged them to
 
 ?5 
 
 take shelter in the public-house. Haying reached the 
 end of the wood upon their return, the coachman 
 observed Frederic's dead dog, upon which they alight- 
 ed to inspect him, concluding that in all probability 
 he had belonged to the robbers and murderers of the 
 merchant. In this opinion they were confirmed 
 when they discovered the shot-wound, which it was 
 natural to suppose he had received from the pistol of 
 the deceased. They took with them the neckcloth that 
 was bound over the wound, and noted down the 
 colour and size of the dog in a pocket-book. 
 
 None of my readers will now inquire why these 
 gentlemen examined Frederic so closely, neither will 
 they wonder that he should be considered as ihe 
 murderer of the merchant, or at least an accomplice, 
 and be treated accordingly. Frederic, who had an- 
 swered a great number of questions before he 
 suspected this dreadful accusation, was justly 
 surprised at the discovery, and employed all his 
 eloquence to defend himself from the imputation- 
 He appealed in particular to the testimony of the 
 game-keeper, who had shot his dog, and taken away 
 his wheel ; and upon farther consideration he recol- 
 lected that the landlord in the village where he slept 
 the preceding night was standing by the table when 
 the stranger related the news concerning the peace. 
 As these witnesses, if they confirmed Frederic's report, 
 might completely exculpate him and prove his inno- 
 cence, the magistrates immediately dispatched mes- 
 sengers to require their attendance, and concluded
 
 76 
 
 the examination. Tlie game-keeper and the landlord 
 appeared by break of day. The former had recent- 
 ly entered into the seryice of his present master, and 
 was the son of a man who followed the same pro- 
 fession, and whose integrity had procured him gene- 
 ral esteem. He was highly astonished when Frede- 
 ric's declaration was read over to him ; he assured the 
 magistrates that it was a series of falsehood, and swore 
 that he had never seen Frederic, wounded his dog, or 
 taken away his wheel. The unhappy youth was 
 plunged into the deepest distress when informed of 
 the result of the game- keeper's examination, and 
 when confronted with him, he could not attest, ac- 
 cording to his own confession, that this was the 
 same person, as his terror prevented him from taking 
 such particular notice. The game-keeper however 
 proving that he was the only person of that profession 
 in the neighbourhood, and that he kept no assistant, 
 Frederic's account was regarded as a false subterfuge, 
 and he was suspected more strongly of the murder of 
 the merchant. The testimony of the landlord also 
 tended to confirm this suspicion. He recollected 
 that Frederic had passed the night at his house, but 
 denied having heard any thing of the extraordinary 
 news, though he had conversed with several strangers. 
 Frederic was now fettered more heavily, and guarded 
 with greater vigilance. Nothing calculated to excite 
 suspicion was found upon him, excepting a case-knife. 
 This knife, which he carried in a sheath in his breeches- 
 pocket, was ground very sharp: it was not bloody,
 
 77 
 
 but was besmeared with a particular kind of grease, 
 which, according to the report of the surgeon, usual- 
 ly adheres to a dagger or knife that is thrust into a 
 living body and drawn out again instantaneously. 
 He therefore imagined that the deceased had received 
 the two wounds in the breast with this knife ; and 
 though Frederic protested that he had ground the 
 knife only the preceding day, and had set it upon a 
 stone with oil, yet the surgeon was sent back with it 
 
 to L , to examine the wounds once more, 
 
 and to try whether the knife corresponded with them. 
 Meanwhile Frederic was carried to the town and 
 confined in the prison. Having asserted in his first 
 examination that his foster-father intended to pur- 
 chase a new stone in that town, the magistrates em- 
 ployed every method to trace him out. Nobody 
 however had seen him, and though inquiries were 
 afterwards made after him, more than once in the 
 village where he had a house, and used to pass the 
 winter, yet no other intelligence could ever be ob- 
 tained than that he had not returned, but was pro- 
 bably an accomplice in the murder, and had fled into 
 a foreign country. The surgeon, upon his return, 
 stated that the knife corresponded exactly with the 
 wounds in the breast of the deceased, which must of 
 course have been inflicted with it, and Frederic's guilt 
 was considered as fully established. 
 
 Notwithstanding all these proofs, yet as in every 
 future examination he continued to protest his in- 
 nocence, hopes were entertained of procuring more
 
 78 
 
 satisfactory evidence, and it was a considerable time 
 before the judicial proceedings were closed. In- 
 quiries and examinations were set on foot relative to 
 all the circumstances of his life ; an application was 
 made to the tribunal of his birth-place, by which 
 his judges were informed that either intentionally, or 
 out of ignorance, he had set fire to the thatch of a 
 barn, and destroyed the whole village; that he had 
 caused the death of his father, who had been carried oflf 
 by an apoplexy, occasioned by this dreadful cala- 
 mity. 
 
 Though this information did not charge Frederic 
 with the crime of having wilfully caused the confla- 
 gration, yet it tended to increase the suspicion of 
 his guilt; his judges became more severe, and were 
 about to sentence him to the torture (which at that 
 time was still in use), when they received the unex- 
 pected account from Nurnberg, where they had made 
 inquiry concerning the murder of the merchant, that 
 the accused could not possibly be the murderer of 
 
 Mr. Francis S r, as he was found dead between 
 
 Nurnberg and Erlangen, three days before the 
 murder could have been committed according to their 
 report, and consequently that he could not appear 
 again alive to be killed a second time. This intelli. 
 gence delayed the execution of Frederic's sentence.; 
 but the judges, considering that there might be 
 some error respecting the person of the deceased, but 
 none with regard to the murderer, transmitted the 
 proceedings to the supreme tribunal, which confirm-
 
 79 
 
 ed the sentence, condemning Frederic to suffer the 
 torture, in order to compel him to confess the fact, 
 and name his accomplices. 
 
 The poor guiltless youth endured the three first 
 degrees of -the torture, persisting in the most solemn 
 asseverations of his innocence. The acuteness of his 
 sufferings could not extort from him a false confes- 
 sion -J he was supported by the consciousness of his 
 innocence, and though the sentence was executed 
 with the utmost severity, yet he replied to all the 
 questions of the judges with the assurance that he 
 was guiltless of the crime for which he suffered. His 
 unexpected obstinacy, which in the opinion of the 
 judges denoted him to be a hardened criminal, was 
 reported to the supreme tribunal, and as he could 
 not adduce proofs to refute the evidence against him, 
 he was sentenced to five years' hard labour and confine- 
 ment in the house of correction. 
 
 Having before languished beneath the oppressive 
 weight of his fetters in a gloomy subterraneous dun- 
 geon, this hard sentence appeared to him an extraor- 
 dinary kindness, particularly as it appointed the 
 period of his sufferings. The character which he took 
 with him from the criminal tribunal into the place of 
 his confinement must have been highly unfavourable, 
 as he was there treated with the utmost severity, and 
 frequently with real cruelty. When, however, the 
 keeper heard his sighs, and observed his tears, he 
 entered several times into conversation with him, and 
 his compassion was excited by the youth's artless tale
 
 80 
 
 of his unmerited sufferings. He thenceforward treated < 
 him with greater kindness than the laws permitted 
 him to shew to the rictims of justice; the least la- 
 borious occupations were allotted to him, and soon 
 afterwards his benevolent keeper took him into his 
 kitchen during the day time, employed him in domes, 
 tic offices, and allowed him plenty of good and nourish- 
 ing food. In this manner the years of his confine- 
 ment passed quickly away : during the last of them, 
 Frederic frequently asked himself, what employment 
 he should adopt in future, and how he should obtain 
 an honourable and an honest subsistence. On- these 
 occasions he could never suppress the extraordinary 
 wish, that he might be permitted to remain in a 
 house where the weight of his fetters, to which he 
 had long since become accustomed, was his only 
 punishment. Perhaps a presentiment of his future 
 sulFerings produced a wish so repugnant to the 
 love of liberty implanted by nature in the mind of 
 man. 
 
 The big tears rolled down his cheeks, when at 
 length, on the last day of the fifth year, the atten- 
 dants loosed his fetters ; and they flowed still more 
 copiously, when he waited on his benefactor, the 
 keeper of the house, to take his leave, and to testify 
 his gratitude, but was unable to do either from ex- 
 cess of sensibility. ''What course of life will you 
 now adopt ? How can you, and how do you intend 
 to support yourself in future ?'* — Such were the 
 questions of his benefactor, Frederic sighed and
 
 81 
 
 remained silent. '^ Were I to give you the strongest 
 testimony of your good conduct,'* continued the 
 philanthropic keeper, " it would be more prejudicial 
 than advantageous, as every one who sees and reads 
 it will be convinced that you were once confined in 
 a house into which criminals only are admitted. 
 Follow my advice and enter the army : as a foreigner 
 you will receive a handsome bounty, and if you 
 serve faithfully during the term of your engagement, 
 you will receive an honourable discharge, which will 
 afford you an opportunity of obtaining a honest 
 livelihood. The military profession is a severe but an 
 honourable calling, highly advantageous to you, as it 
 will efface the stain which will otherwise sully your 
 character, and will restore your lost honour, of which, 
 if you then preserve it with cautious vigilance, none 
 will be able to deprive you." 
 
 Frederic, in compliance with the prudent advice 
 of his benefactor, immediately repaired to a recruit- 
 ing.house, where his youth and his fine figure caused 
 him to be immediately accepted ; he was enrolled as 
 a dragoon, and sent to join the staff of the regiment 
 that was at a considerable distance from the capital. 
 Frederic on enlisting had described himself as a fo- 
 reigner and a knife-grinder, but cautiously concealed 
 his having been confined in the house of correction. 
 Such aconfession he justly feared might be productive 
 of more severe treatment : his removal from the 
 metropolis was therefore highly agreeable. He 
 quitted it with the greatest pleasure, and proceeded 
 full of spirits to his new destination. 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 
 
 As he punctually obeyed all the commands of his 
 superiors, and was apt and docile in acquiring a know- 
 ledge of his exercise, he was treated with great leni- 
 ty, and initiated into the service without blows. He 
 was at first quartered upon a citizen of the small 
 town where the staff was stationed, but as winter 
 approached, his squadron was removed to some 
 newly erected barracks, where he, with twenty of 
 his comrades, had a large room assigned them in 
 which they all slept. Many of them soon began to 
 complain of an unknown thief, who during the night 
 examined their pockets, sometimes purloining from 
 those of one, sometimes of another, the few gros- 
 chen* which they chanced to contain. Although the 
 strictest inquiry was made by the officers, and the 
 losers watched whole nights for the crafty thief, who 
 in all probability was one of their number, yet 
 no discovery was made, and new depredations were 
 continually committed. One morning when Frede- 
 ric was about to mount guard, and was completely 
 equipped for that purpose, a corporal and three men 
 entered the room, demanded his side-arms, and 
 conducted him to the guard-house, where, after be- 
 ing strictly searched, he was left confined. 
 
 While the wretched Frederic, smarting beneath 
 the persecution of inexorable fate, is bathing his 
 new fetters with bitter tears, is in vain appealing to 
 his guiltless conscience to discover what deed could 
 have deserved this punishment, I will acquaint the 
 
 * A German coin, worth 1^. EDglish.
 
 83 
 
 reader with the dreadful misfortune that impends 
 over his head, and whose rapid approach threatens 
 him with utter ruin. A recruit, who had lately- 
 joined the regiment, and lived in the same room with 
 Frederic, had received a few gulden* from his parents. 
 Almost every night he lost several groschen out of 
 the leather purse which he always put underneath his 
 pillow when he went to bed. Vexed with his re- 
 peated losses, and extremely anxious to discover the 
 crafty thief, he had the preceding day entrusted his 
 money to the care of the corporal, keeping in his 
 purse only twelve groschen, which he and the corporal 
 marked by means of a file with the figure of a cross, 
 that if they should be stolen it might lead to the 
 detection of the thief. The next morning when he 
 awoke, he found only nine groschen in his purse, and 
 hastened to inform the corporal of the new theft. 
 The latter desired him to be silent on the subject, 
 went to the adjutant to acquaint him with the aifair, 
 and to obtain an order for a general search. As he 
 passed the apartment of the sutler he called hira aside, 
 and requested him to observe attentively all the mo- 
 ney that he might receive of the dragoons, and if any 
 groschen marked with a cross should be offered in 
 payment to take particular notice of the person who 
 brought them. While the corporal was making his 
 report to the adjutant, the sutler appeared, and 
 stated, that Frederic had just called for a glass of 
 brandy, and had paid for it with a groschen marked 
 
 * A German coin, worth about Is. 2d. Eoglish.
 
 84 
 
 in the manner described. The corporal was imme- 
 diately dispatched to put him under arrest, and upoo 
 examining the contents of his purse in the guard-house, 
 among other money two more groschen bearing the 
 same mark were discovered. The corporal and the 
 recruit swore that they were the same groschen which 
 they had marked the preceding day, and the wretchl 
 ed Frederic was deemed guilty of the theft even be- 
 fore he was heard in his defence. 
 
 The cause of this arrest had not been disclosed to 
 him : innocent of any crime, he therefore supposed 
 that the circumstance of his confinement in the house 
 of correction had been discovered by his comrades, and 
 that probably his silence, being regarded as culpable, 
 had brought him into his present melancholy situation. 
 He was conducted the same day before the auditor 
 to be examined. Being asked the first question that 
 it is usual to put on these occasions ; whether he had 
 ever before been under arrest, and whether h« 
 knew the cause of his present confinement, his sus- 
 picions were confirmed, and he thought it most prudent 
 frankly to relate the whole history of his former suf- 
 ferings. 
 
 In spite of all the pains he took to prove his in- 
 nocence, the proofs he adduced were very little re- 
 garded, as the punishment he had endured was much 
 stronger evidence of the contrary. The auditor 
 conceived it more than probable that he who had 
 been condemned to five years confinement as a cul- 
 prit accused of robbery and murder, was the thief
 
 85 
 
 ■who had so frequently made free with the property 
 of his comrades. Frederic was overwhelmed with as- 
 tonishment, and lamented his unhappy fate with tears, 
 when after a variety of questions, he heard this new 
 accusation from the mouth of his judge. He could 
 not invalidate the evidence produced against him, 
 but only declare in the most solemn manner, that he 
 had never taken a farthing belonging to any of his 
 comrades, that he neither knew nor had the least 
 idea how and in what manner the groschen in ques- 
 tion had found their way into his purse. 
 
 Would any of my readers, though possessing the 
 most delicate sensibility, entertain a doubt respect- 
 ing the guilt of a domestic in whose pocket they 
 should find a lost jewel ? Certainly not. Let 
 them not therefore reproach the upright and really 
 tender hearted auditor, because he mistook the plau- 
 sible appearance of the crime for the crime itself, if 
 he exhorted Frederic to make a candid confession, 
 and as he persisted in asserting his innocence, de- 
 scribed him to the assembled court-martial as a harden- 
 ed villain and an obstinate liar, who on that very ac. 
 count deserved a punishment the more severe. 
 
 The military laws are extremely severe, and it is 
 highly proper that this should be the case, as indul- 
 gence would only tend to destroy that strict subordi- 
 nation which it is indispensably necessary to main- 
 tain. They therefore punish with the greater seve- 
 rity a theft committed by a soldier upon his comrade, 
 because many of them are obliged to live together, -^nd
 
 86 
 
 none can secure his little property under lock and 
 key. Frederic, the innocent Frederic, was therefore 
 sentenced by the unanimous decision of the members 
 of the court-martial, to run the gantlope twelve times 
 through a file of two hundred men. But as all of 
 them not only thought it extremely probable, but 
 were clearly convinced that it was he who had stolen 
 all the little sums which his comrades had missed, this 
 dreadful sentence was rendered still more severe. 
 Instead of running as it was customary between 
 the ranks of his comrades, he was adjudged to receive 
 their lashes bound down upon a bench. 
 
 The colonel of the regiment to whom the philan- 
 thropic sovereign had deputed the beneficent attribute 
 of mitigating, but not of aggravating punishments, 
 positively refused to exercise that power in the pre- 
 sent instance, from the conviction that the accused 
 deserved no mercy, and endeavoured to escape the 
 execution of the sentence, not by contrition but by 
 falsehood. Frederic was overwhelmed with the keen- 
 est anguish when this severe decision was announced 
 to him ; he wept, lamented, and fainted away ; his 
 protestations of innocence were however disregarded, 
 and considered rather as the effects of criminal obsti- 
 nacy. He was dragged without mercy to the place 
 of punishment, and there received the number of 
 lashes specified in his sentence, and which his 
 comrades applied with a heavy hand, as it is an old 
 maxim among soldiers not to spare a thief. Frede- 
 ric's pains were excessive, almost insupportable ;
 
 87 
 
 his agonies at first extorted the most dreadful screams, 
 till the Tiolence of the pain choaked his voice, and he 
 could only entreat in a tremulous tone that they 
 would rather kill him than inflict such excruciating 
 tortures. After the completion of the sentence, he 
 was taken up insensible, and apparently lifeless, and 
 carried to the hospital, where the utmost skill and at- 
 tention of the sugeon were required to restore him to 
 life. The sufferer thanked him not for his kindness. 
 '' O that you had permitted me to expire ! O that I 
 had died!" he exclaimed with poignant sorrow, 
 pressing from his eye the tear which the acuteness of 
 his pangs had arrested in its course. In vain the 
 benevolent surgeon endeavoured to console him ; 
 the idea that he had suffered, though innocent, and 
 should still be regarded as a thief and a villain, preyed 
 upon his mind, embittered every consolation, and ren- 
 dered his existence odious and disgusting. 
 
 His cure was attended with new and inexpressible 
 agony. He endured it without repining, under the 
 idea that it would soon exhaust the small remainder 
 of his strength, and consign him to the arms of Death, 
 his only friend. This was his sole idea, the only 
 wish that his mind, oppressed by the weight of his 
 sufferings, was capable of forming, for he justly 
 expected a reward beyond the grave. According to 
 the report of the surgeon, Frederic's recovery was 
 Still doubtful, when his Serjeant waited upon the 
 colonel with the following unexpected account. 
 Two nights before some more money had been
 
 88 
 
 missed in the room where Frederic had before lived. 
 This circumstance had excited the suspicion that the 
 thief still continued his accustomed depredations, 
 ^nd that Frederic, who had so stedfastly asserted his 
 innocence, was not the guilty person, notwithstand- 
 ing all the proofs that appeared to the contrary. 
 Curiosity, and probably a more generous motive, 
 a desire to vindicate the cause of suffering innocence, 
 induced all his comrades to adopt the resolution of 
 keeping awake during the following night, and thus 
 watch for the thief who always chose that time to 
 accomplish his designs. The hour of midnight was 
 past, sleep had overcome the resolution of many, 
 and all were perfectly quiet, when a man, who had 
 been long in the service, and earned somewhat more 
 than his comrades by working at his trade as a shoe- 
 maker, heard a slight noise by the side of his bed, and, 
 though it was very dark, could discern something 
 creeping along the floor. He feigned sleep, and 
 snored aloud ; the intruder grew bolder, raised himself 
 up a little, and groped with his hand for the purse, 
 which the shoemaker had placed over night under 
 his pillow. The latter suffered him to seek and to 
 take it without molestation ; but when he was return- 
 ing the purse to its place, he started up, seized the 
 thief by the hair, and called aloud to his comrades for 
 assistance. They awoke in time to secure the 
 villain, before he could disengage himself from the 
 grasp of the shoemaker ; and some of them immedi- 
 ately went out for a light. Upon its appearance.
 
 89 
 
 they recognized ia the thief one of their comrades, 
 •who slept in the same room. He >vas a native of 
 Poland, had been in the Prussian serTice. from which 
 he deserted, and had belonged to the regiment about 
 half a year. They loaded him with reproaches, 
 inqairing at the same time whether he ^^as not the 
 person for whose misdeeds the wretched Frederic had 
 so painfully suffered. At first he maintained an ob- 
 stinate silence : he afterwards boldly declared that he 
 was not the thief, but was perfectly innocent, that, 
 at the cry of the shoemaker, he had hastened to his 
 assistance, and in the confusion naturally occasioned 
 by the darkness, he had been seized and held fast by 
 him instead of the thief, who meanwhile had proba- 
 bly escaped. Though many contradicted this account, 
 and insisted upon the impossibility of the thing, yet 
 he adhered to this crafty story, asserting its truth even 
 after he was placed under confinement by the Ser- 
 jeant. 
 
 The colonel, who now began to suspect that Fre- 
 deric was innocent, ordered the strictest inquiry to 
 be made int/« the affair. The Pole, however, continued 
 to deny theJfact, and though the shoemaker swore, 
 that, immediately upon the commission of the deed, 
 he had caught him by the hair, and had never quit- 
 ted his hold, the villain as resolutely denied this 
 circumstance: and remained true to his former decla- 
 ration, even when the person who lay in the next 
 bed to the shoemaker likewise swore that as soon as he 
 heard the cry, he seized the villain by the left arm, and
 
 90 
 
 held him fast till a light was brought. The court- 
 martial, which was soon afterwards assembled, hesi- 
 tated to decide in this particular instance. Frederic 
 had been sentenced to a Tery severe punishment on 
 evidence far more positive ; but the commission of 
 new thefts proved, or at least appeared to prove, 
 that he had not been the customary delinquent. 
 This rendered the members of the court-martial more 
 cautious than before : as it was possible there might 
 be some mistake, they agreed to pass the sentence 
 decreed by the law for the offence of which the Pole 
 appeared to be convicted, but to defer its execution, 
 if he continued to assert his innocence, till he was led 
 out to be punished. The colonel approved their 
 humane decision, and the delinquent was sentenced to 
 run the gantlope twenty-four times. The chaplain 
 of the regiment was sent to awaken his conscience, 
 and to prepare him for death, as none had ever 
 been known to survive the punishment. The 
 culprit willingly listened to the exhortations of 
 the pious chaplain, but maintained his icmocence as 
 stedfastly as before, prepared himself foi§ieath with 
 zealous devotion, and proceeded to the place where he 
 was to endure the dreadful sentence. When led to 
 the bench upon which he was to be bound, as Frede- 
 ric had been, he was observed to turn pale, and re- 
 fused to lie down. When force was about to be 
 employed for this purpose he begged to be heard 
 once more, '' I will confess every thing,*' conti- 
 nued ho, '' as T cannot escape the tremendous punish-
 
 91 
 
 ment, and have to dread everlasting misery if I leave 
 the world without repentance, and an upright con- 
 fession of my guilt." 
 
 He was led back, and fulfilled his promise. '' All 
 that my comrades have hitherto lost," said he, " I 
 have stolen. Some years since, before I entered the 
 Prussian service, a gypsey sold me a small packet of 
 herbs, assuring me that the person who carried this 
 packet about him] might steal whatever he pleased 
 without molestation, as he could never be discovered; 
 and should he be suspected, he might rely upon escap- 
 ing either through falsehood or flight. When I 
 bought it I had never stolen any thing, but the pos- 
 session of this charm allured me to theft. My plans 
 were always crowned with success, and I fled unmo- 
 lested whenever I was apprehensive of detection. I 
 thus grew bolder by degrees, and, at length, when my 
 comrade was punished in such a wonderful manner for 
 my offence, I thought myself perfectly secure, and 
 ventured to commit new depredations. I confidently 
 hoped to escape punishment by my resolute lies, and 
 the assistance of my treasure; and I should never 
 have made any confession had I not been convinced 
 in the sequel that the miraculous herbs had suddenly 
 lost their efl&cacy." 
 
 The auditor wrote down this confession with the 
 utmost impatience. lie wished, in particular, to be 
 informed how it happened that the unfortunate sufler- 
 ed for a crime of which he was guilty. This was the 
 first question that he asked, and the culprit replied,
 
 92 
 
 that he was unable to give any positive explanation, 
 but he would endeavour to account for it in the way 
 that to him appeared the most probable. 
 
 '^ I protest," he continued, " that it was not the 
 wretched Frederic, but myself, who stole the three 
 groschen from the purse of the recruit. I had taken 
 a few gulden out of it for many successive nights; 
 but once finding very little money in the purse, I that 
 time took only three groschen, which, upon my re- 
 turn to my own bed, I put, as I conceived, into my 
 purse, and that into the pocket of my breeches which 
 lay beside my bed. When Frederic was arrested the 
 next morning, and two of the groschen in question 
 were found in his purse, I reflected on the possibility 
 of having made a mistake, and thought it, at least, ex- 
 tremely probable. The bed in which he and another 
 slept, stood next to mine ; he lay always upon the 
 left, and I upon the right side of our respective beds, 
 and consequently we were parted only by a very 
 small interval. He used, likewise, to lay his clothes 
 beside him, and hence it was possible that I took up 
 Frederic's in the dark, and as I found in the pocket a 
 leathern purse similar to my own, that I put the 
 groschen which I had stolen into his purse." 
 
 The auditor was surprised at this relation ; he was 
 perfectly convinced of the possibility of the mistake 
 and of Frederic's innocence. The unmerited suffer- 
 ings of the wretched victim lay heavy upon his mind; 
 of these he considered himself, at the moment, as the 
 principal cause, and resolved, at least, to alleviate,
 
 93 
 
 and, if possible, to terminate them. He therefore 
 concluded the examination, and informed the colonel 
 of all the circumstances that had come to bis know- 
 ledge. 
 
 The colonel felt equal astonishment, and immediate, 
 ly hastened to the hospital to the bed-side of the 
 languishing Frederic. His words, the declaration of 
 his perfect innocence, were more efi&cacious than all 
 the applications of medical art ; he ceased to repine 
 at his terrible suflferings, and fervently returned 
 thanks to the Almighty for the wonderful discovery. 
 A smile again played for the first time upon his coun- 
 tenance ; he shed tears of joy when he heard the 
 sound of the trumpet proclaiming his innocence, by 
 the command of the conscientious colonel, not only 
 in the barracks, but in the whole town. Many of 
 the citizens, both male and female, thronged round 
 the bed of the innocent victim. They supplied him 
 with money, and offered him necessaries ; but the 
 colonel had already undertaken to provide the latter, 
 and from that time Frederic received a regular sup- 
 ply from his table. 
 
 While all endeavoured to alleviate the sufferings of 
 the innocent Frederic, they were filled with the utmost 
 indignation against the author of them. Those, 
 whose duty it was to guard and to carry him food, 
 treated him with the greatest severity, as if to re- 
 venge upon him the cruel fate of the unhappy victim. 
 The colonel ordered the necessary examinations to be 
 taken as speedily as possible, that the enraged popu-
 
 94 
 
 lace might be soon appeased by his severe and merited 
 punishment. He afterwards confessed that he look- 
 ed unmoved on the tortures of his innocent com- 
 rade, and that he inflicted his twelve strokes with all 
 his strength, because he had heard that Frederic had 
 before been guilty of murder; adding, that he was 
 firmly convinced that the stolen groschen had been 
 conveyed, by means of the miraculous packet, into 
 Frederic's purse, that he might be the more severely 
 punished for his former crime. 
 
 Frederic had already begun to crawl about his 
 room, arid the surgeon expressed an opinion that he 
 might probably recover his health and strength, when 
 the author of his sufferings was unanimously senten- 
 ced to die, and accordingly hanged. Not a tear was 
 shed at his execution, and when the priest who at- 
 tended him exhorted the spectators to pray, most of 
 them were silent, and few prayed with him. 
 
 ^' Ask whatever you please, and if it is in my power 
 your request shall be complied with," said the colo- 
 nel, deeply affected, the first time Frederic waited 
 upon him after his recovery. 
 
 Frederic requested his discharge. After his inno- 
 cence was published, he had received considerable 
 presents from the officers, the citizens of the town, 
 and even from persons at a considerable distance, so 
 that he now possessed upwards of two hundred 
 gulden. With this sum he intended to set himself up 
 in the business which he had learned, in order to ob- 
 tain an honest subsistence : this he hoped he should
 
 95 
 
 now be able to accomplish, as an honourable dis- 
 charge would afford him an opportunity of settling 
 wherever he pleased. 
 
 The colonel cheerfully granted his application, and 
 Frederic laid aside the habit of a soldier with the 
 greater pleasure on account of the painful sufferings 
 he had endured in that state. 
 
 Haying experienced the greatest civilities from the 
 citizens, and received farther presents from many, he 
 was about to leave the town, when an aged female 
 beckoned to him from a window, and requested him 
 to step into her house. He accepted her invitation, 
 and she welcomed him with the kindest attention. 
 
 " Never before," said she, somewhat confused, 
 though she afterwards assumed a firmer tone, '' had 
 I seen a soldier suffer the dreadful punishment. When 
 you were led out for that purpose, I was passing by 
 upon business, but being sui rounded by the crowd, I 
 was prevented from advancing or retreating, and was 
 compelled to be a reluctant spectator. I was assured 
 by all those who stood near me that you were a 
 murderer and a notorious thief; but I was moved 
 with the piteous air with which you looked round ; 
 and your lamentable cries, that expressed the sufferings 
 of innocence, penetrated my heart. At that mo- 
 ment I would have given all I possess, which is no 
 trifle, to have saved you. At length, when I found 
 an opportunity to getaway, your image followed me 
 whecever I went ; your dreadful shrieks continually
 
 96 
 
 sounded in my ears, your affecting looks were eyer 
 present to my eyes, and allowed me neither rest nor 
 peace, 'i'he desire of alleviating your afflictions, of 
 contributing to the recovery of your strength, induc- 
 ed me to repair to the hospital with a supply of 
 nourishing food. The attendants, however, refused 
 me admittance, and even the honest surgeon declined 
 the present which I offered him to redouble his ex- 
 ertions for your cure. He doubted whether you 
 could survive your sufferings, and my tears involun- 
 tarily flowed Avhen I imagined you dead. He cannot 
 be a thief or a murderer, thought I, and was not at all 
 surprised, but only rejoiced, when your innocence 
 was discovered in such a wonderful manner. I then, 
 among others, succeeded in gaining admittance to your 
 bed. You must have perceived the particular inte- 
 rest I felt for you, as you distinguished me from all 
 the other persons, and kissed my hand with fervor 
 and filial affection. This grateful ardour fixed mj 
 resolution, and led me to the vow, that in case you 
 recovered, I would make you the heir to all my 
 property. I delayed the disclosure of this vow to 
 you, but as I heard that you intended to leave our 
 town, and I now see you proceeding for that pur- 
 pose, the danger of losing you for ever must excuse 
 my being so pressing. I am convinced that you will 
 not refuse an inheritance of above thirty thousand 
 gulden, but I know not whether you are willing to 
 fulfil a condition, which, contrary to my inclination,
 
 97 
 
 is inseparably connected with it. I must first ac 
 quaint you with the circumstances, and then leave 
 you to judge for yourself. 
 
 *' AVhen I married my late husband he was sixty 
 years old, and I was a poor girl of twenty. He had 
 taken care of me when a poor friendless orphan, and I 
 gave him my hand, not from love, but out of gratitude. 
 We had no children, but our union lasted twenty 
 years; when my husband, whom I attended with the 
 most affectionate and grateful assiduity, expired at 
 the age of eighty years in my arms. He was often 
 deeply sensible that I experienced only the troubles, 
 unaccompanied with the comforts, of matrimony, 
 and always advised me to chuse after his death another 
 husband capable of procuring me them. In his will 
 itself this wish was expressed in the clearest manner; 
 he left me sole heiress of all his property, but upon the 
 condition, that, at my death, I should bequeath it to 
 any of his sister's children, if I died unmarried ; but 
 on the contrary, if I should contract a second mar- 
 riage, I might appoint my husband heir to the whole. 
 I was grateful for his kind dispositions in my favour, 
 but continued undecided in the choice of a second 
 husband. Many were desirous of obtaining my 
 hand, but I imagined, and often perceived but too 
 plainly, that they were attracted only by my proper- 
 ty, which they hoped to secure when possessed of my 
 person. This rendered me mistrustful, and led me to 
 form the resolution never to marry again, and to 
 leave the property to one of the children of my 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 
 
 husband's sister. I took the youngest girl into my 
 house, and educated her with great care, as my future 
 heiress ; even my vow to compensate you for your 
 suflerings shall not prevent me from attending to her 
 welfare. Listen, therefore, to my proposal : — I 
 oflfer you my hand, because nothing but your accep- 
 tance of it can enable you to be my heir. I am now 
 siity-two years old, I require not your love, but only 
 your gratitude. I am always ailing, and feel evident 
 symptoms of approaching dissolution, which, accords 
 ing to th^ assurances of my physician, I must expect 
 to take place in two or three years at farthest. Thus 
 the period of your probation, or rather of affliction, 
 will not be so long as mine. You will then be free, 
 and will, agreeably to my wish, marry the girl whom 
 I before intended to inherit my property. She is 
 only twenty, and possesses beauty and accomplish- 
 ments ; I am convinced that you will like her. It 
 would be easy for me to persuade the dutiful girl to 
 give you her hand immediately, but then not you but 
 she would inherit what I leave. I should not in that 
 case have made you happy, according to the intention 
 of my vow, but perhaps miserable, as you would be 
 dependent on the caprice of a woman whose [dispo- 
 sition, though now excellent, might be changed with 
 time. I can therefore discover no alternative, and 
 this is what I require of you, if you accept my pro- 
 posal. I desire not an immediate decision ; you ought 
 first to see and to become acquainted with your 
 future wife, before you can make up your mind,
 
 99 
 
 and this acquaintance I shall now hasten to bring 
 about " 
 
 With these words she quickly left the room, and 
 before Frederic had recovered from his surprize, a 
 handsome young female entered with wine and bis- 
 cuit, and requested him, in the name of her aunt, to 
 take some refreshment. 
 
 ''Ah!" said she, in a friendly nnaifected tone, 
 '' often, very often haye I lamented with my aunt 
 your unmeritetl misfortune, and heartily rejoiced at 
 the discovery of your innocence. I am extremely 
 obliged to her for procuring me the agreeable and un- 
 expected opportunity of becoming acquainted with 
 you." 
 
 Frederic tould only reply to this compliment by an 
 unintelligible stammer; his situation so overpowered 
 him that he could not give utterance to his feelings. 
 While ihe tender-hearted old lady was speaking, he 
 imagined that he was dreaming; but when the yision 
 yanished, and another appeared, that operated with 
 much greater power upon his senses and feelings, he 
 knew that he was awake and not dreaming; his 
 state resembled that of a drunken man, who catches 
 at every thing, and frequently sinks to the ground, 
 together with his treacherous support. 
 
 The charming Maria spoke to him a considerable 
 time before he was capable of a reply; but when she 
 candidly declared that his unhappy fate had cost her 
 many tears, and he observed the involuntary drop 
 glisten in her large blue eye, he was enabled to ex-
 
 100 
 
 press his thanks, and forcibly felt that the possession 
 of such a woman must be accompanied with real 
 felicity. He had never before experienced the pleas- 
 ing pains of love; he had gazed unmoved on the 
 most beautiful faces ; but now the anxious desire, 
 and those sensations which invariably precede the 
 tender passion, were the first time excited in his heart. 
 The idea that the possession of such a woman must 
 ensure felicity, and procure inexpressible delight, was 
 first awakened in his mind, upon which it remained 
 deeply impressed. He was about to clothe it in the 
 form of a compliment to the beauteous Maria, when 
 her aunt's voice was heard in the adjoining room, and 
 Maria immediately vanished from his sight, 
 
 " Well, horw do you like her?" asked the old 
 lady, who soon afterwards entered, and smiled with 
 satisfaction, while Frederic, lost in admiration and 
 rapture, in vain sought words to express his feelings. 
 '' She must and shall be your's," said she, ^' after my 
 death; but now you must inform me whether you 
 are inclined to marry me first, a condition which is 
 absolutely indispensable. This I require, and with- 
 out any ceremony, as I am influenced by no base or 
 sordid passion, but merely by the wish to render you 
 happy." 
 
 Frederic, who was proceeding with no other pros- 
 pect than that of procuring a precarious subsistence 
 by his daily labour, hesitated not to accept with 
 gratitude the permanent provision that was so un- 
 expectedly offered him; but he had the candor to
 
 101 
 
 confess at the same time to the old lady, that he was 
 induced to adopt this resolution not by love, but b3i 
 an ardent desire to repay the great favours of his 
 benefactress with filial tenderness and unfeigned affec- 
 tion. She was pleased with this declaration, and on 
 the same day he took possession of a small back- 
 room, which she assigned him under the pretext that 
 she would provide him with board and lodging till he 
 could meet with some employment by which to sup- 
 port himself. Fearful of the interference of her re- 
 lations, she had expressly required that their ap- 
 proaching union should be kept a profound secret, 
 till it was too late for them to make any opposition 
 to the match. 
 
 Though the beautiful Maria regarded herself as the 
 future heiress of her aunt's property, and perceived 
 that it was likely to be diminished by the ample favors 
 which her tenderness lavished upon Frederic ; yet this 
 was so far from giving her any concern, that she 
 rather appeared to rejoice at being able to contribute 
 towards his welfare by a voluntary renunciation. 
 She therefore assisted with pleasure to prepare the 
 different articles of apparel which her aunt purchased 
 for Frederic. She was, however, struck mute with 
 astonishment, when her aunt, after walking arm in 
 arm with Frederic to the church, early one morning, 
 acknowledged, upon her return, that he was her 
 husband, and told her that she must in future honour 
 him as her uncle. Maria was persuaded that Frede- 
 ric, in the vigor of youth and the bloom of manly
 
 102 
 
 beauty, could not have been induced to such a match 
 irithout a considerable sacrifice. The loss of the in- 
 heritance which she had considered so secure morti- 
 fied her extremely, and inroluntary tears rolled down 
 her cheeks. 
 
 " I anticipate your distress," said the aged bride, 
 '' and hasten to relieve it. Take this marriage con- 
 tract, which I have concluded with my husband, carry 
 it to your mother, read it to her, and be convinced 
 that I shall never cease to consult your welfare." 
 
 Maria proceeded with it in her hand to her mother's, 
 where she found her relations, who had come to tell 
 her what had passed at the church, and to acquaint 
 ber with the great and unexpected misfortune. She 
 would not believe it; but when she saw Maria enter 
 weeping, her doubts were removed, and in the anguish 
 of her disappointment she cursed the craft of the old 
 •woman who had acted with ?uch secrecy, and in order 
 to dispense with the publication of the banns, had ob- 
 tained a licence for her marriage, that she might avoid 
 the reproaches of her relatives, and prevent any ob- 
 stacle which might otherwise have been thrown in the 
 way. When Maria informed them that, according to 
 the declaration of her aunt, the marriage contract 
 would awaken new hopes, it was taken and read with 
 eagerness. It calmed many, indeed almost all, but 
 not Maria; she, however, concealed her disquietude 
 and disappointment in the inmost recesses of her heart. 
 By the marriage contract Frederic was declared sole 
 heir and future possessor of all his wife's property;
 
 103 
 
 but by the same instrument he was likewise bound 
 either to marry Maria within the twelve months suc- 
 ceeding his wife's death, or to settle upon her half of 
 the property upon her marriage. If he refused to 
 comply with these conditions within the time speci- 
 fied, the whole of the property was to devoWe to 
 Maria ; but if, contrary to all probability, she refus- 
 ed to accept him for her husband, the inheritance was 
 then to remain unconditionally his property, and he 
 might dispose of it as he pleased. 
 
 Frederic, who already secretly cherished the 
 most tender affection for Maria, had himself propos- 
 ed this condition, hoping by means of it to secure his 
 future happiness and repose, and by the sacrifice of 
 half the property to induce Maria to an union with 
 him. The old lady regarded this proposal as the con- 
 sequence of his reluctance to deprive the needy re- 
 latives entirely of the property, and praised the dis- 
 interestedness of Frederic, who had, in fact, never 
 been influenced by a more selfish motive. Maria's 
 mother and relations, who had anticipated the loss of 
 every thing, but now perceived (hat half of the 
 property was saved, and perhaps the whole might 
 once devolve to them, approved the contract. 
 
 "She will not lose it however," said they all; 
 '^ she may once be able to assist her mother and her 
 relations, and as she must marry somebody, it is bet- 
 ter that she should previously become acquainted 
 with the manners and disposition of her future 
 husband."
 
 104 ^ ^ 
 
 Several of them even began to praise Frederic's air 
 and figure, hinting to Maria that she would at least 
 have a handsome man for her husband. At length 
 they all concluded, particularly as the affair had turn- 
 ed out so much better than they expected, to assume 
 the best grace they could, to visit the old lady, and 
 wish her joy on her unexpected marriage. 
 
 They all went accordingly ; Maria only was left 
 behind, to weep unmolested over her misfortune. 
 With a faithful and tender passion, and with all the 
 ardor which a first attachment invariably inspires, she 
 had for two years loved the only son of a poor 
 baker, who lived next door to her aunt, and by his 
 business obtained a scanty but honest livelihood. As 
 she was considered by all as the future possessor of 
 her aunt's property, the father of the young baker 
 had omitted no opportunity of promoting the growth 
 of their nascent affection, and when the lovers, who 
 frequently seated themselves beside him, indulged in 
 the .fond endearments of reciprocal attachment, he 
 rejoiced at the prospect of the comfort and ease that 
 awaited his declining years. Maria herself had 
 frequently described this future felicity, and had even 
 announced it as very near at hand, since her aunt's 
 infirmities daily increased. This prospect of happi- 
 ness was now annihilated, and she was under the 
 necessity of informing her lover that her affection, 
 which would ever remain the same, was the only 
 dowry that she could bring him. She hoped that he 
 would willingly despise with her the charms of riches.
 
 105 
 
 that he would be content to work early and late, if 
 at night they could banish the remembrance of their 
 cares in each other's arms; but she could not flatter 
 herself that she should find in the father the same 
 disposition, and naturally expected that the latter 
 would persuade, or perhaps compel his sou to seek a 
 more advantageous match. Her suspicion was but 
 too well founded, for stepping into the house of her 
 lover upon her return, she was there received with 
 the keenest reproaches. The father and son already 
 knew of her aunt's marriage, and were even acquaint- 
 ed with the contents of the contract. The son, 
 therefore, sarcastically wished her joy of her intended 
 union with the wealthy Frederic, and the old man 
 grumbled incessantly at the loss of the promised 
 felicity and repose. Maria soon succeeded in con- 
 vincing her lover of her innocence; but this did not 
 mend the matter, for the father positively declared, 
 that, under these circumstances, it was impossible to 
 think of any farther connection, that his son must 
 now seek a richer bride, that he might live honestly, 
 and free from the cares of a precarious subsistence. 
 
 Maria knew the power which the father always 
 possessed over his dutiful son; she expected that it 
 would be exercised on the present occasion, left the 
 house inconsolable, and appeared with an evident air 
 of dejection at the wedding-dinner, which her aunt had 
 prepared in haste on account of the unexpected re- 
 conciliation with her relatives. Frederic, as well as 
 his wife, perceived the gloom that overcast Maria's
 
 106 
 
 countenance ; each attributed it to a diflferent cause, 
 and sought to dispel it in a different manner. Fre- 
 deric imagined that Maria was secretly grieved at 
 haying lost him, and therefore called her attention 
 to the future. Her aunt conceiving that her chagrin 
 arose from the loss of the inheritance, reminded her 
 more than once of the article of the marriage con- 
 tract which anew ensured it to her. But all the con- 
 solation, of "which they were extremely lavish, was 
 incapable of restoring her cheerfulness, as, instead of 
 promoting the sole wish of her heart, it tended only to 
 disappoint it. Her grief was augmented, when soon 
 afterwards the father forbade his son all farther in- 
 tercourse with the unhappy Maria, and pressed him 
 to tnarry another young woman with a property of a 
 few thousand gulden.- Such was the violence of her 
 passion, that she would probably have fallen a 
 prey to despair, if her yet faithful lover had not 
 secretly assured her, that he would resist his father's 
 intentions to the utmost of his power. Being nar- 
 rowly watched by his father, she could not at first 
 either see or speak to hira for a week together ; but 
 love, ever fertile in expedients, soon provided them 
 more favourable opportunities. On the ground- 
 floor the two houses were separated only by a 
 wainscot partition ; through the holes formed by 
 the knots they at first contrived to converse like Pyra- 
 mus and Thisbe ; but the lover growing bolder by 
 degrees, soon drew out the nails by which it was 
 fastened, and then they could en joy each other's com-
 
 107 
 
 pany and coarcrsation frequently during the whole 
 or at least half the night. 
 
 Thus three quarters of a year passed away, and 
 with it fled the small remainder of her aunt's health. 
 Her infirmities daily increased, and she was often 
 obliged for a week together to keep her bed. From 
 the time of her marriage, she had slept in a separate 
 room, to conyince the malicious world that it was not 
 sensuality, but a nobler motive which had induced her 
 to marry a young man, whose welfare alone she had in 
 view. She loved her husband as her son, and he 
 honoured her as a mother. By her advice Frederic 
 had opened a shop for linen and cotton goods. As he 
 paid for his commodities in ready money, and conse- 
 quently bought them in cheaper, and could afford to 
 sell them at a lower price, he soon found customers. 
 Though his profit was small, yet as his returns were 
 frequent, the concern proved very advantageous. 
 He often cheered his sick wife with the account of his 
 success; she rejoiced over the reward of his indefa- 
 tigable industry, adding that he would some time 
 or other retire from business as a wealthy merchant, 
 and enjoy that ease, with his future spouse, which 
 she had prepared for him. In spite of Frederic's 
 endeavours to conceal his growing affection for Ma- 
 ria, it was discovered by the penetrating eye of his 
 wife. She was not offended at what she herself had 
 been the m;-ans of promoting, but she frequently in- 
 treated her husband to conceal his passion, as she 
 feared lest her memory might be scandalized on ac-
 
 108 
 
 count of it, by her fellow citizens. For this reason 
 she would have removed Maria from her house, had 
 not the latter, who entirely managed all the domes- 
 tic concerns, frequently entreated her to grant her 
 the privilege of evincing her gratitude and assiduous 
 attention during the remainder of her life. Maria's 
 conduct in this circumstance arose from a fear of the 
 interruption of her interviews with her lover ; and 
 Frederic, who imagined that he had made some 
 progress in her affections, ignorant of her motive, 
 seconded her request, as it appeared insupportable to 
 be deprived of the sight of one for whom he cherished 
 a passion equally pure and tender. 
 
 Maria, who heartily detested Frederic, but cautious- 
 ly concealed her hatred, augmented his error by looks 
 and expressions of affected tenderness. Frederic en- 
 tertained the highest regard and esteem for her aunt ; 
 but as he frequently watched during the night by her 
 bed, together with Maria, witnessed her sufferings, 
 and heard the groans extorted by her pains, he could 
 not suppress the wish that the Almighty would release 
 her by death, as the physician had declared all human 
 assistance unavailing. He several times expressed 
 Ihis wish in the presence of Maria, and secretly re. 
 joiced, when, with much frankness, she coincided in 
 the same sentiment. One morning, after watching 
 during the whole night by the bed of his wife, he was 
 sitting in his shop overpowered with sleep, when Ma- 
 ria entered, and complained bitterly of the number of 
 rats which committed great havoc in her pantry*
 
 109 
 
 She asked his advice how to destroy them, and Fre- 
 deric recollected that in similar cases his foster-father 
 employed arsenic wifh success. He immediately of- 
 fered to fetch some from the apothecary, to assist 
 in clearing out the cellar the next day, and then to 
 distribute the poison. He went soon afterwards for 
 the arsenic, and put it away till wanted in a small cup- 
 board in his shop. It ^\as a fine day in the season of 
 autumn, and high time to gather the ripe fruit in the 
 garden, that lay at a small distance from the house. 
 Maria therefore went about this business in the af- 
 ternoon, and requested Frederic to attend in the 
 mean time to his sick wife, and to warm the tea, of 
 which she frequently wanted to drink. Frederic 
 cheerfully complied, and when his wife complained 
 of thirst, he hastily warmed the drink, but scarcely 
 had she taken a cupful, when she was attacked by 
 violent spasms, and death-like convulsions. Frede- 
 ric, terrified by these symptons, hastily left the room 
 in order to send for a physician and a priest. He 
 found not a soul in the house, as Maria had taken the 
 maid-servant with her. Several poor children were 
 at play before the house ; to one of these he gave 
 a few pence to fetch the persons he wanted. The 
 convulsions of the patient, whom he supported in his 
 arms, became more alarming, and he anxiously await- 
 ed the arrival of the priest and physician ; but neither 
 of them appeared. He at length ran out himself to 
 fetch the latter, but upon his return he found her 
 dead.
 
 HO 
 
 Tears of unfeigned sorrow streamed from Frederic's 
 eyes when he beheld the ghastly and distorted features 
 of his departed benefactress. He regretted that she 
 could not once more speak to and take leave of him. 
 He imagined that some internal ulcer had burst and 
 suffocated her, as she frequently attempted to cough, 
 but was prevented by the excessive violence of tjie 
 spasms. This opinion he mentioned to the relatires 
 of the deceased, who soon assembled at the house to 
 see her once more ; but many of them shook their 
 heads in a suspicious manner, and inquired whether he 
 had not sent for a physician. Frederic assured them 
 that one had been sent for, but had not arrived, upon 
 which they dispatched another messenger. He in- 
 stantly attended, and declared that he had not been 
 from home, nor had he received any previous message. 
 Upon inspecting the deceased, he immediately observ- 
 ed that her death was not to have been apprehended 
 so soon, but if he was not deceived by appearances 
 she had been poisoned. Frederic had before stated, 
 that she had been seized with dreadful spasms, im- 
 mediately after she had taken the tea prescribed only 
 that morning by the physician. The latter repaired 
 with him to the kitchen, received from Frederic's 
 hands the pot in which it had been made, and which 
 was still half full, and examined it closely. In the 
 presence of above twelve witnesses he poured three 
 spoonfuls of this tea down the throat of a little dog, 
 which was instantly seized with convulsions, and died 
 in seven minutes. That poison, and a very powerful
 
 Ill 
 
 poison, was infused in the tea was apparent to tlw 
 astonishment of all. The next subject of inquiry 
 was, by whom the poison could have been mixed 
 among the innocent herbs. The physician, to whose 
 account it was naturally charged, in order to prove 
 the harmless nature of his prescription, took with him 
 some of the persons who were present, and proceeded 
 to the apothecary's. They carried with them the 
 remainder of the tea, and desired the apothecary to 
 produce the prescription. He complied, at the same 
 time declaring that he took the herbs prescribed out 
 of the chests with his own hand, weighed them himself, 
 and sent them home, and could consequently pledge 
 his character and his life for their innocence. The 
 chests in which the herbs were deposited being care- 
 fully examined, nothing suspicious was found in them; 
 upon which the apothecary, pouring oJff the tea into a 
 cup, minutely examined the remaining leaves. He 
 and the physician soon discovered particles of the 
 arsenic glistening among them and not dissolved. At 
 the same instant the apothecary recollected that Fre- 
 deric had that morning purchased of him an ounce of 
 arsenic, under the pretext of destroying the rats in 
 his cellar. As the laws prohibited mortal poisons to 
 be sold, excepting to well-known persons, the apothe- 
 cary had made an entry of it in a particular book, and 
 as a farther security, had obtained Frederic's signature 
 to it. 
 
 Upon this discovery they were all convinced that 
 Frederic, weary of waiting for the promised inheri-
 
 113 
 
 tance, had caused his wife's death by poison : they 
 hastened back to^uestion him concerning the fact, to 
 demand of him the arsenic he had purchased, and thus 
 come at the certain knowledge of the truth. They call- 
 ed by the way on the oflficers of the police, repaired 
 with them to the room of the deceased, inquired for 
 Frederic, and in vain sought him all over the house. 
 Those who had remained behind imagined that he ac- 
 companied the others to the apothecary's, but now 
 they were convinced that he had thus gained time and 
 opportunity to escape by flight. The police immedi- 
 ately procured hand-bills, and distributed them all 
 over the country ; while some of the officers examined 
 all the chests and cupboards which had been under the 
 care of the fugitive. They found the cupboard in the 
 shop open, and in it the paper of arsenic. The 
 apothecary had with great caution sealed it with his 
 usual seal, and written upon it in large letters, Poison 
 for ratSy in Frederic's presence, before he delivered it 
 to him. The seal was broken, and the quantity left in 
 the paper being accurately weighed was not above one 
 drachm, consequently Frederic had put seven drachms 
 into the tea, by which the small quantity of a cupful 
 was rendered almost instantly fatal. 
 
 Preparations were making to open the deceased, 
 when Maria returned home from the garden. She 
 fainted away upon the bed, when she beheld the 
 corpse of her benefactress, and when she came to 
 herself, cursed in her anguish the author of the 
 execrable deed. She was led, overwhelmed with the
 
 113 
 
 ▼iolence of her affliction into another apartment. 
 The operation was performed, and it was clearly 
 proved that arsenic had been the cause of her aunt's 
 sudden death. In the usual report, the surgeon, by 
 the desire of the criminal tribunal, stated that though 
 the deceased was very often ill, yet, from a careful 
 examination of the internal parts, she might certainly 
 have lived a year longer, and perhaps several years. 
 Two days afterwards the body was borne to the grave, 
 followed by all the inhabitants of the town ; for the 
 deceased was much beloved, and had been a real be- 
 nefactress to the indigent. Each strove to repay her 
 good deeds by the last act of aftection that it is possi- 
 ble to perform here below. Many tears were shed, 
 but by none more copiously than by Maria, who 
 walked behind the corpse, inconsolable and strug- 
 gling with despair, because, according to her expres- 
 sion, she considered herself as the distant cause of the 
 murder. '" It was I," said she, " who put the 
 knife into the villain's hand ; it was I who gave him an 
 opportunity for (he peri>€tration of the horrid deed, 
 because the preceding morning I complained of the 
 number of rats ; it was I who led him to the idea of 
 poison, and at last went out into the garden that he 
 might execute his atrocious purpose without moles- 
 tation." 
 
 They all endeavoured to comfort Maria, attesting 
 her perfect innocence, and called her attention to 
 the valuable property which would now revert to her, 
 entire and undivided. Maria's countenance recovered 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 
 
 its serenity with the latter idea, and she might now 
 confidently hope for a kind reception from the father 
 of her lover. Still she was frequently overpowered 
 by sorrow, and her whole demeanor proved that she 
 had entertained a real and unfeigned affection for her 
 aunt. 
 
 A trustee was appointed to the property left by the 
 deceased, because the marriage contract allowed the 
 fugitive a whole year, during which time he was bound 
 to demand the hand of Maria, or at the expiration of it 
 to renounce his claim to the inheritance ; but he never 
 appeared ; he was suspected, and all but convicted of 
 murder, and, as a murderer, he was incapable either 
 of marrying or inheriting property. The court 
 therefore declared that this step wa§ merely a forma- 
 lity, and all the inhabitants of the town recognized 
 Maria as the rich heiress of her aunt's fortune. The 
 father of her lover spoke to her with the same cordi- 
 ality as before, and asked her whether she would 
 make his son happy at the expiration of the year. 
 That Maria replied to this question in the affirmative 
 none will be inclined to doubt ; at least none of those 
 who, having experienced the power of love, know 
 what raptures fill the human breast, when at length 
 approaching the object of its ardent wishes. 
 
 Maria already anticipated in full measure her future 
 felicit}' in the arms of her lover. It was universally 
 known in the town that the poor baker's son would 
 soon obtain the hand of the wealthy heiress, when 
 one morning the unexpected report was circulated,
 
 115 
 
 that the fugitive Frederic, having been discovered in 
 a foreign country, where he had taken refuge, was 
 apprehended and lodged the preceding night in the 
 gaol of the town. All the inhabitants flocked to the 
 town-house, to inquire into the truth of this account, 
 and all returned with satisfaction, convinced of the 
 fact, which at the same time proved that a murderer 
 very seldom escapes retributive justice. None 
 pitied his fate : the severest ptmishment was universal- 
 ly regarded as inadequate to the enormity of the 
 crime with which he had repaid the extraordinary 
 favours of his kind-hearted wife. None conceived 
 him to be innocent, his flight having too clearly de-. 
 monstrated the contrary. 
 
 The first examination, which took place the same 
 day, tended to strengthen the general indignation 
 against him. An upright and penitent confession had 
 been expected, but he not only denied the fact, but 
 ftedfastly declared that he was utterly incapable of 
 such a deed. 
 
 " I admit," said he, " that, at Maria's request, I 
 purchased the arsenic at the apothecary's, but I laid 
 it, sealed as it was, in the cupboard in my shop, 
 I did not put it into the tea, and entertained not the 
 slightest suspicion of having occasioned the painful 
 death of my benefactress by administering it to her. 
 It was not till the physician, who had been sent for, 
 expressed his belief that my wife had died of poison, 
 and a closer examination of the tea confirmed this 
 supposition, that I recollected having purchased some
 
 116 
 
 arsenic the same day of the apothecary, and that sus- 
 picion, therefore, might very easily attach to me. I 
 hastened immediately to my shop, intending to follow 
 the physician with the paper that was luckily sealed, 
 but what was my astonishment to find the seal broken, 
 and the greatest part of the poison gone. Twice in 
 my life I had before been involved in the most extra- 
 ordinary manner in the crimes of others, had endured 
 imprisonment, torture, and cruel punishment ; new 
 dangers of a similar nature presented themselves to 
 ray soul, and my imagination painted their conse- 
 quences in the most frightful colours. At that mo- 
 ment flight appeared my only resource : without 
 farther consideration I adopted this expedient with 
 the greatest eagerness. It was not till evening that I 
 sunk to the ground, exhausted, in a wood ; I perceiv- 
 ed that ray hasty flight had aggravated the appearances 
 against me, and my guiltless conscience suggested to 
 me to return, but the dread of new torments soon 
 silenced the inward monitor. I reached the frontiers 
 without accident, and wandered about in foreign 
 countries undecided what to do. Having previous to 
 my flight opened my chest, and taken out all the cash 
 that it contained, I might easily have proceeded to 
 more distant regions, or, at least, have changed my 
 clothes ; but both these precautions I neglected, as 
 I was probably not destined to escape my cruel fate, 
 and novv patiently await what the Almighty has de- 
 creed for me." 
 The truth of this account he stedfastly maintained
 
 117 
 
 in every succeeding examination. The judges, con- 
 vinced of its improbability, in vain objected that 
 when the deed was perpetrated, there was nobody 
 besides himself in the house ; that he had, to all ap- 
 pearance, purposely neglected to send either for the 
 physician or the priest, and now endeavoured to ex- 
 culpate himself by saying that he dispatched a strange 
 boy to fetch them; in short, that his flight was a 
 positive demonstration of his guilt. He admitted 
 that appearances were strongly against him ; but 
 implored that he might not be judged by mere ap- 
 pearances. 
 
 Frederic continued to retain his fortitude and com- 
 posure, but when Maria, in the course of the pro- 
 ceedings, was likewise summoned before the tribunal, 
 and stated, among other things, that she had observ- 
 ed in him an unusual disquietude on the day on which 
 the deed was committed, and that, on the same day, 
 he had said to her at dinner — " Take notice, my 
 wife will certainly die soon and suddenly, and expire 
 before we are aware," he wept bitterly, and solemn- 
 ly protested that he did not recollect having ever 
 used such an expression. 
 
 Three months had been fruitlessly spent in endea- 
 vouring to obtain from Frederic a voluntary confes- 
 sion, when the court unanimously sentenced him to 
 be put to the torture ; and the supreme tribunal con- 
 firmed the sentence, which was soon afterwards an- 
 nounced to him. 
 
 " No," said Frederic, " those pains that I have
 
 118 
 
 once suffered I am resolved not to endure again. I 
 can and will escape them, and rather chuse death, 
 which will at once terminate the period of my severe 
 probation. I see clearly that I cannot avoid death, 
 but that by means of it I may deliver myself from 
 farther torments. Lead me to my judges, and I will 
 confess every thing,'* 
 
 He accordingly confessed that he was actually the 
 murderer of his wife, and had hastened her death by 
 poison. 
 
 *^ Long before,'* said he, " when she was continu- 
 ally overwhelmed with sickness, and racked with 
 pain, when she wished to die, but death delayed to 
 release her from her misery, the horrid idea of 
 murdering her arose in my mind. The violence of a 
 passion which I cherished for Maria strengthened 
 this idea, and I frequently sought a fit opportunity 
 for putting it in execution. I was sitting in my 
 shop, employed with new projects, when Maria in- 
 quired what method should be used to destroy the 
 rats; I purposely mentioned arsenic as the only 
 certain method, and immediately hastened to purchase 
 it, I should still have deferred the completion of my 
 design, had not Maria just then gone out into the 
 garden with the maid servants, and left me alone 
 with the patient. 
 
 '* The physician had told me the preceding day 
 that my wife's death would be speedy and sudden, and 
 would probably proceed from suffocation. This 
 statement confirmed my resolation, and as the body
 
 119 
 
 always swells in consequence of dropsy and suffoca- 
 tion, I conceived that those symptoms of the poison 
 would be regarded as the consequences of her dis- 
 ease, and that she would be buried without farther 
 examination. I purposely put so large a quantity of 
 poison into the tea, and obliged the patient to drink 
 it up at a draught, that her sufferings might not be of 
 long duration, and to preyent her from describ- 
 ing how she felt to any person that might haye. 
 chanced to enter." 
 
 At the expiration of a month he was doomed to be 
 broken alive upon the wheel, from the lower extremi. 
 ties upwards ; but the supreme court mitigated this 
 dreadful sentence, and decreed that only his arms, 
 with which he had reached the poison to his wife^ 
 should be broken in two places, and that he should 
 then receive the coup de grace^ as it is called, upon 
 his breast. He trembled when informed of this 
 sentence, but soon recovering himself, he raised his 
 hand to his pallid face, and said: — " It is dreadful, 
 but it will terminate all my sufferings, and conduct 
 me to the Almighty's throne of grace." 
 
 He employed to the best purpose the three days 
 that were allowed him to prepare for his approach- 
 ing dissolution. He was attended by a young and 
 respectable ecclesiastic, who had before been his con- 
 fessor : the keepers frequently observed him leaving 
 the prison with tears, and he scrupled not to assert 
 that Frederic was either innocent or a consummate 
 hypocrite.
 
 120 
 
 Great, nay almost innumerable was the multitude 
 that assembled before the town-house, and accompa. 
 nicd him to the place of execution the morning on 
 which he was doomed to suffer. The inhabitants of 
 the towns and villages far and near had arrived to 
 witness the end of the atrocious murderer of his 
 wife. All were astonished when they perceived in 
 his pallid countenance, not the ferocious look of the 
 haidened villain, but the air of suffering innocence : 
 while their tongues condemned him, their cheeks 
 were frequently bedewed with the involuntary tear of 
 compassion. When the procession passed the house 
 in which Frederic and his wife had lived, he suddenly 
 stopped : he had before proceeded with a firm step, 
 but his heart was now rent with agonizing sensations. 
 
 '' With open arms thou must, thou wilt yonder 
 await me !" he exclaimed, sighing, and again hasten- 
 ed forward. When he was stripped, and about to 
 be extended on the fatal wheel, he turned once more 
 towards the crowd, which was immense. 
 
 " Observe the hillock,'* said he, with a pathetic 
 but audible voice, " beneath which my shattered 
 limbs will soon repose. If God is just as he is merci- 
 ful, you will ere long repair to it with eagerness, and 
 moisten it with tears of merited compassion !" 
 
 After these remarkable words, which produced loud 
 sobs among the multitude, the executioners proceeded 
 to perform their oflBce. When his arms were broken 
 he uttered not a groan ; but when the fatal instru- 
 ment thrice descended on his breast without breaking
 
 121 
 
 the bone, his shrieks were heard to a great distance, 
 till at length the blood rushed into his lungs, and at 
 once put a period to his sufferings and his life. 
 
 It is extraordinary, but not the less true, that 
 though before Frederic's execution he was execrated 
 as an atrocious murderer by all the inhabitants of 
 the town, who regarded the sentence pronounced 
 upon him as the just desert of his ingratitude, yet, 
 upon their return from the place of execution, thejr 
 boldly maintained that he had suifered innocently, 
 and was worthy of their prayers and regard. 
 Whence this general, this firm conviction originated, 
 and by what grounds it was supported, it is not in my 
 power to relate; the sequel, however, will shew 
 whether Frederic merited their good opinion. 
 
 Maria's tears now ceased to flow ; a signal punish- 
 ment had been inflicted on the murderer of her bene- 
 volent aunt, whose whole property had been put 
 into her possession, and it depended only on herself 
 to appoint the day for her union with her lover. 
 
 These considerations aff'orded abundant consola- 
 tion, and would have made her completely happy, 
 had not delicacy deferred the period of her marriage. 
 
 In this town it was usual to mourn a whole year 
 for parents, or those who were regarded as such ; she 
 resolved to comply with this custom, that she might 
 afi'ord no opportunity for scandal, or encourage the 
 suspicion that she likewise had awaited with im- 
 patience the death of her aunt. She, therefore, 
 continued to wear mourning, avoided all public as-
 
 122 
 
 semblies, never stirred from home, was soon after* 
 wards taken ill, and frequently confined to her bed, 
 because it grieved her to the heart to observe the 
 universal sympathy excited in favour of the murderer 
 of her aunt, while the memory of the latter no 
 longer received the tribute of a tear. During this 
 time her lover was her only companion and com. 
 forter; even her relations were frequently denied ad. 
 mittance, under the pretext that she was too ill to 
 receive them. 
 
 Some of the towns-people applauded the sincerity 
 of her sorrow, but others, knd indeed the majority, 
 regarded it as hypocrisy, and acknowledged it to be 
 their opinion, that she chose to be alone for the pur- 
 pose of passing away the tedious year of mourning 
 unmolested in the embraces of her lover. Many 
 Mere uncharitable enough to say, and even to tell her 
 friends, that, notwithstanding all the proofs, it was 
 still doubtful who had prepared the poisonous 
 draught, and whether it was not intended to get rid 
 at once of a troublesome guardian, and a man for 
 various reasons still more odious. 
 
 Maria had been confined to her bed for six weeks, 
 when this report, together with another of a different 
 nature, was generally whispered about the town. To 
 contradict the latter, Maria had quitted her bed, and 
 one fine evening in the spring was preparing to take a 
 walk in the town, in company with her lover, when 
 a police ofl&cer entered, and informed her that, in 
 passing, he had heard a young infant crying lament-
 
 123 
 
 ably in the back-yard belonging to her house, and he 
 therefore wished to institute a search. 
 
 '' The cry," he added, '' sounded peculiarly dis* 
 tressing, just as though some person were murder- 
 ing the child." 
 
 Maria lighted a candle, and as the maid.ser?ants 
 were employed abroad, she threw her cloak oyer her, 
 and walked before the officer with a lantern into the 
 yard, where it was now quite dark. He searched 
 through the whole back-building, but found nothing, 
 and went away declaring that he had never been so 
 completely deceived in all his life. Maria soon after- 
 wards went out a walking, wrapped in a large cloak, 
 a necessary precaution in the infirm state of her 
 health, conversed with several of her female ac- 
 quaintance, gave them an account of her illness, and 
 returned home much fatigued. She retired to bed 
 still more indisposed than before, dismissed the maid- 
 servants earlier than usual, and would not suffer one 
 of them, who offered her services, to attend her 
 during the night. 
 
 The following morning the same servant appeared 
 before the officers of justice, saying that she had 
 every reason to think her mistress had been delivered*^ 
 of a child during the night, but as it was no where to 
 be found, she considered it her duty to demand an 
 investigation of the aff^air. The magistrates immedi- 
 ately dispatched proper persons, accompanied by a 
 physician and midwife, to Maria's house. The two 
 latter soon reported that no doubt could be entertain-
 
 124 
 
 ed of the birth of a child, which however was not to 
 be found. Maria, trembling in her bed, which she was 
 too weak to leave, was examined, and immediately 
 made a full confession of her guilt. 
 
 The murdered child, on whose neck the traces of 
 violence were plainly discernible, was found in the 
 place described by Maria, by the same ofl&cer who 
 had heard the cries the preceding evening. The pre- 
 sentiment of this circumstance, which is confirmed by 
 the confession of Maria, and likewise by the proceed- 
 ings on her trial, is very extraordinary, and appears to 
 have been an explicit warning, by which however she 
 neglected to profit. 
 
 The detection of her crime, and her situation, 
 had exhausted Maria's strength to such a degree that 
 she had scarcely concluded her confession when she 
 again swooned away, and the physician had consider- 
 able trouble to bring her to herself. For two days 
 her life Avas doubtful, and she was in a constant 
 delirium ; at length her youth and a strong consti- 
 tution prevailed. She regained her strength very 
 fast, though her recovery was a circumstance that 
 caused her heart-felt sorrow, and on the ninth day 
 the physician informed those who guarded her that she 
 might be removed to the prison without danger. 
 Upon receiving this information, she begged very 
 earnestly that her lover might be sent for, that she 
 might once more see and take leave of him. He 
 refused to comply, returning for answer, that he had 
 loved Maria only as the future mother of his child.
 
 125 
 
 that he hated her as its murderer with all his heart, 
 and had no wish to behold her again. By this severe 
 answer he probably wished to prove to the officers, 
 what really was the case, that he had taken no share 
 in the murder, and had assisted to conceal her preg- 
 nancy only out of tenderness to her reputation. 
 
 Maria disregarded, or probably was not aware of 
 this intention ; his answer gave her the severest mor- 
 tification. She had hitherto borne the horrors of her 
 situation with fortitude and patience ; now she was 
 forsaken by both : she wept, she raved, she uttered 
 the most dreadful imprecations. '' For his sake," she 
 repeatedly exclaimed, " I have willingly sacrificed 
 heaven and my hopes of salvation, and in return he 
 denies me a last farewel embrace ! I am resolved to 
 revenge it severely : every female shall detest and shun 
 him as he shuns me : he shall sufier with me, and help 
 to bear what for his sake I determined to endure 
 alone." Uttering these menaces, she was conducted 
 by the guard to the prison, and being again ex- 
 amined, after a few days, ^she made the following 
 new and totally unexpected confession. 
 
 '' The wretched Frederic," said she, with tears, 
 *' was innocent of the crime for which he suffered. 
 I am the nnirderer both of him and my aunt. I expect 
 no mercy here, and I cannot look for pardon in 
 eternity, unless I make a frank confession of every 
 thing, and convince the world that he died innocent. 
 When, in such an extraordinary manner, he became 
 the husband of my aunt, and after her death was des-
 
 126 
 
 tined to be mine, I loved the young baker with a 
 secret, but tender and powerful passion ; I TOwed to 
 give my hand to none but him, and to employ every 
 effort to avoid the detested union with Frederic. 
 His father, who had before been privy to, and ap- 
 proved our attachment, now endeavoured to part us. 
 This increased our sorrows, but likewise augmented my 
 affection ; we found an opportunity of procuring 
 nocturnal interviews, and to rivet his affections still 
 more, I at length granted him all that a female has it 
 in her power to bestow. The certainty that I was 
 pregnant soon oppressed my heart : I was convinced 
 that if my aunt discovered my situation, she would 
 turn me out of her house, and that the father of my 
 lover would employ all his influence to prevent the 
 only possible means of preserving my honour, a 
 speedy marriage. This idea, this conviction, often 
 reduced me to despair, and on these occasions I fre- 
 quently wished that I could murder my aunt and her 
 husband, by which alone I could relieve myself from 
 my unfortunate situation. This wish, however, was 
 not yet matured into a design ; it was but the effect 
 of despair, from which, when I awoke from its illu- 
 sions, I shrunk with horror. In this state of mind I 
 went down into the cellar, and observed the ravages 
 which the rats had committed among various articles 
 of provision. It appeared necessary that they should 
 be destroyed, and with this view only I asked Frede- 
 ric's advice on the subject. But when he proposed 
 poison as the only method, and hastened to procure it.
 
 127 
 
 the idea that poison alone could save me instantly 
 occurred to my mind, and in a few moments was too 
 firmly established to be eradicated from my breast. 
 Frederic was not long gone ; he returned in less 
 than half an hour, and yet in this short time the plan 
 of his destruction and my own was projected. The 
 execution of it appeared not only possible, but easy ; 
 the deed inspired me with no horror. I had only my 
 own happiness in view, and in cjamparison with this, 
 the suiferings of others were a trifling consideration. 
 My former anxiety was removed, and indulging in 
 delicious dreams, I forgot every other object, and even 
 my eternal salvation. 
 
 '' When Frederic returned,! stood behind the door 
 that led from the shop into the house, and listened to 
 discover where he would put the poison. My joy 
 was considerably augmented when he laid it in a small 
 cupboard, from which he forgot to take the key ; 
 I went out of the way that he might not deliver it into 
 my care, and soon contrived that my sick aunt should 
 send for him. While he sat by her side I went soft- 
 ly into the shop, the outer door of which was always 
 fastened when no customers were in it, put the poison 
 in my pocket, and hastened with it to my apartment. 
 It was not till I was going to infuse it into the tea 
 which was prepared for the purpose, that I perceived 
 it was sealed ; I therefore determined not to take the 
 whole, to leave a portion in the paper, and replace it 
 in the cupboard, I had previously directed the ser- 
 vants to go to the garden in the afternoon ; I excused
 
 128 
 
 myself on this account to my sick aunt, acd request- 
 ed Frederic to attend her in the mean time. He 
 readily undertook the office, and I accompanied him 
 into the kitchen to shew him the tea, of which the 
 patient was to drink every hour. 
 
 " The pot containing the poison was concealed 
 behind a board; I shewed him another resembling it, 
 from which he poured a cupful before I went into 
 the garden, and g(ive it to his wife without any 
 injury; but before I went out I changed the pots, 
 and hastened away with a beating heart. I had 
 before been gay and cheerful, but when I now imagin. 
 ed that the fatal moment was past, when I saw my 
 aunt expiring before my face, I was seized with un- 
 usual trepidation ; I ran to and fro in the garden 
 without object or design, and shook like an aspen- 
 leaf whenever any thing stirred around me. The 
 servants perceived my disquietude, and asked what 
 ailed me ; I attributed my uneasiness to an involun- 
 tary dejection, which I conceived to be the forerunner 
 of some impending misfortune. 
 
 " It began to grow dark, when, at length, as no 
 messenger appeared, and I knew my design must 
 either have succeeded or failed of the intended effect, 
 uncertainty and anxiety compelled me to return home. 
 "I had not proceeded above half way, when l was met 
 by my lover, who, ignorant of my plan, related the 
 dreadful, but to me highly agreeable event. I had time 
 to collect myself, and to prepare for the dissimula- 
 tion which it was necessary to employ. Its eflfect
 
 129 
 
 was equal to my wishes ; and as Frederic, by his 
 thoughtless flight, had incurred the strongest sus- 
 picion, I had no occasion to use those artifices to 
 strengthen it, which I had intended, in order to 
 render him incapable not only of inheriting the pro- 
 perty, but likewise of an union with me. I am 
 conYinced that not one of my towns-people enter- 
 tained the slightest suspicion of my guilt : my lover, 
 who knew my situation, frequently hinted at it after- 
 wards, and declared that if Frederic had not fled, he 
 should certainly have laid the crime to my charge. 
 He added, that if I had really perpetrated the deed, 
 he would still continue to love me, and regard it as a 
 proof of my unbounded affection for him; upoa 
 this I acknowledged the truth, at which he was not a 
 little astonished, but promised to keep it a profound 
 secret, and loved me as before. 
 
 " On this circumstance," continued the implaca- 
 ble Maria, '' I should have been entirely silent; I 
 should probably not have revealed any of these par- 
 ticulars, but should have declared him perfectly inno- 
 cent, had he not denied me the last farewel. It is 
 cruel of him to pretend now to hate me; I should 
 die with despair to think that he, for whom I sacri- 
 ficed every thing, was in the arms of another. If I 
 am to suffer for my horrid misdeeds both here and in 
 eternity, he shall at least suffer in this world, as 
 justice must inflict punishment on him for being privy 
 to my crime, and not saving Frederic's life when he 
 had it in his power." 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 
 
 The remainder of Maria's confession relates to 
 circumstances with which the reader is already ac- 
 quainted; I shall therefore briefly state whatever else 
 appears worthy of being detailed. 
 
 When Frederic was apprehended, contrary to her 
 expectation, she was often overwhelmed with the 
 greatest anxiety, not on account of the new and 
 lamentable consequences of her crime, but fearful of 
 the possibility of detection. When the innocent 
 victim was doomed to torture, she felt great compas. 
 sion for his fate, but no impulse to save him by con- 
 fessing the truth; but when, from dread of insup- 
 portable torments and disgust of a miserable life, he 
 acknowledged himself guilty, her joy exceeded her 
 former anxiety. She declared, and had probably 
 persuaded herself, that it was she who procured him 
 eternal repose, and everlasting felicity. 
 
 '* Through my means he obtained the joys of 
 heaven, and to me he is indebted for them I" Such 
 was her reply to the judges when they expressed their 
 surprise at the extraordinary degree of obduracy and 
 delusion manifested in her confession. She had 
 founded a yearly mass for the salvation of her de- 
 ceased aunt, but she had not directed a single Pater. 
 noster to be repeated for poor Frederic, because, 
 according to her own expression, his unmerited suffer, 
 ings had ensured him everlasting happiness. 
 
 Such was the argument with which she silenced all 
 the reproaches of conscience, and felt no internal 
 pangs or remorse at the enormity of her multiplied
 
 131 
 
 ofifeoces. After Frederic had actually suffered, she 
 was convinced that she needed no longer be ap- 
 prehensive of detection : she indulged in all the 
 pleasures of life : all her uneasiness was occasioned 
 not by the remembrance of her crime, but by her 
 situation, to conceal which all her efforts were direct, 
 ed. Even in prison she did not repent her guilty 
 deeds, but regretted the inactivity which had detain- 
 ed her so long in her native town. 
 
 " Had I left it before," said she repeatedly, ^' I 
 should not have been obliged to murder ray child ; I 
 might have returned with an unspotted reputation ; I 
 might long have enjoyed the comforts of life in the 
 arms of my lover, and at length have reconciled my- 
 self with God, who is infinitely merciful, and willingly 
 pardons the penitent." 
 
 This confession affords matter for many and im- 
 portant reflections. I will not anticipate the sen- 
 sations of my readers, but only call their attention to 
 them. According to the testimony of all who knew 
 her, Maria was a virtuous and pious young woman, 
 charitable to the poor, loved her neighbour as her- 
 self, but when love of a single object took possession 
 of her heart, then 
 
 Be not angry, ye honest youths, ye virtuous 
 maidens, if I paint the sweetest, the most delicious, 
 the most powerful passion of the human mind, as a 
 base poisoner, a ruthless assassin ; for it is proved 
 that it was love which led Maria to commit the two^ 
 fold murder. Follow the advice of a friend, listen to
 
 132 
 
 the warnings of a silent observer ; never suffer your- 
 selves to be blindly led away by passion; beware of 
 forming clandestine attachments, lest you should 
 want a cloak to cover your shame, and be obliged to 
 remove by criminal actions those objects that oppose 
 your wishes. The advice is prudent, but to follow it 
 is difficult. Only striking examples can promote this 
 end, and therefore I relate this horrible narrative. 
 Happy will it be for you if its consequences deter 
 you from a path upon which you were entering, 
 and which might have led you into a similar abyss. 
 
 Maria's sentence was dreadful and severe, but such 
 as her crimes deserved. — Her breasts were to be torn 
 off with red-hot pincers, her right hand severed on a 
 block, and she was then to be dispatched by the 
 sword of the executioner. Her repentance did not 
 appear sincere, but seemed to be only the effect of 
 fear of eternal punishment ; for though she prayed 
 devoutly with the ecclesiastics, by whom she was at- 
 tended, when they left her she forgot her pious 
 exercises, and only endeavoured to learn the fate of 
 her lover. 
 
 *' If there is any justice upon earth," said she 
 frequently, " he must die with me;" and when her 
 sentence was announced, she hastily asked whether 
 her lover was to suffer in a similar manner. Being 
 informed that he was only sentenced to imprisonment 
 for an indefinite time, she tore her hair in a fit of rage 
 and despair, exclaiming with vehemence: — " It must 
 be for life! I must be sure that he will never be
 
 133 
 
 married to another, or I shall die without repentance 
 or contrition." 
 
 She actually resisted the pressing exhortations of 
 the priest during two whole days, sang jovial songs 
 to the astonishment and scandal of those who visited 
 her, and laughed wildly when reminded of her ap- 
 proaching end. It was not till the last night of her 
 life that the efforts of three ecclesiastics were capable 
 of softening her heart, or rather, of moderating her 
 despair. She appeared in prayer in the midst of the 
 multitude that accompanied her to the place of exe- 
 cution. When she arrived before the house in which 
 her crimes were committed, and where, conformably 
 to her sentence, her right breast was to be torn oflf 
 with red-hot pincers, her courage forsook her. 
 
 *' Is no mercy to be expected? O ! beg, pray for 
 mercy I" she repeatedly exclaimed to the multitude; 
 and when the glowing iron penetrated her breast, she 
 cried aloud — "God is just! — I have deserred it I — 
 God is just!" 
 
 The remainder of her punishment she endured in 
 silence and insensibility; from this state she was 
 roused only at intervals by new pains, to which at 
 length death put a period. A profound silence pre- 
 vailed, during the whole time, among the multitude of 
 spectators ; all cast their eyes in deep dejection upon 
 the ground ; many had turned from the place of exe- 
 cution, and stood round the wheel, on which lay the 
 mangled body of the guiltless Frederic. When 
 Maria acknowledged his innocence, the youths and
 
 134 
 
 maidens of the town decked it with garlands of 
 flowers ; they now consecrated to his memory those 
 tears which Maria's snfferings had reluctantly extort- 
 ed from their tender hearts. 
 
 Maria's head was raised upon a pole, her disheTclled 
 hair floated wildly in the wind, her open eye was 
 fixed on Frederic's body, when the magistrates ap- 
 proached. A coffin was borne in their midst, and set 
 down beside the wheel ; not the executioner, but the 
 members of the council removed the supports, and 
 hundreds of the most respectable citizens hastened to 
 hold it, when it sank, together with the body of the 
 innocent yictim. A cadaverous smell proceeded from 
 it; his look was ghastly and frightful. 
 
 They collected his remains with care, regardless of 
 the worms that were preying upon them. When the 
 coffin was closed, the whole multitude thronged 
 around with the intention of carrying it ; but the 
 point was referred to the decision of the council. It 
 was agreed that the masters and wardens of the dif- 
 ferent companies should carry it alternately to the 
 gates, and that it should be borne by the members of 
 the council through the city to the church. The 
 children and youth of both sexes went first; next to 
 them came the coffin, which was followed by the 
 priests and the rest of the crowd. The whole as- 
 sembly at first joined in singing and prayer, but 
 when upon approaching the town, the dismal tolling 
 of the bells was heard, and they were met by mothers 
 with infants at the breast, and the aged on crutches,
 
 135 
 
 loud sobs interrupted their deyotions. The sun dart- 
 ing through a thick fog, which had before enveloped 
 the valley, shone with mild radiance upon the coffin : 
 all observed his cheering rays, all felt his genial influ- 
 ence, and this circumstance only contributed to in- 
 crease their emotion. The coffin was solemnly depo- 
 sited in a vault near the high altar of the parish 
 church. All again thronged round it, to behold once 
 more the sacred body, for as such it was now vene- 
 rated, to procure a fragment of the decayed clothes, 
 in order to preserve it as a valuable relic. 
 
 Pious pilgrims crowded from far and near to the 
 martyr's grave, and bestrewed it daily with fresh 
 flowers, when the council of the town received a letter 
 from the court that condemned Frederic to five years 
 imprisonment, the contents of which greatly aug. 
 mented the veneration that was paid to his memory. 
 They wrote as follows : 
 
 '' You lately desired information concerning a 
 murder committed some years since in our jurisdic- 
 tion. We could only forward you the statement of 
 the case contained in the records, observing that con- 
 siderable suspicion must attach to Frederic, the 
 knife-grinder, who was accused of that murder. Yes- 
 terday, however, it was discovered that it was not he 
 who perpetrated the fact, but a game-keeper, and the 
 very man who seized his wheel and wounded his dog. 
 He was detected in the commission of a similar act, 
 and has acknowledged that he killed the traveller in 
 the wood, plundered him of all his property, and
 
 136 
 
 found in his possession upwards of five hundred 
 ducats in cash. He ] was highly pleased that a 
 stranger was accused of the crime, and employed his 
 utmost efforts to strengthen the suspicion that he had 
 incurred. We transmit this information in haste, 
 that if his late offence should fall under your cogni- 
 zance, you may not pass a more severe sentence 
 upon him on account of the former, but cautiously 
 investigate every circumstance, to prevent the possi. 
 bility of a new injustice." 
 
 From the letters afterwards found in the possession 
 of the game-keeper, it appeared highly probable that 
 the traveller was the person who killed the merchant 
 found near Niirnbergj that he was proceeding to 
 receive the bills drawn on Prague, and on his way 
 thither had been rewarded, or rather punished, with 
 the same measure which he had so recently dispensed. 
 
 Why does the retributive justice of the Almighty 
 appear in this instance so obvious and so speedy ? 
 Why was it not the same in Frederic's case? Why 
 •was lie, though innocent, tortured, flogged, punished 
 with a tedious and severe imprisonment, and at 
 length doomed to a painful and ignominious death ? 
 Why did the hand of Providence so evidently delay 
 the discovery of his innocence ? Why did this disco- 
 very always follow when too late? Such are the 
 
 questions that will doubtless occur to every reader, 
 and I can only reply — The ways of Divine Provi- 
 dence are inscrutable : none can fathom them ; none 
 can penetrate into futurity where the highest appa-
 
 137 
 
 rent injustice may be, must be converted into the 
 greatest justice, for God was and ever will be just. 
 
 I have frequently perused this remarkable narra- 
 tive with the greatest attention, and have drawn from 
 it a conclusion highly cheering and consolotary to all 
 those who suflfer innocently, and likewise to myself — 
 there must be an hereafter, there must be an eternal 
 reward far surpassing all earthly sufferings ; how 
 else could those of the injured Frederic be compen- 
 sated ? And compensated, gloriously, eternally com- 
 pensated, they assuredly will be, for the Almighty 
 was and ever will be a God of Justice. 
 
 THE CONSPIRACY, 
 
 About the middle of the seventeenth century, 
 during the reign of Frederic III. King of Denmark, 
 Dina Schumacher, a young widow of Copenhagen, 
 attracted the notice of the male part of the fashiona- 
 ble world, not more by her charms than by the man- 
 ner in which she employed them. She was the very 
 counterpart of her celebrated contemporary, Ninon 
 de I'Enclos. Her house was frequented by persons 
 of the highest distinction. It was not merely giddy 
 youths that she saw at her feet, but also veterans 
 whose heads were silvered with age. She set a high
 
 138 
 
 price upon her favours, but never sold them exclu- 
 sively to one man, though numberless proposals were 
 made her to that effect. The great and the opulent 
 were obliged to pay dearly for the pleasures of her 
 society ; but she had commonly a favourite to whom 
 she unconditionally gave her affection, and for whom 
 she was ready to hazard and sacrifice every thing. To 
 the former belonged Count Ulfeld, lord-chamberlain 
 to the king, a man distinguished for his rank, and 
 still more for his ambition, and the bad understanding 
 in which he lived with his sovereign. The place of 
 the latter was at this time occupied by a Colonel 
 Walter, a man who was universally respected as a 
 soldier and a courtier, and who, according to general 
 report, had expectations of rising to considerable 
 eminence through the favour of the king. 
 
 When Dina was once compensating herself in the 
 most agreeable manner in his arms for the humiliations 
 to which she was exposed by her profession, she related 
 to him among other things an extraordinary adventure 
 which she had that morning met with at Count 
 Ulfeld' s, and which was in substance as follows : — 
 
 Dina had the preceding night listened to the golden 
 wishes of the count. By the aid of a back-door, and 
 a private staircase, she had reached his bed-chamber 
 unnoticed, and passed the night with him. Towards 
 morning, while they were still enjoying the repose 
 which they needed, his wife, the Countess Eleonora, 
 entered the bed-chamber so unexpectedly, that Ulfeld 
 had scarcely time to conceal his companion with the
 
 139 
 
 bed-clothes from the penetrating eyes of that lady. 
 The countess, after wishing her husband good morn- 
 ing, sat down on the side of his bed. " Here, count," 
 said she, ^' is what we were talking about yesterday 
 evening." The count seemed embarrassed; he was, 
 however, obliged to reply. " Is there not too much, 
 my dear ?" said he. " If it should be too strong, he 
 might swell, and perhaps even burst." 
 
 '' No, that has been guarded against," answered 
 the countess : " he will go off gently and quietly in 
 a profound sleep. The only thing I am at a loss 
 about is how it will be given him. The king never 
 drinks but out of his own cup, and the worst of it is 
 he never gets intoxicated." 
 
 Ulfeld now began to speak French, and as Dioa 
 was unacquainted with that language, she lost the re. 
 mainder of the conversation, except that she several 
 times heard the name of Dr. Sperling mentioned. 
 
 The dialogue was continued for a considerable time 
 with some vivacity, and on the part of the count in a 
 tone of persnasion, while Dina was obliged to lie, to 
 her no small inconvenience, beneath the bed-clothes, 
 without stirring ; and the chamberlain carelessly laid 
 his left arm upon her, that Eleonora might have the 
 less ground for suspicion. At length, after placing 
 something upon the table, the countess withdrew. 
 
 Ulfeld now endeavoured in every possible manner 
 to represent this conversation to Dina as wholly un- 
 important, and to persuade her that it related to a 
 joke, which was intended to be played upon a Dr.
 
 140 
 
 Sperling, the count^s family physician. AH that he 
 said on the subject, however, was so incoherent, and 
 so vague, as to excite still more the attention of the 
 sagacious Dina. He moreover extorted from her a 
 solemn promise not to say a word to any body con- 
 cerning this conversation. They now arose, and 
 Dina soon saw upon the table a bottle with a screw 
 stopper, and a written label attached to it. Ulfeld 
 carefully locked it up in his bureau, and they parted. 
 
 Walter listened to this narrative with the greatest 
 attention. He had long wished for an opportunity 
 of gaining the favour of the king, and now a most 
 favourable one seemed to present itself. The bad 
 terms on which the countess in particular lived with 
 the queen were a subject of public notoriety. It was 
 even the general opinion that on the death of the late, 
 king, Ulfeld, instigated by his wife, the daughter of 
 that monarch, had aspired to the crown. Besides,, 
 the retired manner in which the lord. chamber, 
 lain lived with his wife, at a distance from the court, 
 was of itself sufficient to awaken suspicion in the 
 minds of those who were acquainted with their cha. 
 racter. 
 
 All these circumstances produced in Walter's mind 
 a firm conviction that some design against the king's 
 life was in agitation. He communicated to Dina the 
 ideas which her account had excited, and painted in 
 glowing colours the benefits which he should derive 
 from the disclosure of this conspiracy. He then eo. 
 treated permission to acquaint the king with the
 
 141 
 
 whole affair, and conjured her by her love for him to 
 repeat her narrative, if required, in the presence of 
 his majesty. 
 
 Dina was at first somewhat embarrassed at this 
 proposal ; but every other consideration vanished be- 
 fore the idea of crowning the wishes and happiness of 
 her lover. She resolutely replied that she was ready- 
 to render him services still more important, but begged 
 him to allow her time to make farther discoveries 
 respecting the affair, as the disclosure of it then 
 would be of no benefit. Having agreed upon their 
 future proceedings, they parted. 
 
 IHna was now more complaisant than ever to the 
 count, and not only succeeded in inspiring him with a 
 real passion, but even in gaining his confidence. 
 She became pregnant, and persuaded Ulfcld that he 
 was the cause of her situation. By a paper in his 
 own hand. writing he settled on her an annuity for 
 herself and her child ; but this document was deposit- 
 ed with an ecclesiastic, the confessor of the count. 
 The infant dying soon after its birth, Ulfeld made her 
 a proposal, attended with very advantageous terms, 
 to marry his master of the horse, in order to attach 
 her for ever to himself. Dina, though she had no 
 intention to comply with the count's wish, did not 
 however reject this offer. She availed herself of the 
 favourable disposition of the count, and drew from 
 him the secret, that the bottle described above had 
 contained poison, that this poison was actually de- 
 signed for the king, and was prepared by Dr. Sperling 
 expressly for the purpose.
 
 142 
 
 Walter had meanwhile waited with impatience, and 
 often urged her to lose no time in the aflfair. His in- 
 considerate zeal led him to believe that he had suffi- 
 cient evidence to prosecute the business with success. 
 Dina too now gave him perfect liberty to make what 
 use he pleased of her story, again protesting that she 
 was ready, even at the peril of her life, to support his 
 information with her testimony. The colonel imme- 
 diately hastened away to the king. 
 
 His majesty listened attentively to his account, and 
 ordered him to bring Dina as privately as possible 
 to the palace. He also summoned the lord-chancellor, 
 and some of the other members of the privy-council, 
 to meet him at the same time. Dina appeared, and 
 repeated before this august assembly what she had re- 
 lated to Walter. She hesitated not to describe the 
 nature of her connection with the lord-chamberlain, 
 in confirmation of her report. She likewise mention- 
 ed various particulars respecting the internal concerns 
 of Ulfeld's house, which proved how intimate her ac- 
 quaintance with them must have been. 
 
 Notwithstanding all this the lord-chancellor put 
 the question to her, whether her narrative was true. 
 Dina assured him, that she was ready to take the sa- 
 crament upon it, that in every word of it she had 
 strictly adhered to the truth. " That is very well," 
 replied the chancellor, " but in an affair of this kind 
 it is evidence that is wanted. You are alone ; have 
 you reflected what may be the consequences to your- 
 self if you have no proofs to produce ?" 
 
 Neither Dina nor Walter had given this a thought.
 
 143 
 
 Uoembarrassed, howeyer, by this unexpected qucs. 
 tion, she boldly rejoined : " I am alone it is true, and 
 have no other proofs than my declaration ; but if I 
 am allowed farther time, I hope to be able to produce 
 the poison itself, and the hand-writing of Dr. Sperling, 
 prescribing the proper mode of proceeding. The 
 shortest way, howeyer, would be, for your majesty 
 to send somebody with me to the lord-chancellor's : 
 I will suflfer death on the spot if the poison is not 
 found in the place which I shall point out." 
 
 This proposal, notwithstanding the boldness and 
 confidence with which it was made, the lord-chancel- 
 lor deemed it unadvisable to comply with. He^ob- 
 jected that even the finding of the poison would not 
 be a sufficient confirmation of the truth of the account ; 
 and that by the alarm which it would create, the dis. 
 coyery of the conspiracy would rather be impeded 
 than promoted. It was therefore determined to wait 
 till time should throw more light on the aflfair, to use 
 increased caution, and adopt proper measures for 
 warding off any impending danger. 
 
 Dina meanwhile assiduously prosecuted her efforts, 
 to obtain more circumstantial and convincing evidence. 
 This, however, was not so easy as she had imagined. 
 The lord-chamberlain, though impassioned, and some- 
 times weak towards her, was nevertheless by far not 
 so indiscreet as she hoped to find him. Dina's curi- 
 osity began to be, if not suspicious, at least troublesome 
 to him. He sought by degrees to remove her to a 
 greater distance, and to place her in her former situ- 
 ation in respect to himself.
 
 144 
 
 Walter, on the other hand, daily became more 
 importunate that she should perform her promise. 
 This undertaking had by no means produced the re- 
 sult which he had confidently expected. The king 
 seemed to be disposed to wait the issue of the affair 
 before he manifested his gratitude for Walter's zeal, by 
 a more solid remuneration than a few gracious words, 
 and a pressure of the hand. Dina was therefore dai- 
 ly assailed with the colonePs complaints, that his in- 
 formation must appear in the most equivocal light 
 unless he could adduce positive proofs of its veracity, 
 and to these complaints he not unfrequently added 
 unkind reproaches on account of her supineness, 
 
 Dina was conscious of having done and hazarded 
 every thing that can possibly be expected of the 
 most magnanimous affection. She was conscious 
 that she had exerted herself with indefatigable industry, 
 and amidst a variety of disagreeable circumstances, to 
 forward the wishes of the colonel, and now received 
 reproaches instead of thanks, and censure instead of 
 encouragement. She possessed a sufficient sense of 
 honour to feel the meanness of his behaviour. Their 
 mutual dissatisfaction produced a mutual coldness, 
 and the colonel, being by degrees convinced that it 
 was not in Dina's power to comply with his desire, 
 treated her with contempt, and at length wholly de- 
 serted her. He represented to the king that zeal for 
 his welfare had induced him to attend to the story of 
 a suspicious person, which he now too clearly per- 
 ceived to be nothing but an idle talc. 
 
 Dina was incensed in the highest degree by th«
 
 145 
 
 behaviour of the colonel. She vowed Tcngcance 
 against him. The way which she took to accoinplish 
 this end proves that she was not less bold and incon- 
 siderate in pursuing her revenge than in evincing her 
 affection. 
 
 Glowing with rage, she repaired to the lord-cham- 
 berlain, to whom she discovered Walter's whole in- 
 trigue, without concealing the part Mhich she had 
 herself taken in it ; but at the same time with the 
 warmest assurances that she was now just as rea- 
 dy to assist him in any measures he might adopt to. 
 be revenged on the colonel. 
 
 The lord-chamberlain could not at first refrain 
 from reproaches ; but perceiTing how useful so en- 
 terprising a woman might be to his cause, he recon- 
 ciled himself with her in the tenderest manner, and 
 gave her instructions for the part which she was to 
 act in the tragedy which was now commencing. 
 Agreeably to his direction she went the following 
 day to the Countess Eleonora, who was still an utter 
 stranger to Dina's connection with her husband. 
 Having obtained her promise not to mention her 
 name, she informed her that the count's life was in 
 danger, and that the most zealous accomplice, if not 
 the original instigator of the plot, was Colonel 
 Walter. At the same time she contrived that this 
 report should be propagated in different quarters. In 
 a few days the rumour of the plot against the lord- 
 chamberlain had spread, with emendations- and addi- 
 tions, over the whole city. 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 
 
 The countess immediately communicated this dis- 
 covery to her husband. She most urgently conjured 
 him to consult his safety, and to appeal to the pro- 
 tection of the laws. The lord-chamberlain aifected 
 the greatest terror ; he never went abroad, but armed 
 all his domestics and vassals, and made them every 
 day keep guard in his house. He likewise wrote to 
 the lord-chancellor, requesting him to inform the 
 king of the danger with which he was menaced, and 
 in his name humbly to implore that his majesty 
 would not refuse him his protection. He added, that 
 notwithstanding his inquiries, he could not with 
 certainty accuse any person of the plot to destroy 
 himself, his wife, and his children ; but he was in 
 hopes, that if his majesty would take up the matter, 
 and direct careful inquiries to be made, he would 
 easily discover its authors and abettors. 
 
 On this application the king immediately sent two 
 of his counsellors to the lord-chamberlain to assure 
 him of his majesty's protection, and of his readiness 
 to contribute all that lay in his power to the elucida- 
 tion of the ajQfair : to Avhich end the king requested to 
 be informed of all the particulars that had come to 
 the lord-chamberlain's knowledge. 
 
 Ulfeld now enlarged upon the dangers that threat- 
 ened him, the information that he had received on 
 the subject, the possibilities, the probabilities, and 
 the certainties, by which it was supported, and the 
 impressive warnings and authentic accounts that had 
 reached him. He concluded, howeverj with declaring
 
 147 
 
 that he could not venture positively to accuse any 
 one, though he had eyery reason to depend on the 
 accuracy of his intelligence; he should therefore 
 only request his majesty to cause Colonel Walter to 
 be examined, as he was sure that the colonel was 
 thoroughly acquainted with the affair. 
 
 Previously to their departure the two counsellors 
 offered in the name of the king, to place in his house 
 a guard sufficiently strong to defend him from every 
 attack till the matter should be thoroughly investi- 
 gated. Ulfeld, however, avoided this snare. He 
 assured them that this expedient would be of little 
 avail, as means had already been found to introduce 
 enemies among his own domestics. He then related 
 a long and terrific story, with many detailed circum- 
 stances, and declared his belief that a word from 
 his majesty would afford him more effectual protec- 
 tion than a whole army of soldiers. 
 
 It not unfrequently happens, as it did in this case, 
 that the mutual plans of enemies cross Avithout en- 
 countering each other. The king was not displeased 
 that this circumstance afforded him an opportunity 
 of more closely observing Count Ulfeld, under the 
 pretext of protection ; and the offer of placing a 
 guard in his house was made with no other view than 
 to keep him in a kind of imprisonment. Ulfeld, oq 
 the other hand, had made all this parade about his 
 danger, for the purpose of diverting the attention of 
 the king and the public from his secret projects. 
 The original design of dispatching the king with
 
 148 
 
 poison he was indeed obliged to abandon. Some time 
 afterwards, howeyer, some suspicious persons had been 
 perceived about midnight in the gallery conducting 
 to the king's bed-chamber, from which they were 
 driven by the barking of an English mastiflF. Their 
 object was not difficult to be divined, for next 
 morning the key of his majesty's chamber, which had 
 been missing for several days, was found in the 
 door. 
 
 The investigation, which had hitherto been conduct, 
 ed without any extraordinary success, was rendered 
 still more complicated by this accident. Ulfeld had 
 complained of assassins, and attempts were making 
 against the life of the sovereign. Ulfeld had men- 
 tioned Walter, because he knew that the latter would 
 not be able to prove any thing, and by placing him 
 so clearly in the light of a slanderer, he hoped to 
 skreen himself from all suspicion. On occasion 
 of this new danger, the king recollected the former 
 report of Walter, and the circumstance gave increased 
 strength to his pre-conceived suspicions. Hopes 
 Avere entertained that the one might serve to dispel 
 the mjstery which inTolved the other, but where was 
 the beginning to be made ? 
 
 Meanwhile, on the statement of Ulfeld, Walter un- 
 derwent an examination — a procedure by which he 
 was in the highest degree exasperated. He insisted 
 that Ulfeld should be compelled to mention the 
 person by whom he had been denounced, or give 
 him the most complete satisfaction. Ulfeld .refused
 
 149 
 
 for some time to comply, alleging that he was 
 bound by his word of honour. Walter, however, 
 was not satisfied with this excuse ; he availed himself 
 -of this opportunity to render the conduct of the lord- 
 chamberlaia still more suspicious to the king, and 
 thus obtained the support of his majesty. Ulfeld 
 was explicitly required by the lord-chancellor, in 
 behalf of the king, to name the person who had given 
 him the information respecting Colonel Walter. 
 
 It is said to be the maxim of the great in cases of 
 this description, to relieve themselves from embarrass- 
 ment by the sacrifice of the little. Such at least was 
 the conduct of Ulfeld in regard to tbe unfortunate 
 Dina. He gave her up as his informant, referred to 
 her for a farther explanation, and from this moment 
 not only abandoned the unhappy woman to her fate, 
 but accelerated her ruin, that by so doing he might 
 justify himself. 
 
 Dina had long perceived that she was overreached 
 by the lord-chamberlain, and was prepared for this 
 event. Her bold and resolute spirit taught her to 
 shame those with her contempt by whom she was so 
 pusillanimously sacrificed. She was apprehended and 
 confined in the palace. She appeared extremely 
 weak, and on a close examination it was found that 
 she had swallowed poison. Recourse was immedi- 
 ately had to the necessary expedients to counteract 
 its effects, but it was long doubtful whether her life 
 could be preserved. Her deposition was therefore 
 taken without loss of time>
 
 150 
 
 Dina had now no motWe whatever for concealing 
 or disguising the truth. Ungratefully deserted by- 
 Walter, and basely sacrificed by Ulfeld, she now 
 stood as she conceived on the brink of the grave. 
 Without malignity, but likewise without reserve, 
 with equanimity and composure, she repeated her 
 former statement, which she accompanied with a 
 circumstantial account of her new connection with 
 Ulfeld, and the motive in regard to Walter, by 
 which she was instigated to such a measure. 
 
 The king directed the lord-chamberlain to be 
 made acquainted with Dina's testimony, adding the 
 assurance that he, on his part, was ready to afford 
 him every possible aid in his justification. At this Ul- 
 feld manifested great astonishment, and demanded an 
 interview with Dina herself. The king readily 
 complied, but at the same time gave him to under- 
 stand that he was expected not to leave the city 
 without his majesty's permission, till the investigation 
 "was concluded. This command the count deemed 
 injurious to his honour, and he loudly but in vain 
 complained of this hardship. Dina's account tended 
 to exculpate Colonel Walter, but he was likewise 
 forbidden to go out of the city, and denied access to 
 the court till he should have completely justified 
 himself against the accusation of the lord-chamber- 
 lain. 
 
 The process now commenced with all the legal 
 formalities. Dina's improved health permitted her 
 to repeat her charges against Ulfeld, and confirm
 
 151 
 
 them upon oath before the tribunals. This, howe?er, 
 was all the eyidence that she could produce. As to 
 witnesses, she had none. The ecclesiastic to ^vhose 
 care was confided the paper, by which the count en- 
 gaged to allow her an annuity for herself and her child, 
 and which would at least have proved her intimacy 
 with Ulfeld, denied all knowledge of such a docu- 
 ment. To contradict her statement, the lord-cham- 
 berlain, on the other hand, brought forward a great 
 number of witnesses, among whom were people of 
 rank and consequence, and even some ecclesiastics. 
 
 Though the testimony of the witnesses was on 
 many points contradictory, though the suspicious 
 nature of much of the evidence might be perceived 
 from the manner in which it was given, still people 
 who were acquainted with the world pretended to 
 anticipate the issue of the affair, and Dina was ad- 
 vised by one or another to save herself by retracting 
 her statement before it was too late. The courage of 
 this extraordinary woman seemed however to increase 
 with her danger. She firmly maintained the truth of 
 her statement, which she defended with equal energy 
 and ability. 
 
 The inferior tribunal, which had hitherto taken 
 cognizance of the proceedings, being incapable of 
 bringing the matter to an issue, it was referred to the 
 decision of the supreme court of the kingdom. This 
 was composed of twenty-four counsellors, and the 
 king himself presided. 
 
 On this occasion the lord-chamberlain appeared in
 
 152 
 
 person, with his wife, his children, and a very nume- 
 rous and brilliant retinue of friends, vassals, and 
 armed servants. He took his scat with such dignity 
 and confidence as commanded the respect of the other 
 judges, and made thera forget that he was the person 
 accused. The business was opened by the lord- 
 chancellor. Dina was introduced, and summoned to 
 repeat her statement in the presence of the lord- 
 chamberlain, and to produce her proofs. 
 
 Dina's mind, never daunted by danger, was enfee- 
 ibled by long continued anxiety. While she had only 
 a hazardous enterprize before her, she had manifested 
 invariable serenity : tedious sufferings on the contrary 
 tended to paralyse the energies of her soul. The in- 
 conveniences and hardships of confinement had more- 
 over impaired her health, and rendered her more 
 keenly sensible of her forlorn situation. This being 
 the case, it is not surprising that the pomp and im- 
 posing appearance of the man whom she had accused 
 of high treason completely overcame her. 
 
 She paused a few seconds to collect her spirits, and 
 Ulfeld, with unparalleled impudence, followed up his 
 advantage. 
 
 *' If your statement be true, Dina," said he, with 
 imperious look and in a loud tone, '^ why do you he- 
 sitate to repeat it in my presence, as you have so 
 often and so circumstantially detailed it in my ab- 
 sence? Produce your charges, and be not afraid to 
 declare all you know. I am here for the purpose of 
 acknowledging the truth of them, if you convict me,
 
 153 
 
 but you ought to consider that unsupported accusa- 
 tions will only recoil upon your own head. Begin 
 then boldly to submit the proofs which you possess 
 of my guilt to this illustrious and learned assembly." 
 
 Dina, as if struck by a thunderbolt, knew not 
 whether she was awake or dreaming: she became 
 doubtful of the persons whom she saw before her, of 
 the facts which she had to relate, nay, even of her 
 own existence. She retracted her former statement, 
 without knowing what she did, consequently the 
 whole accusation fell to the ground as false. Ulfeld 
 was acquitted, and Dina, convicted of felony, receiv- 
 ed sentence of death. 
 
 Ulfeld, with a dignified air, thanked the king and 
 the counsellors for this decision, but at the same time 
 represented that he could not with indiflference suffer 
 the smallest spot of unjust suspicion to remain at- 
 tached to his character; he therefore humbly request- 
 ed that the woman might undergo one more examina- 
 tion on the rack, in order to assure themselves still 
 more strongly of the truth. No objection was made 
 to this demand, and to the infernal triumph of the 
 blackest baseness, the unfortunate Dina was com- 
 pelled by the torture to confirm her recantation. 
 
 No sooner, however, had she recovered a little from 
 the agony of this inhuman operation, and regained 
 her faculties, than she recalled her recantation, and 
 asserted the truth of her original statement. 
 
 The king being informed of this circumstance, sent 
 to her his chaplain, with another ecclesiastic. To
 
 154 
 
 thein also she protested the truth of her first account, 
 ascribing her recantation to the want of evidence, 
 and the intolerable pains of the torture. 
 
 The consequence was, that she was once more 
 sentenced to the rack, and another recantation was 
 extorted from her, on which preparations were made 
 without delay for putting in execution the sentence 
 of death. 
 
 Meanwhile the king's chaplain visited her every 
 day. He invariably found her seated in a chair, 
 almost without motion, silent and pensive. All his 
 eloquence, his promises of heaven, and his threats of 
 hell, had no effect upon her ; he declared her a 
 hardened sinner, and was on the point of renouncing 
 all farther efforts for her conversion. 
 
 A few days before her execution, the sentence of 
 death was once more announced to her, and this 
 roused her from her apathy. She broke out into 
 doleful lamentations, wringing her hands, and re- 
 peatedly exclaiming : — " My blood shall cry for 
 vengeance against them! I die innocent! — I have 
 spoken the truth ! — I die innocent !" 
 
 In this state of mind the chaplain found her, and 
 to him she repeated, with all the violence of despair, 
 the assurance of her innocence, and protestations 
 of the truth of her statements. The ecclesiastic 
 endeavoured to pacify her a little, and then engaged 
 her in conversation on the subject. He alleged her 
 recantation, and her having twice confirmed it when 
 put to the torture.
 
 1 k. w 
 
 She now declared that the first time she certainly 
 must have been bewitched, for she was totally un- 
 conscious of what she said or did. " And on the 
 rack," continued she, '* I was obliged to say what- 
 ever I was desired, to obtain a release from such in- 
 expressible torments.'* 
 
 The chaplain persuaded her not to leave the world 
 persisting in a falsehood, which could be of no benefit 
 to h^r here, but might be highly prejudicial to her 
 hereafter. 
 
 '' O '.'* cried she, '' I will seal this truth with my 
 blood. I am a great sinner, but I die innocent, and 
 this I will repeat before the judgment seat of God. 
 My statement respecting the lord-chamberlain is 
 strictly true, and in the hour of death it will lie 
 heary upon his soul. I have told the truth ! — I die 
 innocent !" 
 
 The chaplain took the greatest pains to pacify her, 
 but she urgently requested him to leave her, as she 
 had no occasion either for his visits or his consola- 
 tions. The following day he found her calm^and 
 composed. He turned the conversation to the ex- 
 pressions she had made use of the preceding day. 
 
 '• What I said to you then," rejoined she, '• I 
 repeat now. My charge against the count is strictly 
 true, and in this declaration will ] persist until 
 death." 
 
 The chaplain then began to speak of her ap- 
 proaching end, and exhorted her to be of good 
 courage. '' O !" cried she, interrupting him, '' I
 
 156 
 
 feel no want of that. I wish that my murderers may 
 be able to meet death with as much composure as I 
 do. It does not come too early; for have I not 
 sought it myself?" 
 
 The ecclesiastic continued his admonitions and 
 edifying discourse, to which she seemed to pay but 
 little attention, and after he had left her, she calmly 
 awaited the hour of her execution, without tears or 
 a jingle complaint. 
 
 The chaplain and a civil officer attended her to the 
 scaffold. She proceeded in silence; her head was 
 erect, and her air serene and dignified. 
 
 In the middle of an open place she suddenly stop- 
 ped, and turning to her two companions: — " I pro- 
 test once more," said she, with emphasis, " before 
 God and you, that I have told the truth in regard to 
 the lord-chamberlain." 
 
 She then requested Ihat both of them would at- 
 test this, her last declaration, after her death. On 
 receiving their promise to this effect, she calmly pro- 
 ceeded. 
 
 The nearer they approached the place of execu. 
 tion, the more the ecclesiastic exhorted her not to be 
 afraid of death. For some time she continued 
 silent ; but at length she interrupted him with a 
 smile,^ saying — "Why will you give yourself so 
 much unnecessary trouble? I told you yesterday 
 that I was not afraid." 
 
 At the moment when she was delivered over to the 
 executioner, she perceived at a distance the lord.
 
 157 
 
 chamberlain's secretary. She beckoned to him, and 
 raising her hand : — "Tell your master," said she, 
 " that I am going to accuse him and his accomplices 
 before the tribunal of a righteous God !" 
 
 With hasty step she then mounted the scaffold, 
 and in a few minutes her head was exposed to public 
 view. 
 
 The city still rung with the triumph which the 
 lord.chamberlain had obtained in this disgraceful 
 process against the unfortunate Dina, when about 
 three days after her execution it was all at once 
 rumoured that Ulfeld, with his family, had privately 
 departed in the night. He had actually embarked in a 
 Dutch vessel ; and on farther inquiry it appeared that 
 he had long before sent off by degrees the most 
 valuable of his property. 
 
 The opinions respecting the cause of his unexpect- 
 ed flight were extremely various, and for a consider- 
 able time afforded a subject of conversation for all 
 the wiseacres and would-be politicians of the Danish 
 metropolis. 
 
 Meanwhile Ulfeld was declared to have forfeited 
 his post, and by the command of the king, the whole 
 of the judicial proceedings were printed in the Danish 
 and German languages, and transmitted to the other 
 courts. 
 
 Ulfeld had first repaired to Holland ; but after a 
 short residence at Amsterdam, he embarked for 
 Sweden, where Queen Christina publicly took him 
 under her protection. Repeated and urgent remon-
 
 158 
 
 strances were made by Denmark on the subject, but 
 she only bestowed on him the more numerous tokens 
 of regard. 
 
 She permitted him to justify his conduct and his flight 
 from Denmark in a public manifesto. She moreover 
 elevated him to the rank of a count, of the kingdom 
 of Sweden, and conferred on him the town of Bartb, 
 in Pomerania, to which place he retired with his 
 family, upon the abdication of the queen. But it 
 was impossible that a retired and tranquil life could 
 long have charms for two such turbulent spirits, 
 whose internal agitation was only augmented by 
 exile from their country. The war between Den- 
 mark and Sweden appeared to them a favourable op- 
 portunity to be revenged for their supposed banish, 
 ment. Ulfeld therefore took the most active part in 
 it, and was extremely serviceable to Sweden. That 
 power was accordingly attentive to his interest in the 
 treaty of Roschild, of which the reinstatement of 
 the count in the full enjoyment of his estates formed 
 a separate article. Ulfeld deputed a person to take 
 possession of them, but still continued with the 
 Swedish army. 
 
 Scarcely had the peace been ratified, scarcely had 
 Frederic and Charles Gustavus concluded a treaty of 
 everlasting amity, when the Swedish fleet again ap- 
 pealed before Copenhagen, and kept that and several 
 other sea-ports under the strictest blockade. Dur- 
 ing this Mar Ulfeld and his family resided in Schonen, 
 without taking an active part in behalf of either
 
 159 
 
 power. By degrees some of his old connections in 
 Denmark began to be renewed, and these drew him 
 over imperceptibly to the Danish interest. "When 
 the warlike Charles Gustarus was arrested by the 
 hand of death, in the execution of his military pro- 
 jects, Ulfeld entered into a plan, by which Schonen 
 was intended to have been secretly given up to the 
 Danes. 
 
 The design being discovered, the original authors 
 were put to death, and Ulfeld also was apprehended 
 and imprisoned. In this dilemma he was not for- 
 saken either by his usual cunning or resolution : but 
 just when his examination was about to commence, 
 he was suddenly attacked by an apoplexy, which 
 totally deprived him of the power of speech. His 
 defence was therefore undertaken by Eleonora. In 
 several eloquent speeches, and in the manner in 
 which she delivered them, she displayed her brilliant 
 talents to the admiration of the judges. The ac- 
 cused was dumb; the advocate overflowed with elo- 
 quence; the investigation was naturally protracted, 
 and to gain time is under such circumstances no 
 inconsiderable advantage. Ulfeld availed himself of 
 this opportunity to escape in a fishing-boat, in the 
 disguise of a priest, together with his adventurous 
 wife. Scarcely were they upon the sea, when an 
 order arrived in Schonen for his acquittal and libe- 
 ration. 
 
 Ulfeld and Eleonora pursued their course amidst 
 rarious dangers across the Baltic, and arrived with-
 
 160 
 
 out accident at Copenhagen. They had, however, 
 only avoided one evil to plunge themselves into 
 another. They could not have returned at a more 
 unseasonable time. Just at this moment it was in con- 
 templation in Denmark to invest the king with un- 
 limited power. This could not be accomplished 
 without many sacrifices on the part of the nobility. 
 It could not be expected that UJfeld would be a quiet 
 spectator of this revolution, and it was therefore re- 
 solved to prevent the exercise of his hostile influ- 
 ence. 
 
 No sooner was the arrival of the two adventurers 
 known, than they were taken into custody, and 
 these inseparable partners in misfortune were 
 conveyed under an armed escort to the island of 
 Bornholm. 
 
 The more fate seemed to have conspired against 
 them, the more firmly they united to withstand its 
 assaults. Already had they formed another plan for 
 escaping from this confinement; already was a vessel 
 hired, and they were on the point of quitting the 
 island, when most unexpectedly their flight was pre- 
 vented by the very circumstance on which they had 
 chiefly founded their hopes of success. 
 
 Ulfeld had carefully concealed his name and rank 
 from the master of the vessel, with whom he had 
 contracted for his passage, in the disguise of a person 
 of inferior condition. In order to gain him over the 
 more securely, he promised him a reward, the mag- 
 nitude of which the honest mariner could not recon-
 
 161 
 
 cile with his dress, and the account which he gave of 
 himself. He communicated his suspicions to Colonel 
 Fuchs, the governor of Bornholm, and thus the plan 
 was frustrated when on the very point of execution. 
 Ulfeld and Elconora were immured in a dreary and 
 noisome dungeon, where, destitute of every con- 
 venience and attendance, like common malefactors, 
 and deprived of all support and consolation, but what 
 they derived from their invincible fortitude, they 
 were obliged for a considerable time to endure every 
 species of privation and hardship. 
 
 Meanwhile the revolution in Denmark was com- 
 pleted. Several of the principal counsellors inter- 
 ceded in behalf of Ulfeld and his Mife. The king 
 thought fit to mark his assumption of absolute 
 authority by an act of clemency. He embraced this 
 opportunity of proving to the nobility that he had 
 no intention of exterminating them, though he had 
 shorn them of their power. 
 
 Ulfeld and his wife were promised their liberty if 
 they would transmit a petition, and enter into an 
 engagement that both would henceforth be loyal and 
 faithful to the king; and endeavour, by submission 
 and zeal, to efface the remembrance of past hosti- 
 lities ; that the count should not leave the kingdom, 
 and still less enter into the service of any foreign 
 power, without his majesty's permission. 
 
 When the count asked his wife's opinion respecting 
 this proposal, she replied : — "• In adversity it is 
 easy to despise death. Those who have learned to' 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 
 
 be vvtetched, accumulating misfortunes inspire only 
 with increased fortitude." 
 
 This dignified answer strengthened the wavering 
 resolution of her husband ; and they took no farther 
 notice of the oflFer. 
 
 Soon, however, did the repeated remonstrances of 
 their friends, the fascinating prospects which hope 
 exhibited to their view, and the daily augmenting 
 pressure of present misery, deprive them of the 
 strength to be wretched, by which Eleonora had at 
 first imagined that they would be supported through 
 life. Their proud spirits were not deficient in bold- 
 ness, if they were in fortitude. 
 
 They accepted the terms that were offered them, 
 and were conveyed back to Copenhagen. There 
 they were recei?ed with universal respect, and th# 
 court celebrated by a magnificent ^ete their reconci^ 
 liation with the king and queen. All Copenhagen 
 thronged to the garden of the palace in which it was 
 held. Those who were formerly feared and detested 
 were now become the objects of universal admiration. 
 The courage with which they had endured their mis- 
 fortunes caused the crimes or follies in which they 
 originated to be forgotten. 
 
 Of what avail are external liberty and peace, un- 
 less they are also inmates of our hearts ! Ulfeld and 
 his wife were again in possession of their estates and 
 the high privileges of their rank ; thej enjoyed honor 
 and respect, and it would evetr'^ve been easy for 
 them to gain the confidence of the iovereiga; but
 
 163 
 
 the humiliation which had led to theif present erni- 
 nence was engravea on their memories in characters 
 too indelible. The engagement by which they had 
 bound themselves, converted Copenhagen and all 
 Denmark into a prison as disagreeable as the dreary 
 dungeon in the fortress of Bornholm. The ancient 
 differences between the qaeen and Eleonora were 
 again revived, and Ulfeld could not cheerfully relin- 
 quish the aristocratic rights of nobility. 
 
 Severely mortified^ and brooding over a number of 
 restless projects, they again left Denmark, but not 
 without the royal consent, which they obtained under 
 pretext of going for the sake of their health to the 
 baths of Aix-la-Chapelle. 
 
 It was customary to expect some important and 
 dangerous consequences from the most indifferent 
 actions of Ulfeld. No sooner had he arrived in 
 Holland than he took care to furnish food for the 
 public attention, by which he wais followed. Learn- 
 ing that Colonel Fuchs, who, from the severity of his^ 
 confinement at Bornholm, had became an object of 
 his mortal hatred, resided at Bruges, in Flanders, he 
 immediately dispatched his two sons with injunctions 
 to kill him in any manner they could. These youths, 
 who inherited the turbulent spirit of their father, 
 lost no time in executing this commission ; the eldest 
 assassinated the colonel with a dagger in the public 
 street, by the side of his wife. Ulfeld indeed at- 
 tempted lo vindicate himself to the king of Denmark, 
 by alleging that he was not privy to his son's crime';
 
 164 
 
 But before the degree of credit due to this assertian 
 could be investigated, the account of a new enter- 
 prise against the king filled all Denmark y/'iih ab- 
 horrence. — Ulfeld had proposed to one of the most 
 powerful German princes to attack Denmark, to 
 precipitate the king from the throne, and ascend it 
 himself. He suggested a variety of measures for ac- 
 .complishing this purpose, and encouraged him with 
 the assurance that the nobility throughout the whole 
 kingdom were highly exasperated at the abridgment 
 of their rights, and consequently he would be sure 
 to find them ready to aid him in the undertaking. 
 
 The German prince, instead of embracing this pro- 
 posal, generously communicated it to the King of 
 Denmark. Ulfeld was convicted of high treason, 
 and the council of state unanimously decreed that his 
 house should be levelled with the ground, that his 
 property should be publicly sold, and that his wife 
 and all his posterity should be deemed infamous and 
 outlawed. 
 
 Inquiries were every where set on foot for the 
 purpose of securing his person, and meanwhile he 
 was executed in effigy. The executioner, after spit- 
 ting upon his arms, trampled them under foot, and 
 threw the fragments into tlie ditch of the palace. 
 The head and hand of the effigy, and the pieces of 
 the quartered body, were exposed to public view. 
 On the site of his demolished house was erected a 
 stone pillar, to perpetuate to posterity the remem- 
 brance of this sentence.
 
 165 
 
 Previously to this CTent, Eleonora had gone to 
 England to demand of Charles II. the payment of a 
 debt. The great sometimes venture to do things 
 which Avould disgrace private persons, and expose 
 them to the severest censure. Charles recompensed 
 the support which she had aflforded him in his forlorn 
 and exiled condition, by refusing to pay the debt : 
 he even ordered her to be apprehended at the re-' 
 quest of the Danish ambassador, and to gratify the 
 latter he at length sent her in custody to Copenhagen. 
 On her arrival she was conveyed to the palace, and 
 the queen enjoyed the pitiful triumph of causing her 
 to be stripped in her presence, and after being attired 
 in mean apparel, to be conducted to a common 
 prison. Eleonora's mind, however, was greater than 
 the royal authority, and too free to be confined by 
 a dungeon. She endured her wretched lot twenty- 
 three years, with a fortitude which gained her the 
 admiration even of those by whom she was kept im- 
 prisoned. At length she was set at liberty, and for 
 a period of twelve years she enjoyed in freedom and 
 tranquillity the satisfaction of having triumphed over 
 her fate. 
 
 Such was not the end of her husband. — On re- 
 ceiving the account of his condemnation, he fled to 
 Switzerland. Here he lived for some time with his 
 sons, at Basle, under the assumed character of tutor 
 to some young noblemen from the Netherlands. A 
 quarrel between a Swiss ofl&ccr and one of his sons 
 at length occasioned the discovery of bis real name
 
 166 
 
 find raqk, on which Ulfeld thought himself no longer 
 secure in that country. 
 
 Old age, the Tehemence of his passions, and 
 yafious external troubles, had impaired his health. 
 Though |if3 W4S just at this moment exposed to a 
 spYpre attack of asthma, he nevertheless made instapt 
 preparations for flight. He hired a hoat, and unac- 
 companied by his childreii, suffering in body and 
 jof^jod) ^ithojit any fixed plan, he proceeded down the 
 I^hine. Jle had not advanced many miles, when he 
 found the air from^ the water intolerably cold. At 
 I^puburgj a small town pp the bank of the river, he 
 flesircd to be carried on shore and laid upon the 
 gfound, asked for a draught of water, and expired. 
 The boatmen examined the body, and concluded from 
 the many valuables which they found upon him 
 that he must have bepn a person of distinction. They 
 therefore carried him to the nearest convent, whence 
 he was fetched the next day by his sons, who took 
 possession qf the property, and buried the corpse 
 under a tree by the road-side.
 
 167 
 
 THE APPARITION. 
 
 At the time when the Dutch still kept garrisons in 
 the barrier towns, the Swiss regiment of O**, which 
 was in their pay, lay at Namur, M. von Erlach, a 
 natiTe of Berne, was a lieutenant in that regiment : 
 he was rich, handsome, and amiable. He was not a 
 soldier from inclination ; but merely in compliance 
 with the custom of the young geptlemcn of Berne, 
 he had entered for a time into foreign service. He 
 preferred the more tranquil arts of peace, and the 
 leisure afforded him while in garrison was almost 
 entirely devoted to their cultiyation. He had receiv- 
 ed an excellent education, and had farther improved 
 himself by travelling. He was an accomplished man, 
 and as such he was acknowledged by the officers 
 of his regiment. They were all his friends, and by 
 all of them he was distinguished and preferred. He 
 was the centre of their diversions and amusements, 
 and ytt he never heartily took part in them, but only 
 in a great measure from a wish to please. He was 
 fond of the company of his friends, but not of the 
 loud mirth which prevailed at their convivial parties. 
 This dislike they plainly perceived, notwithstanding 
 the pains which he took to conceal it, and his un- 
 willingness to detract from their pleasures. 
 
 '* Eilach pores too much over his books," said 
 they; ^' he will do himself no good: he ought to
 
 168 
 
 keep more company, and we must prevent him by 
 force from sticking so closely to his studies." 
 
 In this opinion Erlach in some measure confirmed 
 them, for uhen he was once in the convivial circle, 
 none was, in general, more cheerful or more noisy 
 than he. 
 
 " We were right enough," said they to each other 
 on such occasions. '' As soon as Erlach is out of 
 sight of his books, he is quite another man. D — n 
 the books, 'tis all their fault." 
 
 Erlach's friends were mistaken. He was sincerely 
 attached to his books, and for this reason, because he 
 could be alone with thera ; for from his youth he had 
 shewn a strong predilection for solitude; but not 
 from misanthropy, which was a sentiment totally 
 foreign to his soul. Though he was not an enemy 
 to his fellow creatures, he had a dislike to society. 
 It is very often the case that persons of this disposi- 
 tion are the most indiscreet in company. Such too 
 was the case with Erlach. This he knew, and there- 
 fore avoided all opportunities that he could ; for any 
 extravagance was sure to be followed by a certain 
 remorse, a disagreeable vacuity. He very often 
 declined making one in the parties, the excursions, 
 and the entertainments of his friends ; and easily 
 persuaded himself that all would go right without 
 him. 
 
 *' Erlach is staying away again," said they. '' He 
 is at his books," rejoined one. " Or with the nuns," 
 jestingly replied another.
 
 169 
 
 Erlach ^vas, in fact, a frequent visitor at the 
 Dominican nunnery, contiguous to the city. An 
 aunt of his mother's was the abbess of this convent^ 
 and he was furnished m ith letters of recommendation 
 to her when he first went to Namur. Highly pleased 
 again to behold a member of her family, from which 
 she had for so many years been separated, she gave 
 him a cordial reception. She was pleased with Er- 
 lach's person, so much so that she forgave his youth 
 and his uniform. She had lived in the world, and 
 was still a woman of the world from which she had 
 retired too early. She had been handsome, and had 
 found admirers. An unfortunate passion banished 
 her from her country, and consigned her to a convent. 
 This was all that Eriach knew of her history; but it 
 appeared sufficient to justify her character against 
 the charge of contradiction. She could not be called 
 a bad woman, but without the walls of a convent she 
 would have been a good one. . She had adopted this 
 state from despair ; necessity compelled her to endure 
 it, and habit had at length rendered it agreeable. She 
 had become devout from ennui, and in order to be 
 something at least, where it is impossible to be any 
 thing else. She Mas haughty, severe, and suspicious 
 in her behaviour to those who were subject to her 
 authority; but to all other persons she was courte- 
 ous, affable, and polite : at the same time she was 
 animated, intelligent, and well-informed. Such 
 Eriach found her, and he took delight in her conver- 
 sation. He continued his visits, he paid her every
 
 170 
 
 possible attention, and he succeeded in gaining her 
 confidence. They soon agreed upon one point — 
 both were enthusiasts. Erlach, to be sure, was not 
 like the abbess, an enthusiast for religion, but for 
 solitude, Yirtue, friendship, and a something which he 
 was unable to name or to describe. The abbess 
 hoped to make him a conTert also to religion, 
 which she judged to be the unknown something in 
 his breast. 
 
 Erlach's visits to her grew more and more frequent, 
 and he was soon in possession of her entire confi- 
 dence. His society became a real want, and almost 
 indispensably necessary to her. Her family, and the 
 male sex in particular, had become perfectly indiffer- 
 ent to her in her cell, and it seemed quite new to 
 her to be again brought, by means of Erlach, into a 
 certain connection with both. This novel situation 
 interested hA*. She sometimes anticipated with pain 
 the period when she should be deprived of Erlach's 
 society, and yet nothing could be more uncertain 
 than the duration of his stay. Either this conside- 
 ration, or the wish to have a female instead of a male 
 relative and friend, or perhaps both, excited an idea 
 which she first communicated to Erlach. — A sister of 
 his mother's had lately died in the Pays de Vand, 
 leaving a daughter totally unprovided for. This 
 young woman the abbess resolved to take under her 
 care, and to supply the place of a mother to her, 
 upon condition that she shonld continue in the con. 
 vent and take the veil. Erlach couM have no objec-
 
 171 
 
 tiou to her plan of assisting an indigent relatk>Q ; 
 but little as he approved the stipulation attached to 
 it, so little durst he Tcnture to make any remon. 
 strance on the subject. 
 
 The proposal was made, and immediately accepted 
 without any objection to the terms. In a few 
 weeks Maria presented herself before the abbess. 
 She was received not merely with open arms, but with 
 extreme tenderness. They were mutually pleased 
 with each other ; they perfectly agreed on every 
 point, and consequently on this, that Maria should 
 iipmediately enter upon her noviciate. 
 
 Erlach was informed of her arrival, and invited 
 by the abbess. " Here is your cousin," said she to 
 him; " she is just what I should wish her to be, 
 and I am exceedingly happy to have her with me. 
 It would have been a pity for her to have been 
 spoiled by the world; she is just eut out for the 
 state for which I intend her. She will be a model of 
 piety to the convent, and the consolation and sup- 
 port of my declining years." Turning to Maria, 
 she continued — " This is my nephew. He is not 
 like others of his years and profession. He has the 
 best of hearts, and you may place the same confi- 
 dence in him, my dear Maria, as if he were your 
 own brother." 
 
 Maria had just entered her eighteenth year: her 
 father had been in the French service, and had 
 greatly distinguished himself during the seven years 
 war in Germany. On the conclusion of peace he
 
 173 
 
 obtaiued a lucrative place in the customs, and resided 
 at Paris. Conversant, however, with nothing but 
 his profession, he relinquished the duties of his office 
 to others, by whom they were not performed with 
 the greatest fidelity. He was obliged to sacrifice one 
 part of his property after the other, to cover the 
 defiriences in the funds committed to his care. He 
 was a man of a wild disposition, and addicted to 
 debauchery : these misfortunes caused him to plunge 
 into still greater extravagancies. With a view to dispel 
 his trouble he gave himself up to drinking, and 
 gradually estranged himself from his wife, whom he 
 had never loved, and who had sometimes ventured to 
 remonstrate on his conduct. He became more and 
 more involved ; his accounts were examined, and the 
 remnant of his and his wife's fortune was scarcely 
 sufficient to bring him off clear. He was neverthe- 
 less removed from his office, and soon afterwards died 
 in the most indigent circumstances. His wife retired 
 upon a small pension to the Pays de Vaud : here she- 
 directed her utmost efforts to the welfare of her daugh- 
 ter. The instruction which she had hitherto received 
 in Paris, in all the female accomplishments, necessarily 
 ceased, but Maria had advanced so far that she could 
 now very well do without it. Her mother took so 
 much the more pains to form her character and h6r 
 heart : her own were distinguished for elevation and 
 sensibility. Educated herself in the scheol of adver- 
 sity, she resolved to turn her dear-bought experience 
 to the advantage of her daughter. She had no other
 
 173 
 
 comfort left than Avhat she found in religion ; she 
 therefore deemed it her duty to make this the first 
 and principal point with her daughter. It might 
 have been supposed that she had designed her for a 
 convent; at least, no other kind of life could have 
 been a more suitable preparation for it than what 
 they both led. 
 
 Maria was not taught that there were other em- 
 ployments besides working at her needle, or in the 
 little garden adjoining her cottage ; that there were 
 other recreations besides reading, or walking on the 
 banks of the lakes, and between the surrounding 
 Alps; that there were -other duties besides attending 
 to her aged mother, and joining with her in suppli- 
 cation to heaven. She was, in fact, a perfect recluse. 
 She was transported with grief at the death of her 
 mother, with whom all her happiness was consigned 
 to the grave. The offer of the abbess, under these 
 circumstances, seemed to crown all her wishes and all 
 her hopes : no wonder then that in this disposition 
 of mind she fully answered all the expectations of 
 the abbess. 
 
 At the very first interview Maria made a very 
 strong impression on Erlach. On his return home, 
 her beautiful figure was still present with him when 
 alone in his apartment, the whole evening, nay half 
 the night. He could not sleep : his imagination 
 painted her as she appeared at the moment when she 
 was relating the circumstances attending the death of 
 her mother, when her ruby lips gradually grew paler.
 
 174 
 
 and the mild expression of her large blue eyes w»s 
 Eclipsed by tears. " She is truly a charming girl," 
 said he to himself : " she is a lovely creature. What^ 
 a pity that so much beauty should be immured in a 
 convent ! She cannot be happy ; no, 'tis impossi. 
 ble ; and yet what would I not give to ensure hef 
 happiness !" Such was the manner in which he? 
 interpreted his sentiments for Maria ; he thonght 
 it was only sympathy, compassion, that he felt for 
 her : neither, indeed, can it be affirmed that it was at 
 first any thing more. How would he otherwise have 
 been able to pacify himself with the reflectiofi r 
 '' But it is her own wish, her own inclination. 
 With her education, with her love of seclusion and 
 peace, with her ignorance of the world, she 
 would psrbaps have been macb less happy out of s 
 convent." 
 
 Maria confirmed this illusion when she informed 
 film with the most unaflfected joy that her kind aunt 
 had complied with her request, and permitted her to 
 enter the very next day upon her noviciate. Allr 
 parties were satisfied, not excepting Erlach, whtf 
 was anxious only for Maria's happiness, and wholly 
 uninfluenced by personal motives. 
 
 Meanwhile he redoubled his visits to the conyenty 
 and was more rarely than ever to be seen in the cir- 
 cle of his friends. He now went to mass more 
 frequently than he had been accustomed to do. Had 
 he iiiore carefully examined what passed within feirf 
 bo«oi0, he would liaV^e been forced to acknowledge?
 
 175 
 
 that it was Maria's presence that occasioned his 
 more diligent attendance. Why had he distinguished 
 her melodious voice from that of all the other sis* 
 ters ? Why did his eyes always seek the veil by 
 the colour of which he could recognize her from the 
 rest? — For want of this examination, he was not 
 aware of the danger that threatened him. The abbess 
 with (he most lively satisfaction perceived the change, 
 which she considered as an advancement in piety, and 
 which she placed to her own credit. Erlach, how- 
 ever, deceived her, without having the most distant 
 intention of doing so, and thus established himself 
 the more firmly in her favour. Her confidence knew 
 no bounds. She left him whole hours alone with 
 Maria, who was scarcely allowed to speak to another 
 person of his sex. They walked as often and as long 
 as they pleased in the alleys of fruit-trees in the 
 garden of the convent. Erlach sat beside Maria in 
 her apartment, he read to her, he drew designs for 
 her work upon her embroidery-frame, or, which 
 was most frequently the case, he indulged with her 
 in. reveries of another world ; for happy as they 
 seemed in each other's company, neither was perfect- 
 ly satisfied with the present. Maria expressed her- 
 self with enthusiasm when she spoke of seeing her 
 mother again, of a life without separations, the life 
 of the just made perfect, and of the angels. Erlach 
 from the bottom of his heart coincided in all her 
 sentiments ; one electrified the other. A deep 
 glow often suffused their cheeks, when the abbess
 
 176 
 
 entered and awoke them from their reveries. In this, 
 however, the abbess saw no harm. She rejoiced at the 
 harmony of her young relatives, who displayed their 
 sentiments with too much frankness to excite any 
 suspicion. " 'Tis only friendship," thought she. 
 But she was too little acquainted with the hnmaa 
 heart to know what a dangerous kind of friendship 
 it was. The friendship of a youth and maiden whose 
 hearts are endowed with sensibility is scarcely ever 
 pure. Love assumes every form, and under the 
 mask of friendship it insinuates itself most secretly 
 and securely into the heart. 
 
 Maria knew nothing of love, not even from novels, 
 to which her mother kept her an utter stranger. 
 How then could she recognize the sentiment which 
 she felt for Erlach ? She called it friendship, like 
 the abbess, and was happy in the indulgence of it. 
 Frlach first began to reflect on the feelings that agi- 
 tated his bosom. " Can it be love," raid he some- 
 times to himself, ''that 1 cherish for Mana?" He 
 started at the question, and generally got rid of it as 
 speedily as possible with a laconic and decisive " No! 
 It is nothing but the love which r.atu:ally subsists be- 
 tween relations," continued he. " Were it any other, 
 the sharp-sighted abbess would certainly have re- 
 marked it. 'Tis sympathy, a harmony of sentiments 
 and feelings, and not love that draws me towards her 
 with such irresistible force. I should commit a 
 crime if I loved her, not against heaven but against 
 herself. The abbess is perfectly right ; Maria had
 
 177 
 
 been unhappy in any other state than that which 
 she has chosen, I must not love her : neither do I. 
 How couid I otherwise reflect with such composure 
 that in a few months she will take the vow which 
 must place between us an everlasting barrier ? 
 
 Love is an inexplicable enigma. Erlach deceived his 
 own heart, and no sooner did his heart believe the 
 illusion, than it was again consistent. He never 
 conceived the idea of snatching Maria from the 
 abyss to which she was hurrying, and from which 
 it would still have been possible to save her. It 
 was not yet too late for Maria to have receded 
 without observation, and without scandal : his re- 
 monstances, his entreaties, might perhaps have pre- 
 vailed on her to do so. Had this expedient failed he 
 must have resolved to obtain possession of her by 
 force ; for at this point matters had already arrived 
 Had he unbosomed himself to one of his friends, 
 such would have been the advice even of the most 
 frigid. But the patient, ignorant of his danger, 
 thought it unnecessary to consult a physician. His 
 sickness he could not wholly dissemble from himself, 
 but he determined to effect his own cure, and had 
 recourse to an heroic expedient. The abbess and 
 Maria had long before talked of abridging the period 
 of her noviciate. Erlach had hitherto invariably 
 opposed it, from no other motive, as he persuaded 
 himself and others, than to allow Maria time for 
 consideration, and that she might not be taken by 
 surprize. He now, all at once, conceded the point, 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 
 
 and insisted ia some measure on the proposed abridg. 
 ment, with an energy and warmth which would 
 have attracted notice had the parties been less re- 
 joiced at the circumstance. Maria felt more easy : 
 she knew not why, because Erlach accelerated the 
 step. Eight months after her arrival at the convent 
 she took the solemn vow. Erlach was present at 
 the transaction, and heard her pro/nounce the oath at 
 the altar with a courage and resignation which he 
 could scarcely have given himself credit for. He 
 returned thanks to iieaven when the ceremony was 
 over. He imagined that he should now be perfectly 
 easy, and congratulated himself on the complete vic- 
 tory which his reason had obtained. Maria's more 
 unaffected tranquillity, her cheerfulness and satisfac- 
 tion, seemed to wish him joy on the victory, and to 
 crown his triumph. 
 
 That this event would make any change in tiioir 
 former relations, or interrupt the freedom of 
 their daily interviews, was a circumstance which 
 neither of them had anticipated, but which they now 
 perceived with pain. The regulations and customs 
 of the convent would of themselves have rendered 
 some restraints necessary : and these were reinforced 
 by the obstinacy and imperious disposition of the 
 abbess. Maria was to learn obedience and self-deni- 
 al, and to be made sensible of her dependence on her 
 future mistress. She was not now suffered to appear 
 in the apartment of the abbess, except when she was 
 sent for, and instantly retired on the signal given her
 
 17? 
 
 by the superior. Erlach went twice or three times 
 successively, without obtaining a sight of her, and 
 eyen when she was present, she scarcely durst 
 take any part in the conversation, which was con- 
 trouled by the abbess. Erlach became timid, em- 
 barrassed, reserved, and so did Maria. He was 
 afraid that the abbess had conceived a suspicion re- 
 specting himself and Maria ; but this was still less 
 the case now than formerly, since he had so warmly 
 urged Marians assumption of the veil before the 
 usual time. She merely meanlrto assert her authority 
 over an inferior, and imagined that she should com- 
 promise her dignity, if she allowed her young rela- 
 tive as much liberty in her presence as she had been 
 accustomed to do. 
 
 Constraint operates as a ferment upon the passions. 
 Beware, ye parents, of using coercion with your 
 hildrcn, if you would keep them in a just equilibrium. 
 It produces resistance ; it accelerates the explosion, 
 and renders it the more tremendous. — By the re- 
 straint to which Erlach and Maria all at once found 
 themselves subject, their eyes were probably opened 
 earlier to the real nature of their sentiments than 
 they would otherwise have been. It blew up into a 
 flame the spark that lay dormant in their hearts. 
 Haviog no longer an opportunity of seeing and 
 speaking to each other without witnesses, they com- 
 menced a correspondence. Erlach acknowledged 
 to Maria that he loved her : and Maria was now at 
 once furnished with a name for the sentiment that
 
 180 
 
 peryaded her own bosom. They approached each 
 other with all the ardour and tenderness, but like- 
 wise with all the inexperience of a first love. They 
 arranged private interviews in the garden of the con- 
 vent and even in Maria's cell. Circumstances en- 
 couraged this temerity. Maria, as the relative and 
 favourite of the abbess, enjoyed more liberty than 
 the other nuns. She was not at all watched, for the 
 abbess placed in her the same confidence as ever. 
 She had always been entrusted with a key to the 
 garden gate which conducted to the adjoining wood. 
 She now made a very diflferent use of it from what 
 she was authorized to do ; for the door was open to 
 Erlach ; at first, at the beginning of spring, only in 
 the evening, and afterwards when the darkness 
 favoured them at a later hour, in the night also. 
 Careful as they were to prevent the discovery of 
 their guiltless pleasures, they never thought in their 
 innocence of seeking security against themselves : 
 they started at the fluttering of a leaf, but they 
 were not alarmed at the violent throbbing of their 
 own hearts. Erlach raised his head from Maria's 
 heaving bosom, and looked full in her beauteous eye. 
 — " Do you love me, Maria?" asked he. " Yes, 
 inexpressibly." "Are you mine?" " Yes, your's 
 for ever." '* For ever ? Ah ! Maria, I fear, I fear . . . 
 How long shall we be as happy as we are at present ? 
 Suppose I should be obliged to leave you, that we 
 were to be parted !" '^ No, my Erlach, no, you 
 will not leave me ; we shall not be parted. You are
 
 181 
 
 mipe." " But if my duty should call me hence, 
 if we should be discovered, Maria ! " " Dis- 
 covered I O dreadful idea !" " O, Maria ! would 
 you not prevent that danger ?'* Would you not 
 make me completely happy, and Aha.t for ever ?" 
 '* Can I? Yes; were it in my power, I would do it 
 at the expence of my life, of CTcry thing." " Maria, 
 quit this dreary place, and be my wife." — Maria 
 shuddered. " Quit this place !" she exclaimed. — 
 '' What ! shall I violate my solemn vow ? Shall I 
 abandon the convent, to carry with rae universal con- 
 tempt and execration, the name of a hypocrite, and 
 of an ungrateful and perjured creature? Shall I 
 bring you a guilty conscience, a heart tortured with 
 incessant reproaches for a dowry ? Could the com- 
 mission of a crime make us happy? No, and what- 
 ever fate may have in store for us, let us endure it in 
 the confident expectation of a happier futurity. 
 There, my beloved, I shall be bound by no vow, 
 but that of eternal fidelity to you. There, I shall 
 again fly to your arms, innocent and tender as at 
 this moment.'* 
 
 Deeply agitated, she reclined upon his bosom. 
 Erlach was silent. He relied upon time for the con- 
 summation of his wishes. 
 
 Unfortunate prejudice ! Maria was strong enough 
 to struggle against her own inclinations, against the 
 interest of her invincible passion, for an imaginary 
 duty, for a notion displeasing to the deity, for a vow 
 which he had not sanctioned : but she was too weak
 
 182 
 
 to defend a real good, the fairesi gift and delight ©f 
 heaTcn, against her love. Maria forgot the princi- 
 pal point of her threefold vow. 
 
 Ye heroes and heroines in virtue, can ye afford no 
 indulgence, no pardon for her fall ? Have you actu- 
 ally withstood all temptations, all trials, all the al- 
 lurements of passion, all the fascinations of sense, 
 all the seductions of opportunity, all the enchant- 
 ments of privacy ? If so, then cast the first stone. 
 But no, ye cannot be strangers to pity. Innocence, 
 even in her fall, is still superior to scorn and con- 
 tempt, as misfortune ought always to be. 
 
 Erlach and Maria scarcely knew what they had 
 lost. The intoxication of all their senses prevented 
 reflection. In this intoxication they continued from 
 day to day. It resembled the state of a sleep-walker, 
 who fearlessly dances on the brink of a precipice, 
 because he does not see it, but on awaking shrinks 
 back with horror. 
 
 Maria discovered that she was pregnant. Erlach 
 had the greatest difficulty to support her sinking 
 spirits. He noM' himself advised her to have recourse 
 to religion, in order to stifle the suggestions of des- 
 pair. Maria at length, yielding to the urgency of 
 circumstances, and the imperious laws of necessity, 
 acquiesced in every thing. 
 
 It was Erlach*s intention to remove her to his 
 native country, where he possessed a charming re- 
 treat on the shores of the Lake of Geneva. He was 
 in hopes that he should find no difficulty in pacifying?
 
 183 
 
 her by degrees, and in reconciling himself with her 
 by his affectionate attentioas; He communicated his 
 secret to some of his friends, on whose fidelity he 
 could rely with no less confidence than upon their 
 courage and resolution. All the preparations for 
 flight were made with the greatest prudence and judg- 
 ment, and success seemed by no means doubtful. 
 Maria, disguised in male apparel, was to repair at 
 midnight by the garden gate to the wood, where 
 Erlach was to wait for her with a carriage; his 
 friends, well armed, were to attend him on horse. 
 back, and thus they might in a short time reach the 
 frontiers. Erlach submitted this simple plan to 
 Maria, and the following night was fixed upon for its 
 execution. 
 
 When it was dark, Erlach sent Maria the clothes 
 she was to wear by his servant, who had already ex- 
 ecuted other commissions of that kind to his satisfac- 
 tion. He delivered the parcel to Maria herself, 
 together with the billet, in which Erlach recommend- 
 ed to her certain precautions, and which overflowed 
 with raptures on account of their approaching 
 union. 
 
 At the appointed hoar he posted himself, w ith his 
 companions, at the skirts of the wood. He softly 
 advanced to the garden-gate, and awaited the deci- 
 sive moment. He had time to observe the convent : 
 he discovered to his surprise that lights were yet 
 burning in different parts of it; he also thought that 
 he could perceive, in the apartments of the abbess,
 
 184 
 
 an unusual bustle, a running to and fro, which he 
 ■was unable to account for. His bosom was tortured 
 by the most painful presentiments. At length the 
 lights disappeared, and all was quiet. He took fresh 
 courage and fresh hope; but the gate still remained 
 locked. He wandered with his friends the whole 
 night about the convent, till day -break obliged them 
 to retire. 
 
 Urlach proceeded in silent despair to his lodgings. 
 He calculated all the possibilities, and none of them 
 was capable of dispelling his anxiety. At one time 
 he concluded that every thing was discovered, and la- 
 mented Maria's fate much more than his o*vn: at 
 another he accused her, and dreaded her doubts and 
 irresolution. He feared to ascribe his disappoint, 
 ment to her fault, and yet he would have preferred 
 this way of accounting for it, as in that case, per. 
 haps, all would not have been lost. 
 
 To put an end to his suspense he hastened as 
 early as possible the same morning to the convent, 
 but was informed that the abbess had given orders 
 that he should not be admitted. He repeated his 
 visits again and again, but with no better success. 
 He wrote to Maria, to the abbess, but nobody would 
 take charge of his letters. His madness suggested a 
 thousand bold expedients for seeing Maria, but in 
 Tain ; he never beheld her more. 
 
 At night she was the talk of all the city. — 
 The whole of the preceding day she had shewn an 
 extraordinary uneasiness, which the abbess could not
 
 185 
 
 help noticing ; she would have sent for a physician, 
 but Maria assured her that she was quite weH. Hor 
 anxiety and agitation nevertheless increased ; she 
 trembled whenever the abbess looked at her, and 
 started every time the door opened and shut. The 
 abbess advised her to go to bed. When Maria at- 
 tempted to rise she fell back senseJess into the chair. 
 The abbess immediately sent for a physician, who, 
 however, declared that there was no cause for alarm. 
 Maria was sensible that it was necessary to be 
 cautious, lest she should betray herself, and en- 
 deavoured to appear as if nothing was the matter. 
 In the course of the evening the abbess went once 
 more to her cell to inquire how she did, at the mo- 
 ment when Erlach's servant had just left her. On her 
 entrance Maria gave a loud shriek and again fainted. 
 The abbess called for assistance, and while the others 
 were engaged with Maria, she opened the parcel, in 
 which she found a suit of man's apparel, and read 
 the billet which the poor girl held in her hand. The 
 whole mystery was now cleared up. She flew into 
 the most violent passion, and by her scolding awoke 
 Maria from her swoon. The unfortunate creature, 
 unprovided with an excuse, confessed in her first 
 surprise and in a half senseless condition, more than 
 the abbess had yet divined. The whole convent was 
 in an uproar. The women, like furies, fell upon the 
 unfortunate Maria as though she had been a mur- 
 derer, dashed her upon the floor, and amidst curses and 
 execrations, struck and kicked her, without com-
 
 186 
 
 passion either for herself or her innocent offspring* 
 At length they dragged her breathless into a subter- 
 raneous dungeon, whose pestilential atmosphere, 
 much more than pity, induced them to desist from 
 farther cruelties. Death alone set limits to their 
 Tcngeance. In three days it had accomplished its 
 work. Maria expired amidst tortures inexpressi- 
 ble, but her last breath pronounced the iiame of 
 Erlach. 
 
 Erlach had at first exhausted all his invention to 
 devise some expedient for her deliverance. He was 
 soon seized with a violent fever. He was in a de- 
 plorable state, which the physicians considered 
 dangerous, and which reduced his friends to despair. 
 On the third day after the unsuccessful attempt, his 
 disorder increased in violence, as the evening ap- 
 proached. The physician shook his head. All at 
 once Erlach sprung from his bed, with an impetu- 
 osity which the united strength of all the persons 
 "who were present was unable to repress. He darted 
 towards the door, and dropping upon one knee, ex- 
 tended his arms as if to embrace somebody. 
 
 '• O God!" he exclaimed, in heart-rending ac- 
 cents ; " Maria, is it you ? Yes, Maria, I am com- 
 ing; I will follow you!" 
 
 With these words he fell senseless on the floor. It 
 was the hour of eleven, and at this very moment 
 Maria expired. 
 
 After this scene Erlach grew much weaker. It 
 was regarded as a temporary derangement of intel-
 
 187 
 
 lect, which manifested itself in a different manner, 
 and at a different time from what it generally does in 
 Tiolent fever. But every one was thrown into the 
 Htmost astonishment, when the following night, at 
 the very same hour, the paroxysm returned with ex- 
 actly the same symptoms : this was regularly repeat- 
 ed during the whole of his illness. In the day-time 
 Erlach was in general tolerably lom posed, and the 
 physician endeavoured, by powerful medicines to 
 temper his blood towards evening : his efforts, how- 
 ever, proved of little avail. No sooner did the 
 clock strike eleven, than the apparition of his Maria, 
 ia her sufiTering attitude, pointing to heaven, and 
 beckoning him to follow her, presented itself to his 
 imagination. Such indeed was his debility, that he 
 might with some difficulty be detained in bed : but 
 this was of little use. The exertions of the whole 
 body were equally violent and debilitating, and the 
 rest of the night was passed without sleep. If he 
 recovered some strength during the day, this attack 
 seldom failed to throw him back again to the point 
 from which he had set out. 
 
 His recovery was of course extremely slow: but 
 in proportion to his amendment the paroxysm became 
 weaker. It no longer manifested itself in active ex- 
 pressions; By degrees Erlach ceased to speak aloud 
 when the apparition was present : still it appeared as 
 regularly as before, and was announced by his fixed 
 look, convulsions, and violent movements in all the 
 inufcles, by profound sighs, and by tears. At such
 
 188 
 
 times he preferred being alone, and his friends used 
 to leave him till the paroxysm was over, since he dis- 
 played so much fortitude and composure under his 
 sufferings. 
 
 They were encouraged by the physician to hope 
 that it would gradually wear off. They endeavoured 
 to divert him. As soon as his strength permitted, 
 he was advised to take a journey to his friends in 
 Switzerland, with whom he passed several months. 
 
 He should not have been suffered to return to the 
 place which revived such harrowing recollections; 
 and this was also the opinion of his relations. Er- 
 lach, however, could not rest till he went back. His 
 friends perceived with concern that the journey had 
 produced no alleviation of his disease. They now 
 had recourse to a different method. Erlach was fond 
 of concerts and plays : they accordingly took him more 
 frequently than before to entertainments of that kind. 
 They soon obtained access for him into almost all 
 companies of all ranks, by whom he was kindly re- 
 ceived, and to whom his story had rendered him an 
 object of interest. 
 
 In a large and populous city there is always some- 
 thing new, and no want of opportunities to pass the 
 time. Erlach himself now sought these opportuni- 
 ties, not out of complaisance, or to shew his grati- 
 tude for the attentions of his friends, but from prin- 
 ciple. There were times when he thought exactly as 
 they did of his condition. He was then thoroughly 
 convinced that his imagination was diseased, and he
 
 189 
 
 deemed it his duty^to emancipate himself, if possible, 
 from its influence. He was conscious that he could 
 not think more soberly and more rationally than in 
 such hours ; but when the phantom distinctly present- 
 ed itself at the usual time to his senses; when it pur- 
 sued him whithersoever he went to avoid it; when it 
 appeared as well in the midst of the most convivial 
 company as in the solitude of his chamber, he then 
 began to doubt the justice of his former reasoning. 
 He was then obliged to confess that this was some- 
 thing more than the effect of imagination. He consi- 
 dered it as a punishment which he had deserved by the 
 seduction of innocence; he accused himself as the 
 murderer of his Maria; he threw himself in despair 
 at the feet of her apparition, imploring her pity and 
 her pardon. The figure again vanished. — If, indeed, 
 it was a punishment inflicted by heaven on Erlach, 
 who will not be disposed to think that it was greater 
 than his crime? Even his best days were gloomy. 
 At no time, and in no place, was the evident cloud 
 of melancholy chased from his brow, though he took 
 more pains to conceal it, since he began to be ashamed 
 of his situation. In whatever company he was, and 
 whatever pleasure he took in it, he always withdrew 
 previously to the unfortunate hour. Habit made no 
 diflference: he never could become habituated to it. 
 
 His friends had never turned the aff'air into jest, 
 for which it was, in every point of view, too serious. 
 On the other hand, they had long desisted from their 
 arguments and demonstrations, especially since Er-
 
 190 
 
 larch perfectly coincided with thenr. But still their 
 pains were fruitless. The conclusion of all their in- 
 quiries and demonstrations was, that Erlach apj^ealed 
 to facts. Here, indeed, are the limits of all philoso- 
 phy — How could they expect much from the hand of 
 Time? The evil had now struck too deep root: 
 almost a year had elapsed since the death of Maria, 
 With tender sympathy, not unmixed with concern, 
 they all looked forward to the return of that day, 
 Erlach had before-hand invited some of his dearest 
 and most intimate friends to sup with him in the 
 evening. With the best intentions, they projected 
 a plan, for the execution of which this invitation af- 
 forded them a most favourable opportunity. They 
 conceived that as nothing else proved of any effect, 
 his wild imagination ought to be attacked with its 
 own weapons, and this was the object of their un- 
 dertaking. 
 
 Most of the Swiss officers had formerly been accus- 
 tomed to dine together in a tavern in the suburbs. 
 At the commencement of his acquaintance with Ma- 
 ria, Erlach had several times made the observation, 
 that Joanna, their host'^ daughter, bore a striking 
 resemblance to her in stature and figure. Since his 
 misfortune and illness, they had, out of attention and 
 delicacy towards him, frequented another house, and 
 Joanna was forgotten. They now recollected her 
 again, and on her co-operation depended their wha}« 
 project. They procured a dress exactly like that of 
 the nuns in the Dominican convent. Clad in this
 
 191 
 
 habit, Joanna, wht) would then resemble Maria in 
 CTery point, was to api>ear at the well-known hour 
 on the anniTersary of her death to Erlach in the pre- 
 sence of his friends. They expected that in his con- 
 fusion he would not detect the artifice. 
 
 Maria was this time to address him. In a faint 
 voice she \vas to inform him that the period of her 
 punishment was now over ; that she appeared to him 
 that night for the last time; that she forgave him. 
 She was to conjure him to be tranquil, but not to 
 forget her; to declare that she still loved him, and 
 that if he shewed fortitude and patience, his love 
 would be rewarded, and they should meet again. She 
 was then suddenly to disappear. 
 
 Another point which required attention was to 
 deceive Erlach on this unfortunate day in the calcu- 
 lation of the time, that he might not retire too early, 
 or request the company to leave him. His friends 
 took care not to leave him a moment alone, or with- 
 out amusement. In the afternoon they persuaded 
 him to take a walk along the bank of the Meuse. 
 Immediately on their return they sat down to table. 
 It was half past eight o'clock ; though the time-piece 
 in Erlach's room pointed exactly to eight, having 
 been put back by his servant, who was in the secret. 
 Erlach wondered that it was so early; but as the 
 watches of the company agreed with the time-keeper, 
 he had not the slightest suspicion of the deception. 
 
 All thoughts of the time soon banished. The con- 
 versation was animated, and turned upon the roost
 
 192 
 
 interest subjects. Erlach had been the whole day as 
 calm and serene as possible : the wine made him more 
 cheerful than he had been for a considerable time. 
 So deeply did the conversation engage the whole 
 party, that his friends themselves were astonished how 
 it could be so late, when Erlach, looking up at the 
 time-keeper, exclaimed with surprise, " Only half 
 past ten ? Impossible !" He rose in great agitation 
 from his chair, paced the room several times with 
 hasty step, returned to his place, and fixed his eyes 
 on the door. The rest of the company strove to 
 continue the conversation. It was actually eleven, 
 though the time-piece pointed exactly to half past ten. 
 A few minutes elapsed before the door opened, and 
 Joanna entered in the figure of Maria. For a mo- 
 ment Erlach remained motionless as before ; he then 
 leaned forward, extended his arms convulsively to- 
 wards the door, and exclaimed in the tone of despair, 
 "O God! O God! is not one sufficient? Must 
 there be two ?" So saying he fell senseless on the 
 floor. 
 
 His incurable imagination had not suffered him to 
 be deceived in regard to the time. The agitation 
 with which he sprung from his chair announced it 
 but too correctly. When Joanna entered, the usual 
 apparition had already been for some minutes before 
 him. 
 
 It was with great difficulty that Erlach was brought 
 to himself. He was again seized with a violent fever, 
 and survived the event but a very few days.
 
 193 
 
 THE ROBBER. 
 
 Family affairs obliged me to undertake a journey 
 to the raountaiaous region of Bohemia, and I arriyed 
 without the slightest accident at the estate of my 
 uncle in that kingdom. There I used generally to 
 spend the evening in walking. In one of these 
 perambulations night overtook me in a wood border- 
 ing on my uncle's domain, and extending on the 
 contrary side to a chain of mountains. My imagi- 
 nation was so occupied with the idea of my native 
 land, and the dear objects I had left behind, that I 
 wandered unconsciously from the path. On awaking 
 from this delicious dream, I found that I had totally 
 lost my way ; all my endeavours to regain the right 
 track were unavailing, and such was my situation, 
 when I heard a sudden rustling near rae in the thicket. 
 On raising my eyes, a man stood by my side, and in- 
 quired whither I was going ? I replied that I had 
 lost my way, and at the same time mentioned the 
 name of my uncle's mansion, requesting him to con- 
 duct me the nearest road to it. He paused for a few 
 seconds, and then answered: — " 'Tis a great way, 
 and I cannot possibly conduct you now ; but if you 
 will accept of a night's lodging in my house, follow 
 me." I hesitated not a moment to accept this proposal. 
 He walked along by my side in profound silence, 
 answered none of my questions, and appeared to be 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 
 
 quite absorbed in thought. At length he said: — 
 '' You have not been long in this kingdom." — 
 " No," replied I, " but who made you acquainted 
 with my situation ?" " Yourself." I stood still, 
 and looked at him with the utmost astonishment. 
 "Myself," cried I, in amaze. "Yes, yourself; 
 this wood is frequented by robbers, and you seem not 
 to be afraid." " Why should I be afraid, I have 
 nothing about me that can be of any value to rob- 
 bers ?" He now grasped my hand with eagerness. 
 " Young man," said he, " you have nothing to fear; 
 the robbers in this wood never commit murder." 
 
 Amidst this conversation we arrived at the door of 
 a habitation, concealed in a deep recess of the wood. 
 My companion knocked three times ; a rough voice 
 cried from within — " Who is there ?" "A son of 
 night," was the reply of my conductor. 
 
 The door opened ; I saw myself, by the light of a 
 lamp, in a spacious apartment, painted black; the 
 walls were decorated with arms ; a few chairs, and 
 two tables, composed the whole of the furniture. 
 One of them stood beneath a looking-glass, was 
 covered with a white cloth, and upon it lay a human 
 skull. 
 
 " Jacob," said my companion, to a man with a 
 frightful physiognomy, " make a fire in the chimney, 
 and bring provision for my guest." 
 
 In a few moments a fire blazed on the hearth ; he 
 took me by the hand, and we seated ourselves before 
 it. I had now, for the first time, an opportunity of
 
 195 
 
 examining this extraordinary man. I must candidly 
 confess that I ncTcr beheld a more perfect model of 
 manly beauty, but never were the character!- of the 
 most profound sorrow and affliction so legibly inscribe 
 ed on any brow. 
 
 No sooner did our conversation commence, than 
 esteem and astonishment took possession of my soul. 
 Mean\f hile a dock that stood in the next room struck 
 twelve, and at the same time I heard the report of a 
 gun from without. I started. '• That is the signal 
 for dinner," said my host ; ^' we turn day into 
 night, and night into day. You will sit down with 
 the refuse of mankind, with a band of robbers, but 
 you have nothing to fear. At the table of kings 
 you may often eat with greater villains ; and the 
 rights of hospitality are with us sacred and inviola- 
 ble." He took me by the hand : a table was spread 
 beneath a moss-grey oak in the front of the hut. I 
 seated myself beside my host ; eighteen other persons 
 partook of the simple repast, seasoned only by the 
 narratives of the leader. All listened attentively to 
 him ; there was nothing that could be construed into 
 the slightest breach of decorum, but the conversation 
 was such as you scarcely expect to find in the most 
 polished private houses. 
 
 The repast being finished, I returned wnth my 
 former companion alone to the apartment we had 
 quitted. Our conversation was renewed, but not 
 with the same vivacity. My host had become more 
 grave, and all that be now said bore the character of
 
 1^6 
 
 gloomy misanthropy. I was struck with the un- 
 usual colour of his room, and at length asked : — 
 '' Why did you chuse black ? that colour makes one 
 sad, and it is our duty (o be cheerful." " You are 
 right if you speak of yourself, but as for me, I know 
 joy only by name ; to me that sensation has long 
 been a stranger. You look at these walls ; their 
 black colour excites your surprise. It is the colour 
 
 of my fate, and Oh ! that it were also the colour 
 
 of my heart!" ''An extraordinary wish !" ''It 
 only appears so to you. With a black heart I had 
 perhaps been happy, now I am wretched, inexpres- 
 sibly M retched ! All my riches consist in yonder 
 skull (at the same time pointing to it with a terrific 
 look and distorted features). It is my all," con- 
 tinued he ; " when in the hours of serious medita- 
 tion I stand before it, and the thought that I too 
 shall cease to exist arises in my soul, then alone am I 
 rich, richer than your princes,, or the greatest of 
 fortune's favourites. They lose, I gain ; to them 
 death is terrible, to me it is a blessing. Oh, there 
 are moments in which it would be happiness to be 
 deprived of reason, a fearful truth, which in the days 
 of prosperity I could not have believed." The clock 
 now struck two. My host shuddered. " Already 
 so late ?" said he, and added in a milder tone : — 
 " Pardon me, stranger, for having so long deprived 
 you of your rest ; in that room my bed is prepared 
 for you; sleep and be not afraid." I cordially 
 grasped his right hand. " You have told me too
 
 197 
 
 much," said I; '' you have excited my curiosity; 
 may I intreat you to communicate to me your history?'* 
 
 '' My history, replied he, with a ghastly smile, 
 " would not lull you to pleasing dreams ; it would 
 make the hair of your head stand on end, it would 
 cause you to repent your request, and never will I 
 violate the rights of hospitality. I wish my guests 
 to sleep in peace beneath my roof. But to-morrow, 
 before you depart, you shall hear the history of my 
 life — short, but not agreeable as a moment of plea- 
 sure." 
 
 I went and threw myself upon the bed, but was 
 unable to sleep. From time to time I heard a noise 
 in the hut, and then again profound silence. At 
 last the clock struck five ; I could restrain myself no 
 longer, sprung up from the bed, and opened the door 
 of the chamber. My host was still seated before the 
 chimney, with his eyes fixed on the extinguished 
 ashes. " You have not slept," said he : " Is this 
 dwelling doomed to chase sleep from every eye?" 
 He then made me sit down beside him, and a simple 
 rustic breakfast soon made its appearance. Our con- 
 versation was of considerable length. It was about 
 seven o'clock when I prepared to depart ; for I 
 would not for the wealth of both the Indies have 
 reminded him of a promise which seemed to give him so 
 much pain. " Then you are going," said he, ''I 
 must," replied I ; "at home all my friends will be 
 tinder apprehensions on ray account." *' You are 
 right ; for they know that this is the retreat of
 
 198 
 
 robbers ; but wait a few moments." He then order, 
 ed a couple of horses to be saddled, and led me back 
 to my seat. 
 
 " Young man,'* said he, in a grave and solemn 
 tone, " I will keep the promise I gave you, and you 
 shall know the history of my life, I am the only 
 son of a man of high rank in this kingdom ; my 
 father, who was very rich, expended large sums on 
 my education, and 1 flatter myself that they were not 
 thrown away. I shall pass over the early years of 
 my life, which cannot have any interest for you, and 
 shall begin my narrative with my leaving the acade. 
 my. On my return I received promotion, and in a 
 few years had the fairest prospect of being called to 
 conduct the helm of the state. Insatiable pride swayed 
 the bosom of my father ; he loved me only because 
 my progressive elevation was flattering to that pas- 
 sion. Such was my situation ; surrounded with 
 brilliant prospects, I, arrogant boy, imagined that I 
 could read the book of futurity, forgetful that th» 
 wisest of men cannot predict with certainty the events 
 of the next minute, I saw a young female belonging 
 to the lower class of the people. That inexplicable 
 passion which has piecipitated many an useful states- 
 man, many a valiant warrior, from the pinnacle of 
 glory, took entire possession of my heart. At first 
 I employed every possible expedient to subdue her 
 virtue. She repulsed me with contempt, and the fire 
 burned still more fiercely. I threw myself at the 
 feet of my father, and implored his consent to oar
 
 199 
 
 union. ' Are you mad ?' thundered he, spurning m© 
 from him : ' a drab from the scum of the people, my 
 daughter-in-law ! rather could I see you and her on 
 the gallows than at the altar. ' What room had I now 
 for hope ? Half a year passed away ; I saw her 
 seldom, but my passion daily increased in Tiolence. 
 In more tranquil hours, I certainly advanced every 
 possible objection that could be made against such 
 an union ; but what influence has cold reason over a 
 heart replete with glowing passions ? Vanquished at 
 length in this conflict, I fled with her to one of the 
 remotest provinces of the kingdom, where the hand 
 of the priest united us. With the little money I had 
 taken with me I purchased a small farm. Here 
 Rosalia and myself lived by the labour of our hands. 
 Thes3, these were the halcyon days of my life ! Be- 
 neath the lowly roof of my cottage I enjoyed greater 
 happiness than the prince with his diadem, or the 
 hero crowned with laurels. But let us hasten over 
 these scenes. At the expiration of a year I pressed 
 a pledge of our love to my. bosom, and for two more 
 blissful years, continued''t6 taste the delights of con- 
 jugal and paternal love, > aut of the cup of human 
 felicity. One evening on my return from the chacc, 
 I found my father at home with my wife. This 
 spectacle excited sensations which it is impossible to 
 express. Rosalia, penetrated with gratitude, was 
 embracing his knees, my little bOy was bathing his 
 hand with tears of infantine love. Joy threw me 
 senseless on his bosom^ for his consent was alone
 
 200 
 
 ■wanting to complete the measure of my happiness. 
 In a word, it was the greatest festival that filial love 
 and gratitude ever celebrated. But pardon me, 
 stranger, I scarcely know how to proceed. In three 
 days my wife and child died of poison, given them by 
 my father ; and on the fourth died that father by the 
 dagger of his son ! Adieu, stranger." 
 
 He pressed my hand at parting ; the copious tears 
 trickled from his large blue eyes, and attested the 
 truth of his narrative. " Adieu ! that was the 
 skull of my wife." I departed ; at the door I stop- 
 ped, and once more turned towards him. " Will 
 you never return again to the society of men ?"— 
 *' Never: all that could impart felicity is consigned 
 to the grave ; and, besides, I am more serviceable here 
 than I should be among you. I am the captain of a 
 band of robbers; now they only venture to plun. 
 der, whereas were it not for me they would assured- 
 ly murder too." - 
 
 I left him, and accompanied by his servant, arrived 
 at the skirt of the wood,, whence I easily found my 
 way back to the mansion oifynly uncle. 
 
 Most certainly there are^men guilty of the greatest 
 crimes, who are proudly condemned by the multitude, 
 but who, were we acquainted with their history, 
 would not only be found deserving of indulgence but 
 perhaps of esteem. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 B, Clarke, Printer, Well-Street, London,
 
 m^- 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUN0I9-URBANA 
 
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 3 0112 055295130 
 
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