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 OF THL 
 
 UN IVER5ITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 8A3 
 
 r.4 
 
THE 
 
 WIFE 
 
 A NOFEL. 
 
I'. ll:rl.<J^lcr-Kl)\^ , L< n ion. 
 
THE 
 
 WIFE. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 IN THREE VOLUMES, 
 
 By MARIA BENSON, 
 
 Author op " Thoughts on Education.** 
 
 '** I have, when soliloquising or communing with my own 
 thoughts, been ready to exclaim. Who is the faithful friend of 
 man — is it not woman ? Without her aflectionale assiduity liow 
 would lie be preserved through tiie dangers attendant on the help- 
 less state of infancy? Is s lie not equally to be regarded as the 
 cheering companion in youth, the friend and consoler through 
 middle life? — Lastly, the endearii g partner who soothes the in- 
 firmities of age, and tends to ward otf the attacks of disease by at- 
 tentions which mitigate pain, though they cannot wholly banish it. 
 — To sum up all — Is she not the friend that is nearer than a 
 hroth' r, who supports that pillow on which the wearied head seeks 
 to find repose when on tlie \ ery verge of eternity." 
 
 ** Thoughts (tnd Reniar]<s on esluhiisk'ing an Institution 
 for tlie ■ upport and Education of unportioned respectable 
 J-'cmulcs.^' — By Helena Whitfokd. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LOSDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOR LO^GMAN, IIURST, REES, AND ORME, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1810. 
 

 TO 
 
 MR. BENSON, 
 
 AcKwoRTH, Yorkshire. 
 
 Will you, honoured Sir, crown this 
 
 Dedication with that approving smile 
 
 which beamed on the following pages 
 
 ^ when they first met your eye, seven years 
 
 ^^; ago ; under the parental roof, they first 
 
 ^" saw the light; there fostered by the kind 
 
 encouragement which they received 
 
 from vou, I was induced to think of 
 
 ^ ushering them into the world. 
 
 y Thrown there amount strangers, they 
 
 may, perhaps, with their author, be 
 
 r a 3 
 
VI 
 
 doomed to find, that home only is the 
 resort of love and peace, and certainly 
 the safest, happiest province for a 
 "wife." Exposed to the cold criticisms 
 of those, who deem it a mark of ex- 
 cellence to point out foibles and " cry 
 what stuff is here," or the bitter sar- 
 casms of such, as have not traced me 
 throuo-h all the stages of that world 
 which, even to the most fortunate, exhi- 
 bits a mingled scene of " good and ill 
 together." I may perhaps be tempted to 
 exclaim — Would that by pursuing the 
 noiseless tenor of my way through the 
 secjuestered vales of private life, I had 
 deprived my enemies of the satisfaction 
 of knowing that 1 have written a book. 
 It was not however to gratify their 
 spleen, I confess, that the work which 
 gives rise to this address was composed. 
 
VI 1 
 
 Vou are well acquainted with my motives 
 for such an exertion of my pen, with all 
 the circumstances which called those 
 motives into action, and if you are satis- 
 fied, I may say, with respect to a worldly 
 tribunal, as Medea said to her con- 
 fidante, '' It is enough." But should 
 one sentiment of mine be found suf- 
 ficiently powerful to check vice in its 
 progress, or soothe virtue in affliction, 
 I shall feel more than satisfied. I shall 
 bow in gratitude to my Heavenly Father 
 for the few talents committed to my 
 care, whilst to my earthly parent I ex- 
 press my ardent thanks for those ad- 
 vantages which were, during a long 
 course of years, so liberally bestowed 
 upon me ; advantages which fezv per- 
 haps ever possessed in so extensive a 
 degree, though 7Jtan2/ have profited by 
 
VI II 
 
 them more. Farewell, my dear Sir, re- 
 gret not my humble offering, because it 
 is humble, but acccj)t it because it is 
 sincere. None can appreciate it so fully 
 as yourself, none therefore would value 
 it so highly. — That the evening of your 
 days may be peaceful, and the dawning 
 of eteraity beam with lustre upon you, 
 is the prayer of, your truly affectionate 
 daughter, 
 
 Maria Benson. 
 
 London, Feb. 20, IS IV. 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 IT may, perhaps, by some of my readers, 
 be thought that 1 should not introduce 
 a Wife into society without those pre- 
 liminary observations on her character 
 which might give her a claim to its no-* 
 tice and acceptance ; but should I point 
 out her defects, it may be enquired of 
 me, why, when you formed her mind, 
 did you not form it better ? Should I 
 expatiate on her virtues, I might be 
 charged with the same impertinent ego- 
 tism which attaches to the mother, when, 
 unsought and unwished for, she obtrudes 
 
X 
 
 nn licr friends tlic praises of a darling: 
 child, whose merits none but licrself 
 are ready to acknowledge ; silence, 
 then, on the present occasion will be- 
 come me best, as to that particular point 
 Avhich the public will, no doubt, assert 
 the privilege of discussing for them- 
 selves; but it may not perhaps be wliolly 
 unnecessary to enlarge in some degree, on 
 my motives for the publication of a 
 work classed under die general title of 
 " Novel." The rage for reading this 
 description, be it an cn il in society or 
 not, a (piestion w hich remains to be dis- 
 cussed by abler pens than mine, has cer- 
 tainly increased, nor is it likely to be 
 diminished by any means hitherto ef- 
 fectually ascertained. Such, then, being 
 the state of society, and sucli its views, 
 engendered no doubt by the frivolity 
 
and lightness of female education, that 
 indhidual merits praise rather than con- 
 demnation, who, finding that the torrent 
 cannot be restrained, endeavours to di- 
 rect its .windings into a plainer channel, 
 and if she cannot lead the mind to 
 higher views, and more exalted pur- 
 -suits than those to which it may have 
 directed itself, to render the food from 
 which it draws its supplies, innocent, if 
 not invigorating. Since Avriting the 
 accompanying work souie years ago, a 
 valuable publication fell into my hands, 
 from which I have extracted my motto, 
 and the theory of which, if ever reduced 
 to practice, may lesson the race of novel 
 readers, and novel writers ; but until 
 tiuch a system, as that proposed by the 
 author, be fully established, which shall 
 embrace a better mode of education on a 
 
national plan than has hitherto been 
 adopted, tlic national taste, and con- 
 sequently that of individuals, must re- 
 main the same. For though valuable 
 sentiments may be conveyed under a 
 novel form, and sterling characters held 
 forth, it is not the species of reading 
 which a judicious mother could recom- 
 mend to her daughters, because it too 
 frequently leads the mind to a world 
 not its own, and serves to unsettle it in 
 that where Providence has placed it. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 ^ Thus, in his graver vein, the friendly Sage some- 
 times declaimed of right and wrong : he taugi>t 
 truths as refined as Athens ever heard ; and 
 ^[strange to tell !) he practiced what he preached.*' 
 
 *^ feUCH were not the precepts of your 
 honoured father," said the venerable 
 Hanbury, as he addressed himself to a 
 young man, who had the preceding year 
 been committed to his s^iardianshin. 
 
 "' These are maxims which may pass 
 current in the fasliionable world, where 
 intrinsic merit seldom gains reception, 
 iind would not be valued if it did j but 
 be assured they are weak and feeble 
 guides in the intricate mazes of life, and 
 inadequate to impart one gleam of com- 
 fort in that hour, when the past will arise 
 in bitter recurrence, and the future teem 
 
 V^L. I. B 
 
with doubt and despair. It is a fatal 
 mistake wliich the young men of this 
 day are hibouring under, that, in order 
 to be admired and distinguished, tliey 
 must tlirow^ oif respeet for the sacred 
 doctrines of rehgion. I trust tliis delu- 
 sion will only prove temporary, with you, 
 Charles ; and that I may not, in despite 
 of my regard to the memory of your 
 valuable parent, iiave cause to lament 
 that the duty of attempting to cx)nvince, 
 where conviction could not penetrate, 
 M as, in a fatal hour, bequeathed to me." 
 Charles bowed his hea<:l slightly, -and 
 withdrew. 
 
 A task indeed of no easy nature, had 
 devolved on Air. Ilanbury, in the charge 
 of a young man, whose mind had been 
 tinctured, though not vitiated, with the 
 follies of his associates, and whose prin- 
 ciples had been assailed, though not quite 
 undermined, by their pernicious maxims. 
 His father had been the })atron, and early 
 friend of Mr. Ilanbui v. On the one side, 
 
the friendship arose from the love of vir- 
 tue, and respect for talents, which, in Mr. 
 Hanbury, were both united; on the other, 
 from gratitude, (that purest source of 
 human affection) which he owed to Mr. 
 Greville in an extensive degree. The 
 time had now arrived, in consequence of 
 tlie death of his fiiend, when ]\Ir. Han- 
 bury was to prove, by his exertions 
 for the welfare of the children, the sin- 
 cerity and strength of his professions 
 towards their father. 
 
 This son and a daughter were the only 
 offspring of an union which had been 
 neither long nor happy. Mr. Greville's 
 connection with his wife was founded 
 on motives which would not bear the 
 test of experience. Her beauty had cap- 
 tivated his heart. She was extremely 
 young, and much attached to him ; hence 
 he hoped to mould her character to his 
 wishes. Time shewed the fallacy of his 
 reasoning, and proved how much more 
 to the comfort of both it would ha\ e 
 B 2 
 
])ccn, if he had chosen a companion for 
 life on more rational principles. 
 
 After some years of discord on her 
 part, :Hid misery on his, she died, leav- 
 ing him tw o children, the young man to 
 whom V e Jiave just iniroduced our Rea- 
 ders, and a daughter who has yet to 
 make her entre into the scenes which 
 the following pages present. 
 
 Jessica Greville, at the particular re- 
 quest of her mother, had hitherto heen 
 allow ed to reside with her family, from 
 wlumi, after again resigning her into 
 their care, Mr. lianhury was just return- 
 ed, for she had lately gone into Essex to 
 pay the last melancholy duties to her 
 only sur\ ivingand now deceased parent; 
 to her that tie in its most endearing 
 sense has heen unknown, she had heen 
 deprived of the advantages that ilow 
 from the society and example of a wise 
 and anxious mother, and only in its nomi- 
 nal sense had she heen accpiainted \\ ith 
 the title; her father, iVom a too rioid 
 
compliance with the request of her mo- 
 ther, had deprived her of the solace of 
 having at least one parent, and thus was 
 jlie thrown upon, the stormy sea of life 
 without any friendly pilot to guide her 
 through the shoals and quicksands of a 
 long and perhaps tempestuous voyage. 
 Her disposition, though quick to feelan 
 injury, was ever ready to forgive it, and 
 though gifted Avith sensibility to pitj^the 
 misery of others, and, pitying, to relieve 
 wherever she discovered it, her mind was 
 armed with that fortitude to bear unrepin- 
 ing its own, which is sometimes only the 
 result of frequent disappointment, and 
 long experience; in her this arose from 
 neither, but was rather the offspring 
 of those reflections which her com- 
 fortless situation had often excnted : 
 the world had not presented itself to her 
 view with that aspect which it generally 
 w^ears to young minds, and having ne^'er 
 known those fond endearments that 
 alone render it faseinating, she looked 
 B 3 
 
forward rather witli an anxiety to hcAt 
 the calamities of life, than with the liope 
 of a happiness which might onl\ prove 
 Ti sic nary. 
 
 Her mind was uniformly composed^ 
 though not in any degree tinctured with 
 melancholy, hut she was now suffering 
 thill excess of sorrow, whidi th.e sudden 
 death of her father had produced. In 
 her occasional visits to him, he had 
 shewn liimself afiectionate to her, and 
 indulgent to her little foihles, and she 
 thus mourned more than ever that pro- 
 mise which had torn lier from him, and 
 thrown her amongst those whom she 
 could neither esteem or respect, who 
 were alike regardless of her ])rinciples, 
 and unmindful of her faults. But for the 
 paternal counsel of the worthy llanhuiy. 
 Vvith whom, when on her visits to her fa- 
 ther, she had sometimes resided, the rc- 
 (juest of her wx\ik and eiiing motlur 
 had indeed proved a fatal calamity. To 
 ^Ir. JIauhury she looked forward in tlie 
 
present emergency for advice and assist- 
 ance; she had suifered much from that 
 irregularity of conduct which she had 
 witnessed in her brother, and her sole 
 hope now rested on the exertions of her 
 friend, to save her from the misery which 
 she feared was yet to come. 
 
 Her person, like her mind, had been 
 left in great part to form itself, and, 
 though graceful in the extreme, was not 
 so much indebted to studied attention,as 
 to nature. Her face wa& fine, without 
 being beautiful, and yet such was tlie 
 feeling which its expression excited, that 
 none who saw it would have wished it 
 exchanged for beauty ; in every turn of 
 her countenance you read the emotion of 
 liermind, whether animated by hope, or 
 sinking under the pressure of sorrow. 
 Her first effusions of grief having sub- 
 sided, she wrote to ]Mr. Hanbury, ex- 
 pressing her gratitude for his former 
 attentions ; her willingness to regard 
 him as a parent ; her intreaties that he 
 B4 
 
8 
 
 Vfoukl look upon her as a child; thai 
 \vith his affection he would mingle re- 
 proof when her failings required its cor- 
 rection, and tliat he would contiiuie to 
 regard lier as a relick of her departed 
 father. 
 
 His answer was at once soothing and 
 indicative of that attachment which lives 
 beyond the grave ; in Mr. Han bury, pro- 
 i'essions and actions were the same, he 
 never had professed that which he did 
 not feel, consequently his actions were 
 tlie result of what he professed. 
 
 To Jessica his assurances of friendship 
 and protection would never have been 
 more opportune, or more consoling, than 
 at that period in which they arrived' ; fche 
 luul returned to the house of Lady Stan- 
 hope, her feelings bowed down by a 
 weight of grief, returned to the abode of 
 follv, condemned to reside with a woman 
 wiiosc principles were repugaiaut to her's, 
 and whose conduct she decidedly disap- 
 ]) roved. 
 
*^Too weak to reason and too vain to 
 ^liink," Lady Stanhope: had been edu- 
 cated as most women of fashion are ; she 
 had married early in hfe a man whose 
 dissipated habits had allowed him neither 
 time or inclination to correct her fol- 
 lies, had he been capable of such an 
 Herculean labour; and his death, at a 
 period when her beauty was jet in its 
 meridian, and his fortune unimpaired, 
 had given her the power of displaying 
 those follies in a wider field ; such was 
 the giiardian to whose care the poor Jes- 
 sica had been committed. Her. compli- 
 ments of condolence to her niece, when slie 
 first saw her, after her return from that 
 journey in which she had seen tlie remains 
 of her father deposited in the grave, were 
 cold and common-place : the delicate re- 
 finements of feelins: were to her un- 
 known, and .the sacred light in which the 
 sorrow of a fellow-creature sliould be 
 held in moments like these, she was equally 
 a stranger to. She asked various questions 
 b5 
 
10 
 
 relative to her neice's melancholy jour- 
 ney, and being satisfied respecting them, 
 she retired and left her to her own re- 
 flections. Comfortless indeed were those 
 when she viewed the situation in whicli 
 she was placed : Mr. Hanbury w^as, how- 
 e\ er, the friendly star which seemed de- 
 stined to guide her on her dark and be- 
 wildered path, and her gratitude to that 
 worthy man was only equalled by her 
 present sorrow. It was true, indeed, that 
 in the provision made for her by her fa- 
 ther, she was raised above want, but the 
 thoughtless conduct of her brother ex- 
 cited her fears that her little patrimony, 
 even added to his own, might be found 
 insufiicient to supply his extravagancies, 
 and, independent of these her fears, her 
 sad heart acknowledged the bitter con- 
 viction that there are many sources of 
 unhappiness which, on this side tlie 
 grave, we cannot avert, yet which the 
 mind must sensibly feel. 
 
11 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Hither he came a wan and weary guest, 
 
 A softening balm for many a wound to crave, 
 
 And woo'd the sunshine to his aching breast, 
 Which now seems smiling on his verdant grave. . 
 
 Bowles. 
 
 It was with great regret that Jessica 
 learnt, on the following morning, the in- 
 tention of Lady Stanhope to leave Bel- 
 mont, her present place of residence, in 
 the course of the ensuing week ; she had 
 fixed her jouiney to Bath on the 20th, in 
 order to be at an approaching ball, where 
 it was expected that most of those who 
 bad a claim to fashion amongst her ac- 
 quaintance, would assemble ; respecting 
 this arrangement Jessica had no alterna- 
 tive, for in the proposal, or rather the 
 order, to accompany her aunt, none was 
 b6 
 
12 
 
 offered ; she prepared to be of her party 
 w ithout repining, though soHtude would 
 have been more congenial to her feelings, 
 and more consistent with her situation ; 
 but Lady Stanhope, unused to consider 
 propriety in her own conduct, was re- 
 gardless of it in others, and Jessica was 
 now beginnin^^ to acquire patient sub- 
 mission and sulfering under those vexa- 
 tions, to which the caprice and folly of 
 her aunt rendered her hourly liable, and 
 though it would have been a luxury in 
 the present moments to indulge her vir- 
 tuous sorrow, yet she unrepiningiy yield- 
 ed to circumstances which she had not 
 the power to controul, and consoled her- 
 self with the reflection that, even in the 
 midst of the gay and thoughtless, slie 
 could cherish the remembrance of her 
 departed father, which now returned to 
 her with peculiar force. 
 
 It was only one year since she had 
 travelled with him the rout she was goint 
 to retrace, as slic had been his companion 
 
13 
 
 to Bath, whither he went for the recovery 
 of his health. In endeavouring to solace 
 and comfort him at that period, she had 
 been gratified by his thanks, and the ap- 
 probation of her own heart. 
 
 The canker-worm of care and secret 
 grief had preyed upon her father's heart; 
 disappointed in his marriage which he 
 had fondly hoped would have proved a 
 lasting comfort, he had relied on his 
 cliildren to soothe and enliven the even- 
 ing of his days. He had looked forward 
 to Charles as his own support, and the 
 inture protector of his sister j there too 
 his hopes had proved deceptions, and he 
 at length sunk under the load of accumu- 
 lated evils. " AVhat a train of anxieties 
 and sorrows have the last twelve months 
 produced, and how grateful ought we to 
 be that the future is not disclosed to us ; 
 oh, my father, you rest in that mansion 
 where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 ;»nd the weary are at rest; may your 
 daughter emulate your virtues, and oh, 
 
14 
 
 may she be spared the calamities whicli 
 awaited you in your path tluougli hfe." 
 
 Such were the aspirations and reflec- 
 tions of the uncorrupted heart and unso- 
 phisticated mind of Jessica, as she enter- 
 ed that place where she had passed so 
 many hours of happiness and instruction, 
 that could never return. 
 
 On the day after her arrival in Bath, 
 she went out in order to revisit some of 
 her favourite walks; here she met a va- 
 riety of faces, but all were strangers to 
 her ; she saw none who approached her 
 with the smile of friendship, all seemed 
 occupied in their own pursuits ; even the 
 place itself seemed diilerent to her, but 
 she forgot that her own heart was changed. 
 
 After returning from her walk, she 
 was cheared by a letter from her worthy 
 friend Mr. Hanbury ; the passage in 
 which he said, " Your brother's head 
 is only iu error, his heart uncjuestionably 
 is not wanting,." seemed to compensate 
 for every previous anxiety ; he informed 
 
15 
 
 her that Charles had that morning set out 
 for Oxford, and that he was indulging the 
 hope that his admonitions were not whol- 
 ly thrown away, but that " in casting his 
 bread upon the waters he should find it 
 after many days." 
 
Iti 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ** What an extravagant dominion does pleasure ex- 
 ercise over us ? It is not only the pestilence that 
 walkcth in darkness, but an arrow that destroyoth 
 at noon day." 
 
 Young. 
 
 We now return to Charles, who, after 
 leaving Mr. Hanhury with many promises 
 of amendment, which had been rather ex- 
 torted than voluntarily given, arrived at 
 Oxford, negligent and without reflection 
 as to the past, and only looking forward 
 to the approaching period wlien, being 
 under no restraint, he might enjoy his 
 wild schemes without admonition or con- 
 troul. 
 
 This young man had never she\\'n any 
 instance in his conduct that amounted to 
 absolute depravity oi^ heart, but his 
 whole life hitherto had proved one scries 
 
17 
 
 -of error and repentance. With a mode- 
 rate fortune from liis father, which he 
 liad happily no present power to dissi- 
 pate, and an eager desire for company, 
 in the choice of which he w^as not very 
 discriminate, he w^as now perhaps placed 
 in the most unfortunate of all situations, 
 where every mad propensity w^ould meet 
 with encouragement, and his morals sus- 
 tain a total wreck. He had letters of 
 recommendation to some of the most 
 respectahle characters in the University; 
 after delivering w^hich in person, and re- 
 ceiving general invitations to their houses 
 and rooms, he returned to his college, 
 with the hope of meeting with compani- 
 ons more congenial, and he did not 
 hope in vain. There were many thereof 
 the same disposition as himself, whom he 
 met with at conmions the following day, 
 and after having passed with eclat through 
 the ordinary quizzisms hestowed on a 
 fresh man, he was duhhed by the frater- 
 nity a very honest fellow. 
 
18 
 
 At the head of this society was a voutk 
 of the name of Davenport, whom he se- 
 lected from the rest as liis chosen com- 
 panion, and, in return for tliis mark of 
 distinction, was initiated hy him into all 
 the mysteries of the squad, such as (piiz- 
 zing the old fellows, bribing the porter, 
 and being absent without leaye. 
 
 lie was soon sent for by the master of 
 tlie college, who, after pjiving him some 
 general advice as to his conduct, dis- 
 missed him ; but this was a ceremony 
 which his companions informed him it 
 was usual to go through, and it left no 
 permanent impression on his mind; every 
 night was passed in some excess, and 
 every day brought a rcj)rimand w itli it. 
 Three weeks had nearly elapsed, and not 
 one single line had he written to Air. 
 Hanbury, the man whom he was hence- 
 forth to look upon as a father, and who 
 was so kindly solicitous fur hi^ welfare, 
 \\ bom he had Icl'l in a very indifferent 
 state of hcallh ; hut such arc the elfect:i 
 
tliat dissipation produces on the mind 
 which it engrosses, that it weakens alike 
 every affectionate and moral tie. 
 
 A letter from Mr. Hanbury, reminding 
 liim of the failure of his duty, would have 
 roused him to some returning sense of it, 
 but that a party of pleasure interfered. 
 The letter w as thrown aside to be answer- 
 ed on same future day, but week after 
 week elapsed, and its contents were 
 forgotten. At length the tutor sent, re- 
 questing to speak wdth him ; and, after 
 some remonstrances on the impropriety 
 of his late conduct, told him that he had 
 received a letter from Mr. Hanbury, who 
 desired to be informed how he spent his 
 time in coUec-e, as he had never written 
 to give him any account of his proceed- 
 ings. Charles returned to his own room, 
 where, for the first time since his entrance 
 into this scene of profligacy and dissipa- 
 tion, he suffered himself to reflect. He 
 now wrote a few lines, as much to prevent 
 further importunity as to satisfy his own 
 
20 
 
 conscience, which, aniulst all his tCfottit 
 to stifle its monitions, would sometimes 
 be felt. 
 
 About ^tliis time a tour m as proposed 
 by one of the party who had some 
 friends in Wales, where he was anxious 
 to go; Charles, who was eager to em- 
 brace every scheme that promised plea- 
 sure, agreed to accompany him; they 
 Avere absent a fortnight, during which 
 time the tutor of thecoiicgc, making di- 
 ligent enijuiries after Chiirlcs, and not 
 hearing of him, made Ids appeal to the 
 master, who, on his re-appearing, sent for 
 liim, and reprehended him in the most 
 serious manner. After charging him 
 with being absent from college Avithout 
 leave, he proceeded to inform him, that 
 were the circumstances proved, he must 
 certainly be under the necessity of ex- 
 pelling him. Charles however pleaded 
 ignorance of the necessary forms of 
 soliciting permission of absence, and, 
 after many promises of never transgress- 
 
^1 
 
 iiig die rules in a similar manner, the 
 master dismissed him. What proficiency 
 lie had however ahcady attained to in the 
 hackneyed art of lying, the following 
 incident will prove. After he returned to 
 Lis room, he was visited by some of his 
 companions, who were eager to know 
 how he had escaped from the late formi- 
 dable attack : Oh, said he, on being in- 
 terrogated on the subject, I came off 
 with flying colours ; when the Old Boy 
 attacked me on my absence, pray Sir, I 
 replied, how are you convinced that I 
 was absent, or that I was not in my own 
 rooms the whole of this fortnio-ht ? Be- 
 cause Mr. (jreville, your tutor, called to 
 make an enquiry after you, and was in- 
 formed that you were absent. Will you 
 allow me. Sir, to interrogate my serv^ant 
 on this occasion? the fellow was then 
 called. I understand, said I, that you 
 have lately informed persons who called 
 at my rooms, that I was out ; pray what 
 authority had you to assert this ? Whv, 
 
22 
 
 Sir, I searched in your rooms, and I could 
 not lind you, so I supposed you were not 
 not there ; and ])ray where chd you 
 search? Why I looked in both rooms, and 
 then in a large chest, and in tlie h^\. 
 Humph! that was all very well as tar as 
 you went, but you ought to have search- 
 crl under the bed ; and, turning to the 
 Old Boy, I assure you, I said, tliat it was 
 there that, very much indisposed, I passed 
 the whole fortnight. It was in vain, you 
 know, after this cool specimen of mv 
 effrontery, to endeavour to look com- 
 posed, and so he once more dismissed me 
 with a lecture. 
 
as 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Triendship, mysterious cement of the soul, 
 Thou bond of peace and solder of society, 
 J owe thee much. — Blair 
 
 Jessica, in tlie mean time, had been 
 suirering much anxiety from never 
 having heard of her brother since his 
 arrival in Oxford, and her anxiety was 
 much heightened by having . received 
 a letter from Mr. Hanbury mentioning 
 to her his intention of going abroad in 
 consequence of the declining state of 
 his health. He hinted at the pleasure 
 he should receive from her society 
 whilst on the continent, if she would not 
 deem the sacrifice too great, and con- 
 cluded by naming the south of France 
 as the place whither he designed to go. 
 
Tills plan was extremely consonant 
 with the wishes of Jessica, wlio was 
 already so much wearied with her pre- 
 sent place of abode, that any change 
 seemed preferable to it which oifered a 
 a o'lcam of comfort. She mentioned 
 Mr. Hanbury's proposal to lady Stan- 
 hope, who, too much engrossed by her 
 own pursuits to be very solicitous re- 
 specting the situation or affairs of her 
 neice, told her that she was at ])erfcct 
 liberty to reply to the letter in what 
 terms she thought the most proper. 
 
 Since their arrival at Bath, the mode 
 of employing their time had been so 
 very different that scarcely had they 
 met, except when lady Stanhope was 
 surrounded by company, and no par- 
 ticular conversation could take place. 
 
 In her conduct towards Jessica, lady 
 Stanhope never manifested any degree of 
 affection, but that was not surj)rising, as 
 she was mcapable of such a feeling to- 
 
^5 
 
 wards any one ; but Jessica tlioiiglit 
 she discovered in her aunt's behaviour 
 on this occasion, and, in the cold in- 
 difference which displayed itself, some- 
 thing of an anxiety to be freed from the 
 charge of her, and the responsibility 
 tesulting from it. 
 
 Jessica wrote t6 her venerable friend 
 the same post, expressing her wishes t6 
 attend him on liis voyage, and lament- 
 ing the cause that rendered it necessary. 
 
 To her it was indeed of serious mag^ 
 nitucle, her knowledge of the world was 
 confined, her commerce with it had 
 been hitherto extremely limited ; whilst 
 under the roof of lady Stanhope she 
 had scarcely met with one person whose 
 society coukl have been either pleasant 
 to her in her hours of happiness, or have 
 afforded any degree of benefit or comfort 
 in those less prosperous. In her visits 
 to her father, whose society was chiefly 
 with persons of his own sex, she had 
 met with none really valuable, excepting 
 
 yt)L. r. c 
 
26 
 
 this friend, from whom she might now 
 be soon separated for ever; and the 
 narrowness of her fortune having ren- 
 dered her less an object of attention 
 than in other circumstances she might 
 ha\ e proved, her society had not been 
 courted ; of those \v ho vahied merit for 
 its own sake, Jessica had hitherto known 
 but one. 
 
 All her anxiety now was called forth 
 on Mr. Hanbury's account, and she 
 prepared for her departure to liim w ith 
 that alacrity w Inch we feel when \yc are 
 about to meet those whom we fondly 
 love. 
 
 At length the day arrived on which 
 she was to set out, and taking leave of 
 lady Stanhope, she commenced her 
 journey into Cumberland. 
 
 On lier arrival at the house of Mr. 
 Hanbury she was much shocked on 
 observing his altered ap])carance : their 
 meeting was affectionate, but her heart 
 was too full for words, and the impres- 
 sion which the emaciated looks of her 
 
37- 
 
 friend made upon her was too visible to 
 be oveilooked. 
 
 " I shall leave this place in a few days, 
 tny young friend," said Mr. Hanbury as 
 they sat at breakfast the following 
 morning ; " you are very kind to leave 
 vour friends for so lone: a time, to be- 
 come an exile from your country with 
 an old man like me, whose company 
 can promise you no compensation ; and 
 perhaps your kindness may have prompt- 
 ed a sacrifice which I had no claim to 
 ask : you may perhaps be leaving some 
 one who has a peculiar interest in yOur 
 not quitting England." Jessica smiled, 
 arid assured him that that was not the 
 case ; that except himself she had only 
 yet met with one person who had honour- 
 ed her with more than common attention, 
 and that him in all probability she might 
 never meet more, since his attentions h« 
 well knew had not been pleasant to 
 her. 
 
 Tliough Jessica's residence at Bath 
 C £ 
 
i28 
 
 had been short, her manner of liring 
 retired, yet she had not entirely escaped 
 admiration. IVIode^^t in her appearance 
 and unobtrusive in her manners, It was 
 her only desire to be suffered to remain 
 in (piict, and pass unnoticed ; unlike 
 the young women by whom she was 
 surrounded; who were eager for admira- 
 tion, and panted after the unmeaning in- 
 cense offered by coxcombs, not as a tri- 
 bute wliich they conceived just, but 
 which it was expected they should ]xiy. 
 
 She liad, however, been singled out 
 during her residence there by a young 
 man, singidar in his deportment and 
 eccentric in his manners, though of 
 large fortune and respectable character; 
 and whom she now found, to her great 
 surprise, occasionally resided in ]Mr. 
 llanbury's neighbourhood, w here it was 
 expected he would soon arrive. 
 
 After breakfast i\lr. Ihmbury pro- 
 posed that they should call on some ac- 
 (juaintances of his in the adjoining town, 
 
29 
 
 and Jessica, happy to see him so chear- 
 ful, readily acceded. 
 
 The lady of the house they shoukl 
 first call at, he informed her, was uni- 
 versally esteemed avery sensihle woman, 
 and he hoped that her society would 
 prove an acquisition whilst they re- 
 mained in England. 
 
 But before we proceed, it may not be 
 improper to give our readers a sketch 
 of the characters to whom we are about 
 to introduce tliem. Mr. Ramsey was in 
 sentiment an avowed republican; whilst 
 he affected a hberality of opinion, like 
 republicans in gcnenil, he was a petty 
 tyrant, for no despotic monarclx ever 
 yet exercised greater power over his 
 subjects than was exhibited in the 
 household of this son t)f liberty; with an 
 affectation of knowing all things, he 
 literally knew nothing, and whilst h-c 
 talked of freedom, the love of power 
 was his darling principle. In short, to 
 sum up his character in the words of 
 c 3 
 
that great bioi^rapher, Johnson, in speak- 
 ing of Miltonj he hated nionarclis in the 
 state and prelates in the church, for he 
 hated all whom he was required to obey. 
 Mrs. Ramsey was a woman of most 
 insinuating manners, and very superior 
 abilities; united to an uncommon degree 
 of penetration in discovering the weak- 
 nesses of those around her, and jender- 
 ing them subservient to her own plans : 
 but she generally cliose her associates 
 amongst those of inferior understanding; 
 by this means she gratified her thirst 
 for admiration, whilst she maintained 
 the reputation of being a very uncom- 
 mon woman. Her manners were ex- 
 tremely graceful, and in forming her 
 mind there had been no exertion 
 wanted. 
 
 She received Jessica on her first in- 
 troduction to her with that studied 
 politeness, which, though she could 
 sometimes throw aside, she generally 
 ^'ore in the presence ef strangers, and 
 
31 
 
 on taking leave of her, requested she 
 would renew her visit on an early day. 
 
 The following morning Jessica found, 
 from a conversation with ]\Ir. Hanbury, 
 that he would be under the necessity of 
 deferring his voyage for a few weeks, 
 in consequence of some affairs relative 
 to her own and her brother's property, 
 and that he feared he should be obliged 
 leave Oak Hanger for some days. 
 
 " Your brother," said he, " Jessica, is 
 near the termination of his minority, and 
 it is my desire to leave his affairs settled 
 in so clear a manner that no disputes 
 may hereafter arise. I may never re- 
 turn to England, and in that case it will 
 relieve my mind from some part of its 
 load, to reflect that I have, in fidfilling 
 my duty, discharged a part of that debt 
 of gratitude which I owe to the memory 
 of your father, You are not perhaps 
 acquainted with the extent of my obliga- 
 tions to that valuable man : sometime 
 you shall hear my history, and have new 
 c4 
 
.caiLsc to vcvnc liis character, but I am 
 not in my present state quite ecjual to 
 the task of reciting ])ast sorrows and 
 Veealling reg-rets which ought long since 
 to have subsided ; they will noon cease 
 hi that grave to whicli an old man, like 
 nie, must be fast verging." 
 
 •' My dear sir,"' said Jessica, " do not 
 thus agitate yourself w'ith talking of the 
 past, but look forward to tlie enjoyment 
 of that returning health which I trust 
 will await you in the mild breezes of a 
 soutlicrn shore, and be assured we shall 
 yet spend many happy hours together." 
 Had Mr. Hanbury observed her coun- 
 tenance when she said tiiis. lie would 
 have seen there much more to fear than 
 to hope. 
 
 The next morning tliey were vi^ited 
 by Mrs. Ramsey, who proposed to Jessica 
 to join their party to the Lakes, whither 
 they were going in the course of a few 
 days. Mr. Hanbury seemed very de- 
 tiirous that she should do so, as during 
 
33 
 
 that time he shoukl be under thQ 
 necessity of .leaving her alone, and she 
 consented to the proposal. 
 
 When the day was fixed for their 
 excursion she found however, to her 
 infinite mortification, that her Bath ad- 
 mirer w'ds to make one of tlie party ; he 
 had returned to that part of the country 
 a few days before, and learning that 
 Jessica was expected to accompany Mrs. 
 Ramsey, readily accepted an invita- 
 tion to join them : Jessica found that 
 she could not avoid fulfilling her engage- 
 ment without the appearance of caprice, 
 and was obliired, thoiioh unwillin^'lv, to 
 acquiesce. 
 
 C ^ 
 
o-* 
 
 CHAPTER. V. 
 
 Cool brcath'd the grateful air, and freer now 
 The fragrance of the autumnal leaves arose, 
 The passing gale scarce mo\M the overhaivglu 
 
 bongh, 
 And not a sound di*turb'd the deep repose. 
 Save when a falling leaf eame tiuttfiiug by, 
 Save the near brooklet stream that murmcrttci 
 
 quietly. 
 
 WiiiN Jessica got to Mr. Ramsey's 
 on the following day, the party \vas 
 assembled, and in addition to Mr. Comp- 
 ton, who seemed much pleased that this 
 opportunity was aflforded him of renew- 
 ing his acquaintance with her, she wa» 
 jntrcKluced to a Mr. Evans, who was also 
 to accompany them. 
 
 The day was uncommonly fine, and 
 they set out immediately in order to be 
 at the Lakes to view the sun set ; they 
 travelled slowly, for the weather wa» 
 
55 
 
 intensely hot, and occasionally made 
 pauses on the road to admire the sur- 
 rounding scenery. 
 
 It was now the latter end of August, 
 and the richly variegated tints of 
 autumn were beginning to diffuse them- 
 selves over the woods, through which 
 they passed. 
 
 Jessica anticipated with pleasure the 
 fine scenes through which she should 
 wander in the country where she w^as 
 shortly going, which her present journey 
 reminded her of; and whilst she con- 
 templated the beauties of nature, her 
 heart was lifted up to nature's God. 
 
 Her meditations were interrupted b}'^ 
 hearing the voice of Compton, who, on 
 their passing a cottage, had observed a 
 woman spinning at the door, and broke 
 forth into expressions of admiration on 
 her employments " How have we de- 
 generated," said he, " from the vhtue 
 and simplicity of our forefatliers 1 There 
 was a time, when the females of higb 
 c6 
 
rank thoug-)it it not derogatory to %im\ 
 their own garments. O Penelope! how 
 have thy dauglitcrs fallen !"' 
 
 *' IF/n/, Sir," interrupted ^Ir. Evans, " if 
 tlic ladies were to employ themselves in 
 spinning, where would he the en- 
 couragement to industry amoogst the 
 poor r — and all trades must livt.'" 
 
 •* Trade, Sir! I was speaking of per- 
 sons, whose minds soard above the low 
 and vulgar occupations of trade." " But," 
 interrupted Mrs. Ramsey, " if the 
 women of tins day managed their w t^j 
 no better than Penelope, the world 
 would not be much benefited bv such 
 artificers.'' 
 
 They had by this- time arrived at the 
 place where they intended to rest for 
 an hour or two, during the heat of tlie 
 day, in order to be enabled to encounter 
 the fatigue of a long ride, and a ramble, 
 when they reached the termination of 
 their journey : here they dined, and 
 'R'hikt tlic liuhes were making some* 
 
57 . 
 
 alteration in their dress, the gentlemen 
 went out to view the prospects around. 
 
 When they returned, Mr. Evans in- 
 tbrmed Jessiea, that he and Mr. Conip- 
 ton had had a violent dispute respecting 
 a horse. 
 
 For his part, he ohserved, he had no 
 idea of making such a fuss about 
 animals, and treating them as if they 
 were Chvistiaihs. 
 
 At this moment ]\Ir. Conipton en- 
 tered. 
 
 " Sir," said he, *^ a horse is a noble 
 animal, and was particularly prized by 
 the ancients ; all heroes have had a 
 veneration for horses, and I never see 
 myself seated on my lofty charger, but 
 I think of Charles the Twelfth, of 
 Sweden, at the head of his troops." 
 
 " Well well, Sir, all this may be very 
 aight, but there is no occasion to be so 
 very particular about them ; now it was 
 only a few minutes since you would not 
 suffer the hostler, who, I dare say, knows, 
 his business very well, to draw some 
 
water for youv liovsc, but drew it your- 
 self, which was a very surprising thing 
 for a; gentleman to do, and what I am 
 sure your servant would have huffed at 
 and thought beneath him." 
 
 " Beneath him, Sir, do you think it 
 degrading to draw water, do you think 
 it beneatli any man to do what, in the 
 time of the Patriarchs, kings daughtcrsr 
 employed themselves in ? do not we 
 read of their assembling themselves at 
 springs and drawing from thence that 
 wholesome and precious beverage." — ■ 
 
 Evans, too much astonished to make 
 any reply, turned to the \\ indow, and in 
 a few minutes after dimier was served. 
 After which Mrs. Ramsey proposed a 
 walk to Jessica, and the gentlemen were 
 left to renew the disputes of the morning 
 or discuss new topics. 
 
 On their return, they proceeded on 
 their journey, and reached the place 
 proposed in the evening. As they travel- 
 led along the borders of the lakes Jessica 
 
S9 
 
 contemplated the majesty of the scene 
 with sublime admiration. The sun^ 
 throwing its departing beams along the 
 water, over the siirface of which hung^ 
 rocks, whose height appeared to render 
 them almost inaccessiblcr 
 
 She wished much for ^Ir. HanbnrVy 
 his taste for, natural beauties being so 
 congenial to her own. When the party 
 arrived at the house which was prepared 
 for their reception, they were all much 
 fatigued, and soon after separated. And 
 the following morning when they met, 
 Mr. Ramsey proposed a iishing party. 
 
 '■' For my part," said Evans, " I am no 
 fisher, and I have often gone out with peo- 
 ple, but I can't say, except the fishermen 
 wlio are brought up with it, I ever saw 
 any body that understood much of the 
 matter." 
 
 '* But I, Sir," answeied Mr. Ramsey, 
 " which you probably may not know, 
 was placea by my father with a fisher- 
 nian, and was for many years regularly 
 
40 
 
 insfructod in tlic nu'lliod of ilsliing-. ' 
 Here Jessica ohserxed a shrug ot' con- 
 tempt in Mrs. llanisey, \\ lu^ was how- 
 ever too imhgnant to make any otlier 
 reply to the lastohservation, hut tluit slie 
 heheved Mr. Ramsey's knowledge in 
 tliat hranch was e(|ual to what he 
 possessed in many other**. 
 
 Here Evaii.*^, who did not seem j^ei- 
 fectly to comprehend tliis ohservation 
 in its full import, looking respectfully at 
 Mrs. Ramsey, said, " I dare say, machmi, 
 Mr. - Ramsey is \ery clever in most 
 thinjjs, I am sure I was not douhtinof his 
 knowledge, but as to fishing \\ h4?n fish 
 can be bought so cheap, I think it's 
 spending one's time and tiring oneself 
 for very little use.' f^ 
 
 '' Tiring yourself," said Compton, 
 *' and do you, Sir, com[)lain of fatigue in 
 such puerile amusements, and forget the 
 exertions of the Spartans! were not tlie 
 youth of that ilkistrious country early 
 inured to hardship, and so educated as to 
 
41 
 
 look with contempt on eveiy species of 
 personal danger and fatigue ; and liave 
 you forgot too the atchievements of the 
 glorious Hannibal, who, despising such 
 low considerations, marched with his 
 troops in the midst of swamps and 
 morasses, over clifts and mountains, 
 through subterraneous passages; and 
 who, after dissolving the rocks by his 
 superior powers, in this order entered 
 Italy." 
 
 ** Hannibal was a fool," rejoined Mr. 
 Ramsey, ** he did not understand the 
 principles of chemistry; it is a science 
 which has undergone considerable im- 
 provement ; I made it my particular 
 study for many years, and as to the 
 hardships you speak of, I hope you are 
 not credulous enough to be imposed 
 upon by all the lies which the ancients 
 tell you." 
 
 V' Sir," said Compton, rising with in- 
 dignation, " a lie was esteemed a crime 
 iit the virtuous period to which I allude^ 
 
42 
 
 and v/as held in the ancient code of 
 laws punishable by death." 
 
 *^ Well, if I may give my opinion," 
 replied Evans, '' I never saw any great 
 hardships the soldiers had to hear, and 
 as for fatigue, I never heard them com- 
 plain, except sometimes, ^hen they were 
 quartered in our town, the soldiers would 
 say they were tired after our weekly 
 hop."— 
 
 " Hop ! and pray do you think then,'' 
 said Compton, *' that those great and 
 wise people of whom I speak ever 
 descended to such effeminate pursuits ? 
 Why, Sir^ there have been nations, the 
 Grecians for mstance, who esteemed 
 dancing a vice." 
 
 " Well," exclaimed Evans, *^ I can 
 only say that these ancients must have 
 been rather odd people, for I can't see 
 the great difference betwixt dancing 
 and drawing water, oidy that I think 
 dancing is the most agreeable of the 
 two." 
 
43 
 
 Mrs. Ramse}-, now anxious to termi- 
 nate this dispute, proposed to set out, 
 and after engaging a boat for the pur- 
 pose of fishing, they embarked. Mr. 
 Compton placed himself next Jessica, 
 and seemed solicitous to engage her 
 attention, but the novelty of the scene, 
 and the surrounding objects, wholly en- 
 grossed her thoughts. Mrs. Ramsey 
 observed, that a boat had always ap- 
 peared to her an ingenious piece of 
 mechanism. " My dear," said Mr. Ram- 
 sey, ^^ do not betray your ignorance by 
 talking on subjects you do not under- 
 stand. Perhaps the world does not 
 exhibit a peice of mechanism more 
 simple in its construction. I was with a 
 boat builder many years since, and when 
 I had only been a fortnight at the place, 
 was thoroughly acquainted with the 
 principle on which it is constructed." 
 
 Here was another glance of contempt 
 from Mrs. Ramsey, who did not how- 
 ever make any reply. But Evans, turning 
 
44 
 
 to licr, said, " Bless mc, madrnn, yon> 
 luisband must be a deal older than I took 
 him for, for \\'hat a many trades he has 
 been." 
 
 They continued on the water some 
 hours, but the sun being intensely hot, 
 they were unsuceessful in their pursuit; 
 they observed, however, as they were 
 landing, a man loaded with a ])asket, and 
 Evans perceiving it was a fishcrmait, 
 called out to him ; lie turned back to the 
 party, and exhibited his fish, which he 
 said he would be glad to dispose of, as 
 he had caught it that morning, and had 
 a long way to carry it. " I told you," 
 said Evans, turning triumphantly to Mr. 
 Ramsey, " that every man kiu)ws h\% 
 own trade best."' 
 
45 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 " It is this cloud on their understanding which hin- 
 ders our voluptuaries from discerning that their 
 blind rage for pleasure turhs blessings into their 
 reverse. Birth, education, and abundance, are 
 great blessings, but abused by pleasure into mo- 
 tives and instruments of indulgence. — Birth is 
 more ignoble than obscurity; knowledge is more 
 pernicious than ignorance ; and abundance more 
 a misfortune than want.'* 
 
 Young's Letters. 
 
 T;iE party had by this time arrived at 
 the inn, where Jessica was informed that 
 a gentleman, who had refused to leave 
 his name, had desired to speak with her ; 
 she was surprised and struck with the 
 singularity of this circumstance, and 
 conjecturing who, amongst the few per- 
 sons with whom she w^as acquainted, it 
 could be, when she observed a figure 
 
46 
 
 U'ith wliicb she felt herself familiar, pass 
 the window; she went out of the room, 
 and found herself instantly in the arm* 
 of this stranger, whom she now disco- 
 vered to be her brother. Her mind 
 fnmk under the dreadful apprehension of 
 some impending evil, and the first which 
 presented itself w^as that of jMr. Ilan- 
 bury's death. " Oh, Charles," said she, 
 " why have you come, where is I\lr. 
 Hanbury, and how is he?" " Very well, 
 Jessica, for any thing I know ; I did not 
 come here to bring news of him, but to 
 see you. Why, my dear girl, you look 
 as dismal as if you had been coming from 
 his funeral." 
 
 Jessica now recovered herself suffi- 
 ciently to ask of Charles the real pur- 
 port of this sudden journey. ''To tell 
 you the truth/' said he, '^ I am rather in 
 an aukward predicament, and I came to 
 ask a little of your assistance; though, 
 by tlie bye, you must not blow me to 
 Mr, Hanburv, or I am dished. The fact 
 
47 
 
 is, my girl^ I want a little of the ready, 
 and as you are, you know, of age, you 
 have it at your own disposal." " Charles,** 
 said Jessica, " I am well convinced that 
 your allowance from Mr. Hanbury is 
 more than adequate to your real wants ; 
 the demands of wanton extravagance no 
 fortune, however unlimited, will be 
 found sufficient to supply. The mind 
 that cannot accommodate itself to a nar- 
 row income must, in every situation, 
 feel embarrassed, for if your fortune was 
 increased, your imaginary wants would 
 rise in proportion, and would be found 
 to exceed the means which you possessed 
 to gratify them, as much as they now 
 do." 
 
 " Well, but Jessica, I did not come 
 here to receive a lecture, but something 
 more substantial. It is not a very large 
 sum of money that I want, and I will 
 promise that you shall have it in three 
 months, at which time I shall be of age. 
 It was an unlucky affair to be sure, but 
 
4H 
 
 one thousand will settle all diticicnces ; 
 if it was a debt contracted in the common 
 way, one would nothiind, hut a debtot" 
 honour, you kno\N', is an auk ward thing." 
 Jessica now found ner sentiments 
 change to horror and astonishment; that 
 he should, at his age, have connnenced 
 that most despicable and dreadful of all 
 characters, a gamester ; that the son of 
 her revered father should have become a 
 detennined profligate. *' O my father," 
 she exclaimed, '' hap])y is it for you that 
 the grave has concealed these things 
 from your eyes, for you were indeed 
 ttiken from the evil to come ! Charles, 
 I am grieved, deeply grieved for you ; 
 amidst all your follies I ha\e hitherto in- 
 dulged a hope, a confidence, that your 
 heart was still un\'itiatcd, and that de- 
 pravity had no share in }our errors; your 
 account of this affair has most sorrowfully 
 undeceived me, and I can now no longer 
 dwell on your remembrance with one 
 sensation of i)lcasuie. A\'hcn I look back 
 
49 
 
 on the days of your infancy, how different 
 was the promise which they gave, and 
 how fallacious have the hopes of my poor 
 father proved! I conjure you, in his 
 name, to reflect, and to contemplate that 
 dreadful abyss in which you are about to 
 sink both your reputation and your pro- 
 perty; for to the gamester both are 
 equally insecure. Little as I mingle with 
 society, and confined as my observations 
 must consequently be, yet I am at pre- 
 sent acquainted with more than one fa- 
 mily whose actual respectability has been 
 sunk, and their views in life utterly de* 
 stroyed, by the indulgence of a propen- 
 sity to the fatal vice of gaming, in some 
 one of their members ; did its evils, in- 
 deed, terminate with the ruin of proper- 
 ty, it would be comparatively happy ; 
 but perhaps there is no one vice which so 
 completely debases the whole character; 
 it sinks a mind wliich might, perhaps, 
 under other circumstances, have been 
 led to the exertipn of some degree of 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 
 
 energy in the pursuit of virtue, to the 
 most contemptible state of egotism ; 
 self is the sole spring of all a gamester's 
 actions ; his heart is as much steeled against 
 the claims of his wife, his children, or his 
 nearest associates, as against the more 
 distant impulse of universal suffering; he 
 may be said to behold every object 
 through a distorted medium, and to teel 
 no interest in any being, in any pursuit 
 in existence, but such as can facilitate 
 his narrow, his avaricious, schemes ; his 
 temper dependant on the next chance of 
 the dice; his mind contaminated by the 
 continual contemplation of another's 
 wealth, of which he is eagerly looking 
 forward to the appropriation ; his heart 
 grown callous to the miseries of his fel- 
 low-creatures ; ahkc deaf to the calls of 
 justice, and the pleadings of compassion : 
 What from a gamester can be expected, 
 but that, havinjx lived until he has be- 
 come a disgrace to himself, his family, 
 and a mark for the finger of scorn to 
 
51 
 
 point at, he will fill up the measure of his 
 iniquities by some dreadful deed: To live 
 despised ! to die unlamented ! What a 
 mournful prospect for a young man just 
 entering into life, and whose future lot 
 must so greatly depend on himself. You 
 liave solicited me, Charles, to grant 
 you a thousand pounds — a thousand 
 pounds may appear a small sum to one, 
 who could risk it on the hazard of a die, 
 but it is half of what I possess ; and I can- 
 not, indeed I cannot, sacrifice so large a 
 sum to so unworthy a purpose. When I 
 assure you that I will conceal your situa- 
 tion from Mr. Hanbury, let it be under- 
 stood that it is with a view of sparing his 
 feelings, and not giving additional poig- 
 nancy to the ills under which he now la- 
 bours ; as for your feelings, Charles, your 
 recent conduct, and the levity w4th 
 which you have treated this terrible pro- 
 ceeding, sufficiently prove those to be 
 completely depraved, and I have now 
 
 d2 
 
 ^s\-^^ 
 
 0^ 
 
 xvW 
 
 ^ox^ 
 
 ,^N^^V^^^ 
 
only to mourn over the past, despairing 
 of the future." 
 
 Charles seemed touched hy his sister's 
 emotion, and assured her that he had 
 been led into error, and had not, as she 
 imagined, voluntarily become a gamester. 
 He now promised her that no considera- 
 tion should tempt him in future to a con- 
 duct of a similar nature, but that his feel- 
 ings were so humiliating on this occasion, 
 on which his honour was exposed, that he 
 did not know to what lengths he might 
 he driven, in order to retrieve the sum, 
 if she still persisted in her refusal. 
 
 *^ We will suppose for a moment,' 
 said Jessica, in reply to Charles's last 
 address, *' that your present applica- 
 tion had been urged by pecuniary dis- 
 tresses, arising from inevitable misfor- 
 tune ; that you had been engaged iu com- 
 mercial concerns, which had proved un- 
 fortunate, as is too often the case; or 
 that some untoward circumstance had 
 deprived you of the means of existence ; 
 
J3 
 
 I trust it is unnecessary for me to say 
 with what heartfelt satisfaction, in an 
 exigency like this, I should have ex- 
 tended to you any part, nay the whole, of 
 my property. But I have too frequen ill/ 
 had occasion to express those sentiments 
 of severe reprehension, amounting to 
 disgust, which I have felt, and still do 
 feel, at the conduct of weak women in 
 similar transactions. And I am sorry to 
 observe, that amongst the many in- 
 stances which I have seen, and read of, 
 very few, if any, have resigned their 
 property for useful or virtuous pur- 
 poses ; but suifering their feelings to be 
 wrought upon, by idle promises of amend- 
 ment on the part of the petitioner, have 
 been led into a concurrence, against 
 whicli their better judgment revolted ; 
 and have had cause hereafter, on witness- 
 ing the inefficacy of this kind of tempo- 
 rary relief, to regret, deeply regret, their 
 folly. It is indeed, on the part of the 
 individual who concec'es to demands of 
 p 3 
 
54, 
 
 tliis nature, a tacit approbation of, and en- 
 couragement to, vice ; and many are 
 there, I doubt not, a\ ho, luul their first 
 application been resisted, might have 
 been effectually checked in the beginning 
 of their career. E'cery species of vicious 
 excess it behoves society in general, and 
 my sex inpai^ticulay^ to discourage. A 
 woman who yields her property, either 
 to the rapacious grasp of the gamester, 
 or to the indulgence of a)??/ other vicious 
 pursuit, presents not only an extremely 
 reprehensible, but a highly indelicate 
 character ; reprehensible, because she 
 thus deprives herself of the means by 
 wliich she might be enabled to encourage 
 the industrious, relieve the worthy, and 
 raise the unfortunate; and indelicate, 
 because she supports those vices which 
 ought to be discountenanced. I trust 1 
 know and feel, too deeply, what I owe 
 to the memory of our excellent father, to 
 administer to the vices oi' his son. To 
 your misfortunes, Charles, I would freely 
 
65 
 
 resign any portion, nay the whole, of 
 that Httle which I can hestow ; but I will 
 spare myself the miserable reflection, in 
 some future hour, of having sacrificed the 
 least part to your vices." Jessica leaned 
 against the window, and wept. " Mr. Han- 
 bury is illj Charles," continued she, " very 
 ill, and may soon be taken from you • oh, 
 do not deprive yourself of every friend, 
 but be at least your own." Charles re- 
 mained silent, and apparently indignant, 
 but he knew, too well, the firmness of his 
 sister's mind, to attempt any further per- 
 suasion. " I call upon you," said Jessica, 
 '* to desist from this destructive practice, 
 in the name of my father ; I know of 
 only one more sacred by which 1 could 
 appeal ; farewell I When 1 can forget the 
 past, I will see you again, for the present 
 we must part ;" and, giving him her hand 
 iu trembling emotion, she hurried out of 
 the room. 
 
 D4 
 
56 
 
 CHAPTER Vll 
 
 Oh, enviable, early days, 
 
 Wlien dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze. 
 
 To care, to guilt unknown ; 
 
 How ill exchanged for riper times,. 
 
 To feel the follies or the crimes 
 
 Of others, or my own. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 After the departure of her brother, 
 whose sudden appearance, together with 
 the purport of his visit, had agitated lier 
 so much, Jessica found herself wholly 
 unfitted for the enjoyment of company, 
 and sent down her excuses to Mrs. Ram- 
 sey. 
 
 When the party were assembled at 
 dinner, *' bless me," said Evans,.** I won- 
 der wliere Miss Grevillc can be, I saw her 
 talking to a very odd-looking young gen- 
 
tleman, as I passed the window, a little 
 time since ; and I thought, by her voice, 
 she did not much wish to be heard." 
 *' Sir," said Compton, " I hope you did 
 not, by undue methods, descend to the 
 meanness of endeavouring to become ac- 
 quainted with the subject of their con- 
 ference?" ** No, Sir, by no means, I 
 only just stopped to hear if I could get at 
 the gentleman's name, which I thought 
 there was no great harm in, particularly 
 as I did not know it before." 
 
 " And pray," interrupted Mr. Ramsey, 
 *' of what consequence could his name be 
 to you?" 
 
 '* None, only that because he refused 
 to leave it in the morning, it seemed as 
 if he was not desirous that it should be 
 known." 
 
 '' And that," said Mrs. Ramsey, " was 
 one very good reason why you should at- 
 tempt to discover it." 
 
 *' He is most likely some lover of her's, 
 who comes to see her unknown to her 
 d5 
 
58 
 
 gnardian/' continued Evans, *' and 1 
 liave just been thinking that is the reason 
 he would not leave his name." And. 
 turning to Compton, he said, '' don't you 
 think so, Sir ?" 
 
 *' Sir," said he, very sternly, '* I am not 
 in the habit of investigating the affairs of 
 others, and reasoning upon what they 
 do." " And yet, Sir," said Evans, " you 
 seem to know, as well as any body, what 
 was done by the ancients." 
 
 Here Jessica entered the room, and, 
 after apologizing for being ab^seiit at 
 dinner, said that her brother had called 
 upon her on business, and not fiudiug her 
 within, had refused to leave his name, 
 fearing that his sudden appearance might 
 cause her alarm on Mr. Hanbiuy's ac- 
 count, and his time being limited, he 
 would not disturb the party. 
 
 Compton darted a glance of contempt 
 at Evans, who blushed, and recollected 
 somcthiug which he had left in anotiier 
 room. 
 
The following day being fixed for their 
 return, Mrs, Ramsey proposed another 
 ramble, and the party set out. During 
 the walk, Compton found an opportunity 
 of detaching Jessica from the party, 
 ^nd repeated his proposals, which she 
 declined in the handsomest manner. 
 Whilst she expressed her gratitude for 
 the honour he had conferred on her, she 
 assured him that one circumstance could 
 alone encrease her sense of the compli- 
 ment he had paid her, his ceasing to per- 
 severe in attentions which must be equally 
 painful to them both. The party con- 
 tinued out till very late in the evening, 
 and had the mind of Jessica been suffi- 
 ciently composed — her heart sufficiently 
 at ease, to enter into their beauties, she 
 must have sensibly felt the sublimity of 
 the scenes around her, and shared in the 
 pleasure they were calculated to inspire; 
 but she w^s occupied in less pleasing 
 contemplations — her thoughts engrossed 
 by other subjects. 
 
60 
 
 She was happy in the idea of meeting 
 Mr. Hanbury again, but with what 
 sensations could she meet him; for tlie 
 first time since she had known liim she 
 was practising deception, and, though 
 her heart acquitted her of any intentional 
 wrong, and her motives for the con- 
 cealment were regard for his happiness, 
 yet she now felt so far from happiness 
 herself, that she deeply regretted her part 
 in the transaction : but it was too late, 
 the promise had been given, and she 
 must abide by it's consequences. 
 
 After a journey, which to her appeared 
 tedious, the party arrived at Oak Hanger 
 the following evening, where she took 
 her leave of them, and prepared for 
 her interview with Mr. Hanbury, whom 
 she learned was expected at home that 
 night. 
 
 Whilst she sat ruminating upon the 
 unpleasant event which had befiillen her 
 since his departure, she heard the sound 
 of a carriage in the court, and ran ou 
 
m 
 
 to welcome him ; in the uncertain 
 gleam, which twilight threw over the 
 surrounding objects, she did not per- 
 ceive the alteration which a few days 
 had made in his appearance. 
 
 After affectionately embracing her, 
 " Jessica," said Mr. Hanbury, *' I am 
 far from well, and I rejoice that you are 
 returned, for 1 much feared that I 
 should have arrived before you, and I 
 am anxious to hasten my departure 
 from hence." 
 
 *' I fear Sir," answered Jessica, " that 
 you have fatigued yourself in the 
 business on which you went ;" her voice 
 faltered, and when she thought of the 
 unworthiness of that object for whose 
 welfare he was thus kindly solicitous, 
 her heart sunk within her. 
 
 He bade her ring for candles, and she 
 had now an opportunity of observing 
 his emaciated looks; he saw her emo- 
 tion, and kindly taking her hand, he 
 said, ** do not distress yourself my love, 
 
(J2 
 
 I am more than satisfied, for I am 
 rendered liappy by the journey I have 
 taken, which, though it may liave added 
 to my bodily fatigue, has freed me 
 from much mental anxiety ; I am not 
 deceived- myself, Jessica, 1 would not 
 deceive you ; the time of my sojourn 
 here draws to a close ; I trust I have 
 left the affairs of your lirothcr, for the 
 short space that rem^ansof his minority, 
 in proper hands, and oh ! may his future 
 life, whilst it gives comfort to you, be 
 employed respectably to himself, and 
 lionourably to the memory of his dear 
 fither." 
 
 Here, overcome by the \iolence of 
 his emotion, Mr. Han bury paused ; the 
 feelings of Jessica at thlb moment were 
 too powerful for utterance, but she 
 would secretly have rejoiced, if joy 
 could have had any part in her reflections, 
 that he was ignorant of the recent 
 failure in the conduct of her brother ; 
 should he recover, thought she, and I 
 
63 
 
 am freed from my promise, I can then 
 reveal the truth ; but why should I add 
 to the weight of his sufferings, and 
 embitter his last days, by a disclosure 
 that can only prove unavailing to my- 
 self, and miserable to him ? 
 
 They soon after separated for the 
 night, and Jessica left alone to her 
 reflections, had leisure to survey the 
 past, and mournfully to anticipate the 
 future. Her life hitherto had been one 
 series of disquietude, and there was 
 no prospect, however remote, which 
 offered rest. Mr. Hanbury she had 
 relied upon, as her resource in every 
 difficulty, and felt for him the affection 
 €»f a daughter ; but hia health w^as.^ 
 visibly declining, and she dreaded to 
 think the time might soon arrive, when 
 she should mourn the departure of her 
 last and only surviving friend. 
 
 When they met in the morning, 
 lie remarked the dejection of her looks ; 
 " but," added he, *' I hope the change 
 
64 
 
 of scene will divert your mind, and 
 strengthen your spirits." 
 
 He asked her how she had passed her 
 time, (kiring* her excursion to the Lakes ; 
 she gave him an account of the party, 
 and expressed her wonder at the choice 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Ramsey, in the society 
 of Evans. *' It is not," said Mr. Han- 
 bury, " simply from choice, but greatly, 
 1 believe, through interested motives, 
 that they bear with the company of 
 that weak and vulgar young man. 
 
 IVIr. Ramsey is in the law, and Evans 
 is continually involved in law suits ; his 
 father was a merchant in this neighbour- 
 hood, very rich, but extremely weak in 
 intellect ; the former, he has made his 
 son, by becjueathing to him the whole of 
 his property ; in the latter he resembled 
 him by nature. Ikit, my dear, we can 
 seldom in this lii'e judge of the real 
 motives which induce connexions of 
 this kind, or how often interest forms 
 the onlv bond of union between man- 
 
kind. But were you not delighted 
 with the fine prospects you would see, 
 and astonished with the grandeur of the 
 scenery around the Lakes?" ** I was 
 indeed, Sir," replied Jessica, ** and 
 wished much for you;" he shook his 
 head, and sighing deeply, added, *' there 
 was a time when I could keenly feel, 
 and enthusiastically admire the beauties 
 pf nature ; the world was then opening 
 to my view, and I had only surveyed 
 the pleasing side of the prospect ; but 
 these moments with me, Jessica, have 
 passed away, and it is only for you, 
 who are in the dawning of youth, and 
 the vigor of hope, to enjoy scenes like 
 those. Contemplate them then, before 
 the cold blasts of disappointment, or 
 the lassitude of age, shall have robbed 
 them of their charms." 
 
 He then requested she would prepare 
 for their voyage, which he wished to 
 take place the following week, in order 
 to avoid the Equinox. 
 
66 
 
 He wrote to Cliarles, giving hini 
 some general advice as to his future 
 conduct, mentioning to him that he 
 had left his affairs in the hands of a 
 person on whom he could rely, and 
 conjuring him to be a friend and pro- 
 tector to his sister. 
 
 Having perfoiTned that duty, he went 
 out, accompanied by. Jessica, to take 
 leave of his parishioneirs ; it was a 
 painful task, and the sorrow which they 
 expressed, sensibly shocked his young 
 friend, as it evidently betrayed a fear 
 that they should see him no more. He 
 bore it however extremely well, and 
 shewed no signs of discomposure. " I 
 don't know how it is,' said he to Jessica, 
 as they sat after dinner, *' but 1 feel in 
 taking this voyage, as if I was return- 
 ing to my home, after a long absence ;'* 
 ** You have, tlien, been in France before," 
 said Jessica. '' Only in passing through 
 it," he replied. '' 1 understood from 
 my father," returned she, " that }ou 
 
m 
 
 had been a resident abroad." ** Yes, 
 added he, '^ my love, your father was 
 right, but it was in Italy, not in France, 
 where I passed my time;" he turned to 
 the window, and she saw the tears start 
 from his eyes; '^ beloved country," 
 sighed he, " I shall visit you no more." 
 
 He sat for some moments lost in 
 thought, and then conversed on other 
 subjects ; Jessica talked to him of the 
 pleasure she should experience from the 
 voyage, and they finally fixed their 
 departure for the following week. 
 
68 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ** Among these men, there is of the vociferation af 
 merriment, but very seldom the tranquillity of 
 cheerfulness ; they inflame their imaginations to 
 a kind of momentary jollity, by the help of 
 wine and riot, and consider it as the first business 
 of the night to stiipify recollection, and lay 
 that reason asleep which disturbs their gaiety, 
 
 ' and calls upon them to retreat Irom ruin." 
 
 Johnson. 
 
 After Charles had parted from his 
 sister, he began to feel some remorse at 
 his late conduct, but he \v as involved in 
 difficulties which she knew not of, and 
 from which she could not have extricated 
 him. His rooms in College were now 
 become a rendezvous for gamesters, and 
 at those meetings in which they daily 
 indulged, large sums of money had been 
 sacrificed -, and it was in one of these, 
 
69 
 
 when thrown off his guard by previous 
 intoxication, Charles had been swindled 
 out of the money for which he had ap- 
 plied to Jessica ; his friend, if their can 
 be any friendship amongst men of this 
 discription, had frequently supplied him 
 with small sums, which he had hitherto 
 regularly paid ; but conscious of the dis- 
 grace which must await them when these 
 meetings were discovered, Davenport 
 had quitted College, and entered into 
 a regiment that was quartered in the 
 neigbourhood. In the situation of 
 Charles Greville and Davenport, there 
 was a very essential diiference, the latter 
 being possesed of large property, and 
 having considerable estates in reversion, 
 whilst the fortune of the former, with- 
 out any expectancies, did not exceed 
 twelve thousand pounds. One valuable 
 estate of Mr. Greville's, on his death had 
 devolved to a distant branch of his 
 family, and the fortune which he had 
 been enabled to leave to his children. 
 
70 
 
 had clieifly arisen from his own occononiy. 
 Thus had Charles heen drawn into ex- 
 travagancies, by associating with those 
 who, only his equals in rank, were 
 superior to him in fortune ; and wouUl 
 Avhen the evil day arrived, no doubt, 
 leave him to lament alone the effects of 
 his folly. What, those were his inter- 
 view with the tutor on his return from 
 Cumberland proved ; who sent for him, 
 and, as the friend of Mr. Hanburv, ad- 
 vised him to leave the College, as the 
 late proceedings of the party were dis- 
 covered, and it would save him from 
 the odium which might, perhaps, here- 
 after attach to him on being expelled. 
 Charles now began seriously to reflect 
 on the enormity of his conduct, and had 
 a reformation followed his reflections, it 
 would have been well. He quitted the 
 College, and wrote to inform Davenport 
 of his situation, who promised, if he 
 would go to him, to procure a commis- 
 sion for him in the regiment of which 
 
71 
 
 his uncle had the command. Charles 
 accepted the offer, and having formed 
 new connections, new views, threw off 
 all remembrance of the past, and enter- 
 ed once more on his career of folly. 
 His sister, like his promises of amend- 
 ment, was totally forgotten, and when 
 he thought of Mr. Hanbury, it was 
 only to congratulate himself that he 
 was no longer subject to his power. 
 
CHArXER IX. 
 
 Tho purple morn that paints with sidelong gleam, 
 The cliffs tall crest, the waving woods that rin*, 
 
 With charm of birds rejoicing in the beam, 
 
 Touch soft the wakeful nerves according string. 
 
 Then at sad meditation's silent hour, 
 A thousand wishes steal upon the heart, 
 
 And, whilst they meekly bend to heaven's high 
 pow'r, 
 Ah ! think tis hard, 'tis surely hard to part. 
 
 To part from every hope that brought delight, 
 From those that lov'd them, those they lov'd so 
 much, 
 Then fancy swells the picture on the sight. 
 And softens evcrj scene at every touch. 
 
 Bowles. 
 
 Mr. Hanbury and Jessica in the 
 mean time had set out on their voyage, 
 and the hope of his ever returning grew 
 daily more feeble. They travelled by 
 easy stages till they reached iSouthamp- 
 
73 
 
 ton, whence they were to embark for 
 Montpelier. And had not the dechning 
 health of her friend preyed on her spirits, 
 and unfitted her for the reception of 
 such impressions, the heart of Jessica, 
 susceptible as it was of every refined 
 emotion, would have sensibly felt the 
 scenes around ; but she saw no object 
 with interest, save the emaciated form of 
 him whom she loved, and whom she per- 
 ceived she must soon lose sight of for 
 ever. 
 
 These were the moments in which 
 she was called upon to exercise that 
 fortitude which she had early acquired ; 
 it was not the strength of mind which, 
 hy modern philosophers, is called energy; 
 }ier's was a reliance on that Being who 
 orders all thin^-s. 
 
 She earnestly solicited Mr. Hanbury 
 to consult a physician before they em- 
 barked, and he sent for one who had 
 been previously recommended; Jessica 
 found him a sensible and unassuming* 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
74- 
 
 man, aiul wa."^ much consoled by hid 
 visit. 
 
 She entreated him to be candid v^itli 
 her, and tell her the extent of ^\ hat she 
 had to fear. He assured her that Mr. 
 Hanbury's complaint did not exhibit 
 any symptoms of immediate danger : 
 *' A winter in the south of France," said 
 he, " will at least prevent his disorder 
 from gaining ground, and the mild gales 
 of spring may do much towards hi8 
 restoration." 
 
 He offered his assistance in procuring 
 accomodations for their passage, in a 
 proper vessel ; an attention for which 
 Jessica felt very grateful. In the 
 evening he returned, and infurmcd her 
 that he had procured a passage for her- 
 self, Mr. llaiibury, and a servant, in ^ 
 vessel no\v^ lyi"n ^^^ ^^^^ harbour, ready 
 to sail with the first fair wind ; and 
 that the captains mate would come 
 down tlie following morning, and prepare 
 her for their departure. After shaking 
 
15 
 
 liands with Mr. Hanbiiiy and herself, 
 with all the cordiality of an old friend, 
 he took his leave of them. The next 
 morning, according to his promise, they 
 were waited on by a young man from 
 the ship, who informed them, that as the 
 wind now blew fair, they should sail ih 
 the course of two hours. 
 
 Jessica prevailed on Mr. Hanbury to 
 lie down and endeavour to get some rest, 
 whilst, assisted by his servant, she pre- 
 pared their luggage ; after which they 
 went down to the vessel, and found on 
 board two passengers, who were going, 
 like themselves, to a foreign clime, in 
 search of that health which had been 
 denied them in their own. 
 
 A young man, apparently in the last 
 stage of a consumption, was attended by 
 a very interesting and lovely woman, 
 whom Jessica now found was his wife. 
 
 The traces of melancholy were strona*- 
 ly impressed on her countenance, and 
 
 E 'X 
 
76 
 
 when Jessica, after the first sahitation 
 was over, had seated herself on deck 
 she tliought of those words of the 
 monk in Sterne's journey, *' No doubt 
 there is misery enough in every corner 
 of the world, as well as within our 
 convent."" 
 
 ** Won't you go into the cabin my 
 love," said the stranger to her husband ? 
 *' no," said he, '' Matilda, the air re- 
 freshes me, and I am better here ;" she 
 looked sorrowfully at Jessica, and, taking 
 his hand, seated herself in silence beside 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Ilanbury, sick and languid, had 
 retired to his cabin, whither Jessica 
 now followed him. 
 
 She remarked the interesting ap- 
 pearance of these young people, and 
 lamented that, in all human probability, 
 they would be soon separated, 
 
 ** It is a heavy calamity to have our 
 friends torn from us by the hand of 
 death," said she. '' It is indeed, Jessica/' 
 
replied Mr. Hanbury, " but it is luxury, 
 in comparison of what we feel when 
 they are estranged from us by their or 
 our unworthiness. Perliaps in the cata- 
 logue of human ills, there is no calamity 
 more difficult to endure, than the dis- 
 covery of ingratitude in that being on 
 whom we have placed our affection, 
 and with whom we have entrusted our 
 hope of happiness." 
 
 " It is a misfortune," said Jessica, 
 ** that I have hitherto escaped ;" '* and 
 may you never," added he, " from your 
 own experience, have cause to mourn its 
 effects. But, my love, you should offer 
 your scrvises to this young stranger, 
 who has no female with her, and you 
 will be a mutual comfort to each other 
 during the voyage." Jessica felt some 
 self reproach that she had not done it 
 before, and now went on deck for that 
 purpose. 
 
 " You are very kind," said the 
 stranger, *' and I shall not hesitate to 
 E 3 
 
avail m3'Self of the claim wliich your 
 goodness lias given me, should circum- 
 stances require it; at present my husband 
 is in his cabin, endeavouring to obtain 
 some rest; and society in my situation 
 is indeed a comfort." 
 
 Jessica now found that they were 
 Ijound for the same port with herself 
 and Ml. Ilanbury : " But you are not, 
 1 think," said she, " if I may judge 
 from your accent, a native of France?" 
 ** No," replied the lady, " I am an 
 English woman, if being born in that 
 country can give me any pretensions to 
 the title, though I have lately been a 
 citizen of the world, and have not long 
 ago returned from Ireland, where we 
 last resided. My husband, as you may 
 have perceived, is very ill, and our object 
 in this voyage is the restoration of his 
 health." ** And I hope," added Jessica, 
 ** that you will be amply repaid, by 
 witnessing his complete recovery." Siic 
 shook her head, and sighing replied, 
 
79 
 
 ** I am not very sanguine in my hopes 
 on that subject, but that may perhaps 
 arise from having so frequently ex- 
 perienced the fallacy of my wishes." 
 
 " Or rather," said Jessica, " your pre- 
 sent melancholy may proceed from 
 liaving parted with friends who are dear 
 to you ; under those circumstances, w^e 
 view our future prospects through a 
 gloomy medium :'* " Oh, no,'' she return- 
 ed, " that is not indeed the case;" and had 
 Jessica judged by the expression w^hich 
 her countenance in that sentence con- 
 veyed, she would have imagined that 
 she had been deserted by every friend. 
 It was now time to r-etire, as the shades 
 of night drew on. It was an evening 
 in which nature seemed serenely to 
 repose, the moon first rising appeared 
 faintly, throwing it's pale beams over 
 the surface of the water: and as Jessica 
 leaned over the side of the vessel, 
 pensively surveying the surrounding 
 scene, uninterrupted, sa\'e by the melan- 
 
80 
 
 choly note of a sailor, who, as he paced 
 the deck, was singing- a lament to liis 
 absent mistress, lier thouglits reverted 
 to the vicissitudes of life. *' It is in- 
 deed," said she, *' a varying picture, 
 and I fear that the dark lines of misery 
 compose it's prominent feature." 
 
 " This stranger, with wliomi have been 
 corversing, seems far from happy, and yet, 
 young as she is, I should hope tliat slie 
 cannot already have known misfortune." 
 
 The feelings of Jessica, had been 
 powerfully awakened, and she was 
 anxious to become acquainted with her 
 story. She now went down to Mr. 
 llanbury, whom she informed of the 
 result of her \ isit. He seemed happy 
 that she had met with such an acquisi- 
 tion i;i the young stranger, and expressed 
 a wish that she would in the morning in- 
 troduce him ; they now parted for the 
 night. 
 
 The following morning, when they 
 went on deck, they found the stranger 
 already there, and, after the usual saluta- 
 
91 
 
 tion had passed, Mr. Hanbuiy enquired 
 after her husband; she said he had passed 
 a disturbed night, but she hoped he had 
 now fallen asleep. ^' You must support 
 your spirits, my dear Madam," said he, 
 *^ and not by fruitless sorrow, which must 
 prey on your health, weaken your ca- 
 pacity to give assistance to the object of 
 your care." She thanked him for his at-- 
 tentions, and said she had felt particularly 
 grateful to Miss Greville for her visit 
 the preceding night. Mr Hanbury now 
 left them, and whilst he was engaged 
 with the captain, Jessica renewed her 
 conversation with the stranger. " Your 
 father," said she, turning to Jessica, 
 " seems in a very indiiferent state of 
 health :" " Mv. Hanbury," said Jessica, 
 " is indeed far from well ; but he is not 
 my father, nor am I so happy as to possess 
 a friend to whom I can attach that en- 
 dearing title;" when she said this she ob- 
 served the emotion of the stranger, who 
 e5 
 
82 
 
 exclaimed, *' God knows whether I have 
 a father hi existence, but why," clasping 
 her hands together, " should I wish him 
 to exist, perhaps in misery !" 
 
 " I fear," said Jessica, " that the sick- 
 ne ^s of your husband then, is not your 
 only cause of sorrow." *' No," said she, 
 " under that misfortune I trust I could 
 acquire resignation ; but my griefs are 
 of a nature as complicated, I hope a^ 
 uncommon, and whether I have any 
 excuse for sinking under their pressure, 
 may sad story will sufficiently evince."' 
 
83 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 She ceasM, and weeping turned away her head, 
 
 She wept as if she had no more to say 
 Of that perpetual weight, which on her spirit lay. 
 
 WoTyDSWORTH. 
 
 " My father was an officer in the 
 English service, and married when he 
 was very young. 
 
 *'The friends of my mother were rich 
 and powerful, but after her union with 
 him, their friendship seemed gradually 
 to decline, though her happiness suffered 
 no diminution. She was fondly beloved 
 by him ; and she merited his affection ; 
 for " she was all that the heart wishes, 
 or the ey.e looks for in woman." With- 
 in a few years of their marriage, his 
 regiment was ordered to America, 
 whither my mother accompanied him. 
 e6 
 
84 
 
 " My self and one brother were tlien 
 the only fruit of their union, but during 
 our residence abroad, they had an ad- 
 dition to their family of two daughters. 
 After some years absence, we returned 
 to England ; and until the period in 
 which I attained my eighteenth year, 
 perhaps no family ever exhibited a. more 
 perfect picture of domestic happiness 
 than was to be found within our little 
 circle. 
 
 " My brother was now advancing to 
 manhood ; he was the object of ovn 
 tenderest regard, the idol of his family, 
 and promised to repay^ by the propriety 
 and activity of his ccmduct, tlie anxiety 
 which my father had felt for him in 
 his earlier years. My father having 
 been advanced to the rank of Major, 
 purchased a house in the neighbourhood 
 of London, and my sisters were no\f' 
 sent to a sclu)ol at some distance. 
 
 " Soon after this period, my brother 
 expressed a desire to enter into the navy, 
 
§5 
 
 ^d was placed under the care of a 
 friend of my father's. When I look back 
 upon those days of happmess, and view, 
 in sad succession, " the miseries tliatone 
 by one I have endured/' my heart sinks 
 at the retrospect. IMy father came in 
 one morning after his walk, and ixh- 
 formed us that he had invited some 
 friends to dinner on that day ; that lie 
 was going to town, but expected to 
 return before five o'clock, at which hour 
 he had fixed to meet his company. 
 
 ^' The hour arrived, the party was as- 
 sembled, and we waited in momentary 
 expectation of my father's return. At 
 six o'clock, my mother became very 
 uneasy; he was in general extremely 
 punctual to his appointments, and she 
 wondered what circumstance could 
 possibly have detained him. His friends 
 jendeavoured to. calm her fears, by assur- 
 ing her that he had been prevented re- 
 turning from some cause, which he had 
 not on his leaving her foreseen ^ but, in 
 
86 
 
 despite of their endeavours to caln\ our 
 minds, it was evident that they partook 
 .of the apprehensions under wliich we 
 were sufferino^. At lcno;th they offered 
 their assistance to go in search of him; 
 it was kite in tlie evening, and they dis- 
 persed tliemselves d liferent ways. 
 
 " In two liours after their departure, 
 one of the officers arrived, and informed 
 us that he had heen unsuccessful in his 
 pursuit ; that he had made enquiries at 
 the houses of all my fathei's friends, 
 and at every place whither he had heen 
 accustomed to 0*0 ; that he liad traced 
 him to the liouse of a hanker, where he 
 was told that he had called in the morn- 
 ing ; hut that every effort to gain in- 
 telligence of him after that period had 
 proved unavailing. 
 
 " My mother was now in a state of mind 
 which admitted neither of reason or con- 
 solation ; she insisted upon setting out 
 for town, and, late as it was, we accom- 
 panied her in her unhappy search. 
 
87 
 
 We were then advised to insert a para- 
 graph in all the papers, mentioning the 
 circumstance, and offering a large re- 
 AV^ard ; but never, from that hour to this, 
 have any tidings reached us of my 
 poor father." Here, she paused, and 
 M^ept violently ; " but now," continued 
 she, " I must proceed to the events 
 which followed, for the measure of our 
 woe was not yet filled up. 
 
 "My sisters were sent for from the 
 school where they had been placed ; my 
 brother was abroad with his ship, and my 
 mother now appeared almost broken 
 hearted. None but those who have ex- 
 perienced the agonies of suspence, and 
 suspence too of the most dreadful kind, 
 can form an adequate idea of her suf- 
 ferin2:s. 
 
 " The most consoling thought which 
 could present itself in moments like 
 these, was that of my father's death : 
 that event, on which so many mourn, 
 would have been to her a cause of re- 
 joicing; but she was doomed to drag 
 
86 
 
 on a comfortless existence, without one 
 ray of hope. From my father's com- 
 mission, under these sad circumstances, 
 we could derive no pecuniary benefit, 
 and our situation was now comparative 
 poverty. We parted with our hou;se, 
 and took a retired lodging in a neigh- 
 bouring village, where my mother's 
 bodily health seemed hourly to decline. 
 ** To those who murmur at the com- 
 mon evils of life, and sink under their 
 trifling disappointments, the conduct of 
 my mother, under her severe trials, 
 affords an example worthy of imitation; 
 but hcr's was a rare character, and I 
 should fail in an attempt to do justice 
 to her virtuesv 
 
 *' My brother had now returned to Eng- 
 land, where the sad story of our sorrows 
 awaited liim : he hastened to us, and if 
 any thing could have imparted pleasure 
 to my mother, his aflfectionatc attentions 
 would have done so ; but, in her Uicera- 
 
89 
 
 ted heart, the springs of joy were dried 
 up for ever. 
 
 " Oh God ! how shall I tell the sequel 
 of her sufferings ! He left us to join his 
 ship, which was stationed at the Nore : 
 the mutin}^ broke out, and, in his attempts 
 to quell it, he was one of those who fell 
 a victim." She stopped, and her agitation 
 was so violent, that Jessica requested 
 she would defer her recital to some other 
 period. ^' No," added she, " I am com- 
 ing to that crisis, in which I seemed to 
 have arrived at the acme of human 
 misery. The sad news reached us, and 
 from that period my mother's senses 
 were deranged ; but it was surely in 
 mercy to her sufferings, that the power 
 of feeling was thus denied. 
 
 *^ She survived not many weeks, and it 
 would have been selfish to have sorrow- 
 ed at her death : I loved her in a degree 
 which I believe few have felt, and, in 
 losing her, I seemed to have lost all that 
 could render life desirable. 
 
90 
 
 *' The world appeared, to in\' saddened 
 view, one vast desart, where there was 
 no liiiman being who regarded my sor- 
 rows, or interested tliemsclves in my 
 fate ; and I have frequently prayed, in 
 moments hkc these, tl)at the grave might 
 receive me. But I had duties to per- 
 fomi, which, after the ftr^t sliock liad 
 subsided, I felt called upofttp: attend to. 
 My sisters I regarded as a sacred relick 
 now consigned to my protection. 
 
 ** I wrote to a relation of my mother's, 
 intimating to her tlie situation in which 
 they were left; and she offered to re- 
 ceive them. She was not exactlv the 
 the person with whom, under other cir- 
 custances, I should have placed them ; 
 but I had now no alternative ; our pro- 
 perty was nearly exhausted; they had 
 no means of earning their support, and 
 my exertions were too feeble to assist 
 us all. 
 
 *' I obtained for myself, after I had re- 
 signed them to my aunts protect i(jij, a 
 
91 
 
 situation as governess in a family, whose 
 kindness was a consolation to me under 
 my misfortunes. I remained with my 
 friends some years : it was under their 
 roof, that I first met with Mr. Baniford, 
 and soon after we were married. 
 
 '' The accounts which I had received 
 from my sisters had been very satisfactory ; 
 but they lately had ceased to write; 
 and becoming uneasy at their silence, 
 I wrote to my aunt, informing her of 
 my union, and my wish of receiving 
 one of my sisters. 
 
 ** Aletter soon after this period arrived ; 
 it was from the elder of my sisters, 
 saying, that she had placed herself and 
 Mary in a situation, in which she ti visted 
 they would be enabled to earn a subsis- 
 tence. " My aunt," said she, '' must 
 very justly have conceived, that we 
 were now of an age to exert ourselves ? 
 and I determined to make the attempt, 
 which has hitherto succeeded. 
 
 *' I rejoice, my dear sister, to licar of 
 
92 
 
 your welfare, aiui though 1 feci very 
 grateful to you for your kind offers of 
 protection, I could not, consistently with 
 my present sentiments, accept of them, 
 or bear to become a burthen on your- 
 self and your husband. I have been 
 early led to consider independence, 
 when honourably procured, one great 
 blessing of life, and if the circumstances 
 which led me to seek it had been less 
 sorrowful than they were, I should have 
 almost rejoiced in the necessit3\" 
 
 " i\Ir. Bamford was much pleased with 
 the tenor of this letter, and proposed 
 that we should go over to Dublin to see 
 them ; and as his health, from the period 
 of our first acquaintance, had been far 
 from strong, I trusted to change of air 
 for his recovery. But after passing 
 some weeks in Dublin, where we daily 
 saw my sisters, who were comfortably 
 and respectably settled as milliners, we 
 were advised by the faculty to make 
 trial of a southern climate ; and my 
 
9S 
 
 hopes, feeble as they are," added she, 
 burstmg into tears, *' now rest solely on 
 this voyage." Jessica was much affect- 
 ed on beholding her emotion. " You 
 have indeed," said she, " experienced 
 severe misfortunes, and yet even in 
 your sad story you have cause of thank- 
 fulness. The amiable conduct of your 
 sisters must be a lively source of satis- 
 faction, and the society and attentions 
 of vour husband a real comfort." 
 
 Here Mr. Bamford and Mr. Hanbury 
 joined them, and the conversation took 
 a more general turn. Jessica found 
 Mr. Bamford sensible, polite and un- 
 assuming; he gave her an animated de- 
 scription of the country around Mont- 
 pcUier, where he had before for a short 
 time resided. 
 
 They soon after separated. 
 
94 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 For other secret grief had he ; 
 Oh ! pillow only knovra to thee. 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 " I liave been listening to a very 
 interesting, tliougli calamitous tale," 
 said Jessica, when seated in the cabin 
 with Mr. Ilanbury, ^' we knew not, Sir, 
 when we remarked the melancholy ap- 
 pearance of the young stranger, how 
 nnich cause of sorrow slie had ex- 
 perienced." 
 
 '^ I am sorry," replied he, " that so 
 young, she should ahcady have reason 
 to lament the misfortunes of life; for 
 it is only, I believe, froui the experience 
 of aire that we are taudit to form a 
 just estimate of that country, through 
 
95 
 
 w-^liich we are destined to travel ; in 
 general we set out with imperfect no- 
 tions, and false ideas of the persons 
 with whom we are to associate, and when 
 frequent disappointment has led to dis- 
 gust, we sit down to snarl at our fellow 
 creatures; forgetting that the cause of 
 our discontent has originated with our- 
 selves; though, I believe that there is 
 much good in the world, and that there 
 are good people; yet that it has been 
 my fate to frequently mix with the bad, 
 is at once my misfortune and my re- 
 
 " But," interrupted Jessica, " her suf- 
 ferings. Sir, do not seem to have arisen 
 from the vices, or weaknesses of those 
 around her; but rather from calamities 
 more severe than those which occur in 
 the ordinary lot of humanity." She 
 then told Mr. Hanbury the story she had 
 just heard. 
 
 " It is indeed," said he, "a tale of 
 sorrow, and her situation peculiarly 
 
96 
 
 demands, not only the consolations, but 
 the active services of friendship.'* 
 
 Jessica was much cheered by the 
 amendment of M\\ Hanbury's health, 
 for she fancied him already improved by 
 the voyage. They frequently passed 
 whole hours on the deck with their new 
 friends; and Mr. Hanbury sometimes 
 smiled at Jessica, w^hen she talked with all 
 that enthusiasm so natural to youth, of 
 their amiable qualities, and the enjoyment 
 she should derive from their society, 
 Avhen they arrived at Montpclier. 
 
 Thus in her virtuous exertions to 
 amuse them, and her filial attentions to 
 Mr. Hanbury, passed another week of 
 their voyage. 
 
 As she contemplated with rapture 
 the ohjects towards which they were 
 gradually approachino-, a new source of 
 gratification arose to Jessica; it was now 
 the latter end of autumn, and as they 
 julvanced nearer the shore, she observed, 
 with tlie admiration of a painter, the 
 
97 
 
 many coloured tints of the surrounding 
 scenery. 
 
 The time of the vintage was already 
 passed, and the woods which she saw at 
 a distance seemed to be losing their 
 foliage ; but the thought of being so 
 near the termination of her voyage, 
 which circumstance would afford rest to 
 Mr. Hanbury, repaid her for every pre- 
 vious anxiety. " When we return to 
 England,'' said she, " he will, I trust, 
 be restored to the perfect enjoyment of 
 health; and with what gratitude shall 
 I, for the remainder of my life, dwell on 
 the remembrance of this voyage." 
 
 In a very few daj's after they arrived 
 at Montpelier, and took a small house 
 in if s environs, for the winter months. 
 Jessica wandered through the delightftil 
 scenes, which she had so often anticipa- 
 ted, with her friend Matilda, whenever 
 the latter could be prevailed on to leave 
 her husband ; and, but for the anxiety 
 which she sometimes felt on her brother's 
 yoL. I. F 
 
9S 
 
 account, Jessica had now au \\i>>h un- 
 gratilied. 
 
 From him she had hccn separated 
 nearly two months, and though she 
 had written to liim of Mr. Ilanbury's 
 intention of leaving England, and named 
 the place of their destination, not a 
 line in reply liad yet reached her. Mr. 
 Hanbury had once expressed his sur- 
 prise at this circumstance ; and his 
 having lately ceased to mention the 
 subject, led her to imagine that it arose 
 from a fear of adding to her anxiety. 
 
 She wrote to Charles, by a packet that 
 was sailing for England, and expressed 
 her uneasiness at his long silence. But 
 week after week elapsed, and her letter 
 remained unnoticed. 
 
 Mr. llanbury's health, now appeared 
 to be daily recovering, and she tla tiered 
 herself that they would soon be enabled 
 to return to England ; but she remarked 
 his dejection of muid, which appeared 
 to cncrease with his returning health : 
 
^9 
 
 a circumstance which called forth her 
 regret, and awakened her surprise. He 
 often wandered alone for hours, and in 
 these walks never expressed a wish that 
 she should accompany him ; though his 
 attachment to hei* had evidently become 
 stronger since their arrival in France. 
 
 She had been visited by a few families 
 at the place, but Mr. Hanbury's present 
 situation, and his appearent dislike to 
 mix in society, had prevented her cul- 
 tivating that which had been offered. 
 
 " Why, my dear Jessica," said he one 
 day to her, " do you refuse to enter into 
 company? the manners of the people 
 here, would afford you anmsement from 
 their novelty ; and it is at all times an 
 advantage for young people to mingle 
 with tlie world." 
 
 " I declined it," replied she, " because I 
 perceived that you, Sir, derive no plea- 
 sure from it." 
 
 " It is true," intermpted he, " that 
 society has for me lost great part of it's 
 f2 
 
100 
 
 attraction ; but we are very differently 
 situated. Youth is the season for active 
 enjoyment : age is only fitted for calm 
 repose ; and after the storms which I 
 have encountered, I may be allowed, 
 my young friend, to rest my shattered 
 bark in that harbour, where quiet is most 
 easily attained. 
 
 " I promised, previous to our quitting 
 England, that I would some time relate 
 to you the history of my past life, tlie, 
 present time seems favourable to my pur^ 
 pose. You have yet formed no material 
 connection in life, no attachment ou 
 which your happiness is dependent ; 
 learn then, Jessica, from my sad narrative, 
 to be cautious how you commit your 
 peace, and rest your hopes of comfort 
 on the fallibility of man.'* 
 
101 
 
 <:hapter xil 
 
 liermia, for aught that I could ever hear, or read 
 
 m tale or history, 
 The course of true love never did run smooth, 
 For cither it was different in blood, 
 Or else misgrafted in respect of years, 
 Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, 
 Or if there was a sympathy in both, 
 Death, war, or sickness, did lay siege to it» 
 
 SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 *' I am by birth an Englishman, and 
 descended from an ancient family ; my 
 father, to all the pride of rank united 
 strong national prejudices. 
 
 " He was austere, and unbending in 
 
 his manners, though his notions of 
 
 honour were of the most exalted nature^ 
 
 and he possesed many of the virtues 
 
 hat dignify humanity : in his religious 
 
 f3 
 
102 
 
 tenets strongly bigoted, he seemed im- 
 presjied with an idea that oveiy thing 
 good ami great were concentrated in a 
 protestant and an Englishman. From 
 these prejudices I owe, in a consi(leral)ie 
 degree, the subsequent miseries that 
 have befallen me. 
 
 ** My mother was one of tlie most 
 exalted characters I ever met with ; to 
 all the charms of feeling she added the 
 clearest powers of reasoning, and to 
 manners the most soft an elegant, a 
 strictness of jji inciple the most rigid : 
 ** open as day to melting charity," her 
 benevolence diffused itself throuoh the 
 mansions of penury. None were too 
 obscure to escape her observation, and 
 her eye, ever intent on human misery, 
 penetrated into every recess where pain 
 or sorrow dwelt. 
 
 "If any thing could have subdued the 
 prejudices of my father, or softened tho 
 austerity of his manners, the society of 
 this incomparable woman would have 
 
103 
 
 efFccteclthe change. But that the opinions 
 he licld were tliose in which he had been 
 educated, and were too deeply implanted 
 for any human power to eradicate them. 
 In the education of his i^imily, whicU 
 consisted of myself and a younger 
 brother, he w^as particularly scrupulous 
 in selecting, as tutors, those who, capable 
 of instructing us in every branch of 
 science, would yield implicitly to his 
 opinions in those points with which 
 our interests were more pavticulaily con- 
 nected. 
 
 " But for the antidote which my 
 mother's conversation offered, I should 
 have become prejudiced, bigotted, and 
 illil)eral ; however unamiable are these 
 traits of character, it might have proved 
 happier for me had they influenced my 
 conduct. 
 
 " Before I had reached mv eiohteenth 
 
 year, this excellent woman was torn from 
 
 us ; her decline was gradual, and her 
 
 iitate of mind, under its effects, was trulj 
 
 ^4 
 
104 
 
 to be envied ; she lookeil back on the 
 retrospect of a well spent lite, and saw 
 the future beaming with the brightest 
 hopes of felicity. 
 
 " After her death, which was the 
 heaviest calamit}' I had then experienced, 
 my brother was sent from home to com- 
 plete his studies, and I remained with, 
 my father. 
 
 '' G rief has various effects upon the dif- 
 ferent minds of those who suffer from it« 
 power, and tliat which would have soften- 
 ed the disposition of some, and rendered 
 them more susceptible of feeling, ap- 
 peared to have made my father's colder 
 and more insensible. 
 
 " I had been early accustomed to the 
 society of my mother, whose life had 
 so strongly evinced the value of those 
 liberal doctiines she professed ; and 1 
 could not now even alfect (in conformity 
 to the opinions of any one) to embrace 
 others from which my principles re- 
 volted. 
 
 *' jMy father and I had various ar- 
 
105 
 
 gunients, and tliey usually terminated in 
 anger: my brother soon after this period 
 returned, and I solicited my father, as 
 he had now a companion, to allow of 
 my taking the tour of Europe. 
 
 *' To this plan he would not most 
 probably have consented, but in the 
 hope that I should return dissatisfied 
 with every nation but my own. Alas! 
 how contrary to his expectations were 
 rlie feelings with which I viewed, after 
 an absence of nearly three years, that 
 country which gave me birth. 
 - *• I had letters of recommendation to 
 several families on the continent, and 
 to some persons of the first rank ; and I 
 set out with those sanguine hopes of 
 amusement, which the mind in youth is 
 apt to indulge. 
 
 *^ Accustomed to lead a life of com- 
 parative seclusion, my notions of man- 
 kind had been founded on theory : the 
 time had now arrived when, in an un- 
 f5 
 
106 
 
 restrained intercourse with tlie workl^ 
 I was to judge of it by a fairer test. 
 
 ** Fortunate would it have proved 
 for me, if experience had not robbed 
 me of the dekision which I had hitherto 
 cherished. 
 
 *' The companion of my travels was a 
 friend of my father's, wlio acted in the 
 capacity of tutor to myself and my 
 brother. 
 
 *' We had travelled through France, 
 and visited every part of that kingdom 
 to which strano'crs usuallv direct their 
 attention ; but 1 was anxious to return 
 by way of Italy, in order to visit a 
 French family, friends of ours, tlien 
 resident in Naples. On my arrival in 
 tliat city, 1 found them at a villa in the 
 suburbs of that place, to v/hicli they 
 usually retired in the summer months, 
 but they soon after returned to Naples, 
 whither, as I had now become a resident 
 in their house, I accompanied them. 
 
 '' The season was far advanced, ami 
 
10? 
 
 rtiey had commenced their amusements 
 for the winter. One evening the Mar- 
 chioness proposed that I should accom- 
 pany her to an assembly at the house of 
 one of her particular friends. My im- 
 perfect knowledge of the language of 
 that country made me anxious to avoid 
 the society of strangers, but I sometimes 
 found it impossible to refuse the invita- 
 tions which were offered me. 
 
 " On our entrance into the room, 
 which was crowded with company, and 
 brilliantly lighted, I was presented to 
 the lady of the house, and that attention 
 which the English so generally meet Math 
 abroad was paid to me. Amongst the 
 group of females who were assembled, 
 my attention was instantly attracted by 
 one who seemed to command universal 
 admiration by the elegance of her ap- 
 pearance : perhaps you are not acquaint- 
 ed with that dignified stile of Italian 
 beauty, which she possessed in so eminent 
 a degree : her large dark^eyes, beaming 
 
 t6 
 
108 
 
 sensibility and sweetness, and shaded 
 by long silken lashes, her pensive counte- 
 nance, joined to a fonn elegant and 
 commanding, seemed all coml^ined to 
 render her fascinating. 
 
 *^ In the course of the evening I was 
 introduced to Celestina, and I found 
 that her mind did not disgrace its beauti- 
 ful temple. 
 
 *• On our return I made various en- 
 quiries respeccing her, and the Alar- 
 chioness informed me that she was the 
 daughter of a man of some consequence 
 in Naples, " but tlieir fortunes," con- 
 tinued she, " are declining, and she will, 
 I suppose, become a victim at the altar of 
 family aggranchzcmcnt.'' 
 
 '* It is common in this country for 
 families to sacrifice some of their mem- 
 bers, for the sake of encreasing the for- 
 tunes of the rest. Tliis is fre{|uently 
 done, by uniting them where wealtli is 
 the grand object, and afiection has no 
 share, and to this circumstance, the 
 jealousy of tlie Italians may, perliaps. 
 
109 
 
 In part be owing ; for if they reject this 
 alternative, they must retire to a convent 
 for the remainder of their days, and 
 there, perhaps, drag on a tedious and 
 cheerless existence." 
 
 *' And is this beautiful young woman,*' 
 I replied, ** to experience such a fate ? 
 can her family be sufficiently cruel to 
 immolate the happiness of so lovely a 
 creature, on principles so mercenary ?" 
 '' I know," said the Marchioness, '^ that 
 she has been been addressed by a man 
 who is every way hateful to her, she is 
 too virtuous to marry without affection, 
 and will in all probability take the veil. 
 
 ''But you seem particularly interested," 
 added she, " in her concerns, and she is 
 one of my intimate friends. To-morrow, 
 if you please, wc will call upon her, and 
 you will have a better opportunity of 
 forming your opinion, than the short 
 interview of this evening afforded you. 
 
 " The following day the ]\Iarchioness 
 took me to the house of Cclestinas 
 
no 
 
 father, and if I liad before only felt the 
 sentiments of pity for her situation, and 
 admiration of her beauty, those Averc 
 certainly now heightened into esteem. 
 
 '^ ■My friend is anxious to cnltivate 
 your acquaintance," said the Marchioness, 
 as she presented me to her, " and I have 
 promised that you will instruct him in 
 Italian:" ''It is a task,'' said she blushing, 
 •* that you might well have spared me, 
 for I feel very une(jual to the under- 
 taking, and I fear if the signor relics ou 
 my powers, he will leave Italy impressed 
 only with an idea of the poverty of it'^ 
 lan2;uaiTe.'' 
 
 *' I assured her tliat she would make 
 me happy by allowing mc to try the 
 experiment, and if," added I, '* I can meet 
 w ith happiness on the road to knowledge, 
 it is at least worth while to make the 
 attempt." 
 
 '* From tbat day I was constantly in 
 Celestina's society ;- she frecpiently visit- 
 ed the ]\Iarcluon«iss, and I accompanied 
 
Ill 
 
 her in all her walks ; I frequently ob- 
 served, and with severe anxiety, the 
 dejection under which she appeared to 
 labour ; but as she never adverted to the 
 cause, I could only feel in silence. 
 
 ^' Her brothers were at this period 
 abroad, and with her father, proud, sus- 
 picious, and apparently unfeeling, I dis* 
 liked too much to associate, except when 
 unavoidable circumstances drew us to- 
 gether. 
 
 " Her mother had died some years 
 before, and to the sorrow she liad felt 
 on that event, I sometimes attributed, 
 in part, the melancholy which tinctured 
 her mind, 
 
 " At this period Mi\ Mortimer had 
 letters from England, mentioning the 
 declining state of my father's health. 
 
 '* From the time that I quitted that 
 country, my brother had only once 
 written to me, or in any manner noticed 
 the receipt of my letters : I was much 
 
1I£ 
 
 hurt at this appearance of ingratitude, 
 and neglect. 
 
 *' I now wrote to him, and couched my 
 letter not in the temis of reproach that 
 liis conduct certainly merited, but witli 
 the affection of a brother. 
 
 '' I mentioned Celestina, and dii>- 
 canted waimly on her virtues, but I un- 
 fortunately adverted to her religious 
 persuasions ,• thus in an unguarded mo- 
 ment, and in the warmth of feeling, 
 I prepared for myself whole years of 
 misery. 
 
 ** Some time elapsed, and no reply 
 to my letter had yet reached me : my 
 anxiety augmented, and my fears for 
 my father's health encreased to a degree 
 of torture. I at length formed tlic 
 resolution of going over to England, 
 but the reluctance with which I yielded 
 to the idea revealed the secret of my 
 heart, and discovered those sentiments 
 which 1 had eudeavouicd to conceal 
 even from juyself ; and I now, for the 
 
J13 
 
 first time, became sensible of the extent 
 of my passion for Celestina. 
 
 " But there were obstacles too in- 
 surmountable to be passed. She was a 
 foreigner and a Catholic, and I must re- 
 solve either to renounce my father, or 
 my affection ; for had she united every 
 thing else Avhich could have gratified 
 ambition, or rendered the idea of our 
 union delightful, those were circum- 
 stances that must for ever prove a barrier 
 to my wishes; the sentiments that I 
 entertained for her I determined should 
 never stray beyond my own bosom, and 
 I resolved, by tearing myself from her 
 society, to endeavour to forget her. 
 
lU 
 
 CIIAPTEll XIII. 
 
 .vfv lovcisstrrnnthcii'djtlioiii^h more weak in socming* 
 1 lovo not less, though less tl>c shew appear : 
 
 That l»>v<' is int'i( liandi/M whos.' rich esteeming 
 The oNMicr's tongue dotli publish every where. 
 
 SlJAK£8P£AR£. 
 
 " On the following day, when I met 
 the Marchioness at breakfast, I men- 
 tioned to her niv intention of returninsr 
 to England, in consecjuence of my fa- 
 ther's declining licalth. She approved 
 my resolution, and applauded so very 
 warmly the motive for my return, that 
 I now suspected she had penetrated my 
 sentiments with regard to her friend. 
 
 " After forming this resolution I found 
 it necessary to put it in practice as soon 
 as I could quit Naples ; but 1 could not 
 
115 
 
 bear the idea of doing that without 
 bidding farewcl to Cclestina. 
 
 " It was now the return of suninier, 
 and she was in the country : I rode over 
 in the evening of that day, and was in- 
 formed by the servant, on enquiring for 
 her, that she was at home, but much 
 indisposed. 
 
 *^ I sent in my name, and was shewn 
 into the apartment w here she usually 
 sat ; in a few minutes she entered the 
 room, when I was shocked at beholding 
 the alteration in her looks. 
 
 '' She had lost much of that bloora 
 -which I had so frequently admired, and 
 the lustre of her fine eyes was totally 
 gone ; she approached me with a melan- 
 choly smile, and liolding out her hand> 
 *^ I thought," said she, " Signor, that 
 you had deserted your friend, but I am 
 learning the hard task of enduring neg- 
 lect without repining, since it has been 
 my sad fate through life to experience it 
 
116 
 
 most from those whose friendsliip I par- 
 ticularly valued." 
 
 " I endeavoured to account for my ab- 
 sence, but I found how much I failed 
 in the attempt ; her altered appearance 
 had greatly depressed me, and the pur- 
 port of my visit wrung my heart to 
 agony : my fortitude was completely 
 shaken ; I made an effort to speak, but 
 my voice became tremulous, and I was 
 obliged to pause. 
 
 " I should have availed mvself." at 
 length I replied, *' of the permission 
 which you so kindly gave me, of visiting 
 you in your retirement ; but my mind has 
 lately been much agitated in consequence 
 of the intelligence which has reached me 
 of my father's declining health. 
 
 " Our enjoyments in this life are fleet- 
 ing and uncertain ; and amongst the 
 highest and most refined which I have 
 ever known, I rank your society; and 
 the moment in which 1 must tear myself 
 from it is, perhaps, that in which I have 
 
117 
 
 most fully estimated its value. But 
 imperious necessity commands me to 
 return to my own country, and I must 
 submit. 
 
 *' I now felt the little resolution which 
 I had acquired at the beginning of this 
 sentence had totally failed me. I stopt 
 in excessive agitation: I ventured for 
 the first time to raise my eyes from the 
 ground : I darted one glance at Celestina, 
 and the expression of her countenance 
 revealed to me that I was beloved. 
 
 ** She attempted to speak, she uttered 
 something of her wishes for my hap- 
 piness, her remembrance of my friend- 
 ship. It was too much ; my own feel- 
 ings I could have enduieci, but to leave 
 her under a conviction of her affection 
 for me ; to leave her unhappy, and 
 perhaps for ever, whilst my own heart 
 was writhing with agony, oh no, it was 
 impossible I All the prejudices of my 
 father were in that moment forgotten. 
 
lis 
 
 I threw myself at her feet, and dcclarcfi 
 to her the extent of my attaeliment. 
 
 " Suffer me then/' said I, " in quit- 
 ting you, to indulge the fond hope, that 
 you will sometimes think of your absent 
 friend ; that you will preserve for me 
 inviolate that esteem of whieh I proudly 
 acknowledge myself possessed. I re- 
 turn to my own country to reveal to my 
 father the extent of my passion, and 
 when fortune shall permit me to revisit 
 you, allow me to console myself with 
 the hope that you will be mine." 
 
 " No, Signor," she replied ; " my 
 resrard for you is of a nature too disin- 
 terestcd to involve you in misery. You 
 have spoken frecjuently of the unal- 
 terable opinions of your father ; and 
 Mr. Mortimer has freely descanted on 
 his national and religious prejudices. 
 
 " My country and my faith alike ex- 
 clude me from his favour ; hut if the as- 
 surance of my firm regard, my unchang- 
 ing esteem, can add toyoiu' happhicss, you 
 
119 
 
 ^ ill return to England impressed with a 
 conviction that no circumstances can 
 alter my heart or banish you from 
 my remembrance. I entreated that she 
 would allow me a hope, however distant, 
 that should I succeed in subduing the 
 prejudices of my father, she would con- 
 sent to our union. 
 
 •' I spoke of my future prospects, and 
 painted our felicity in the glowing co- 
 lours of hope. I requested that she 
 would allow me to see her again prior 
 to my quitting Naples, and in this she 
 acquiesced. 
 
 *' When I arrived at the Marquis's I 
 enquired for the family. I was informed 
 that the Marchioness and Mr. Mortimer 
 were gone out, but that the Marquis wa.s 
 alone in his study. Regardless of form, 
 I entered it without announcing my 
 name, and found him writing. 
 
 " I informed him where I had passed 
 the evening, and gave him a particular 
 account of my interview with Celestina. 
 
120 
 
 ** You have a powerful rival," said lie 
 ^' in the Conte, who, for some consi- 
 derable time, has paid his addresses to 
 her, and to whom the obligations of her 
 father are very great. You may, how- 
 ever, rely on my friendship, and rest 
 assured that I will exert my interest in 
 your cause." 
 
 *' Soon after the Marchioness and ^Ir. 
 Mortimer entered, and I expressed my 
 w^onder at the silence of my brother, 
 respecting my father's health. 
 
 *' Perhaps, "said Mr. Mortimer, *'youare 
 sparing in your communications to him, 
 or he may suppose that you are absorbed 
 by other and nearer interests at present.*' 
 *' Do you think then,'' said I, ** that 
 the health of a ])arent is so trifling a 
 consideration as to excite no solicitude 
 in the mind of an absent son ? ** When 
 that son" said he, " ceases to regard the 
 opini(»ns of his father, it is a natural 
 conclusion his aticction has declined 
 
HI 
 
 also I iVlt too much contempt to reply: 
 we soon after separated. 
 
 *' When left alone this unpleasant sub- 
 ject again recurred to my thoughts; 
 I knew that my brother had frequently 
 written to Mr. Mortimer, for it was only 
 through the medium of their commu- 
 nications that I had become acquainted 
 with any event subsequent to my depar- 
 ture. 
 
 " I was now convinced that he suspected 
 my attachment to Celestina, and the 
 manner in which he had treated the 
 subject prevented my addressing him 
 openly upon it, 
 
 " 1 was more than ever anxious to re- 
 turn to England ; and when I met witli 
 the Marquis the following morning I 
 spoke to him of my intention, and con- 
 sulted with him as to the most proper 
 manner of avowliig to the Signor my 
 affection for his daughter. 
 
 " I do not approve of any present dis- 
 closure," said the Marquis; "for should he 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
122 
 
 consent to or even approve your union, 
 which I much doubt, though your for- 
 tune will in all probability exceed that 
 of the Conte, yet I suspect he is bound 
 to him by a previous treaty, and if the 
 objections of your father prove insur- 
 mountable, I know too much of the 
 character of the Signor to hope that he 
 would consent to your union; and in 
 that case the misery of Celestina 
 would in all probability be accele- 
 Icrated by an immediate marriage with 
 ih ' Conte. 
 
 *' If you will leave this j^art of the 
 affair to me, I will endeavour, in your 
 absence, to influence the mind of the 
 Signor in your favour. 
 
 " Your intention of returning to Eng- 
 land 1 approve, and be assured I will 
 not fail one moment to inform you of 
 any thing which may in any way affect 
 you iiitcrest or happiness." I expressed 
 my gratitude for this w^armth of friend- 
 ship in my behalf; and, after promising 
 
125 
 
 him my correspondence, I fixed my de- 
 parture for the following day. 
 . '* In the afternoon I wrote to Celestina, 
 requesting her permission to visit her on 
 tliat evening. I found her much agitated 
 at the thoughts of our approaching sepa- 
 ration. I used every argument which I 
 was capahle of suggesting to calm her 
 apprehensions. " I feel a sad fore- 
 hoding," said she, " that we shall meet 
 no more f and presenting me with her 
 picture, " take this," continued she, 
 " and may it prove a solace to you in 
 those hours of solitude and absence, 
 whicli you will soon endure." " I re- 
 ceive it," I replied, '^ as a pledge of your 
 aii'cction ; it v/ill be a talisman to restrain 
 me from error, and a consolation amid;^t 
 all the calamities that may befal n:^)» 
 But whilst the remembrance of your 
 virtues lives in my heart, what charm 
 is necessary to animate my exertions?" 
 
 '' I solicited that she would receive my 
 letters, and permit me to hope that 
 
she would sometimes write to me in 
 reply. 
 
 "Andwhen/'addedl/'Isliallbeenablcd 
 to revisit this beloved country, oh may 
 I find you yet unchanged in your affec- 
 tion for your friend." — Here Mr. Hanbury 
 paused, and his agitation was so exces- 
 sive that Jessica entreated him to defer 
 his story. 
 
 '^ The evening was now far advanced," 
 continued he, " and I arose to depart. 
 I lingered long on the spot which con- 
 tained all that I held dear, before I 
 could summon fortitude to tear myself 
 from her. At last I took her hand, and 
 bathing it with tears, entreated her to 
 cherish my remembrance; and, hurrying 
 «from the house, pursued my way to the 
 'Marquis's. — When I arrived there I found 
 a party of friends assembled at supper : 
 my agitated manner and hurried looks 
 seemea do have struck the Marchioness, 
 lor I saw her look particularly at her 
 husband on vny entering the room. 
 
\9.5 
 
 '' During the evening I recollected my- 
 self sufficiently to speak of my intended 
 voyage, and of the grateful sense I enter- 
 t.iined of the hospitality I had met 
 ^vith, and my hope of returning at some 
 future period to Italy. J mentioned to 
 Mr. Mortimer my wish to leave Naples 
 early the following morning. 
 
 *• As I was unwilling to disturb the 
 ^Marquis at an hour in which he was not 
 accustomed to rise, previous to my re- 
 tiring, after the company had withdrawn, 
 I went up to his dressing-room, to bid 
 the Marchioness and himself farewel. 
 He took my hand, " Adieu, my dear 
 friend," said he, pressing it between his, 
 '^ I shall rejoice in your return to 
 Naples ; and whenever you think of 
 Italy I trust you will include myself 
 and the Marchioness amongst those who 
 in this country have valued your society; 
 I hope your father will be able to enjoy 
 your company, and that you will be 
 G 3 
 
126 
 
 cheered by witnessing liis restoration 
 to liealth. 
 
 *' I once more expressed my acknow- 
 ledgements for their kindness, and tak- 
 ing leave of them both, I retired to my 
 own apartment. 
 
127 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high, 
 
 With ev'ry impulse of delight, 
 Dash from his lips the cup of joy. 
 
 And shroud the scene in shades of night. 
 
 KOBCOE. 
 
 *' Early in the following morning* we 
 quitted that place, which had been the 
 seat of happiness, departed to return, 
 I feared, no more. 
 
 " JMy heart was lacerated by contending 
 emotions. 1 had left that object most 
 dear to me, left her exposed to the 
 powx^r of a rival, of a man whom she 
 detested ; and to the tyranny of a father 
 whom she dreaded. I was returning to 
 England, after an absence of three years, 
 to witness tlie declining state of my 
 father's health, and in the feeble hope 
 G 4 
 
128 
 
 of combating those prejudices which he 
 had noiirislied almost from infancy. 
 
 *' Ourvoyagc was tccHous; l)ut tlicliope 
 of hearing from my friends in Italy on 
 my arrival in England, supported me 
 under tlic anxieties of my situation. 
 At length we landed in England, and 
 I hastened to my home with that im- 
 patience which a long absence excites. 
 But, oh G — d! what were the agonies 
 I experienced when I learned that my 
 father was no more. 
 
 "On enquiring for my brother we were 
 informed that he had left the house im- 
 mediately on the death of my father, 
 but that he w as daily expected. 
 
 " I gave myself up to the sorrow 
 which that sad event had awakened. 
 I traversed every apartment wliere 1 
 had sat w ith my father ; 1 forgot every 
 cause of anger, which he had occa- 
 sioned me, and 1 only remembered that 
 1 should never more behold him. 
 
129 
 
 *' In the afternoon of that day I was 
 Avaited on by the steward ; '^ I took the 
 Hberty," said he, " of calling upon you. 
 Sir, to welcome your return." I thanked 
 him, but the effort I made to continue 
 the conversation failed, and I waived 
 jny hand in silence. 
 
 "■ I feel for you, indeed. Sir," con- 
 tinued the steward, " but my master 
 was, you know. Sir, very particular in 
 his notions, and your lady being a 
 Catholic" 
 
 '' Sir," interrupted I in consternation, 
 " to what is it you allude ? I am not 
 married, and I fear som.e fatal mistake 
 may have embittered the last moments 
 of my father." 
 
 " I am very sorry, indeed, Sir," he 
 replied, ^' but my master understood 
 that you had married a lady in Italy 
 who was a Catholic, and it was in con- 
 sequence of that that he has left his 
 estates to your younger brother.'* 
 
 G 6 
 
130 
 
 ^' I now perceived by whom I liad 
 been betrayed; I flew to ]\Ir. Mortimer, 
 and upbraided him with his perfidy, and I 
 quitted the house with the intention of 
 entering it no more, 
 
 *' That I should have been cast off and 
 deserted by my father in liis last mo- 
 ments ; should have fallen a victim to 
 the arts of one man, and tlie mercenary 
 designs of another ; have been deceived 
 by a friend on whom I had reposed, and 
 betrayed by a brother whom from in- 
 fancy I had loved, ^vas a discovery 
 which for a time annihilated all recol- 
 lection of the past, all wish for the 
 future, and seemed threatening to over- 
 turn my reason. 
 
 '* At this period your father found mc. 
 He had been the companion of my early 
 years, and I had greatly esteemed him ; 
 but I was suffering so much in conse- 
 quence of the perfidy of those whom I 
 had trusted, that 1 hrgan to doubt the 
 sincerity of all mankind. 
 
131 
 
 *^ He entered into my sorrows 'with 
 the sympathy of a friend : he used every 
 means to reconcile me to my situation ; 
 and, but for his consoHng attentions, I 
 beHeve I should have retired in despair 
 from the world. 
 
 ^' I now received letters from Italy: 
 I had written to the Marquis on the 
 subject of my father's death, but my 
 letter could not have reached him. 
 
 " In his to me he mentioned Celestina, 
 and spoke of her inviolable attachment. 
 *^ You may console yourself," said he ; 
 " though separated from her, with the 
 certahity of her affection. 
 
 " Alas, though mine for her had, if 
 possible, encrcased, what had I now to 
 offer her ! disinherited by my father, 
 an alien from fortune : I loved her too 
 much to involve her in my miseries. 
 
 *^ I wrote to her, and revealed my si- 
 tuation : I told her, that of the affluent 
 prospects Avhich once av/aited me a bare 
 pittance remained ; and that though my 
 c6 
 
15C 
 
 affection for her voulcl only tcnniiratr 
 •with my life, I could no longer entreat 
 her to unite herself with a man of broken 
 fortunes. 
 
 ** Her answer was such as from her 
 I had anticipated, noble, generous, and 
 disinterested ; she spoke of her sufier- 
 mgs during my absence, and reproved 
 me for that want of confidence in her 
 affection, wliich my last letter indicated; 
 and though she said she participated my 
 suficrings, they had, if possible, encreased 
 her attachment ; that having been the 
 cause of my present misfortunes would 
 oblige her in justice, independent of 
 aftection, to endeavour to ligliten the 
 burthen by sharing it with me. 
 
 '* I connnunicated her letter to \oup 
 fither, who advised that I should go 
 over to Itdy, and explain to licr iu 
 person the situation in whicb 1 was left, 
 and that if I tben found iicr sentiments 
 luichangcd, not to sacrifice her happi' 
 
133 
 
 fiess and my own to a false de\ic<LC\% 
 but to make her mine. 
 
 " Of the fortune of my father there 
 was only a small part to which I could 
 lay claim, and to that trifling part, which 
 furnished only the means of existence, 
 I was indebted to the relation who en- 
 tailed it, after the death of my father, 
 on me. 1 discovered from your father 
 that my letters had been intercepted ; 
 that those which I had addressed to my 
 father he had never received, and that 
 he had lamented in bitter terms my in- 
 gratitude towards him ; that ^Ir. Mor- 
 timer had written repeatedly to my bro- 
 ther, and mentioned very freely my 
 attachment to an Italian lady; that I 
 had unfortuately adverted to her in a 
 letter soon after, and descanted warmlv 
 on her virtues. 
 
 " This letter,*' added your father, 
 *^ agreed with the designs of your brother 
 to make known ; it gave a colour to the 
 report which had previously reached his 
 
134 
 
 father's car, and wh^n lie was wavering 
 between al*ection and resentment, he 
 informed liim that you were married. 
 
 " That you should have acted in de- 
 fiance of eveiy opinion that he had 
 rnaintained, tliat you should not even 
 have consulted him in a point on which 
 your future happiness was so materially 
 dependent, Mere, I believe, the sole 
 reasons for his subse([uent conduct. 
 
 ^' He has left, indeed, his estates to 
 vour brother, hut tlie most miserable 
 poverty will still be liis ; impossessed of 
 that rectitude of heart which makes us 
 rich in every situation, he will yet 
 have cause to envy the victim of his 
 baseness. 
 
 *^ I was deeply shocked when I learned 
 the arts which my brother had practiced, 
 for I knew not that such depra\ ity had 
 existed : 1 thought of him as a monster, 
 a disgrace to human nature ; but 1 forgot 
 not that he was the son of a man whom I 
 respected, of a woman whose memory I 
 venerated and adored; and to lift my 
 
135 
 
 hand against him, I considered would 
 be a mode of revenge unworthy of my 
 name or character. . 
 
 *' IVIy health from the time of my 
 leaving Italy had sensibly declined, 
 and I was now labouring under a malady 
 of the worst kind, " a mind diseased." 
 
 " I wrote to my friends there, and 
 gave the INIarquis a brief account of all 
 that had happened to me since my ar- 
 rival in England; and I should have 
 quitted that country, my return to which 
 had only produced me misery, quitted, 
 as 1 hoped, to return to it no more, but 
 I was now too ill to allow of my travel- 
 ing ; and to that languor with which I 
 was oppressed a fever succeeded, that 
 seemed from its violence to exclude all 
 hope of recovery. 
 
 " Your father, during this interval, 
 watched over me with the most tender 
 care, and made my comfort the object 
 of his life. My disorder was lingering 
 and painful, and the delirium which it 
 
]3G 
 
 occasionally produced liad weakened me 
 to a degree of imbecility. 
 
 *^ He urged me strongly to return to 
 Italy, but I was anxious before I left 
 England to visit, for tbe last time, the 
 abode of my infancy. I set out for 
 that purpose : it was late in the evening 
 when I arrived, and through those walks 
 where I had so often rambled ^ith my 
 mother, I wandered with a melancholy 
 pleasure. 
 
 '/- If was now the latter end of au- 
 tumn, and the country around had as- 
 sumed that cheerless aspect, which bore 
 so striking a resemblance to my own 
 fate, " my May of life had fallen into 
 the seer, the yellow leaf," betrayed, de- 
 ceived, and deserted, an outcast and a 
 wanderer, shut out from my paternal 
 mansion, a victim to the machinations of 
 villany; these were tlie reflections that 
 aironized mv lieart as 1 coutcmidated the 
 scene of my (h'j)artcd h;i[>piucss."" 
 
i37 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 ^ For sorrow there is no rojiiedy proviJ.cd hy 
 nature ; it is often occasiorit'd by accidents ir- 
 reparable, and dwells upon objects that have 
 lost or changed their existence ; it requires what 
 it cannot hope, that the laws of the universe 
 should be repealed ; that the dead should return, 
 or the past should be recalled," 
 
 JoH^^soN. 
 
 " The night was now closing, and I 
 found I must return to the inn, but I 
 had an unquestionable desire to visit the 
 room where I had been accustomed to 
 read to my mother as she worked ; I 
 entered the house through a private door^ 
 and being acquainted with every avenue 
 to it, I crossed the saloon, and came to 
 her apartment ; 1 paused at the door, 
 and, overcome by the violence of my 
 emotion, I wept aloud. 
 
158 
 
 *^ I eiiteicd, and seriteil iiiy.seli' on ii 
 soplui opposite the cliiiiincy piece, and 
 on raising- my eyes I beheld her picture. 
 *' mild, pale and penetrating/' There 
 was the same expression of sweetness 
 whicli liad so ennuentlv distino-uished 
 her. 
 
 " I determined to embrace tlic last 
 opportunity I might liave to possess my- 
 self of this sole surviving treasure, and 
 went up to the mantle piece for that 
 purpose, Avhcn at an opposite door I ob- 
 served som»e person enter the room ; I 
 turned round, and I then perceived, 
 through the uncertain gleam of twi- 
 light, the features of my brother. 
 
 " I gazed at him a moment, suspend- 
 ed between oriief and indionation, but 
 be fled : I now recollected that I was 
 only an intruder, and, after securing the 
 picture, I instantly left the house." 
 
 Here Mr. Planbury stopt in convulsive, 
 agitation, and Jessica entreated that he 
 would compose himself. 
 
259 ^ 
 
 ** Eor the present I returned to your 
 father," continued lie ; "■ we passed one 
 evening together, and the following day 
 i set out on my voyage to Naples. 
 
 ** It was long and tempestuous ; but 
 I was cheered with the hope of meeting 
 again the object of my tenderest affec- 
 tions, and thougli six months had nearly 
 elapsed since I had received intelligence 
 of her, I rested confident in the idea 
 of finding her unchanged. 
 
 " On my arrival, I hastened to the 
 Marquis's, who received me w^ith the 
 most cordial welcome. I enquired for 
 the Marchioness, and he informed me 
 she had left him for a short period, to 
 visit a friend ; " but you have already, I 
 suppose, received my letters," added he, 
 for they must have reached England 
 previous to your departure from thence.' 
 
 '^ I have not heard from you,*' I re- 
 plied, " for some months :" his counte- 
 nance changed, and I then perceived 
 his agitation. '' Oh! tell v.i'\' implored 
 
140 
 
 J, *' the extent of my siiftcrings, ^he is 
 then dead.' '' No, she is not dead, 
 hut you must arm yourself w ith fortitude 
 to endure the thought, that slic is lost 
 to you. You must sec her, my dear 
 friend, no more ; she is sacrificed to the 
 innl)ition of her father, wlio lias united 
 licr to tlic man w liom slie detested. 
 
 '* Disturb not, then, any gleam of tran- 
 quility which, in such a situation, she 
 may enjoy. Her endeavours to erase 
 your iuiage from her heart, ought, and 
 may in time be successful." 
 
 *^ My agitation had now encreased 
 nearly to madness; I accused him of 
 being joined in the league to deceive 
 me. 1 quitted his house, and wandered 
 through the streets of Naples, regard- 
 less whither I went or vvliat became of 
 me. Existence was now rendered an 
 insupportable l)urthen, every ray of 
 hope had vanished, and in death alone 
 could I look forward to a termination of 
 misery. 
 
ui 
 
 '• It was late at night when I arrived 
 at the hotel, and on interrogating my 
 ser\ anty; 1 was informed that a gentle- 
 man had called. I found it was the 
 Marquis. 
 
 " Early in the morning he renewed 
 liis visit. *' You parted from me last 
 night," said he, " in a state of anger, 
 Avhich admitted neither of reason or ex- 
 planation, but I knew you were un- 
 happy, and that circumstance disarmed 
 the resentment I should have felt in 
 your unjust insinuations. I have now 
 called upon, you to satisfy my own mind, 
 for the man who, having long known 
 me, yet doubts my character, acts too 
 unworthily of his ow^n to be an object 
 of my care." 
 
 " Reflection had shewn me the error 
 of my conduct on our last interview : I 
 sprung from my seat, and, entreating 
 his forgiveness, I even wept. 
 
 Mr. Hanbury paused, and for some 
 
142 
 
 minutes lenuiliieti overpowered by his 
 emotions. 
 
 '' Excuse me," said he *' Jessica, but 
 tlie recollection of my suffering's, even 
 at til is distant period, unman's me. 
 
 " You know not, my friend," said the 
 Marquis, " how much I have felt for 
 you ; I exerted every ener<ry in your 
 cause, but your fate is now irremedia- 
 ble, and you must endeavour to support 
 it. The Contc is jealous, fiery, and vin- 
 dictive ; Celestina's only remaining hope 
 of comfort rests on her own circum- 
 spection of conduct. He is apprized of 
 lier former attachment to you, from her 
 repeated assurances that no other could 
 possess her heart; and the man who 
 would stoop to unite himself under such 
 circuuistances would, I should conceive, 
 be capable of any degree of baseness. 
 
 ** After your departure from hence 
 I liad frequent inter^ iews with the Sig- 
 nor; I spoke of you often, 1 mentioned 
 your future prospects, and at length I 
 
U3 
 
 ventured to hint at your attachment to 
 his daughter; I thought that he ap- 
 peared favourable to my wishes, and 
 flattered myself that I should be the 
 happy means of uniting two persons 
 whom I so much esteemed. One day, 
 liowever, when he called on me, he 
 mentioned his intention of presenting 
 liis daughter in marriage to the Conte 
 on an early day. " He has been too long 
 trilled with aheady," said he; '^ and she 
 must discard this foohsh and romantic 
 partialit}' for a foreigner and a man al- 
 most unknown.'* 
 
 " I remonstrated with him on the 
 cruelty of such a sacrifice : '' You will 
 be answerable," I replied, " for all the 
 future misery of your daughter's life ; 1 
 know that she is attached to my Eng- 
 lish friend, and beloved by him in the 
 tenderest degree; and what will your 
 feelings tell you in a dying hour? — that 
 you have given up your child a victin) 
 to idle ambition, and entailed remorse 
 
144 
 
 unci misery on yourself. I would sjjarc 
 you those sensations, by entreating you 
 to tlcsist." 
 
 '' lie seemed torn by contending pas- , 
 sit)ns ; we parted in mutual anger, and ' 
 on calling at liis house in the evening 
 1 was informed that he had rode out 
 with the Conte. I encjuired for Celcs- 
 tina, and was shewn into an apartment 
 where she sat. There was in her coun- 
 tenance an expression of wildness that 
 alarmed me, and she seemed scarcely 
 sensible of my presence. 
 
 ''After sitnni>- bv her for some moments 
 in silence, she took my hand: "A\'rite 
 to your friend," said she, " and tell him 
 he must see me no more ; but we shall 
 meet again," laying her hand upon lier j 
 heart, " we shall meet in that country 
 \\herc my miseries will terminate ;" she 
 paused in convulsive agitation. 
 
 " But why," said I, " should you thus i 
 ^sacrifice your happiness in an union un- 
 sanctioned by any consideration of mo- 
 
14.5 
 
 rality or religion, and merely to gratify 
 llie aims of tyranny and oppression." 
 
 *' My father.", replied Celestina, ** is 
 under obligations to the Conte of a 
 nature of which you are not a\var5; 
 my misery, or his total ruin, are the only 
 alternatives ; but," grasping my arm, and 
 looking wildly round the room, *^has he 
 not said, that my refusal must be sealed 
 with blood : oh ! God, shall I then refuse 
 to save my father ! no, it must be done, 
 one only method remains, my father 
 has debts of lionour," continued she, 
 lowering her voice, ^' which he cannot 
 liquidate, the Conte has discharged 
 those, and accepts me as the ransom; 
 but to one being only must this fatal 
 disclosure ever escape your lips. 
 
 " Vindicate me, then, to your friend; 
 for tlie loss of his esteem would be in- 
 deed too bitter a sacrifice ; tell him, for 
 the last time, that I can never, oh never 
 erase him from my heart; but if lie 
 
 VOL. I. n 
 
values my fiitiirc peace, we nui-.t be 
 separated. 
 
 " To resiixn myself to inevitable mis- 
 fortune, though it may be a severe task, 
 must be my only ?tudy ; let not my 
 life be embittered by the consciousness 
 of yielding to a passion which woAld 
 now be criminal/' 
 
 She threw her arms around mc, she 
 wept on my neck, and I mingled my 
 tears with her's." Here ^Ir. Hanbury 
 again paused. 
 
 " Do not thus agitate yourself," said 
 Jes; ica; " in your present state of health, 
 the recapitulation of sorrows like your's 
 nmst be -very injurious." 
 
 " My unhappy story," said ]\fr. Ilan- 
 burv, ** is now, Jessica, near a conclu- 
 ?;ion. Oh ! may it save vou from tlie 
 bitter pangs that must ever attend the 
 encouragement of a hopeless aflection ; 
 years have passed away since these sad 
 events, and I ha\c wandered through 
 the world a stranger to })eace. But 1 
 
147 
 
 'sliall find it in tkat grave to which I am 
 now hastening," 
 
 " Do, sir," intclrrupted Jessica, *^ de- 
 fer your narrative till another day.*' 
 They now separated, as the evening was 
 far advanced, and Mr. Hanbury retired to 
 his own room. 
 
 The following monning, when he met 
 vJcssica at breakfast, he proposed -to 
 iinish his history. 
 
 *' After I had parted from Celestina," 
 <'ontinued the Marquis, '^ I deteniiined 
 to write to yon, for thougii, under pre- 
 sent circumstances, I had no alternative 
 to propose which could have availed, 
 i felt it a duty that 1 owed to you, to 
 intbrm you of the events that had fol- 
 lowed your departure ; I addressed my 
 packet to the house of your late father, 
 and that will account for it's liot having 
 leached you, 
 
 " Tiic morning after I had written to 
 you, 1 was visited by the Signor, who 
 called to request I would be present at 
 
148 
 
 the nuptials of tlie Contc uitli hi.s 
 daughter. J\ly aversion to the Signor 
 had now arisen to detestation, I had 
 before only thought of him as a tyrant, 
 I now regarded him as a monster, who, 
 for liis own sake, would sacrifice his 
 cliild, and doom her to perpetual misery. 
 
 *^ I hesitated whether to comply M'ith 
 or refuse his request, but the idea that 
 my presence might afford consolation to 
 Celestina, determined me: remonstrances 
 would now liave been vain, her fate was 
 determined, and 1 prepared myself to 
 witness this last act of tyranny. 
 
 " On the evening of the next day 
 I set out for Naples, and when I arrived 
 at the Signor's, 1 found the party already 
 assembled, except Celestina, who, at- 
 tended by one of her female friends, 
 now entered the apartment. 
 
 ** There was an expression of meek 
 solemnity in her countenance, an air of 
 settled melancholy about her, when she 
 addressed me, that made nn heart sink. 
 
U9 
 
 She gave nie her hand, I led her the 
 Conte, and her look, — oh, God! never 
 sliall I forget tliat look, which seemed 
 to bid a last farewell to every shadow of 
 hapj)incss. 
 
 " The cereniony was performed, during 
 whlcli she seemed lost in meditation, 
 but as I glanced my eye towards her, 
 I observed the tears start from her eyes, 
 and chace each other down her cheek ; 
 that one moment alone, betrayed the 
 anguish of her heart; most religiously 
 has she fulfiled the duties of a wife, and 
 endured, without a murmur, the miseries 
 of her fate. 
 
 " And now my friend," continued the 
 Marquis, " forgive me if I urge you to 
 depart ; apprized, as the Conte already 
 is, of your unfortunate attachment, your 
 longer residence in Naples may en- 
 danger the peace of Celestina, and can 
 add nothing to your comfort. 
 
 '* Return, then, to 3^our native country, 
 and in an union with some amiable 
 H 3 
 
150 
 
 M'onian endeavour to cilacc the reirifiii' 
 braiice of the past, wliieh ean only fill 
 you with regret, injurious to \our o\\ u 
 mental restoration, and unavailing to tlir 
 object of it. May your peace be soon 
 reestablished, fortliereis no individual iu 
 tlie workl whose ha])plncss is dearer in 
 interest to me." 
 
151 
 
 ClIAPTEK XVI, 
 
 S-n G\ir two toves tht'ic is but one lespect, 
 Thoivgh in our lives a separable spite, 
 
 Which, though it alter not love's sole effect, 
 
 Yet dolh it steal sweet hoars from love's delight. 
 
 imay not eteroaore acknowledge thcoy 
 
 Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame ; 
 
 Nor thou with public kindness honour me, 
 Unless thou take that honour from thy name : 
 
 But do not so ; I love thee in such sort, 
 
 A« tiiou, being mine, mine is thy good reporti 
 
 Shakespeare^ 
 
 '' This was the last interview whieh 
 was permitted me with the Marquis, 
 the chain was broken by the hand of 
 death, and amongst the various calami- 
 ties which I have suffered, few ever 
 pressed more heavily on my heart : for 
 in my separation from that valued friend, 
 H 4 
 
lo2 
 
 I lost the only bond which seemed stiii 
 to unite me to Celestina. 
 
 '' There was none to ^v]l()nl I could 
 ' impart my sorrows, who had known tiie 
 ohject, or participated in my feelings. 
 I brooded over the past with settled 
 despair, and nourished, as a fond mother 
 nourishes her infant, the recollections 
 sv hich were destroying me. 
 
 " The world was all before me wliere 
 to choose." Your father, then, the only 
 tie which bound me to the earth, had 
 claims which I held sacred ; and I de- 
 termined to return to him. How often, 
 as 1 hung over the deck during my me- 
 lancholy voyage, did I long to bury my 
 griefs in that illimitable ocean, the 
 object of my frequent contemplation, 
 in whose agitated bosom I beheld the 
 conflicts of my own. 
 
 " Returning to my own country, 
 ruined alike in fortune and in peace, the 
 barbed arrow rankling in my heart; 
 my infant days had glided along like 
 
153 
 
 the smooth stream on whose borders I 
 had so often sported, ignorant, happily- 
 ignorant, of the miseries which were in 
 store for me. The prospect was changed, 
 and the scene before me was the em- 
 blem of my own fortune, gloomy and 
 tempestuous. 
 
 " I passed whole evenings on deck, 
 absorbed in bitterness of thought, only 
 interrupted by the deep tone of tlic 
 watch word as it sounded on my ear. 
 
 " Music, of which I was always pas- 
 sionately fond, afforded me a momentary- 
 suspension from unhappy meditation, 
 and with my little flageolet did I some- 
 times attempt to beguile my lonely 
 hours. 
 
 *' There is a charm in harmony which 
 must strike on every feeling heart ; a 
 sympathy in music peculiarly consola- 
 tory ; jthere ^ave been moments of my 
 life when, sunk in despair, it's fine tones 
 have softened me to tears, and tended 
 more forcibly to meliorate my grief, than 
 }i5 ^ 
 
 ( 
 
154 
 
 any efifort of philosophy could have effect- 
 ed; and when I played some of those sim- 
 ple airs which Celestina had taught me, 
 J forgot my afflictions whilst associating 
 her image with the remembrance of tlut 
 melody which had so often and so 
 powerfully affected me. 
 
 " After a. tedious passage, I arrived in 
 England, and hastened to your father, 
 w^hom I found in solitude and sorrow ; 
 he had recently lost your mother, of the 
 particulars of whose death you, my 
 dear Jessica, are well informed. 
 
 *• My arrival was opportune, and the 
 exertion which I was under the neces- 
 sity of using in the presence of youp 
 father, perhaps, greatly tended to my 
 own restoration. After some time had 
 elapsed, he proposed to me to embrace 
 a professional employment, which, by 
 engrossing my time, might in some 
 degree divert my thought-j. 
 
 *' I revolved many plans in my mind, 
 and at length decided in favour of thw 
 church. 
 
15^ 
 
 '^ To your father's kind interest I am 
 indebted, in great part, for my present 
 support; for by his introduction to a 
 friend, who presented me to the prefer- 
 ment I ROW hold, do I possess the means 
 of e^^istence^ 
 
 " The bond of friendshipy my dear girl^ 
 the grave has not cancelled ; for the ve- 
 gard \\hich I bore to your father has 
 descended to his children, has twined 
 itself round every fibre of my heart, and 
 will live there until I cease to exist.'* 
 
 Jessica threw her arms round him 
 and wept, for his death was a topic 
 which she could never endure to dwell 
 upon. She wished much to have mader 
 some enquiry respecting the fate of 
 Celestina; but as it was a subject which 
 Mr. Haubuiy had avoided, and on which 
 lie miglit be ignorant, she forbore any 
 furtlier mention of it. 
 
 h6 
 
V5<> 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 W\i deep, dark eye was stern and keen, 
 It was the fire of soul unseen, 
 Unknown, untutorM, unexprc5s'd. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 Jkssica now prepared to call on her 
 friend Matilda, whom she had not seen 
 for some days, and she felt particularly 
 anxious to hear of j\Ir. Bamford's health. 
 On her arrival at their lodgings she had 
 the satisfaction of finding hi in so nmch 
 better as to propose a ram hie, and they 
 all set out for that purpose. 
 
 Whilst wandering in the environs of 
 the town, and occasionally making 
 pauses to remark the beauty of its situ- 
 ation and scenery, their attention was 
 arrested by the sight of a woman with 
 
1^7 
 
 two infant children, addressing her com* 
 plaint, in a tone of deep distress, to a 
 stranger, who appeared to be listening 
 to her with compassionate interest. 
 
 He put something into her hand, and 
 observing their party, suddenly disap- 
 peared amongst the trees. 
 
 They walked on, without remarking 
 to each other this incident. The sweet 
 tones of a flute now struck upon their 
 ear, and turning round, they discovered 
 the same gentleman seated under a 
 branch of one of the trees. He arose 
 however at their approach, and ceased 
 to play. 
 
 There was an expression of sentiment 
 in his countenance, something of pe- 
 netration in his fine dark eyes, which 
 interested Jessica, and she wished, with- 
 out being able to define the cause, that 
 she might have another opportunity of 
 making her observations. '' If," said 
 she to Matilda, " the countenance be 
 an index of the mind, how much is 
 
ISS 
 
 contained there," looking at tlie stranger 
 as she spoke. 
 
 Matilda smiled at the warmth of her 
 expression. *' That gentleman," said slie, 
 ** is an Italian, whom I find is almost 
 unknown to every one liere ; he seems 
 to avoid society whilst otliers court it, 
 and is generally wandering alone, as 
 you now see him." 
 
 Jessica raised her eyes, which met the 
 stranijer's, and her^s were instantly cast 
 down ; few persons indeed could liave 
 boiTie without emotion the fixed '"gaze 
 of that eye, which penetrated whepcver 
 its glance was directed ; yet there was 
 something in the expression of it, which 
 seemed to say that all was not peace 
 within. 
 
 As the party passed liim he was un- 
 der the necessity of stepping hack, on 
 account of the narrow ness of tl^; path, 
 and, as his foot caught some part of 
 Jessica's gown, he slightly bowed in 
 apology; it was but a passing bow, yet 
 
159 
 
 in every movement there appeared an 
 air peculiar to himself, something which 
 is seldom met with, and not to be de- 
 scribed ; that manner which is the re- 
 sult of sentiment and education. 
 
 This little incident made an impres- 
 pression on the mind of our fair Eng* 
 lishwoman, and she mentioned the cir- 
 cumstance and appearance of the stran- 
 ger to Mr. lianbury. 
 
 A few mornings after, as "Matilda was 
 seated at her work by the side of Jes- 
 sica, and Mr. Hanbury was engaged with 
 a. book, she said Mr, Bamford had dis- 
 covered the name of the stranger, w^ha 
 had taken apartments in the same house 
 with them ; that he had called upon 
 him the day before, and his name was 
 Valdesa. 
 
 Jessica, who had raised her head on 
 this information, was struck by the 
 change in the countenance of Mr. Han- 
 bury ; but before she could make any 
 further enquiry, ** Valdesa," said he, *' is 
 
160 
 
 a name familiar to me/* and si^rliinir 
 deeply, rose, as if to walk away the 
 sense of what he felt. 
 
 Jessica well knew how powerfully 
 any circumstance or person that had 
 any connection with Italy affected Mr. 
 Hanbury, and she instantly changed the 
 subject; but though she would have 
 been very unwilling to have confessed 
 such a sensati(m, yet certainly that of 
 pleasure vibrated at her heart, on the 
 information of her friend, and the pos- 
 sibility which it afforded of an intro- 
 duction to this Italian, who had so much 
 interested her. 
 
 The following morning, however, her 
 thoughts were diverted to a different 
 and far less pleasing object. She had 
 written to England, stating her anxiety 
 respecting her brother, and rc(|iicsting 
 some information of him. A\'luit were 
 her sensations on receiving a letter from 
 the gentleman whom she had addressed 
 on the subject, mentioning that he be- 
 
 I 
 
161 
 
 lieved Mr. Greville had quitted England 
 in consequence of some disgraceful prot- 
 cecdings at his college, in which he had 
 been implicated, but that of his present 
 place of residence or future intentions, 
 he was utterly ignorant. 
 
 In the deepest sorrow, and lost in 
 perplexity on her brother's account, Jes- 
 sica hesitated wliethcr to re\-eal this af- 
 fair to Mr. Hanbury -, but fearing that 
 he might conjecture some circumstance 
 yet more distressing to his feelings, she 
 laid the letter before him. 
 
 After reading it, he sat for some mo- 
 ments ruminating in silence, and taking 
 her hand, *' Jessica, my love," said he, 
 ** though my expectations of the wel- 
 fare of Charles have, from his various 
 imprudencies, long ceased to be san- 
 guine, I had hoped that he possessed 
 sufficient feehng to have rendered him 
 considerate for you at least; but now 
 my hopes of protection for you from 
 that source have totally failed, and when 
 
)(52 
 
 ileprived of mt.\ you iniust he iinprf;- 
 tectecl. Would that thMc wa« any. out 
 to. whose care with lull coiitideiice 1 
 could commit S(j sacred a trust !"' 
 
 ..Jessica turued from him, txj conceaJ 
 tlic tears which liowed from her eyes at 
 this hist sentence; slic now regretted 
 that she had concealed fiom Mr. Han- 
 bury those errors of conduct mChiirles^ 
 with \\ hich she had become accjuaiiited 
 pjcvious to their quitting Ijugland ; but 
 the promise which she had made to liim, 
 unworthy as he had proved^ atill kc- 
 mained in force. 
 
.m 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Some joy too fiuc, too subrte,. potent, tm*k: 
 roo sharp in sweetness for ihc c;v^£;city oJi ii>y 
 
 SilAKESIEAUE. 
 
 JESSICA propofif d to- My. iiuiU^viiiy t© 
 accompany her to her friend's house th^ 
 following evening, and, averse as h^ was 
 from the idea of entering into society, 
 he could not, in her dejected state of 
 mind, refuse her any request, and pro- 
 mised to be of the party. 
 
 The evening arrived, which Jessica 
 had anticipated with unusual pleasure ; 
 perhaps from a latent hope that she 
 should again be so fortunate as to meet 
 with her new acquaintance, if an ac- 
 quaintance he could be termed. She 
 wished not, however, to analyze the 
 
1&4 
 
 the cause, and it was placed to AIaiilda'5 
 account. 
 
 She was not deceived in lujpc, when 
 the door was opened and Valdesa entered 
 the room ; Yaldesa, dignified and po- 
 lislied, as her ardent imaghiatioii; had 
 pictured liim. 
 
 Too much absorbed in her own ob- 
 servations, Jessica did not remark the 
 emotion of Mr. Hanbury, on the stran- 
 ger's being introduced to him ; but when 
 the name of Valdesa agam sounded on 
 his ear, she then beheld the varying 
 countenance of her paternal friend. 
 
 From what cause could those feelings, 
 which seemed to agitate his heart, and 
 which were visible in eveiy movement, 
 arise ? Valdesa was an Italian it was 
 true ; but since the melancholy lura of 
 IVIr. Hanbury 's connection in that coun- 
 try he must have been thrown into the 
 society of some native of Italy ere now : 
 no, that could not be the cause ; and it 
 was not until Valdesa had entered into 
 
165 
 
 ail animated description of the beauties 
 of his country, that Jessica apprehended 
 tlie real state of Mr. Hanbury's feehngs, 
 whilst, in language the most striking 
 and unaffected, Valdesa was giving them 
 the history of his travels. From the 
 political state of Italy, it's religion was 
 adverted to. 
 
 "That is a subject," said Mr. Han- 
 bLir}^ " on which I seldom enter, and 
 never without reluctance; it is too sacred 
 to the feelings of every man to dwell 
 upon with that coolness which discussion 
 requires. I have felt, sensibly felt, the 
 miseries arising from a diiference on this 
 point, and have seen too forcibly the 
 animosity which it is calculated to 
 excite." 
 
 lie withdrew to a window at some 
 distance, and appeared lost in thought. 
 Valdesa now turned to Jessica, and ad- 
 dressed some remarks to her : the con- 
 versation turned on painting and music ; 
 in the latter of these sciences she was ^ 
 
lT)6 
 
 pi-c-cmijicntly excellent, and slic soon 
 cliscovoR'd tliat in tlieir admiration of it 
 they \\ ere congenial, 
 
 "• I believe," said Jessica, *' I had a 
 specimen of your skill on one instni- 
 ment durin<r a saunter in the environs of 
 this place a few riiornings since, and I 
 should indeed feel nnicli gratified if you 
 would favour us with a repetition of the 
 air that you were then playing." 
 
 ^* That air,'' replied Valdesa, " you, 
 pcihaps, never before heard : I^ccpiired 
 it from one beloved, and now no more; 
 and sometimes in my solitary liours I 
 indulge myself by calling to remem- 
 brance the variety of situations under 
 which 1 have listened to its melody. 
 
 " The whole universe would not tempt 
 me to forego the sensations which it 
 produces, though often mingled with 
 the bitterest regret. 
 
 ^^' M'hen parted fmm some dear friend, 
 perhaps excluded the jiossibility of ever 
 meeting them more, how any object, 
 
m 
 
 however unimportant, Vv'ith which we 
 associate, their hnagc strikes on the 
 senses, and vibrates through every chord 
 of tlie heart. Thus is it with me, whilst 
 phiying that air which you accidentally 
 overheard." 
 
 Mr, Hanbury tto^^ attentively regarded 
 Valdesa, for the sentiment was in unison 
 with his own, and Ite acknowledged it's 
 truth, more by looks' than by words. 
 
 Valdesa now witlidrew, and returning 
 with his flute began by playing some of 
 the gay tunes of his native country. 
 He hesitated a moment, and those were 
 changed for that little air, wild, simple, 
 and affecting, which Jessica had before 
 heard : he paused, he ceased to play, 
 for the groans of Mr. Hanbury wxre 
 now heard. 
 
 Tire air was indeed familiar to him ; it 
 was oncof his beloved long-lost Celesti- 
 na's, which he had taught her, and now at 
 this distant period to hccir it thus feel- 
 ingly played, 'twas like the restoration 
 
[66 
 
 of a fVieiul from whom countries and 
 years luicl cli\ ided him. Overcome by 
 his emotions, he leaned against the win- 
 dow, his hand resting on his forehead. 
 
 Jessica w^ajs excessively shocked on 
 witnessing his agitation ; he recovered 
 himself, however, so far as to thank 
 Valdcsa for his exertions. '* Some time,'* 
 continued he, '' you may, perhaps, be 
 acquainted with the cause of those 
 emotions wdiich you have involuntarily 
 excited. 
 
 '' That little air reminds me of joys 
 departed, never to return." '* How," 
 interrupted V'aldesa, *' have you heard it? 
 (me only being did, I suppose, acquaint- 
 c<l with it's melody ; over her the cold 
 grave has closed ; she loved it, and 
 when 1 play it I can still fancy her 
 form is h(>\crini>; round me whilst 1 
 fondly cherish the remembrance of her 
 virtues. It was taught her by a friend, 
 whom she tenderly ^ ahied, but lie Wiis 
 turn from her, and bhe saw herself 
 
169 
 
 united to a man insensible of her worth, 
 of the vahie of her character. Oh, my 
 mother, you rest in ])cace, the grave 
 has teinvinated your sorrows, and taught 
 liim to "vvhom you sacrificed your hap- 
 piness the worth of that treasure which 
 he cast away." 
 
 He ceased, and Mr. Hanbury, spring- 
 ing into his arms, exchiimed, " Then 
 you are indeed the child of my Celestina, 
 and from this moment behold me as a 
 father." 
 
 It was indeed the son of Celestina, be- 
 loved, and for years regretted, whose re- 
 membrance had poisoned his felicity^ 
 and on whose account every enjoyment 
 had been destroyed. 
 
 Valdesa had not remained thus long 
 a stranorcr to the fatal attachment whicli 
 his mother had felt for Mr, Hanbuiy, 
 and he was surprised that he had not 
 before been struck by a name long since 
 fiuniliar to his ear. 
 
 VOL. J. I 
 
170 
 
 Neglected by the Conte, the society 
 of Valdcsa, was the only ray of comfort, 
 w hich had darted in upon the cheerless 
 existence of Celestina. To Iiini she had 
 been so long accustomed to impart her 
 sorrows, that he was early initiated in 
 the school of misery, used to regard her 
 as a superior being, every sentiment 
 uhich she had uttered ^^lls indeliby en- 
 graven on his heart. 
 
 She often descanted on the virtues of 
 her English friend, and Valdesa was 
 prepared to love and revere him for her 
 sake. 
 
 lie entered into the history of Ce- 
 iestinas sufferings from tlie period of 
 her marriage, and spoke of the Mar- 
 chioness with the tenderest esteem ; 
 of her attachment to his mother in tliat 
 last scene of suffering which closed her 
 earthly existence. 
 
 In this conversation did the party 
 beguile the hours till nearly midnight, 
 when Mr. Ilanbury and Jessica took 
 
171 
 
 tlietr leave, claiming from Valdesa a 
 promise that he would pay them an 
 early visit. 
 
 The following morning he called upon 
 them, and they walked out till dinner, 
 when I\Ir. Hanhury recjucsted that Val- 
 desa would spend the remainder of the 
 day with them. 
 
 In the evening their party was en- 
 creased by the company of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Bamford, who assisted them in 
 forming a little concert, to which 
 Mr. Hanbury listened with enthusiastic 
 'delight. 
 
 In all his moments of sorrow or ab- 
 straction music never failed to operate 
 most powerfully on his mind ; and as he 
 dwelt on his favorite airs the tear would 
 steal down his cheek, and the sigh of 
 sympathy would burst from his heart; 
 that heart, the seat every virtue, whose 
 benevolent throbbings no ingratitude 
 could stifle, or disappointment overcome, 
 I 2 
 
172 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " Le naufragc & la mort sont raoins funestcs 
 " que les plaisirs qui attaqucnt la vcrtu." 
 
 Fekelon'. 
 
 *^ Shipwreck and death arc less dangerous than 
 ** the pleasures that at(ack virtue." 
 
 MoxTPis had now elapsed, and no 
 letter from Charles had yet arrived ; he 
 had set out on his eareer of dissipation, 
 entered on without reflection, and ter- 
 minating^ in guilt. His addiction to 
 the fatal practice of gaming had in- 
 volved him in difficulties inextricahlc ; 
 for it had introduced him to the society 
 of a young and fascinating, though un- 
 principled woman of high rank, whose 
 house was a rendezvous for gangsters, 
 and where they met with every en- 
 
173 
 
 couragenient that the sanction of a title 
 and conse(juence could bestow. 
 
 Flattered with the marks of attention, 
 which were lavished upon him by his 
 fair hostess, and allured by her charms, 
 Charles saw not the miseries which she 
 was preparing for him. Happier would 
 it have been for him, if he had never 
 strayed beyond the roof of tlie worthy 
 Hanbury, or rejected his admonitions. 
 
 His irregularities were become so 
 public, and his contempt of all controul 
 or discipline so notorious in the regi- 
 ment, that he had lost the countenance 
 of the worthier part of his associates, 
 who could no longer tolerate practices, 
 which might have stigmatized their ov/n 
 reputation. 
 
 This young man, dissipated and mis- 
 guided as was his conduct, was far from 
 happy ; reflection woufd obtrude, and 
 the voice of his futher sounding from the 
 grave, would sometimes be heard. But 
 I 3 
 
i74 
 
 the fust banicr was borne down, and iio 
 was swept away by the resistless tide. 
 
 One morning, on going to the house 
 of his friend lady Selwyn, and being 
 admitted to her dressing room, Charles 
 found it unoccupied ; and, seating him- 
 self by the fire, awaited her ladyship's 
 »nppearance. She opened the door sud- 
 denly, and found him in a musing at- 
 titude. 
 
 " I would not interrupt your reverie/' 
 said she, on his rising to meet her, when 
 he first perceived her enter, and then 
 rallying him, in a gay tone, on his ab- 
 3ence of mind, she saw his embarrass- 
 ment, and apparent desire to change the 
 subject. 
 
 Tlie conversation afterwards turned 
 on the adventures of the cn cning prcr 
 ceding : '' I think," said Charles, *' I 
 must h.tve done paying my devoirs at 
 the shrine of dame Fortune, for she's 
 been playing off so many of lier slip- 
 pery tricks upon me lately, that i'faith 
 I 'din even now more than half ruined." 
 
^5 
 
 Thvs was the very confession that her 
 kdyship had been thus long artfully 
 endeavouring to extort : intriguing, and 
 unprincipled, she had felt herself cap- 
 tivated by the manners and appearance 
 of Charles Greville, and now only wished 
 for an opportunity of binding him 
 wholly in her chains. Could she pre- 
 vail with him to accept of pecuniary ob- 
 ligations, she thought this would he 
 effected. 
 
 There was a time when Charles would 
 have shrunk with contempt from a pro- 
 posal of this" nature ; but that destruc- 
 tive vice, in which he had indulged, had 
 destroyed the native independence of 
 his spirit, and eradicated that ?tice sense 
 of honour, which cannot exist in the 
 bosom of a gamester. 
 
 " You must not, however," said her 
 ladyship, seizing upon this pause in the 
 conversation. ** you must not so lightly 
 resign the palm to your competitors; 
 come, suppose you enlist under my bau-* 
 i4 
 
17C 
 
 jicr^:, and surely wc sliall then be able 
 to set fortune at defiance. I am now, 
 you must know, on the point of making 
 a little voyage to Nice; cannot you 
 obtain leave of absence for a few 
 months ?" Charles hesitated at the pro- 
 posal, saying he feared it would not be 
 practicable : '* At all events," she added, 
 " it is only disposing of your commis- 
 sion until you feel the amor patria very 
 strongly upon you. 
 
 ** But, however, as I expect you at a 
 little faro party this evening, }ou arc 
 acquainted with the terms ; at present I 
 am to be your banker, and wlien my re- 
 sources fail, then you nuist be mine. 
 
 *' Adieu, I shall leave vou to vour 
 ruminations, in which you were so deep- 
 ly absorbed when I came in ; for I have 
 letters to write which w^ill employ mc 
 for the remainder of the morning ;" and 
 then hastily (juitting the apartment^ she 
 left him to his own reflections. 
 
 Poor Charles J how lost, how fallen. 
 
177 
 
 accepting pecuniary obligations from a 
 woman worthless as lady Selwyn, and 
 who derived all that she possessed from 
 the mistaken generosity, if so it could 
 be called when applied to her, of a 
 weak ill-judging man. 
 
 In the evening Charles arrived at her 
 ladyship's house before the party was 
 assembled; and she then asked if he 
 had considered of her proposal : he 
 paused for a reply, and piqued at his 
 hesitation, " The matter," said she, " is 
 scarcely worth deliberation ; if you like 
 to be of my party abroad it is well ;" 
 and turning to him with one of those 
 fascinating smiles which she could so 
 well assume, " but if you have any 
 superior inducement to remain in Eng- 
 land, do not hesitate, I beseech you/' 
 
 Charles, seizing her hand, assured her 
 that her society must always form the 
 first inducement with him, and convey 
 a sensation of bliss that no other could 
 inspire. He entreated her ladyship's par- 
 I 5 
 
I7& 
 
 iion for his apparent hcbitarion ; and slie 
 was again restored to good humour. 
 
 Charles Greville's devoirs liad flatter- 
 ed her ladyship's vanity ; she saw that he- 
 was admired by her sex, and she flatter- 
 ed herself that she reigned sole object : 
 this was a triumph over her acquaintance, 
 and gratified her vanity, affection s^lie 
 had none to bestow, for tlie woman who, 
 whilst united to one man, endeavours to- 
 engross the attentions of another, is too^ 
 depraved to be capable of admitting so 
 refmed a sensation. 
 
 Their conversation waa for the present 
 terminated by the arrival of some part 
 of the company. 
 
 The party played high, and, as usual, 
 Charles was unfortunate, and returned 
 home with the resolution of giving up 
 that destructive amusement ; but he 
 veilded to every day's tcmp>.\tion, and 
 his mind had become 90 vitiated by the 
 society of gamesters, that he seemed 
 ^nly to exist when surrounded by them. 
 
179 
 
 He had secretly determined to accept of 
 lady Selwyn's invitation to Nice; not 
 that change of place afforded him any 
 satisfaction, but his reflections v/ere be- 
 come so insupportable, that he sought, 
 ia killing time, to drown them^ 
 
 ^^- 
 
180 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 She listenM with a flitting blush, 
 
 With downcast eyrs and niodost i^iace ; 
 
 And she forgave him that he gaz'd 
 Too fondly on her face. 
 
 Wordsworth's Put.\LS. 
 
 Valdesa was now the constant com- 
 panion of Mr. Hanbury and Jessica m 
 all their rides and walks, and generally 
 passed his evenings at their liouse. 
 Each succeeding day they found some- 
 thing more to esteem and achnire in tliat 
 young man; yet there human nature- 
 was not exhibited without some shade. 
 Perhaps his virtues received additional 
 lustre by the contrast with his failings. 
 
 Valdesa, it has been already premised, 
 was an Italian, and consec^uently had 
 
181 
 
 the prejudices of his country, though 
 those extended not beyond opinion, and 
 never interfered with the happiness or 
 harmony of those around him ; nay, 
 there were moments in which he wished 
 he liad received those impressions which 
 so frequently form the character in aftei' 
 life, in any country rather than in his 
 own. He was conscious of the weak- 
 ness which tainted even his strong mind, 
 yet, as is not uncommon, he yielded too 
 often to its influence. 
 
 Jessica was much delighted on ob- 
 serving the evident change which the 
 society of Valdesa had produced in Mr. 
 Ilanbury ; nor did one particle of jea> 
 lousy obtrude itself on her mind, or 
 damp the pleasure she felt, when she 
 saw with what avidity he sought tlic 
 company of Valdesa. Jessica's lieart was 
 too purely distinterested ibr the recep- 
 tion of such petty seiisations:. 
 
 Valdesa felt and acknovvledo-ed hey 
 
 o 
 
 worth, and never, perhaps, did he ap- 
 
1-82 
 
 pfar to more advantrige than whilst, in 
 Jessica s absciu:o, he dwelt so minutely 
 ©n her praises. 
 
 " Are all y^ur fair countrywomen like 
 Jessica i^" he sometimes passionately 
 asked ; Mr. Hanbury smiled' at the en- 
 thusiasm with which he spoke. ** Will 
 you return with us to England/' re- 
 plied he, *' and form your o\mi opinion :*' 
 " Ah ! no," Vaklesa exclaimed, ** I shall 
 find none like Jessica, amiable and dis- 
 interested.'* 
 
 Sometimes^ on suddenly opening the 
 door, she indistinctly eaught her name,- 
 and Avhen she found that she had been 
 the subject of Valdesa's conversation,, 
 would turn to tlie wind<iw to conceaL 
 her emotions. 
 
 The superior mind and insinuating, 
 manners of Valde^a had made a power- 
 ful impression on Jessica's heart, and' 
 Air. Hanbury \s afi'cction for him seemed 
 to justify the prepossession; yet in all 
 *hc hours An: had passed in his society, 
 
iTo expression beyond the bauntlaries of 
 esteem liad ever escaped his lips ; and' 
 her native strong sense of delicacy pre- 
 vented her expressing, even, to her 
 paternal friend, the smallest part of what 
 she felt. Yet Mr. Hanbury sometimes, 
 when sitting alone with. Jessica, observ- 
 ed her ftequent abstraction of mind, 
 and the emotion which she betrayed 
 when Valdesawas the subject. 
 
 She no longer talked of returning ta 
 England with the cheerfulness which- 
 was wont to exhibit itself when Mr. 
 Hanbury used to^ speak of his plans on^ 
 their arrival in that country, Jessica 
 had lost too something of her former 
 aaimationy and when. Mr. Hanbury hint- 
 ed at the change, she pleaded anxiety 
 on her brother's account, and want of 
 health, as the cause. 
 
 The last of these reasons^ alarmed^ 
 him^ and he frequently urged her to have 
 some medical advice, which she uniform- 
 ly declined. VakUv<a continued to visit 
 
184 
 
 them daily, and one evening, when 
 Jessica liad quitted the room, -Mr. liaii- 
 bui y mentioned to him his apprehensions 
 on her account. '' I tear," said he, " that 
 she may liavc deceived me, previous to 
 our leaving England; I interrogated her, 
 as to the state of her affections, and slie 
 assured me they were wholly in her own 
 power ; yet, since our arrival here, she 
 has become dejected, even to melan- 
 choly, and I confess myself wholly un- 
 able to penetrate the cause," 
 
 Valdesa was alarmed also ; for the 
 nature of his sentiments respecting Jes- 
 sica he could no longer conceal from 
 himself, and the idea that there was some 
 one, whose remembrance she was sorrow- 
 fully cherisliing, was too much for him 
 to support. He encreased his former 
 assiduities, and watched over her with 
 the tenderest solicitude 
 
 One (lay wlieu Mr. llanbury, exhaust- 
 ed by a lung walk, had retired to his 
 chamber, Jessica was arranifini»' some 
 
music, when Valdcsa entered tlieroori). 
 Absorbed in painful reflection on an in- 
 cident which ^Ir. Hanbury had been 
 speaking of, she had seated herself on 
 the sopha, and Valdesa approached un-^ 
 observed. He saw the tears fall from 
 her eyes, as she repeated the following 
 stanza : 
 
 *' Thus restless exiles doom'd to room, 
 
 " iNleet pity every where, 
 *' Yet languish for their native home, 
 
 " Though death awaits them there." 
 
 '• Ah!" he exclaimed to himself '• it 
 is then too true, she has indeed, I find, en- 
 trusted her affections to the care of some 
 happy being, whose absence she secretly 
 deplores ; valuable, enviable deposit ! 
 May he prove himself worthy of the 
 trust !" 
 
 Jessica now rose from her seat in som6 
 confusion, and when Valdesa enquired 
 after .Mr. Hanbury, she said that he had 
 found himself indisposed, and was gone 
 to lie down. 
 
186 
 
 " Mr. Hanbury I thiuk/" said Vaidesa, 
 " appears benefited by his voyage; 
 though, perhaps, from some accidental 
 cause he may not to-day feel himselt 
 well, but his spirits are certainly in 
 some degree restored, and the mind is so 
 intimately connected with the body that 
 in general we find in our relief from 
 mental anxiety a perfect icstoration of 
 personal health." 
 
 Valdesa looked earnestly at Jessica 
 whilst he spoke ; slie liowever made no' 
 reply to this bist observation, but soon 
 after mentioned the return of Air. Han- 
 bury and herself to England. 
 
 " That is a subject,'' said Valdesa, 
 '^ which I liavc frequently rcmaiked you 
 dwell on with pleasure ; but England 
 is your '^ native liomc,'' and it is, perhaps, 
 not extroadinarv, tliat vou should sit^ii 
 to revisit it." 
 
 Jessica now recollected the stanza 
 she was repeating >\hen Valdesas en- 
 trance liad surprised lier, iuid his cm- 
 
pbasis on the expression, " native home,^ 
 raised a blush which he observed, and 
 anxious to change the subject, he pro- 
 posed a walk, to wliieh Jessica assented. 
 
 They called on-Matilda, who had rode 
 out ; and Jessica was under the necessity 
 of walking with Valdesa unaccompanied 
 by her friend. This, in her present state 
 of mind, was not pleasant, but she had 
 Xio alternative. 
 
 It was a fine afternoon in the latter 
 end of October, and Valdesa remarked 
 whilst they were wandering near Mont- 
 pelier, how much the clear blue azure 
 which he now observed, reminded hint 
 of an Italian sky. 
 
 '' Perliaps," continued he, *' there is 
 something in an autumnal aspect that im- 
 presses the mind with different, and more 
 mingled sensations, than any other season 
 of. the year. In spring we gradually ob- 
 serve nature unfold her sweets ; and in 
 summer are cheered by enjoying their 
 fruition ; " but autumn speaks, of pleasure 
 past> and bodes approaching pain." 
 
1S8 
 
 ** I have frc(iucntly wuiulercd alone 
 for hours toii^ether in this sca.son of the 
 year, and have often heen .slruck by the 
 analogy which the state of vegetable 
 nature bears to that of man : our hopes 
 spring up, they blossom, and they fade, 
 and the many coloured tints of autumn 
 are not, perhaps, more variegated than 
 our own existence. 
 
 *' How many, loved and clierished m 
 the spring of life, are torn from the 
 earth, and leave tis to mourn in desola- 
 tion ; some, after expanding tiie buds 
 of aifection, and nourishing us by theip 
 love, witlulraw from us its fragrance, 
 and blast each rising joy I How dreary 
 4s tlic winter that succeeds, when our 
 hopes are thus bliglited. aiul the heart 
 becomes a desert waste, \\ liere no sweets 
 arise to beguile us on oui })ath, when all 
 around is joyless." 
 
 To this sentiment, Jessica feelingly 
 assented ; she thought of her brother far 
 away, and, regardless of what she suf- 
 
189 
 
 fered, and at the conclusion of her sen- 
 tence, her tears flowed fast. 
 
 ''^ Yet, how many" she replied, *^ are 
 the remembrances which cling to the 
 heart, and animate it with joy. 
 
 " Amongst the idle ephemera of the 
 world, I admit there is little to excite 
 pleasure, but there is a charm in the 
 esteem of the virtuous part of society, 
 which I think no pain, that it might 
 hereafter produce, would tempt me to 
 forego, 
 
 " The idea of being beloved by one 
 individual in creation, who merited my 
 regard, would cheer me in sickness, in 
 sorrow or in poverty; though countries 
 intervene<l to separate us. For notwitli- 
 standing it is the peculiar^ attribute of 
 friendship to magnify the distance 
 wliich divides it from the object, yet the 
 mind, free and unconfined to space, will 
 dwell there, and uninterruptedly enjoy 
 the delightful union." 
 
 Jessica became animated whilst slie 
 
spoke, and Vaklesa gazed on lier witli 
 rapture. '* You," replied he, " I doubt 
 not speak feelingly, and uhilst every 
 sentiment you utter adds to my con- 
 viction of your worth, it encrcases my 
 regret. How happy, and how enviable 
 the being to whom you have j)lcdged 
 your affections !" 
 
 Jessica smiled at this warmth of ex- 
 pression, and assured him that she had 
 never yet met w ith that being to whom 
 he alluded. 
 
 Valdesa's agitation was excessive, and 
 displa3*ed itself in every turn of his 
 countenance. '* And is there none," said 
 he, '' who has yet been so fortunate as 
 to obtain an interest in your iieart? but 
 how few indeed are wortliy of a place 
 there ! how few, in whom to hope for 
 such a distinction, would not be weak- 
 ness and presumption ! ' He paused, he 
 saw the tears start from her eyes, and 
 chace each other down her cheek. 
 
 ** If," a<lded he, " the deepest con- 
 
191 
 
 viction of your worth, the tenderest 
 esteem, and the most unbounded admira- 
 tion of your a(hnhable qualities, can 
 give me aught of merit in your eyes, un- 
 worthy as I feel myself, to solicit a trea- 
 sure dearer to my heart than the united 
 treasures of the world, suffer me to hope 
 that you will bestow on me some portion 
 of that esteem which you have declared 
 no other to possess. 
 
 '* In asking tliis, I injure the rights 
 of no one ; many, I doubt not, have been 
 sesible of your virtues, of the value of 
 your cliaracter ; but none have loved 
 like me ! Ah, no I since I first had 
 the happiness of meeting you, your so- 
 ciety has given a zest to my existence, 
 and the hope, feeble as it has been, of 
 sharing with you the remainder of my 
 life, was all that has since rendered it 
 desirable.'' 
 
 Jessica turned to him with that mild, 
 yet dignified expression, which so emi» 
 nently distinguished her; and in lau- 
 
guage simple and unafFccted, ackno\v- 
 Icdi^cd tlic impression wliicli Valdesa's 
 virtues had made on her lieart. 
 
 *' To you then," she said," 1 will be a 
 friend and comforter whilst you remain 
 deserving* of the place I have given you 
 in my esteem, but should any latent un- 
 worthiness hereafter appear, the bond 
 IS cancelled, and we ptirt to meet no 
 more/' 
 
 Jessica was superior to that species 
 of coquetry, which torments itself, tor 
 the sake of wounding the feelings of 
 another. 
 
 J)ignificd in her ideas, and delicate 
 in every feeling of her heart, her at- 
 tachment to Valdesa no circumstance 
 but this candid declaration on his part, 
 would ever have extorted from her : but 
 the time was past when that reserve 
 was called for ; and she acknowledged, 
 in a manner that did honour to her 
 heart and understanding, her sense of 
 Valdesa s merits. She liad long regard- 
 
19S 
 
 cd him with the tenderest esteem, but 
 she retired to be chosen. No moment 
 of weakness betrayed the secret of her 
 heart, she rested secure in her own for- 
 titude, and in that sense of female deli- 
 cacy, which on no occasion she lost 
 sight of. , , 
 
 Valdesa was. charmed with the diffi- 
 dence of her manners, and fascinated 
 by the graces of her mind. He had 
 contemplated at a distance, and in silent 
 admiration, the treasure which he was 
 now soon to call his own ; every day en- 
 creased hi^ happiness, as it added con- 
 viction of Jessica's worth. 
 
 Mr. Haubury \\:as delighted with the 
 glowing attachment of his young 
 friends. The thought of leaving his 
 ward exposed and unprotected, to cope 
 with the difficulties that might assail 
 her, in a world of which she knew so 
 little, had often pressed heavily on his 
 mind ; and occasioned him severe 
 anxiety. 
 
 V^L. I. K 
 
194 
 
 Valdesa was the son of her whom 
 Mr. Hanbury had so fondly loved; it 
 was not then extraodinary, that some 
 part of that regard had devolved on 
 him, which had been so long centered 
 in hs mother. 
 
 " No," ]Mr. Hanbury \a ould often say, 
 ** I regret not, my dear Jessica, the cir- 
 cumstance of parting from you, when I 
 reflect into whose care I commit you : 
 Valdesa cannot be unworthv, there are 
 shades which obscure the brilliancy of 
 every character, and, perhaps, a slight 
 disposition to reserve, alone clouds that 
 of our friend: but the son of my be- 
 loved Cclestina, educated under her 
 auspices, must be deserving of the hap- 
 jpincss which awaits him." 
 
195 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My young and beauteous bride. 
 
 Wordsworth's Poems. 
 
 The period which Mr. and Mrs. Bam- 
 ford had assigned for their residence in 
 Montpelier had elapsed, and it was not 
 without regret that Jessica learned the 
 intention of Matilda to depart within 
 a few days. 
 
 The health of her hushand was con- 
 siderably amended since their arrival in 
 France^ and her anxiety to return to her 
 sisters overcame the reluctance which 
 she felt on the idea of parting from her 
 English friends. Mr. Bamford had ex- 
 perienced much pleasure in the society 
 of Jessica and Mr, Ilanbury : the pro-^ 
 
 K 21 
 
\9G 
 
 bability affoiilcd to the latter of ever 
 meetino: them more in tliis life was 
 feeble, and he felt particular regret on 
 the circumstance of their separation, 
 though not so poignant as that which 
 oppressed the heart of Jessica ; for 
 ^Ir. Hanbury had so frequently and so 
 bitterly laboured under sensations like 
 these, that his mind was in a great 
 degree weaned, from a keen sensibility, 
 to the pleasures and pains attendant on 
 human intercourse. He had been se\ercd 
 from the friend dearest to his heart; 
 he saw himself torn from her, for 
 whom alone existence was a blessing. 
 The world had nothing to bestow iu 
 compensation for his loss, and he en- 
 dured rather than enjoyed the things of 
 this life. Yet his sovd, fortified by 
 the spirit of leligion, which imparts a 
 consolation that human philosophy in 
 vain endeavours to effect, and supported 
 by the consciousness of rectitude, with- 
 j>ut whose influence the mind knows not 
 
197 
 
 a shadow of happiness, rose above those 
 temporary evils. 
 
 To suffer from the vice and weakness 
 of persons around us, is not a calamity 
 compared with what those endure who 
 labour under the bitter consciousness 
 of their own unworthiness. This Mr. 
 lianbury had never felt ; he had never 
 experienced the extreme of misery. 
 
 Jessica prepared herself for the last 
 interview with her friends. It had been 
 previously agreed, that, after the union 
 of Valdesa and Jessica, they were to 
 return to England, where she hoped to 
 rejoin Matilda. 
 
 But notwithstanding the probability of 
 their again meeting, heavy forebodings 
 clouded the spirits of Jessica on this 
 evening, which was to close their present 
 intercourse. 
 
 The hours seemed more rapid in their 
 
 flight than usual, and it was not till the 
 
 clock sounded the hour of twelve that 
 
 she was roused to the recollection that 
 
 k3 
 
1P8 
 
 it was time to depart, since the vessel 
 in which the travellers liad taken their 
 passage was to sail at an early hour, the 
 following morning. 
 
 Mr. Hanbury, liowever, first motioned 
 to take leave; for Jessica yet lingered, and 
 seemed reluctant to pronounce her fare- 
 Avell. She at length went up to Matilda, 
 and, kissing her cold cheek, entreated her 
 to be comforted in the hope of their soon 
 meeting each other again ; and, after 
 an affectionate adieu to Mr. Bamford, 
 Mr. Hanbury and herself returned home. 
 
 Jessica had parted, for the first time 
 in her life, with difric7}d\ her emotion* 
 were new and afflicting. Jessica was 
 not sensible how many scenes of a 
 similar nature she must encounter in her 
 journey through life, and tiie present 
 5cemed of importance. The blossoms 
 of hope were only budding in her spring 
 of youth ; they had not been nippvd 
 by the cruel blight of disappointment. 
 
 I 
 
199 
 
 She was now in a situation to look 
 forward only to joy and happiness, blest 
 in the affections of him whom she had 
 selected as the partner of her cares, the 
 companion of her future life. 
 
 In the character of Valdesa, it was 
 true, Jessica had discovered some shades, 
 but as human nature is never exhibited 
 without imperfection, she looked not 
 for it, even in the chcrsen of her heart. 
 
 Mr. Hanbury observed, frequently 
 with concern, a tendency in Valdesa to 
 indulge those weaknesses, the charac- 
 teristic of his country, a proneness to 
 suspicion, and some degree of irritability 
 of mind. In these moments Mr. Han- 
 bury felt tremblingly anxious for the 
 future peace of his beloved ward, whose 
 eveiy shadow of comfort must soon be 
 wholly in the power of Valdesa, to whom 
 he was to resign her previous to their 
 leaving Montpelier. That period had 
 nearly arrived, and Valdesa, anxious for 
 the completion of his happiness, pleaded 
 
for their early union, to which Mr. Han- 
 bury consented. 
 
 When Jessica was urge J to a LOiiciir- 
 rence in their wishes, with tiiat amiable 
 candour which marked her character and 
 formed one of its best traits, slie acceded 
 to the petition. 
 
 Though it was no very distant period 
 fiincethe commencement of her acquaint- 
 ance with Valdesa, yet in an uninter- 
 rupted intercourse she had an oppor- 
 /tunity of investigating his character 
 with more certainty than could have 
 resulted from a longer acquaintance 
 under different circumstances. His vir- 
 tues and his foihles were each, she 
 thought, thoroughly known to her ; the 
 time was approaching when, in a nearer 
 and dearer communion, those were to 
 develope themselves more fully. 
 
 At length tlie sun of that morning 
 ai'osc whicli shone on the union of Jessica 
 and Valdesa, and beheld her a young 
 and lovely bride ; young in the know- 
 
201 
 
 ledge of mankind, tlieir vices and their 
 follies, and lovely in the innocence 
 and rectitude of her heart. 
 
 To Mr. Hanbury it was, indeed, an 
 eventful morning, and his feelings were 
 too powerful for utterance when he 
 pronounced a blessing on the children 
 of those two beings dearer to him than 
 any which the world had afforded. The 
 affection which he felt for his deceased 
 friends seemed to have descended to the 
 young pair ; words would have been 
 inadequate to have conveyed the senti- 
 ments of his heart, and he retired to 
 his closet to pour them out in secret 
 before the Father of the Universe. 
 
 He then returned to Jessica, with 
 calmness of mind and serenity of heart. 
 
 Valdesa appeared all rapture in the 
 attainment of that object which he had 
 so ardently coveted ; and Jessica smiled 
 on him with love and approbation.. 
 
 " May this scene long, long continue," 
 said the worthy Hanbury as he affec- 
 
 r k5 
 
202 
 
 tionately embraced them, and may each 
 revolving year witness your mutual conv- 
 tbrt ; bear with each other's weaknesses, 
 support each otliers inflimities, and may 
 temporal and eternal felicity await you." 
 
 Jessica knelt at his feet, whilst he 
 breathed forth his wishes for their hap- 
 piness, and Mr. llanbury, rising her, 
 presented her to Valdesa. 
 
 *' To your care,^ he contimied, " do I 
 consign a sacred trust, bequeathed to me 
 in the last moments of a dying friend ; 
 bound to his memory by the ties -of 
 gratitude, the welfare of his child i-s 
 nearer to my heart, than any earthly ob- 
 ject ; cherish her faiihfully ; love licr 
 tenderly; and continue to be worthy of 
 the confidence reposed in you. 
 
 " Your wife merits youu atfection, 
 for she is amiable ; and whilst you love 
 her, will deem no sacriiice too much 
 for your sake : but beware, Valdesa, I 
 know the heait of Jessica, and 1 also 
 know, that it is tremblingly alive to the 
 slightest appearance of neglect. 
 
203 
 
 " She will not complain if she per- 
 ceives any abatement of affection, but 
 she will sorrow in secret; endeavour 
 then to deserve her love, to preserve her 
 happiness, and, oh! may love and hap- 
 piness be your portion." 
 
 Valdesa assured Mr. Hanbury, that he 
 was fully sensible of the value of that 
 charge, which he had honoured him 
 with and hoped that he should never, 
 on any occasion, prove unmindful of his 
 trust. 
 
 kG 
 
£04 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Yet oh, thy living features never wore 
 A look so sweet, so eloquent before, 
 As this which bids all human passions cease, 
 And tells my pitying hcait thou died in peace. 
 
 BowLts. 
 
 The comfort of Jessica, like every 
 other humaii possession, was of short 
 duration. One evening, on re turning 
 from a walk witli her husband, she per- 
 ceived the house in much confusion, tlie 
 servants in great distress ; alarmed at 
 this apparent hurry, she hastily enquir- 
 ed the cause, when one of the servants 
 abruptly informed her that \lr. Plan- 
 bury was dying. 
 
 She ran to his apartment, and kneeling 
 beside the bed, wildly called on him to 
 
205 
 
 speak to her ; he made a vahi effort to 
 raise his head from the pillow, and clasp- 
 ing her hand within his, she found that 
 he was unahle to articulate. 
 
 By this time Valdesa had entered the 
 room, and Jessica requested that he 
 would instantly go in search of the best 
 medical assistance he could find. 
 
 In a short time he returned, accom- 
 panied by a physician, who, after feel- 
 ing ]\Ir. Hanbury's pulse, pronounced hi» 
 disorder to be an attack of paralysis^ 
 and after the usual applications ad- 
 ministered, left the house with the pro- 
 mise of returning in an hour or two. 
 
 He did return, but not to give con- 
 solation to the almost breaking heart of 
 Jessica ; when he informed her that the 
 situation of Mr. Hanbury was at pre- 
 sent such as scarcely to admit of hope ; 
 and when followed by Valdesa into 
 another apartment, in which he had re- 
 quested to speak with him, he assured 
 him, that he believed i\Ir. Hanbury to 
 be tlien in a dying state. 
 
206 
 
 Jessica in the mean time was seated at 
 his side, her eyes fondly riveted on liis 
 emaciated form, whilst the tears flowed 
 from them, and dropped on the pillow, 
 over which she was leanings as watching 
 the slightest motion of her friend ; she 
 dared hardly breath, for fear of discom- 
 posing him. 
 
 The long dreaded hour was hastening 
 fast, in which lie was to be torn from 
 her : when a life of anxiety, disappoint- 
 ment, and suffering was to terminate. 
 
 He slept calmly for some hours, and 
 Valdcsa took his station with Jessica, 
 at the side of the bed. The fluttering 
 pulse, and languid respiration, however, 
 prepared them for the change; and about 
 seven o'clock, supported in the arms of 
 Jessica, after making a sign to embrace 
 her, he breathed his last. 
 
 Thus ended the eventful career of one 
 who, bom to dignify and adorn the hu- 
 man race, fell a sacrifice to the perfidy 
 and ingratitude of his fellow creatures. 
 
207 
 
 Mr. Hanbury's life had been one series 
 of trials and afflictions, the hour of re- 
 pose had at length arrived. 
 
 As after a day in which the sun has 
 shed upon the earth if s brilliant rays, 
 and exhausted it's heat, it sinks to res-t 
 in evening's tranquil hours; so his virtues, 
 diffusing their lustre around, and impart- 
 ing warmth by their beams, reposed in 
 death after the fatigue and struggle of a 
 long day. 
 
 Vaklesa found it necessary to use 
 every argument that reason could sug- 
 gest to calm the mind of Jessica ; but 
 the hour of recent calamity is not that 
 for availing condolence : religion alone 
 was to teach her resignation, and time 
 to blunt the arrow which would stUl 
 rankle in the wound. 
 
 Jessica prepared herself for the sad in- 
 dulgence of taking her last farewell of 
 the lifeless form of her departed friend ; 
 and assumino; all the fortitude of which 
 )she was possessed, the evening after lus 
 
20g 
 
 decease, she repaired to the chamber of 
 death ; after dismisshig the attendants, 
 cahnly kneeling by the couch, on which 
 that form so fondly loved was stretched, 
 she prayed for resignation to support 
 his loss. 
 
 As she gazed on his pale countenance 
 reposing in death, she thought of the 
 virtues which had shone so conspicuous 
 there, and her tears flowed at the recol- 
 lection. 
 
 That eye, beaming sensibility and be- 
 nevolcnce, for ever closed ; those lips, 
 which had charmed her imagination 
 and improved her heart by the precepts 
 of truth, for ever silent; that voice, 
 whose accents, mildly sweet, liad con- 
 soled and cheered her spirits when 
 drooping under the pressure of sickness 
 or of sorrow, hushed in ihe stillness 
 and ii'loom of death ! 
 
 It was the hour of evening, and the 
 sun's last rays were partially shed over 
 the couch, as they beamed through the 
 
 I 
 
^09 
 
 'window near which it was plaqed. 
 Struck with the reflection that before 
 another sun she should cease to gaze at 
 that form, that nothing would be left but 
 the fond remembrance of his virtues, 
 Jessica burst into fresh tra;nsports of 
 grief. 
 
 *' Yet he will live in my heart,'' she 
 exclaimed, " and there be cherished till 
 with him I repose in the grave. Yes, 
 dear and honoured friend, in life beloved, 
 in death lamented; should thy pure 
 spirit, hovering over me in this hour 
 sacred to thy memory, witness the sor- 
 rows of my heart, it wquld be soothed 
 by my resignation to the will of an un- 
 erring Being, and never shall my life be 
 stained with any action that would have 
 pained thy pure and gentle bosom : blest 
 be thy precepts, and thy memory hal- 
 lowed I and oh, may we soon be reunited 
 never more to experience separation." 
 
 Jessica rose, she lingered, she kissed 
 his pale cheek, and bathing it with her 
 tears, tore herself from the apartment 
 
£10 
 
 She returned to VaUlesa calm and 
 resigned, her mind more tranquiiized 
 since she had paid her visit to the re- 
 mains of her beloved friend ; but he had 
 left a void in her lieart, which could 
 never, perhaps, in this life be supplied. 
 
Sll 
 
 CHAPTER XXIIL 
 
 There is a calm for those that weep, 
 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found, 
 They softly lie, and sweetly sleep, 
 
 Low in the ground. 
 
 MONTGOMElty. 
 
 In the evening of the fifth clay after 
 Mr. Hanbury's decease, the last obsequies 
 were performed, and accompanied by 
 Valdesa, the physician, and an old ser- 
 vant, Jessica attended Mr. Hanbury to 
 the grave. 
 
 This was a trial under wliich even 
 her fortitude, wliich seldom forsook her 
 was completely shaken. 
 
 As she leaned on the arm of her hus- 
 band whilst the solemn rites of sepulture 
 were performed, and saw her dearest 
 
212 
 
 frieml consigned to the dark and silent 
 tomb, the remembrance of her father 
 rushed on her imagiujitiun united with 
 that of liim, for whom she was now sor- 
 rowing : riveted together by the ties of 
 sympathy, in the bonds of fricndsliip, 
 which during their lives had known no 
 diminution, they were now to be le- 
 united where their mutual sorrows would 
 be remembered no more. 
 
 At Mr. Hanbury's particular request, 
 his remains w^ere deposited in a burying 
 ground which he had selected in a walk 
 with Jessica, desiring that if his decease 
 should happen during their abode in that 
 neighbourhood, he might be interred 
 there. 
 
 It was indeed a fit sanctuary for those 
 who were quietly reposing after the 
 storms of life ; and the heart w hich was 
 aching under a sense of unmerited in- 
 juries, might have longed to bury it's 
 sorrows amongst those calm shades. 
 
 The hour was come, *' when all the air 
 
213 
 
 a solemn stillness holds," and the 
 gloom of twilight enveloped the sur- 
 rounding objects ; no sound interrupted 
 the melancholy reflections of Jessica, 
 as mournfully and slowly she returned 
 to their now comfortless habitation ; no 
 friend there to extend in kindness his 
 hand, and greet with smiles of welcome 
 her return 1 
 
 In the aifectionate attentions of Val- 
 desa, however, the wounded mind of 
 Jessica was in some degree restored, and 
 the morning after that melancholy 
 scene, in compliance with her desire, 
 he wrote to Charles, informing him of 
 his union with Jessica, and the death of 
 their mutual friend. 
 
 For this was a task to which Jessica 
 found herself wholly unequal; she could 
 not address her brother in the lano-uao-e 
 of affection, wlien the recollection of 
 the many hours of fruitless anxiety which 
 he had caused to Mr. Hanburv, obtruded 
 itself on her mind, and uncertain as she 
 
2J4 
 
 was whether the letter might ever reaeti 
 him, Valdcsa was ahiiost discouraged in 
 tlie undertaking. 
 
 Tlie pacquet was however addressed 
 to a gentleman in London to whom Mr. 
 Hanbury had consigned Charles's affairs 
 previous to his leaving England. 
 
 Jessica found tlie last testimony of 
 her friend's regard for her ^^•hcn, on 
 searching his papers, she discovered that 
 he had left to her his library, plate, and 
 furniture. 
 
 The triflinc: estate of which he was 
 possessed was, independent of his church 
 preferment, tlie whole of his property, 
 and had on his death devolved to a 
 stranger. 
 
 This mark of his regard was how- 
 ever more prized by Jessica than the 
 aGcpiisition of riches wo\dd have been ; 
 it convinced licr that she was beloved 
 by him, and was a consolation to her 
 under her sorrows ; and Valdcsa, though 
 not in circumstances at all tqual to his 
 
215 
 
 rank, had yet sufEcient for the comforts 
 of life. 
 
 To all else Jessica was indiiFerent; 
 *' content and careless of to-morrow's 
 fare," her wants were moderate, her 
 wishes circumscribed. 
 
216 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 Whilst I am bound to wondor 
 I am bound to sorrow too. 
 
 SlIAKESrr.-MlE., 
 
 Tju- Conte Valdcsa was yet livina-, 
 thou<>'h tioixi the period of liis mother's 
 death Valdesa and lie had never met. 
 
 The honds of consanguinity, dear as 
 they ought to be to us, and necessary 
 as tliey arc to the well-being of society, 
 circumstances sometimes dissolve, and 
 justify the individual in tlie dissolu- 
 tion. 
 
 Thus was it ia the present instance : 
 tlie conduct of the Conte towards liis 
 unfortunate wife, Avliich liad proved ont* 
 
217 
 
 seiies of tyranny and oppression, and 
 finally terminated her life, had not only 
 severed from him the aftections of his 
 son, but had excited sensations in the 
 mind of Valdesa nearly amounting to 
 abhorrence ; and he liad quitted Naples 
 with the unalterable determination of 
 retuniino- to it no more. 
 
 The Conte, however, had soon after 
 the death of the Contessa, formed a 
 connection Avith a woman unamiable 
 and unprincipled as liimself, and whose 
 chiidien would in all probability inherit 
 tlie fortune which in justice Valdesa 
 ought to have possessed. 
 
 The Signor Valdesa's maternal grand- 
 father had been swept away by a malig- 
 nant fever soon after the death of his 
 daughter ; and died, as the Marquis 
 predicted, a prey to misery and re- 
 morse. 
 
 lie beheld his child sacrificed, he 
 saw her uncomplaining bow beneath 
 the yoke, he felt that though surrounded 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 
 
 by splendour she Avas wretched, that 
 though married she had no husband. 
 
 Conviction flashed on his mind with 
 all its horrors, for he was sensi])le of 
 these evils when too late, and consci- 
 ence told»him that he was the author of 
 them all. 
 
 He watched the faded form of the 
 Contessa sinking into the grave, and 
 each time that he visited lier, it seemed 
 to speak daggers to his lieart. 
 
 No reproaches escaped her, her looks 
 wert those of gentleness and love, yet 
 the anguish of her mind was depicted in 
 her countenance as she looked forward 
 to lier approaching dissolution. 
 
 The hour at length arrived, and as 
 the weary mariner returning from a 
 foreign land, hails with peaceful sensa- 
 tions his native shore, so she viewed 
 the asylum of rest which she had been 
 long and anxiously anticipating. 
 
 From Valdesa Jessica was fully ac 
 cjuainted with the suiferings of the 
 
^19 
 
 Gontessa, as lie had given to her a more 
 succinct account than that which he 
 had imparted to Mr. Hanbury ; for there 
 ^vcre traits in the character of his 
 father, too terrible to be revealed to one 
 Avho was so deeply interested in the 
 fate of his mother, as Mr. Haiibuiy was 
 supposed to be. 
 
 Valdesa had a sister innocent and 
 beautiful, the consolation of her mother, 
 too great a consolation for the Conte 
 to permit her the enjoyment of: at 
 twelve vears of ao-e he tore her from 
 her, and sent her to an old villa of 
 his, in the neighbourhood of Naples, 
 where, disguised as a peasant, did her 
 brother sometimes visit her, for this 
 privilege in his own character was de- 
 nied to him. 
 
 Excluded from the world, and im- 
 mured in a habitation far from the busy 
 haunts of men, did this lovely flower 
 blush nnseen and droop beneath the 
 chilling gale of .adversity 3 her mind 
 l2 
 
120 
 
 enervated by sorrow, her health destroyed 
 Avith anxiet}'' ; casting wistful glances 
 towards the abode of her niotlicr, whom 
 whenever more expected to behold. 
 
 At leno'th Valdesa Mas under the ne- 
 cessity of quitting Naples, the regiment 
 in which he was then an officer A\as or- 
 dered abroad, and his sister's shadow of 
 comfort departed with him. 
 
 Emilie saw herself condemned to 
 perpetual imprisonment, doomed to 
 captivity by the barbarity of a father, 
 and this to gratify his desire of revenge, 
 because he supposed he possessed not 
 the aftections of his wife. 
 
 Thus to indulge his malignant passions 
 did tlie Conte sacrilice two beings 
 who]n he was bound to cherish and pro- 
 tect. 
 
 Emilie parted from Valdesa, and they 
 met no more ; — his regiment was order- 
 ed abroad, where it ccmtinued some 
 years, and during that period intelli- 
 o-euce reached him of Eniiiic's death; 
 
g21 
 
 as soon as he returned to Italy, he 
 hastened to his mother, whom he found 
 bending hencath a weight of anguish. 
 
 She had never been permitted to see 
 her daughter from the time of his de- 
 parture, and that circumstance seemed 
 to have added the last death stroke to 
 her peace. 
 
 Valdesa visited the villa, where all 
 was gloom and desolation. No kind 
 and gentle Emilie to wander with him 
 through those pleasant shades, where 
 together they had beguiled so many 
 hours. 
 
 An old woman whom he found in the 
 villa, ^vilo had been placed there to 
 keep it aired, informed him where he 
 might meet with the housekeeper that 
 had formerly resided there, and who 
 now lived not far from thence. 
 
 The evening was closing, but impa- 
 tient to hear a more particular account 
 of the death of his poor sister, than 
 lie could collect from this woman, 
 l3 
 
222 
 
 Valdesa proceeded to Agues. s habita- 
 tion. 
 
 Years and anxiety had so nnicli alter- 
 ed him, that old Agnes could iKirdly re- 
 cognize her young master in the person 
 before her; but when assured it was in- 
 deed himself, she overwhelmed him 
 with caresses. 
 
 When Valdesa entered upon the sub- 
 ject of his visit, she sorro\N'fully shook 
 her liead, '^ yVh ! your poor dear sister is 
 indeed gone," said she, *' and old and 
 miserable as I am, I am yet here." 
 
 *' We have had sad doings, my dear 
 young master, at the villa since you 
 left us, your sister never held up her 
 head after you went, she gave up her 
 long walks, and seldom went beyond 
 the old bridge, and then I used to talk 
 to her and encourage her, but the tears 
 would run down her face, and she would 
 try to smile when I mentioned your 
 return. 
 
 " But there are strange stories,'* said 
 
CO 
 
 23 
 
 she, lowering lier voice, *^ and I do not 
 know whether I should mention all that 
 I have heard. 
 
 " There came to the villa, with 
 tlie Conte your father, two gentlemen, 
 one was I think a Marchese, but I have 
 forgot his name, and the other a beauti- 
 ful young gentleman, w^ho used to walk 
 about with your sister, and always seem- 
 td so happy when he was here." 
 
 " Well, it was said that the Conte 
 wished to marry your sister to this Mar- 
 chese, but he seemed far txx> old for her, 
 and she used to sit down and weep so 
 when they were coming, that it used 
 ialmost to break my heart to look at 
 her. 
 
 '' At last the young gentleman ceased 
 to come with the Marchese, and then she 
 seemed more unhappy." 
 
 *' She would walk alone, and then sit 
 
 down and used to sigh so pitifully, and 
 
 when I asked what I could do for her, 
 
 she would lay her hand on her heart 
 
 l4 
 
224 
 
 and burst into tears, and would tliciigo 
 away without ever speaking. 
 
 *' Many's tlie tear that poor old Ag- 
 nes lias shed since you went away. 
 
 ** I used to tliink when my dear 
 young master returned, there will be an 
 end of these troubles, but you will think 
 I am very tedious and never mean to 
 finish my story. 
 
 " Well then, it was last w^inter that 
 your sister drooped sadly, and your 
 father often came here with the Marchese^, 
 and every time after they were gone she 
 seemed more unhappy; it was just 
 about Christmas time, and I went to see 
 my son, w^ho lives four leagues from 
 Naples. 
 
 *^ The night before 1 was to set off 
 1 went up to the Signora's door, and 
 rapping, she bid me come in, and 1 told 
 her I w^as leaving the villa for a few 
 days, and asked her if she wanted nic 
 for any thing, "Ah no, my dear Agnes, 
 she said, " I hope you will be very 
 
225 
 
 happ}^ in the sight of your children, and 
 do not huriy yourself, but stay and en- 
 joy yourself amongst them, and putting 
 a purse into my hand, she shook hands 
 Avith me so kindly, and looked so sor- 
 rowfully, that my heart was quite 
 full. 
 
 " Well, the next morning I left the 
 chateau ; my son was taken ill, and I 
 was obliged to stay with him some 
 weeks, but I heard accounts that the 
 Signora was dead, and some persons 
 said that she had left the villa: how- 
 ever I was so unhappy that I told my 
 son the day after, that I must leave 
 him, and when I got here, I found all 
 quite deserted ; at last when I got ad- 
 mittance there was the old woman that 
 you saw there now, and she mentioned 
 that the Conte was gone away, and that 
 she had come to the villa to take 
 care of it ; that it was rumoured that 
 the Signora was dead, but strange ac- 
 L 5 
 
 C 
 
226 
 
 counts, my dear Signer, have been lu- 
 niourecl since then. 
 
 Tjie Contessa was then very ill in a 
 fever, and they did not tell her of your 
 sister's death till a long time after, but 
 many persons say that the Conte has 
 taken her away from the villa, and 
 has told his family that she is dead. 
 
 The servants that he left there are 
 both gone, and no one knows whither, 
 and it is also said that the Conte wished 
 to force hef into a marriage with the 
 Marchese, and that she refused ; and 
 that he carried her away on that ac- 
 count ; however, I am certain she loved 
 that fine yowng gentleman that used to 
 come, for she took it to heart ever after 
 he w ent away. 
 
 '' And now I have got to tlie end of 
 my sad stoiy," added the poor old wo- 
 man, " and you see me, my young 
 muster, older with grief than years. 
 
 " Whenl sit and think ol* your good 
 sister, so kind and so patient, and how 
 
2^7 
 
 unhappy she was, and all the tears she 
 shed, well then I am quite tired of the 
 world and I long to rest with her. 
 
 " But you must not look so sorrowful, 
 my dear young master, for it was the will 
 of God." 
 
 L 6 
 
228 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 Oh God, giich strains broath'd by my angel guide, 
 Would make me pass the cup of anguish by ; 
 JMix with the blest, nor know that 1 had died. 
 
 Axon. 
 
 Valdksa liad listened to the simple, 
 but feeling niirrative of the faithful old 
 Airnes, with the bitterest sensation. 
 
 At one moment he indulged a hope 
 that Emilie yet existed, and that lie 
 should discover her abode; and at another 
 he sunk into despair; he well knew the 
 tendency of the lower order of people to 
 an indulgence of superstition, and their 
 fondness for every thing mysterious 
 and marvellous, yet the whole of the 
 story struck him in so ])o\\ erful a man- 
 ner, though he scarcely knew why, that 
 
229 
 
 if he bad been apt to harbour present!^ 
 nients, he would, m despite of reason, 
 have yielded to a foreboding that Emilie 
 still lived. 
 
 But why should the Conte, who could 
 have had any command executed, from 
 the unlimited power that his wealth 
 gave him over his domestics, and of 
 whom Emilie was in too much fear to 
 make any open resistance, why should 
 he have hi^d recourse to stratagem to 
 effect his purposes r besides, had not 
 Agnes informed him that the health of 
 Emilie had been long declining ? 
 
 Valdesa dismissed the first idea as 
 absurd, but yet doubts would obtrude, 
 and his mind was racked hy the various 
 conjectures that took place of each other 
 there ; afflicted and harrasscd, he re- 
 turned to the villa, and found the 
 old woman awaitiug his appearance. 
 
 As she led him through a long suite 
 of rooms, before they arrived at the 
 apartment which was allotted him, a 
 
230 
 
 kind of superstitious awe, to which he 
 had been unaccustomed, came over liim 
 as he traversed the long galleries, from 
 which no sound proceeded, save the 
 echo of his footsteps. 
 
 Dismissing his attendant at the door, 
 Valdesa placed the lamp on a dressing 
 table, and sat down, ruminating on the 
 events of the evening, 
 
 The recollection of the last interview 
 which he had with his sister, the night 
 preceding his departure, darted on his 
 mind, and the conversation which had 
 then passed now recurred with peculiar 
 force. 
 
 As they were walking in the avenues 
 of the villa, and speaking of the 
 many u forseen circumstances which 
 might happen during the melancholy 
 period of a long separation, and even 
 tlie possibility that they might nc^ er 
 meet more in this world, the state of 
 the spirit, after its ilight from its material 
 tenement, was adverted to. 
 
'' That is a subject/' said Valdesa to 
 Emilie, " which has frequently occu- 
 pied my thoughts, whether after our 
 departure from this " narrow boura," 
 the spirit is permitted to revisit the earth; 
 to me, I confes-, the idea of being al- 
 lowed to hover over the forms of those 
 whom in life I had loved, would be 
 soothing and consolatory, and, if pos- 
 sible, to have the power of imparting to 
 them my feelings and situation, and as 
 much of that hereafter, as might come 
 within the limits of my knowledge." 
 
 " Yet," said Emilie, *' were this pri- 
 vilege granted us, what would be the 
 sufferings of those most dear to us, were 
 it revealed to them that we were in 
 misery ? However, if it will affordjyou 
 the least satisfiction, be assured, Val- 
 desa, that should my passage from this 
 to another state of being arriv^e, ere Ave 
 again meet, and it is in my power to 
 grant you cliis indulgence, I will impart 
 to you ail that I am enabled, of '' the 
 
233 
 
 secrets of the prison house," and the 
 same promise I exact from you." 
 
 After tlie death of Emilie, this inte- 
 resting conversation had often recurred 
 to tlic mind of Valdesa, but perhaps he 
 now dwelt on it more intently from 
 having returned to the abode once oc- 
 cupied by her ; and being in the same 
 apartments where she used to repose, 
 he threw a transient glance around the 
 cluimber, as he slowly prepared to take 
 off some part of his dress ; he arose, 
 then sat down; but condemning this 
 Aveakncss, he roused himself, and made 
 an effort to compose his mind, which 
 Avas suffering from mingled sensations 
 of grief, regret, and awe. 
 
 ** Dear and gentle Emilie," he ex- 
 claimed, " I can have no doubt of the 
 felicity which thy pure spirit must en- 
 joy, after ])ursting the bonds wliich 
 chained thee to this Morld. 
 
 " 'Ihy path tlirough life, though short, 
 was rugged , no s\\ ccts arose to beguile 
 
'233 
 
 thee on thy passage, but thou reposcst 
 in the grave, over which the loud storm 
 rends its fury but in vain ; where the 
 agitations of thv heart have subsided, and 
 where no tyranny can reach to oppress 
 thee." 
 
 After olfering up his prayers to the 
 Protector of All, liis mind more com- 
 posed, Valdesa retired to bed; he sunk 
 into a tranquil shmiber, till awoke by 
 sounds so sweet as to resemble tlie voices 
 of the heavenly choir ; now dying away 
 on his ear, then swelling into full melo- 
 dious strains. 
 
 His curtains were suddenly undrawn, 
 and the form of his beloved Emilie, 
 her countenance irradiated by angelic 
 brightness, was before him. 
 
 Valdesa started from his pillow; she 
 waved her hand : "I am come," she 
 said, " to perform the promise which I 
 made to you whilst on earth. What 
 is it of futurity whieh yoa desire to 
 know r" 
 
534 
 
 *' Is there," said Valdesa, " a state of 
 punishiiicnt and of reward ?"' 
 
 *' There arc both." 
 
 " Are you happy ?'' 
 
 *' Of this I am not permitted to speak. 
 Are there aiiv other doubts which vou 
 are anxious to unravel :" 
 
 *' The moments are precious, and I 
 must be brief." 
 
 ^^ I have no other," Valdesa replied, 
 in trembling agitation, and instantly 
 the figure disappeared. 
 
 He sprang from the bed, and throw- 
 ing open the w- indow% rested upon it. 
 
 The moon was shedding her wan 
 beams, and their light was partially dif- 
 fused across the apartment : the wind 
 in low murmurs whistled through the 
 avenue, as the breezes shook the 
 branches of the trees, which waved their 
 tall heads near the casement from which 
 Valdesa leaned, lost in reflection on this 
 awful midnight visitation. 
 
 It was in that avenue where he had 
 
^35 
 
 last beheld his sister, ^\'hilst an inluil>i- 
 tant of the earth. Since the night in 
 Arhich this conversation took place, live 
 years had elapsed. What had been the 
 fate of poor Emilie? had she fallen a 
 victim to the revengcfal spirit of the 
 Conte, or had she died the martvr of 
 disastrous love? 
 
 These v/ere the thoughts that arose 
 in Valdesa's mind, whilst, with his eyes 
 fixed on that part of the avenue inv/hicli 
 he had taken a last leave of her, he 
 imagined that he again beheld her ce- 
 lestial form, floating on the breeze. 
 
 He paced to and fro, with agitated 
 step, the apartment; at length ex- 
 hausted, he threw himself on the couch ; 
 he fell into a tranquil slumber, • and on 
 awaking, found that the whole of this 
 scene was but a dream, a vision of the 
 night, yet the impression which it had 
 left on his mind he could not easily 
 shake off. 
 
 After dressing himself, and descend- 
 
Ing the staircase, A'aldcsa thresv^ open 
 the door of tlic siiloon, and ^\and<Jrcd 
 throiijvh the lirounds to calm liis au'itated 
 spirits. 
 
 It was that sweet season of the year 
 when nature is gradually unfolding her 
 charms ; every ohject around seemed 
 springing to life and vigour, but Val- 
 desa thought of the lovely flower which 
 he had left, when last amongst those 
 scenes, in the bloom of innocence and 
 beauty, now cropt by the relentless hand 
 of death, 
 
 *' Another, and another spring," said 
 he, '' will appear ; these beauties will 
 again expand ; but tliine, my poor Emi- 
 lie, are faded, to revive no more ! Ab- 
 horred be the ruthless being who de- 
 bpoiled thee of thy peace, and laid those 
 beauties low ! but, oh, if thou yet livest, 
 may it be mine to watch over thee, and 
 guard thy footsteps ^\ ith fond and zea- 
 lous care." 
 
 Valdesa dismissed the last idea, how- 
 
ever, as the suggestion of hope, un- 
 founded in reason ; and in gloomy sad- 
 ness returned to the villa, where he 
 past one day. 
 
 After taking an affectionate leave of 
 poor old Agnes, Valdesa set out for 
 Naples ; on his arrival there, he found 
 the Contessa in a state of yet greater 
 \veakness than when he parted from her. 
 Of her daughter she could seldom bear 
 to speak. 
 
 Valdesa knew that she was impressed 
 with the idea of Emilie's having fallen 
 a prey to the effects of consumption, 
 and it would have been cruel to have 
 raised a doubt in her mind, yet Valdesa 
 certainly had doubts ; something darkly 
 mysterious had appeared in the conver- 
 sation of Agnes, and he dreaded that 
 the Conte^ or his measures, had been 
 in some way accessary to his sister's 
 death. 
 
 llic attachment of which Agnes had 
 spoken, might have hastened that event ; 
 
Zo6 
 
 it was possible tliat Emilic might have 
 been deceived and deserted by the ob- 
 ject of her love, and ha\c thus fallen 
 a ^-ictim to his perlidy. 
 
 A\ildesa was lost in conjectures, which 
 only tended to bewilder his mind and 
 rob him of repose. 
 
 The Conte was at this time absent 
 from Naples, or he would have de- : 
 manded an audience M'ith him, and 1 
 spoken loudly to his conscience. The 
 Contessa died, and his only comfort fled 
 with her. 
 
 A^aldcsa quitted Naples, and afte. 
 travelling through various parts of Italy, 
 on his road to visit some of the FrencJ) 
 provinces where he had ne\er been, he 
 arrived at Montpelier, and chance had 
 there tlnown him into the society ol 
 Jessica and Mr. Hanbury. 
 
 lie had long, however, relinquished 
 the hope of ever meeting his sister more, 
 lii tbis life, and had vicldcd to the idea i 
 
239 
 
 of her death, as the most consohiig 
 which could present itself. 
 
 He knew that her existence, did she 
 yet hve, must be fraught with misery, 
 and in imagination resigned her to the 
 peaceful grave. 
 
 It was ncAV Valdesa's intention to re- 
 turn with Jessica to England ; it was 
 not material to him where he resided. 
 
 Her choice, of course, rested there ; 
 but mingled, and sometimes bitter, were 
 the sensations with which she contem- 
 plated her return to that country ; her 
 dearest friend no longer its inhabitant, 
 it had lost to her its greatest charm; 
 but she checked those repining thoughts, 
 when she reflected that he reposed in 
 peace; and consoled herself with that 
 idea which too seldom occurs, when we 
 most need its truth, that all things are 
 for the best. 
 
 And as Jessica was not thrown on the 
 world without a protector, she had yet 
 much to be grateful for. 
 
240. 
 
 She had liot entered into her present 
 situation whh those sanguine views so 
 a])t to beguile a youthful mind, and 
 pave the way to disappointment; not 
 with romantic ho])es, but the sober 
 solid wish of rational comfort. 
 
 To th(;se \\ ho are prepared for, and 
 arc expecting all sunshine around, every 
 trifling disa})pointment is present misery ; 
 and in each situation of this mutable, 
 lile, we must sufter from the indulgence 
 of unreasonable expectations. 
 
 I 
 
Ul 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Stately vests. 
 Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine, 
 Were your's unearn'd by toil, nor could you see 
 The unenjoying toil as misery. 
 
 Charles had accepted of ladySelwyn's 
 invitation to join her party, and they 
 had arrived at Nice, where they found 
 a number of persons from their own and 
 other countries : some in quest of health, 
 some in the pursuit of pleasure, and 
 many, like themselves, seeking to drown 
 reflection, and kill time. 
 
 They had here their faro parties, fheir 
 midnight revels, and all the accom- 
 paniments of a life of determined dis- 
 sipation. 
 
 In the morning, pale, emaciated, and 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
24t 
 
 lang-uid, would the old and the young 
 alike crawl forth, courting those friendly 
 breezes, which were to *' bring back 
 feeble life's exhausted tide.'' In the 
 evening, the thoughtless and the gay 
 would croud together to spend the time, 
 and pass away a life that appeared too 
 long. 
 
 Gaming was the fashion at Nice, as 
 well as in England, and Charles found 
 himself yet more a novice in the art 
 tlian when in his own country ; and his 
 resources were to spring from a quarter 
 on which there was not the least depen- 
 dence, a woman of intrigue. 
 
 But he had now other pursuits than 
 gaming in view; that darling passion had 
 for a short time yielded to one still more 
 vicious and unprincipled. 
 
 Lady Selwyn had taken with her 
 abroad an orphan niece of her's, whose 
 father, falling in his country's service, 
 had left her unprotected, for lady 
 Selwyn was not the person to whose 
 care he would have committed her. 
 
us 
 
 Louisa was young, innocent, and 
 beautiful, but thrown into a situ^tioA 
 the most unfortunate in which intro- 
 cence and beauty coul^ be placed, tff 
 she was poor. :^r^-^^^r^r 
 
 Charles had felt himself tiiMth fas* 
 cinated with her before this voyage; 
 but lady Seiwyn, who rested' confident 
 in her own powers, never for one* mo- 
 ment supposed that he had any oth^r 
 object than her o\inx society in vfew. ? 
 
 That was only the ostensiWe motive 
 by which Charles had been actuated, 
 the real one was centered in the charms 
 of her niece. 
 
 He paid to her ladyship the most flat- 
 tering attentions in public; for Louisa 
 he reserved those marks of his attach* 
 ment which were unwitnessed by the 
 persons round. Young as she was, 
 Louisa was not devoid of reflection, 
 and this circumstance often both pained 
 and surprised her. 
 
 " If Mr. Greville be really sincere,'' 
 M 2 
 
244 
 
 she would say, *' why neo;lcct ami iivoid 
 me ill the presence of my aunt? and 
 wliy lavish, those attentions on me only 
 wh^n alone ?" yet she loved, and loving, 
 could not doubt. 
 
 It is the surest proof of a guileless 
 heart, a mind unhackneyed in deception, 
 to believe human nature to be what it 
 ought to be : it is only when the veil 
 is. rent aside, and we discover the reality 
 of the picture, that we view it as it is; 
 painful and humiliating discovery ! 
 
 Long Louisa trusted, and long she 
 
 ,.W.as deceived; Charles Grcville had 
 
 never thought of her as his wife : he 
 
 saw she was too virtuous to become his 
 
 mistress. 
 
 She v.as assailed by every method that 
 human ingenuity, employed in a bad 
 cousc, could efiect. 
 
 Charles beheld himself foiled, his 
 triumph over innocence incomplete, and 
 he retired in disgrace from the field, 
 leaving poor Louisa a prey to misery, on 
 
245 
 
 discovering the unworthiness of an' 
 object in whom she had implicitly con- 
 fided. 
 
 Lady Selwyn witnessed the unhap- 
 piness of her niece, laughed at her cre- 
 dulity, and the young man was restored 
 to her good graces. Her ladyship's 
 countenance and support were indeed 
 necessary to prop his sinking credit; 
 not that he had a spark of any thing 
 bordering on affection for her ; the com- 
 pact in the first instcUice was fonned 
 from motives the most despicable, and, 
 from the continuance of these motives, 
 it remained unbroken. 
 
 Had Charles met with any plan more 
 agreable, or more convenient than a 
 longer residence wi li lady Selwyn's 
 party, he would have quitted her with 
 the same sang froid as he had abandoned 
 her niece. 
 
 How rapid is the progress from in- 
 discretion to vice! Charles had once 
 only been indiscreet, he had since be- 
 II 3 
 
5246 
 
 come depraved, and perhaps, had a cha- 
 racter exactly similar to his own been 
 pointed out to him, as that which he 
 would one day resemble, he would have 
 shrunk with anger and contempt from 
 the comparison, and, in the indignant 
 language of Hagael, miglit have ex- 
 claimed, " am I a dog that I should do 
 these things !" But he had yielded to 
 his passions in the opening of his career, 
 they had now obtained a complete vic- 
 tory. 
 
 ,. flis connection, and the nature that of 
 connection, with lady Selwyn had be- 
 come equally notorious, and yet, though 
 lord 5elwyn had witnessed the various 
 improprieties of his wife, he had never, 
 hitherto, for a moment harboured a 
 suspicion of her virtue. 
 
 In the higher ranks of society such 
 a fatal latitude is given for imprudence, 
 that the number of misguided and 
 miserable females cannot be wondered 
 at. The pursuits and amusements of 
 
 I 
 
247 
 
 married people are so different from 
 what they ought to be, and their disHke 
 to associate with each other, through the 
 prevalence of fashion, such, that the 
 many divorces which we now hear of, 
 a circumstance equally lamentable and 
 disgraceful, is not a matter to create sur- 
 prise. 
 
 Lord Selwyn had married her lady- 
 ship, because he was advised to take a 
 wife, and too indecent to bestow much 
 time iii choosing one, she was the first 
 very pretty woman that he chanced to 
 meet with ; and he married her : roused, 
 however, to a sense of injured honoi^ 
 and offended pride, he now determined 
 to prove her guilt, and separate himself 
 from her. 
 
 M 4 
 
248 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 But ah ! no fond maternal smile. 
 His unprotected youth enjoy'd, 
 
 His limbs inur'd to early toil, -. 
 
 His days with early hardship cro\yn\l. 
 
 RascoE. 
 
 Though Valdesa had once indulged 
 a hope that he might again in this life 
 be united to his sister, and had since dis- 
 missed the idea as visionary, and resign- 
 ed her to the grave, yet Emihe still 
 lived. 
 
 Three leagues from INIontmoriano, in 
 the castle of Archelino, was this poor 
 unfortunate entombed, dead to tlic world, 
 and shut out alike from the voice of 
 kindness and compassion. The Conte 
 
249 
 
 Valdcsa had promised the hand of his 
 daughter in marriage to the Marchese 
 Chiaramonti, a man whom he was bound 
 to by the league of villainy : each was 
 dependent on the other, for both had 
 committed atrocities that none now 
 were privy to. 
 
 The grave is the safest repository of 
 secrets, and there was no one left alive 
 to tell the tale. 
 
 Emilie had, however, long resisted 
 this act of tyranny; she saw herself un- 
 happy, but was supported by the con- 
 sciousness of not deserving such a fate. 
 To have loved the ]Marchese Chiara- 
 monti w^as impossible; for he was selfish, 
 proud and unprincipled : on these con- 
 siderations alone Emilie refused to unite 
 herself to him, but there w^as yet 
 another, though not a more powerful 
 motive, to guide her conduct. 
 
 The Marchese had brou"lit with him 
 to the villa a young man, the orphan 
 son of a brother, for whom Emilie, from 
 M 5 
 
250 
 
 a variety of causes, had conceived a 
 strong aflfcction. She fancied that he 
 resembled Valdesa; that circumstance 
 was sufficient to excite her admiration ; 
 but the Chevalier saw and pitied her 
 situation, and the attention which he 
 shewed to her awakened her gratitude 
 and esteem. 
 
 He came to the villa, his mind 
 prejudiced against Emilie, for he had 
 been given to understand that the Alar- 
 chese was the object of her affections. 
 
 He was soon, however, undeceived in 
 this idea, and felt it but an act of justice 
 to atone, by every kind attention in his 
 power, for the false supposition he had 
 harboured. 
 
 Pity is near akin to love in some 
 minds, and a mind of that description 
 was the Chevalier's. Having paid one 
 visit to the villa, another succeeded, 
 and, unconscious of his attachment to 
 the Signora, it had sunk deep ere he ima- 
 gined it had penetrated the surface. 
 
251 
 
 *^ Emilie must not marry the Mar- 
 chese," would the ChevaUer often say, as 
 ruminating on the possibihty of such an 
 event, " no, the Signora must never be 
 his wife, she would be wretched in such 
 a situation ; but how am I to prevent it ? 
 and why, if she consents, should I inter- 
 fere ? of what moment can it be to me ? 
 I shall leave 'Italy to return to it no 
 more, I must go back to Switzerland, 
 to my native mountains, and never again 
 behold her ; but yet," pausing, " is not 
 the happiness or misery of any fellow 
 creature of the greatest moment, and 
 that of a woman, an amiable woman? 
 no, she shall not be so sacrificed." 
 . One evening, whilst meditating on 
 this subject, as rambling alone through 
 the grounds of the Conte, on suddenly 
 striking into a different path, the Cheva- 
 lier saw Emihe approaching; conscious 
 of the reflections which had occupied 
 bis mind for nearly the last hour, he did 
 not address her with his usual ease. 
 M 6 
 
252 
 
 " Mcthinks the air around Naples, 
 has infected you with gloom," said 
 EmiHe, '* or perhaps, if it is contagious, 
 you have caught it in the society at the 
 villa." '' No," replied he, " I have 
 been dwelling very intently on a serious 
 subject, and if the Signora would forgive 
 my presumption, I feel a strong inclina- 
 tion to make her a party in my 
 thoughts.". 
 
 '' You, I am certain," said Emilie, 
 
 . '* would indulge in no ruminations that 
 
 were not proper to make your friends 
 
 acquainted with, and you have certainly 
 
 my permission to speak on." 
 
 " I know not, however," interruptetl 
 the Chevalier, *' whether I am warrant- 
 ed in the liberty I am about to take 
 with you, but it proccc ds from a regard 
 to your happiness, and without that plea 
 would be indeed inexcusable. 
 
 ** You are not, I suppose, unacquainted 
 with the circumstance of my having 
 been already made privy to theMarchese's 
 
^53 
 
 passion for you, and the honour which I 
 understand is at present designed for 
 him; may I then ask you one question, 
 are you thoroughly acquainted with the 
 character of the Marchese r" 
 
 " Of the character of the Marchese 
 your uncle," replied Emilie, " I know 
 nothing, except that he is the associate 
 of my father." 
 
 The words uncle and father, joined 
 in the last sentence, seemed to imply 
 some reflection on the former, and the 
 Chevalier hesitated, in doubt whether 
 to proceed. 
 
 At length, after some pause, he said, 
 *^ forgive me, I see that my zeal for your 
 welfare has offended you, and I will 
 mention the subject no more." " Far 
 from it," replied Emilie, " I assure you 
 that I receive it from you as a mark of 
 your kindness, and I am grateful for it." 
 
 " I know not," said the Chevalier, 
 ** whether it may not be thought that, 
 like the viper, I am stinging the hand 
 
254 
 
 that fosters me; but I feel that your 
 happiness is dearer to me than my own 
 reputation, and I cannot see it sacrificed. 
 In few words then, the Signora Valdesa 
 must never unite herself with the Mar- 
 chese, if slie values her own peace, for 
 he is proud, tyrannical and revengeful ! 
 but more than these, he is a man of in- 
 trigue, incapable of solid or lasting af- 
 fection. In a few months you would be 
 resigned for some other object of his 
 passion, and your mind would sink under 
 the miseries of such a fate. 
 
 ** Be firm, tlicn, in your resistance, 
 and remen^ber that the hour in which 
 you consent to unite yourself with the 
 Marchese is that in which your misery 
 is sealed." 
 
 Emilic assured the Chevalier that she 
 had never harboured any intention of 
 suc!h an act, that she felt no aflcction to^ 
 wards the Marchese, and, in tbe absence 
 of that sentiment, should certainly not 
 think of uniting herself to him. 
 
9t5S 
 
 Emilie did not prolong her walk ; the 
 conversation terminated here, and on 
 her return to the villa she retired to 
 her own apartment, where alone she ru- 
 minated on the late interview with the 
 Chevalier. Emilie had previously de- 
 termined that no human consideration 
 should lead her to accept the Marchese's 
 hand; thus v/arned, and by one who 
 could have no sinister designs in view, 
 she became still more firmly fixed in her 
 intentions. 
 
 It never occurred to the mind of 
 Emilie, that the Chevaher himself 
 had formed an attachment to her ; and 
 yet, though, this conjecture would 
 have been the true one. The Cheva- 
 lier's conduct had not proceeded from 
 interested views, for though he loved 
 Emilie, he despaired of ever being able 
 to call her his, and for that reason had 
 concealed most sedulously his attach- 
 ment. 
 
 Nor would he, if the Marchese had 
 
256 
 
 been worthy of her, have conceived a 
 plan so ungenerous as that of separating 
 him from her ; but lie knew that it was 
 otherwise, and it w^as justice that prompt- 
 ed the deed. 
 
 The Conte was urgent with liis 
 daughter, the Marchese became im- 
 patient, and each day the Signora's un- 
 happincss increased. 
 
 Firm, however, in the Hne of con- 
 duct which she had marked out for her- 
 self, she never, by any word or action, led 
 the Marchese to suppose that she meant 
 to be his ; and, when one morning, after 
 he, with the Chevalier, had quitted the 
 villa, the Conte demanded that she 
 should affix some period in wliicli the 
 suspence of the former was to be ter- 
 minated, Emilie calmly replied, that as 
 she had never awakened hope, suspence 
 could not have been excited ; that she 
 had been uniform in her declarations 
 that she had no intentions of marrying 
 the Marchese, and her conduct towards 
 
^57 
 
 liim had corresponded with those senti 
 ments. 
 
 The Conte was astonished at the firm- 
 ness of his daughter's reply, but that 
 did not shake his resohition ; He was pre- 
 determined, and principle never weighed 
 with him, where passion or interest in- 
 terfered. . 
 
 He quitted her, but it was with a re- 
 solution that his plans should be car- 
 ried into eiFect. 
 
 His operations, though slow, the Conte 
 conceived would be certain. He now 
 apprehended that Emilie had some more 
 powerful stimulus than he had before 
 imagined ; some adviser on the subject, 
 or some object in view, which gave 
 courage to her resistance, and his thoughts 
 glanced towards the Chevalier. 
 
 On the Marchese's next visit to the 
 villa, the Conte mentioned to him 
 his suspicions : "I cannot," said the 
 IVIarchese, *' entirely enter into your 
 surmises, do you suppose that your 
 
daughter would listen to llic suggestions* 
 of a foolish boy ? But this can he easily 
 obviated, the ChevaHer shall visit the 
 villa no nu)re. I have been long 
 trifled with, and something decisive 
 must be done " 
 
 The Conte saw that the pride of the 
 Marchese was piqued, and his temper 
 irritated by his surmise respecting the 
 Chevalier. 
 
 The Marchese was too fi»lly consci- 
 ous how much he was in that young 
 man's power, how many tales he could 
 unfold which must stamp him with odi- 
 um in the mind of Emilie ; he rose, he 
 walked to the window, then sat down 
 again in suppressed rage ; and com- 
 plaining of the heat, in a few minutes 
 he abrubtly quitted the apartment, suf- 
 fering the conflict of those various pas- 
 sions which actuate the heart of a bad 
 man. 
 
 " Sincerity, thou first of virtues, let 
 no mortal ever leave thy onward path/* 
 
tl59 
 
 The Marchese had strayed from the fait 
 and open path of that high-souled vir- 
 tue, and every step seemed to involve 
 him yet more deeply in his own snares. 
 
 The Conte, meanv/hile, had retired 
 in no less agitation, deliberating on 
 what was to be done ; he had yet suffi- 
 cient humanity to shrink from the idea 
 of using violence in the execution of 
 their plans, and yet he knew too well 
 the firmness of his daughter's mind to 
 hope to effect the present purpose by 
 any gentler methods. 
 
 Ernilie had been educated in the best 
 of all schools, the school of adversity; 
 immured from the world, her principles 
 had been formed in solitude, they were 
 those the nearest to nature in which 
 sophistry had no share ; they had hi- 
 therto proved the test of truth, and on 
 these she formed her plan of action. 
 Pier heart told her, that to unite herself 
 with the Marchese would be to barter 
 honour aad conscience, and she was un- 
 
260 
 
 alterably fixed never to consent to such 
 an union. 
 
 In the evening tlie Marehcse visited 
 Em i lie, and slie candidly declared to 
 him her intention. 
 
 *' My life," said slie, *' lias pro^'cd a 
 succession of trials, but amidst them all 
 I am proud to say, that I never lost 
 sight of wliat I conceived to be- the 
 path of rectitude: where 1 have erred, 
 i trust my want of judgment, not of 
 principle, hath been the occasion. I 
 have seen one sorrowful instance, .which, 
 from my near connection to the innocent 
 sufferer, hath embittiered my past life, 
 of the misery that arises from an union 
 where affection and esteem were not 
 the leadinq; motives. Witli this in- 
 stance before my eyes, and with this 
 conviction on my mind, I should de- 
 serve, in accepting your- hand, the un- 
 happiness which would await me. It is 
 true, 1 am far fr(Mn happy, but, sup- 
 
9,6 \ 
 
 ported by conscious innocence, I can- 
 not be miserable. 
 
 " Torn from my mother at an age when 
 I most required h^r guidance, I was 
 brought here, left to myself, with no 
 views in life to turn the Current of my 
 thoughts. I have had ample roam for re- 
 flection, my principles have been^ formed 
 ill solitude, and to that reflection which 
 gave birth to them 'I iam indebted for 
 the little comfort I enjoy. • Do not 
 then, I beseeoh you, rob me of that 
 comfort ; I do not wish to go beyond 
 these walls. I have read that beautiful 
 production of English genius, the Prince 
 of Abysinia; I have contemplated his 
 character ; this has taught me the vanity 
 of human wishes, and that to be content 
 with what the present hour affords, to 
 look not further is the most simple road 
 to happiness; leave m@ then to the 
 little share of* trancjuility which I now 
 possess. I am not fitted to shine in 
 courts; a few months reflection would 
 
convince you of the error of your choice; 
 many women are there, I doubt not, in 
 the gay world, who would render you 
 happy, and partake of yoiir happiness. 
 M'ith me it is not, never can he tlic 
 case; I am grateful for your predilec- 
 tion in my favour, but gratitude is all 
 that I can render you." 
 
 The Marchese was astonished to hear 
 sentiments like tliese from a girl of 
 eighteen. He had been accustomed to 
 the society of women so far inferior to 
 Em i lie, that, for the first time, he felt 
 respect mingle witli his admiration, and 
 was wholly unecjual to combat a reso- 
 lution so firmly rivctted as Emilie's ap- 
 peared to be. 
 
 She arose, the ]\Iarchese suffered her 
 to pass without any interruption; she 
 left the room. It was, however, but a 
 momentary victory, which prepared the 
 way to sad defeat. 
 
 The passions of the Marchesc this 
 conversation hud roused, and all his dor- 
 
265 
 
 mant rancour was called forth. He 
 conceived it impossible, judging from 
 his own character, that Eiiiilie could be 
 acting solely from principle, and some 
 latent affection for the Chevalier, not- 
 withstanding the wound which this 
 conjecture gave to his pride, he believed 
 was the cause of her resistance. 
 
 After seeking out the Conte, the Mar- 
 chese mentioned to him the late inter- 
 view with his daughter ; " Be appeased," 
 said the Conte, " I beseech you, she 
 shall yet be your's." '' Never," replied 
 the Marchese, " whilst she remains at 
 the villa ; here she feels herself en^^ 
 couraged in her resolutions ; in a short 
 time she flatters herself that her brother 
 will arrive, and is supported by the idea 
 of her security ; rob her of that, and you 
 v/ill find that the Signora's sentiments 
 will change, and that she will consent 
 to become my wife. Why go on using 
 arguments and entreaties, in lieu of 
 commands? the former she will always 
 
find words to combat ; the latter slie 
 cannot resist. Your promise has passed 
 that your daugliter shall be the Mar- 
 chesi Chiaramonte, and that promise I 
 shall not suffer you to revoke. 
 
 ^' Three leagues from Montmoriano 
 you will recollect is the castle of Arche- 
 lino." The Conte involuntarily shud- 
 dered. " I have not lately," continued 
 the Marchese, *' been there, but some 
 of my domestics inhabit it at present. 
 
 " There the Si mora mio-ht comforta- 
 bly reside ; and when confined within 
 its walls, be brought to a sense of her 
 duty." 
 
 The Conte raised his eyes towards the 
 Marchese, and paused for a reply. 
 
 " You know well," said the Mar- 
 chese, ** the conditions, on those I ex- 
 pect compliance ; relintpiish them, and 
 I resign your daughter." 
 
B65 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIl. 
 
 I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
 Which the great lord inhabits not. 
 
 Wordsworth's Poema. 
 
 The next morning the Marchese left 
 tlic villa. The Conte demanded an 
 iiLidience of the Signora, and ordered 
 her to prepare for lier departure. 
 
 " Every method," said he, " has slU 
 ready been used, which argument or 
 intreaty could suggest; before another 
 sun you will find yourself far removed 
 from liome; and may then, perhaps, 
 mourn your present folly." 
 
 " If," said Emilie, " my removal from 
 the villa is meant to accelerate tiic 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
 r 
 
266 
 
 ])laii of the Marclicse, lie w ill find that 
 it is a ^•aill attrnipt ; fear Mill never 
 j3ronij)t nic to a concurrcDce whieh prin- 
 ci])lc forbids. 
 
 *' It must be an alteration of senti- 
 ment, not a change of place, that can 
 favour his desio-ns." 
 
 The Conte again commanded lier to 
 get ready for her departure, and Emilie 
 calmly and patiently withdrew. 
 
 When left alone, she cooly meditated 
 on her situation : '' I have been a pri- 
 soner all my life," said slie, " from my 
 earliest recollection 1 have never tasted 
 the enjoyment of liberty, yet that life 
 has glided peacefully along, and 1 may 
 have been shielded from many miseries, 
 which those indure who mix with tlie 
 world. 
 
 *' The choice is before me ; by prosti- 
 tuting those notions of virtue which I 
 have formed, I may mingle with it, 
 ajid, like the rest of my fellow creatures, 
 encounter its pleasures and its pains ; 
 
267 
 
 but is it worth the sacrifice ? and can I 
 suppose that a poor individual, like m\ - 
 self, could benefit society by mingling 
 with it ? No, I do not hesitate : my 
 father may confine me, and the ]\iar- 
 chese may triumph in my fate ; but 
 tbey shall find that I can rise superior 
 to these evils. 
 
 '^ But w^hat is become of the Cheva- 
 lier? lie no longer visits at the villa: 
 I fear his zeal in my cause has in- 
 volved him in diihculties. Amiable young- 
 man. Why was I so unfortunate as to 
 aw akf n his interest?" 
 
 At this nioment old Agnes entered 
 tlic room, atid Eniilie held, the conver- 
 sation with her that she had alluded to 
 in lier account to Valdesa. 
 
 After Emilie had separated from her, 
 and recollected that it was possibly for 
 the last time, she felt lier spirits un- 
 usually depressed ; and anxious to shake 
 off the gloom that hung over her, she 
 descended the stair case, and passed 
 
 N 2 
 
268 
 
 tJnough llic hall into the (ivcnuc of tlic 
 villa/ 
 
 Enclcarcd to Emilic hv the powerful 
 tics of custom, were all the ohjects 
 around, and she felt, in passing each 
 tree or shrub, as if she was taking leave 
 of an old friend ; many of them, too, 
 had been j)lanted l)y her own and the 
 hand of her brother. She had seen them 
 floiuish, decay, and awake to life again 
 for seasons past. 
 
 '' Yes," said she, '' you will again 
 rear your heads in youth and beauty, 
 when the hand that planted you is moul- 
 dering in the dust. The spring time 
 will again return, but I shall cease to 
 wander in your pleasant shades. Ah ! 
 Valdesa, my poor brother, where are 
 you no>v ? perhaps numbered with the 
 slain, or, like your poor Emilie, in sad 
 captivity !" 
 
 The thought was too bitter to dwell 
 upon, and slie burst into an agony of 
 tears. *' Farcwel, then," said she, *' a 
 
9,69 
 
 Jong farewel to those hours that, happy 
 in his society, the only happiness I ever 
 kne\v% I passed in these wood walks 
 and flowery wilds ; we are severed, per- 
 haps, in this I'ife to meet no more ; but 
 the fond remembrance of his virtues still 
 supports me." 
 
 Of her mother, too, Emilie once 
 thought, but she durst not glance her 
 eye that w^ay. 
 
 On returning to the house a figure 
 darted past her, which, in the gloom 
 of twilight, she could not distinguisli, 
 and dropping at her feet a paper, dis- 
 appeared. Emilie secured the paper, 
 and in breathless agitation sat down to 
 peruse it; on it were written these few 
 w^ords, ''Be firm, resist, the Marchese 
 has a wife in existence.' 
 
 She was now completely bewildered ; 
 she could not doubt the circumstance of 
 the information havino; been i>iven her 
 by some friendly hand ; perhaps that of 
 the Chevalier. Yet that supposition 
 N 3 
 
^70 
 
 was romantic and improbable, i'vr iwd 
 he been acquainted with such a dreadtul 
 obstacle, he would she knew liave im- 
 parted it to lier in a different manner. 
 
 The Conte must surely, Emilie 
 thouglit, be ignorant of that transac- 
 tion, lie could not be villainous enough 
 to wish to unite her where there Wus 
 such an impediment. Various conjec- 
 tures arose in the mind of the Signora, 
 but she could come to no definite con- 
 clusion. 
 
 She once thought of requesting an 
 audience with, her father, aiid she whig 
 him the paper, presented to her in that 
 mysterious manner. Yet Emilie re- 
 flected, that from this mode of proceed- 
 ing she might frustrate the designs of 
 some unknown friend, employed in her 
 cause ; though the information might 
 befahe, yet who could liave an interest 
 in deceiving her ; there was something 
 strangely ambiguous in it. 
 
 Emihe retired to bed, but not to 
 
271 
 
 sleep; this circumstance liaving left 
 too powerful an impression on her 
 mind, and at day-hrcak the following 
 morning, accompanied by the Conte, 
 she quitted the villa. 
 
 Her journey was commenced under 
 melancholy auspices and fatal fore- 
 bodings; she believed herself to be a 
 prisoner for life, she knew that she must 
 never more return to the villa ; of 
 the place of her destination she had 
 been kept in total ignorance, and tra- 
 velling before the sun had risen, to dis- 
 cover the surrounding objects, anc} 
 through a track of country with which 
 she was wholly unacquainted, Em i lie 
 had no clue to assist her conjectures. 
 
 At length the sun arose, and the sur- 
 rounding scenery was developed, but 
 it did not serve to throw any light upon 
 the subject. From the rapidity with 
 which thev had travelled, the Sio-nora 
 supposed they must be many leagues 
 from the villa. The country around. 
 
2712 
 
 as far as she could discern oi it, \va<^ 
 rich and varied in its scenery, but Enii- 
 lie's heart was dead to the beauties of 
 nature. Too much occupied in rumi- 
 nating on her melancholy situation, she 
 only thought of what was next to be- 
 come of her. 
 
 There are seasons in wliich the mind 
 is in a great degree insensible to out- 
 ward objects ; wrapped up in its own 
 gloom, they lose the power to charm, 
 and thus was it with Emilie. They 
 continued to travel rapidly, and without 
 any cessation, except for a few moments 
 to change horses at three different 
 places on the road. Towards sun-set 
 however they arrived at the place 
 where Emilie found tlicir journey was 
 to terminate. 
 
 The castle of Archelino was an anci- 
 ent gothic structure, which seemed in- 
 vulnerable to the attacks of the enemy, 
 or the ravages of time : neitiier, it ap- 
 peared, had made any depredation, for 
 
its massive v/kWs were in entire repair, 
 and the whole looked litted for a place 
 of security. 
 
 Here then, thought she, am I destined 
 to pass the remainder of my days, and 
 as the Conte handed her from tlie car^ 
 riage, and assisted by the servants, con- 
 ducted :Emilie through a long suite of 
 rooms, slie found the cold damp strike 
 on her heart. 
 
 '' This," said the Conte, placing her 
 on a sopha at the end of the room, 
 Avhcre they rested, " this castle belongs 
 to the Marchese Chiaramonti, and here 
 he occasionally resides ; as his affianced- 
 wife you will consider yourself at home, 
 and his domestics at your command. 
 
 At the word wife Emilie felt her 
 blood run cold and involuntarily shrunk 
 back; but recovering some firmness, 
 '' Why," she said, ^' did you convey me 
 here with that mistaken notion? I have 
 declared that I never will unite myself 
 with the Marchese ; neither time, or my 
 N .5 
 
274 
 
 residence here will prevail with me to 
 change my resolve; let mc not then con- 
 tinue at the castle under that idea, hut 
 allow me to return to the villa/' 
 
 '' It is time,"' replied the Conte. 
 *^ that this foolish resistance should have 
 an end, vou must marrv the Marchesc, 
 and this mode of conduct will be pro- 
 ductive of nuicli future nfiserv to -vom- 
 self" 
 
 *' The Chevalier, I suppose, has in- 
 fused notions into your mind prejudicial 
 to his kinsman, has tauo-ht you to be- 
 lieve that some un worthiness taints his 
 character; — hypocrite and deceiver! 
 but 1 advise you to place confidence in 
 a more secure quarter than the opinions 
 of a rash ill-judging young- man." 
 
 " My opinions," ^aid Emilie, '' in gr- 
 ne?al, are of my own forming, and that 
 of the Marclicse, in particular, is the re- 
 sult of observation ; 1 needed no insinua- 
 tions of the Chevalier's to convince me 
 tliat he is Jiot an object worthy of my 
 
esteem ; this his conduct to me, selfish 
 and cruel as it is, has sufficiently evinc- 
 ed." 
 
 Refieshments were now brought in, 
 and after supper Emilie rose to retire. 
 
 A female servant attended to conduct 
 her to her apartment, in whose counte- 
 nance she thought she read mingled 
 sensations of surprise and pity. 
 
 She staid by the Signora whilst she 
 undressed, and fearing that she would 
 misinterpret her silence, Emilie entered 
 into some conversation with her. 
 
 " This seems a spacious building," 
 said she, " if I may judge of the whole 
 by the partial view I have had of it." 
 
 " It is a very large one," answered 
 the servant, " and of very little use, for 
 the Marchese seldom comes here. He 
 is here indeed at present, but it is the 
 lirst time for three years." 
 
 With this circumstance Emilie had 
 been unacquainted, her heart sickened 
 at the intelligence,, and dismissing^ the 
 N 6 
 
^76 
 
 woman, she sat down on the hcd rumi- 
 nating on lier comfortless situation. 
 
 Emihe had written frequently to lier 
 brother, but was uncertain whetlier her 
 letters had reached him, she feared they 
 had not -, for as she had mentioned tlie 
 Marchese, and her repugnance to the 
 idea of tlie projected union, slie believetl 
 that notliing in tliat case would have 
 prevented his iuxmediate return to Na- 
 ples. 
 
 ratigucd however by her long jour- 
 ney, Emilie slept soundly, and on 
 joining the Conte she found the i\Iar- 
 chese already with him. He arose on 
 her entrance to welcome her, and she 
 very coolly returned his salutation. 
 
 After breakfast was finished, and tiic 
 Conte had withdrawn, Emilie addressetl 
 herself to the Marchese on the subject 
 of her liaving been brought there, ex- 
 pressly contrary to her incliiiation. 
 
 ** Suffer me then," said she, *' for 
 the last time to appeal to you : 1 aui 
 
brought here without any rational end 
 in view to intimidate me into a promise 
 which 1 will never render you, — 3^ou 
 may imprison me for the remainder of 
 my life, for I have no one to aid my 
 cause, or to prevent it, since he who 
 ought to be my protector joins in the 
 league to destroy me. But I now most 
 solemnly declare, tlmt should I no more 
 pass these walls, I will not consent to- 
 be your w^ife/' 
 
 '' Permit me," said the Marchese,. 
 " to assure you that whil&t you remain 
 here, every attention shall be shewn tO' 
 you. I trust however that the period 
 will be short ere you allow me to release 
 you from captivity, and give to society 
 its fairest ornament in the Marchesa- 
 Chiaramonti." 
 
 " If such," said Emilie, interrupting 
 him, " is to be the alternative, I must 
 die as I have lived, a stranger to the 
 world : and why should I wish to be 
 otlierw^ise, for if all the beings of wliich 
 
278 
 
 it is compared arc selfish aiul tyranni- 
 cal, my escape from society is not a 
 misfortune, but ;i blessino." 
 
 In eonvcrsations like this was the 
 vemaining* part of tli€ Marchcse's visit 
 to the castle passed ; wearied liowever 
 bv the firmness of tlie Sicrnora's re- 
 sistim<-e, accompanied by the Conte, he 
 returned to Naples. There the Conte 
 gave it out that his daughter was no 
 more, and dismissed the servants at the 
 \illa, to give an iiir of probability to 
 the report. 
 
■79 
 
 <; II AFTER XXIX. 
 
 Yt i oh ! how oft ia darkness, and amid 
 J he many shapes of joyless daylight, 
 When the fretful stir unprofitable, 
 And the fever of the world have hung 
 I'pon the beatings of my heart, 
 How often has my spirit turn'd to thee.. 
 
 AVORDS WORTH, 
 
 Jessica still with Valdesa continued 
 at Montpelicr, where no tidings of her 
 brother liad yet reached her. 
 
 She had letters from Mrs. Bamford, 
 Tnentionino; tlie return of her husband 
 and herself to their native shore, and 
 their wishes ta meet their friendii 
 agairt 
 
280^ 
 
 AVitli the death of Mr. Ilanhiuv 
 ^latilda was yet unaciiuaiiitcd, and 
 Jessica sat down to impart to her that 
 inelancholy intbrmation. 
 
 Time, the powerful alleviate of ca- 
 lamity, which softens the point of sor- 
 row's sharpest sting, liad not in the 
 present instance heen happily success- 
 ful. 
 
 The affection which Jessica had i)orne 
 towards My. llanhury seemed inter- 
 woven with her existence ; his patient 
 unmerited suii'erings had so much en- 
 deared him to her, that each day added 
 poignancy to her rcgi'ct. 
 
 Jessica's sorrow for her loss slic 
 yielded to, rather than attempted to 
 controul; yet it was tempered with 
 resignation. 
 
 To amuse her mind, Valdesa prevailed 
 with her to accompany him on a tour 
 through the pr()\ inee of Languedoc. 
 Thev rested some davs near the l>av of 
 Maguelone; a scene presented Itself 
 
281 
 
 >vhich was new to Jessica, and her 
 mind was soothed by the beauties 
 around her. 
 
 For many months they continued tra- 
 velling from place to place, and occa- 
 sionally made pauses where there was 
 any object worthy of their attention. 
 
 On their return to Montpelier, Val- 
 desa took Jessica with him to a neigh- 
 bouring convent, and introduced her to 
 the prioress, with whom he had become 
 acquainted on his first residing there, 
 Jessica found her a very well' informed 
 agreeable woman, and received from her 
 a general invitation to the priory. 
 
 Though Valdesa was of the church 
 of Rome, Jessica still adhered to her 
 protestant tenets ; they were those in 
 which she had been educated, and she 
 wished not to change them, yet charity^ 
 which tolerates every sect, was the 
 leading principle of her actions. By 
 Mr. Hanbury she had been taught to 
 consider all mankind as her brethren. 
 
No idle contro\ersy on this point cloud- 
 ed the happiness of licrself or her hus- 
 band, each enjoyed their respective opi- 
 nions. 
 
 Thougli she knew it would have been 
 more congenial to his wishes, had she 
 embraced the faitli which he held. 
 
 Many months elapsed, and they now 
 began to think of their iiitended voy- 
 age. 
 
 From tlic period of Mr. ILinbury's 
 death Jessica had declined mixing in 
 society, though Valdes-a occasionally 
 entered into it. One evening he (piit- 
 ted her to join a party^ where he con- 
 tinued until a late luRir. In the morn- 
 ing jwhcn Jessica entered into conversa- 
 tion with him, something she imagined 
 liad ruffled liis mind, ami rendered him 
 uneasy. 
 
 There was an air of reserve about him, 
 which since their marriage she had sel- 
 dom observed ; and on her addressing 
 \^aldesa, he appeared absent and inattcn- 
 
283 
 
 tive ; she knew not what cons true tiom 
 to place on this conduct, and her un- 
 happiness encreased. 
 
 In the afternoon as they were sitting 
 together, Jessica absorbed in conjecture 
 on this singular behaviour, Valdesa sud- 
 denly broke the silence, by asking her 
 some questions relative to her pro- 
 perty. 
 
 This was the first time that pecuniary 
 affairs had been adverted to by Valdesa, 
 and as Jessica had candidly opened to 
 hun the state of her finances previous 
 to their marriage, she felt hurt at their 
 now being the subject of conversation. 
 
 She withdrew to the window, and 
 leaning against it, the tear stole down 
 her cheek. 
 
 Could Valdesa be mercenary, could 
 liis present gloom arise from such un- 
 worthy motives r how strangely then, 
 Jessica thought, she must have mistaken 
 his character. 
 
 On turning from the window, she 
 
284 
 
 observed her husl^aiui had quitted the 
 room, and seatiiiij^ herself* in tlie ehan 
 which he had left, she meditated what 
 phin of conduct to pursue. 
 
 Jessica wished mucl* to converse with 
 Valdesa further, and to endca\our to' 
 discover the cause of this alteration to- 
 wards her ; she waited for some mo* 
 ments his return, and finchng thut he 
 still absented himself, she went to his 
 chamber and, gently knocking, he re* 
 quested her to enter. 
 
 Valdesa was seated at a writing desk 
 arranging some papers. There was 
 still the same air of gloom, with some- 
 thing of sadness mingled in the ex- 
 pression of liis countenance, and Jessica 
 sadly dispirited, placed herself beside 
 him» *' Valdesa,'' said she, *' giving 
 him her hand, is this kind r ha\ e you 
 any uneasiness of m hich you refuse to 
 make nea sharer: It was not in the 
 hour of sunshiue alone I promised to 
 participate with you, I thouglit 1 was 
 
285 
 
 to be your friend alike in prosperity 
 and adversity. I m ish I was more wor- 
 tiiy for your sake, and that I had riches 
 to bestow on him who is dearest to my 
 heart, but alas ! I am poor, poor in 
 every thing but my aifection for you I 
 She paused, and weeping turned away 
 her head. 
 
 Valdesa took her hand and drawing 
 her to him, " do not I beseech you," 
 said he, " Jessica, attribute the conver- 
 sation of to-day to any ungenerous mo- 
 tive ; you would do me great injustice 
 in supposing that any such actuated 
 me ; in the enquiries I made relative 
 to your fortune, I was only interested 
 on your account ; no selfish considera- 
 tion ever influenced my mind. In my 
 Jessica I beheld native worth, and this 
 was all to me, though, independent of 
 this, she has graces to captivate the 
 heart of any man. 
 
 But however poets and philosophers 
 may rail at riches, daily experience 
 
286 
 
 proves that siicli a portion of tlicii^ as 
 \\ ill iit Icust j;rocurc us tlic conitbitb 
 of life, arc necessary to our happi- 
 ness. 
 
 '' You see me now husily employed 
 in preparing; })apers which are to ensure 
 to you tlie possession of an estate ; it is 
 but a small one indeed, situated in the 
 neighbourhood of Naples, and was be- 
 queathed to me by my grandfather. 
 He saw tliat rielies were not always 
 conducive to happiness, in one fatal 
 instance ; no, they cannot confer felicity, 
 thougli It will never exist without a 
 competence. 
 
 *' Should I then be taken irom you my 
 love, since we are all liable to the various 
 accidents of life, and to death, the com- 
 mon lot most liable, I trust you are raised 
 above want, and 1 liope that iluring the 
 >h()i t time I have been blessed by the pos- 
 Mssion of my Jessica, I have never lost 
 sight of the injunction which I received 
 from our departed friend. Hitherto 1 
 
5187 
 
 harvx endeavoured to deserve her love, and 
 to preserve her liappincss."' At the last 
 word hnppiness, Valdcsa rose from his 
 seat, and walked to the chimney piece, 
 across which he leaned. The agitation 
 of his mind betra^^ed itself in his counte- 
 nance; he heaved a deep sigh, and walk- 
 ed several times across the apartment ; 
 complained of a head ache, then took 
 up a book that laid near him. Jessica 
 remarked that he did not read, and seem- 
 ed scarcely sensible that he held the book 
 in his hand. She again tenderly en- 
 quired of him the cause of his uneasi- 
 ness. 
 
 ^' Do not,'' added she, " suppose that 
 I wish to intrude myself on your con- 
 fidence, though where interests are so 
 closely connected, a want of openness 
 must, I am persuaded, be destructive to 
 happiness ; yet I would never wish to 
 extort that which is not voluntarily 
 given; but I cannotj indeed I cannot, 
 bear to see you thus miserable. Our 
 
 r 
 
288 
 
 poor fVicnd is no more, my brother has 
 forgotten me, you arc all tlie world to 
 me, and my every shadow of eomfort 
 dependent on you." 
 
 " Do not," said Valdesa, " thus dis- 
 tress me with enquiries. I am not well, 
 Jessica, in a little time I shall be better, 
 you shall then be acquainted with the 
 cause."* Unwilling to importune him 
 longer on a subject which he so evident- 
 ly avoided, Jessica left the room and re- 
 tired to her own. 
 
 The whole conversation had turned 
 on serious and very different topics from 
 those on which they generally con\ ersed, 
 and seemed preparatory to some import- 
 ant event. She thought on Mr. Han- 
 bury, and her tears again flowed ; *' Vet 
 my husband loves me," she said, ^' has 
 not his affection for me shew n itself in 
 every word and action ? supported by 
 that, why should I be unhappy ? perfect 
 and unalloyed felicity is not a draugiit 
 for mortals ; N\H)uld Valdesa open to me 
 
289 
 
 his whole heart, I should then have no 
 wish ungratified." 
 
 Valdesa soon after joined her, and 
 proposed a walk. They set out for that 
 purpose, and as they were returning ob- 
 served the figure of an old gentleman 
 seated by the river side, which attracted 
 their attention by the singularity of it's 
 ap])earance. 
 
 His head was leaned on his hand, 
 which rested on one knee, and there was 
 in his countenance an expression that 
 indicated excessive wretchedness, yet he 
 seemed, from his air and mode of dress, 
 to belong to the higher class of society. 
 
 *^ There," said Jessica, '' misery seems 
 to dwell divested of poverty ; for if I 
 might judge by tlie expression of that 
 face, I should suppose that sorrow was 
 no stranger to the heart" 
 
 They had by this time approached so 
 near him that Valdesa was prevented 
 making any reply. He did not, how- 
 ever, raise his head, but sat apparently 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
290 
 
 lost in thought, his eye fixed on tlic 
 ground, as if insensible to all that 
 passed. 
 
 *' I think," said Valdesa, after they 
 had retired to some distance, ** that gen- 
 tleman has not long resided here, and, 
 if I mistake not, he is the same whom 
 I saw alight from his carriage, at the 
 English hotel a few mornings since, for 
 he then struck me as appearing out of 
 health, or very unhappy ; but to the for- 
 mer cause I attributed the languor of 
 liis manner on speaking to his servant." 
 
 Here the conversation terminated, and 
 they passed on. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 Brooke, Printer, Putcrnoitrr-Kow. 
 
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