Craxp pinxf	Rhodes saJp .
THE WANDEKIN6 SPIRIT.
London ruhlijhcd duo. utto-t.TIIK
WANDERING SPIRIT;.
OR
MEMOIRS
OF THE
©oufe of
--- I am thy father's spirit,
Docnn'd lor a certain time to walk the night.
.jiamlet.
Hontjon:
Printed for T. Hurst, No. 32, and Sold by J. Walljs, No. 46 Paternoster-Row; c. Chapvle, Pall-Mall"; j. Dean, Newgate-street; J. Dingle, Bury; T. Gibbons, Bath; T. Richards Plymouth; and Messrs. Clarke and Co. Manchester.	'C 3 )
THE
WANDERING SPIRIT.
C^N one of the cold and stormy evenings of December, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, and shortly after that disgrace to human nature, Peter the Cruel, was cutoff, a stranger entered a little village situated on the banks of the Tagus, near the eastern extremity of the kingdom of Castile, in Spain.—lie was old, of gigantic stature, and had a long snow-white beard: on his back he carried a large harp, and a long staff, with a cross on the top of it, sustained his weary steps. He stopped at the first cottage door that presented itself, and asked for a lodging for the night.—The people of the house received him with a welcome, and the officious attention of the young man delighted his old guest.—The family of the cottager consisted of himself, his wife, an old man his father, and two children; with whom the Pilgrim sat down to a frugal cheerful meal, and drank so liberally of the wine, that he relaxed his austerity, and, among other general conversation, regretted deeply the savage inhospitality which reigned over the country, compared to the happier times of Alphonso the Good. " Not so, neither, father," said Fernando, the young man. " There is an exception to your rule,—a man who is a parent to the needy, and a blessing to mankind!" "A singular character, indeed," said the Pilgrim ; " pray, what is his name?" "Don Piiito d'Antos!" exclaimed every mouth. " Good Heavens!" replied the guest, " Don Pinto d'Antos!—Impossible!—but tell me, good people, is he of this country—and whatever you know of him?" The old father replied, " It is only two ytears since Don Pinto took possession of the castle and estate of Duero, the reward of tlie King for his services. Before this I have heard he was
U 24
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
in the wars, but whence he came I know not. His lady died some time before he came here, and his domestics say that sorrow for her death has driven him to this retired life.— He has two children, Don'Carlos, about fourteen years .of age,—the noblest youth that lives. Father Thomas, who lives at the castle, is his tutor, and I instruct him in the athletic exercises; nor is there a youth of his age who can equal him in either. Donna Leonora, his sister, about eight years of age, is what her mother once was, a child of unequalled beauty. Ever since her mother's death she has' been with a sister of Don Pinto, who is married to a nobleman in the Court of Portugal. In $>hcrt, the two children are the perfect resemblances of their father and mother/' " Blest with power, wealth, and such c'hildren, as you describe," said the Pilgrim, " he must approach as near to happiness as this mortal state will allow." " Some say not," replied the peasant; " for a hidden -melancholy preys upon him ; and were it not for the good he does, and the pious conversation of Father Thomas, it is thouglithe would sink under his afflictions. But to-morrow you shall see them all, and I question if Don Pinto do not blame us for not conducting you to him to-night."
Little more passed this night, and the cottagers and their guest retired to repose. Next morning the Pilgrim* having bestowed his benediction on the cottagers, took his way to the .castle of Duero. Though the avenue leading to the castle was not more than a quarter of a league frolh the cottage, he • sauntered on till it was mid-day; and seeing the castle was about the same distance off, he sat himself down at the gate on a large stone bench. He had not been long seated when he observed a number of boys running to him with the speed of a frighted flock of deer, one of whom fey far outstripped the rest, and struck him with his muscular, gigantic, and majestic appearance.— Addressing the old man with a mixture of respect and pity, he offered him his arm to conduct him to a retreat more suitable to his age and wants. The Pilgrim grasped his hand with gratitude, and the tear of affection bedewed it. As they slowly walked along, the old man asked if Don Pinto was at home. "No, Senor," replied Carlos; "he. has been abroad some days, but that will make no difference. We .expect him to-morrow, and in the mean time Father Thomas shall entertain you."THE WANDERING SPIRIT.	5
On the gate being opened, the stranger was surprised td find himself saluted by the keeper in the most respectful manner.—As they passed through the court-yard, a servant informed Don Carlos that his riding-master and the horses were ready.—" Let him wait," said Carlos, " till I have performed the more important duty of introducing my aged friend to Father Thomas." Having brought his guest into the house, he placed him in a chair, ordering that every preparation should be made for his accommodation and refreshment,—an order which Donna Susa received with a look of rage and mortification.—Returning she met Father Thomas, who, hearing from her of the arrival of a pilgrim, instantly proceeded to the great hall.—Carlos rose, and introduced to him the old Pilgrim, who knelt and begged his blessing. Father Thomas having replaced the old man in the great chair, seated himself by him, and they entered into conversation, while Carlos went to attend his duty in the menage. When this was over, he returned, and employed the whole day in shewing his guest the gardens, woods, and castle:—The armoury particularly attracted the old man's attention. " Do not you wish, my dear," said he to Carlos, " to be able to wear these?" " Indeed 1 do," .replied Carlos; "for I am sure I can run with the biggest boy you saw with me on my -back ; and he is twice as heavy as one of these." " And why do you not try?" said the other. " Because," replied Don Carlos, " Don Pinto would susr« pect me of vanity, and there is nothing he hates so much." " Well," said the Pilgrim, " if he will listen to the argument of a poor man, you shall have a trial when he returns.V "A poor man!" returned Carlos. " My fatherrespects poor equally with rich; but surely you are not a poor man ? I think you'a very great man!" The old man involuntarily pressed the youth to his aged breast, and shed tears; and Carlos wept with delight at the feelings of happiness in another.—Next morning arrived Don Pinto, and he retired •with Father Thomas into his closet. When'their conference was over he sent for his son, and thanked him for the honourable attention he had paid to so very poor 9. man. " Poor!" replied Carlos; "he is not poor!—I own his dress is that of poverty, but his manner, his commanding air, is noble; and when he talks of honour and arms, I am sure he would delight you as well as me!—Hark! I hear
U 36
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
the sound of his harp in the great hall." " Then let us go to him, my dear," said his father.
On entering the hall, the old man rose, and saluted Don Pinto with a majestic deportment, who received him with affability, and felt an instant veneration rush into his mind, as he surveyed his figure.—The Pilgrim ascribed his intrusion to the benevolent character of his host, who hoped that he would not find his good opinion misplaced. After some further conversation, the Don retired to give some necessary orders, promising to return to his guest directly. When alone, he weighed in his mind the mysterious appearance of this stranger.—He had seen pilgrims and itinerant bards, but none with those marks of fallen rank, dignity, and heroism.—While thus embarrassed, Carlos entered. " My dear," said Don Pinto, " I feel an invincible curiosity to know who and what this veteran is.—Not from idle curiosity do J seek, but from a desire, if possible, to heal the wounds fortune may have inflicted on him.—I will desire one of-the servants to wait upon him with my respects, and desire his company in my closet." " Let me go, Sir," said Carlos, and he flew to conduct the old man, whom he introduced with his harp. Being seated at Don Pinto's request, he proceeded to tune his harp, while his face seemed pregnant with strong and prophetic emotions. After a short interval he began to play, and sing in a sweet and melancholy strain.—He sung of fame ruined, of friends and children lost, and of the miseries of an unconnected, isolated existence here.—Then sung of war till his harp seemed to catch the enthusiasm of its master, and skilfully turned to the happy state of Don Pinto, and his former prowess.—In mute amazement he for a while gazed on the old harper's countenance: at length, with dilficulty mastering the tumult within him, he said, "Ah, Sire! do I
mistake, or do I behold-" " Yes," interrupted the
old man, "in me you behold the unfortunate Baron de Morno!" At length, Don Pinto's great heart finding vent, he exclaimed, " How, how is this?—Alas, is this the great Baron de Morno, once my early instructor !->- Say, why is the transport I feel, at seeing you as it were restored from the dead, counterpoised with anguish at viewing you thus fallen.—Say to, what of Gonsalez, the dear companion of my youthful days i" " Don Pinto," said the Baron, " ITHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
7
rejoice to see you happy.—You have had your afflictions, and when you have heard my tale, you will allow that all the sorrows you have suffered w.ere joys compared to mine. The recital will serve no useful purpose to your son, and therefore he may retire." " Yes/' said Carlos—" and while you tell your tale, I will,'with my father's permission, try on the French cavalier's armour.*'—When he went out, the Baron congratulated the Don on the treasure he possessed in his son, and declared that he felt himself so tied to him by the cords of affection, that to separate from him would tear his heart asunder.—The Baron then proceeded thus:—
The Baron's Narration.
When we last parted, Carlos de Morno, you remember, was of no mean distinction ; his castle, wealth, vassals, and renown in war, rivalled those of any peer in the kingdom of Castile. Heaven had spared me one daughter, the only remaining child of a numerous progeny, who followed their beauteous mother to the grave ere they reached the years of puberty. Having no male issue, I adopted the son of my sister, the young Henry Gonsalez, reared him as my own, and hoped to see the honours of the old house of Morno entailed upon him and his issue.
At this time your father, the younger brother of a respectable branch of our house, bespoke my patronage for you, and I took you to my castle. I was pleased to see the struggles of emulation and the equality of talent between you, and when our glorious l£ing Alphonso railed me to the -tfar against the Moors, I found your actions exceed my most sanguine expectations. The King then gratified my fond wish by entailing my honours and title on Henry Gonsalez. When our beloved monarch died at the fatal siege of Gibraltar, we retired home, while you remained in the war. We had not been long at home, when I perceived.- a reciprocal affection growing apace in the bosoms of Gonsalez and my daughter.—Henry, fearful of the event, retired home, and from thence gave me a letter, disclosing his passion. I spoke to Henrietta with all the delicacy I could, ■End heard her modestly avow the. love she felt for Henry. O Pinto, her look and manner recalled to my mind the de-8	THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
ceased partner of my soul, when, blushing, she gave herself to my arms !
At this* period, Peter, the son of Alphonso, required Gonsalez and myself to aid him in crushing a confederacy formed by some nobles against him. I will not enlarge upon the disgust the tyrant's whole conduct gave us ; it served however to lessen the regret I felt at finding that you had long been a follower of the fortunes of Henry, Count Transtamare, his brother. To be succinct, we beat the rebels, and returned crowned with laurels. Immediately on our arrival, the nuptials of my children were celebrated with great pomp, and at the usual period my daughter gave to our arms a noble boy, over whose beauties, strength, and animation, I hung with raptures, scarcely ever suffering him to be a minute from my sight. A short time after this, Peter again called us forth, to resist a for^ midable opposition, headed by Henry, Count Transtamare, and assisted by the renowned Bertrand Guesclirf.—AVe therefore prepared to depart, while the young Carlos, so named after me, was put to nurse in a village neai the Castle, my daughter being determined to attend her husband to Cordova, where we arrived, and to our astonishment found it invested by Peter, whose cruelties had driven the inhabitants to declare openly against him.
Among the nobles most forward in doing honour to our family was the Marquis Fertardo, who had formerly been acquainted with Gonsalez, and, ere they could scarcely renew their intimacy, llenry was ordered off on a dangerous service, while the elder Barons remained at the siege to assist the King by their counsels , and Henrietta retired with the Countess Majo to-the city of Eceja, to wait her husband's return.—Soon afteif this I learned that you and the other adherents of the Count had perished ; no news likewise arriving from Henry or my daughter, I began to feel unhappy, when one day I was put under arrest, and hurried before the King. I was busied in forming corijec-turcs on this strange event, as I passed through the camp to the King's pavillion, when I heard a herald proclaiming my son as a traitor.
Arrived at the royal tent, I found Peter seated on his throne, and the Marquis Fertardo at his side. Perceiving me, he turned abruptly, and, addressing me, sternly said, " When foul rebellion and deep laid treachery stain theTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
9
branches of a family,- what reparation is due to the injured monarch ?"—" None but your Majesty," replied I, " dare slander the house of Morno ;—it is surely no common calumniator that dares to shake your confidence in the faith-* ful services of ages." " Dissembler!" said the King, "why fledstthy son, and joined .the rebel Transtamare ?—It was thy counsel that impelled him.—Thy nephew too preceded him in rebellion, but he has paid the forfeit of his crime, and so shalt thou. Take him from our sight, and hurry him to prison." " Yet, ere I go," said I, " let me in the presence of these noble Barons exculpate myself from this base charge." I then turned to the knights and nobles—" My lords," said I, " why my son has disappeared I cannot conjecture, nor do I believe he has gone over to the army of the enemy, as I know his allegiance is equal to my own ! nor can 1 believe that he would go and leave his wife a hos* tage." " Mark the traitor !" exclaimed the King, " he would insinuate that he knew nothing of his daughter's flight." " My daughter flown '."—exclaimed I, " Mother of God ! what new mysteries are yet t& be unfolded!"
I then entered into a defence of myself and my son, which the King suddenly broke off, by ordering me into con* finement, and the next day I was conducted to the tower of Siguenca, and there lodged a close and solitary prisoner.—r-Here I in vain revolved, month after month, the cause of this unaccountable reverse in my affairs, and I had at last nothing left to think but that my dear children had been sacrificed to fraud and the subtile designs of some hidden enemies.—I had laid my Account with ending my days in prison, when one night, as I-Iay in bed, I dreamt Gonsalez called to me. I looked 'and beheld him pale and ema/-ciated, and, as I stretched fdrth my hand to embrace him, he eludedi my endeavour. " Sire," said he, " depart you hence, aridrseek my lost child !"—In a moment he vanished, and left me in an agony of consternation. Next morning, while I was contemplating this dream, or vision, the keeper entered, and informed me that he had received orders to discharge all the prisoners, Peter the Cruel having been killed by Count Transtamare, -who had succeeded" the ty<-rant. Such was my surprise and tumultuous feelings, that it was several days before I could leave Siguenca, and when ( did I was at a loss which way to go. At last I deter-
B 410
THE WANDERING SPIRIT,
mined to proceed to Burgos, where the, Marquis Fertardo resided ; but, alas ! when I reached that city, I had the mortification to hear that my estates were confiscated, my blood attainted, and that the Marquis had retired to his pstate in Andalusia long before the death of Peter. Thither I went, and found on my arrival that he was at his estate on the banks of the Ebro. Not being able to travel there suitable to my rank, I entered the town of Cordova, and equipped myse lf as you see, living during my journey on the beneficence of convents and the country people. The night before I reached them I was visited by a dream, nearly resembling that which I had in the prison of Si-guenca. Gonsalvez came in as before, and repeated the ■words, " Sire, seek my lost child \"—When 1 strove to embrace him, methought he turned from me, and I «aw a ghastly wound on his head, which yawned and discovered his brain, whence the blood fell in torrents down his back. I awoke with horror, and the next morning pursued my journey, in vain enquiring for the Marquis Fertardo's, till I came near my own castle.
It was evening when I ■ knocked at the first peasant's cottage within the lordship of Montalto. The stranger who appeared, rudely informed me that Perez, whom I enquired for, was not there, and that his master was the Marquis Fertardo. " The Marquis Fertardo !" exclaimed I.— " Yes," replied the man, " the Baron de Morno has been put to death for high treason, and the King gave his estates to my master. It is but three days since he left it, and *\vent to his other estate in Andalusia." O heavens ! what \yeie my feelings!—The conviction of his turpitude rushed upon me, and I exclaimed, " O cursed, cursed villain The fellow, full of resentment at my abuse, lifted his arm to strike me, and I felled him to the ground. 1 then proceeded to the next cottage, where my grandson had been nursed, but received no better information.
Thinking myself unsafe in the lordship of Montalto, I called at a cottage out of the domains, where I took up my lodging for the night. Here I learned that there was not one of the former inhabitants living, on the lordship, and that no hope existed of tracing my lost children.—At night I was again haunted by the same vision, and determined to pursue, as far as I could, the same admonition. I therefore repaired to Toledo, and there learned from the officers afTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
11
Henry Traustamare, that Gonsalez had never gone over. [ then proceeded to the court of Navarre, then to that of Portugal; crossed Spain to the kingdom of Arragon, and had formed the desperate intention of going to the Moorish territory of Grenada; from the latter place, however, I was persuaded by the'charitable father of a Franciscan monastery at which I stopped; here I rested that night, and was again visited by my dream. Methought, as I went on the desired search, I walked with difficulty up a steep hill ; at length I got into a field where two armies were contending ; I was hesitating which side to join, when you, Don Pinto, cased in fall armour, came forward, and said to me, ** Noble Morno, I will give your children to your arms, or perish I" You then vanished, hut so onreturned, and presented to me a golden helmet, in which was laid my child, my Carlos. I suddenly grasped the head-piece, and snatched the child to my bosom, in doing which I perceived that it had fallen, and killed his father. In my agony at the accident, I turned the point of my javelin to my breast, and was about to rush upon it, when you snatched the weapon from my hand, and bid me be patient, for all should be well, and you would be a father to my Carlos.—In endeavouring to throw my arms about you I awoke. This new dream induced me to ascertain the fact, whether you were dead or not, and in my progress I have fortunately met with you.—And now, Don Pinto, 1 conjure you do not delay to satisfy me who is this youth, this Carlos !—for in his person Gonsalez appears to live again !"
Don Pinto remained silent, transfixed in astonishment at the Baron's supposition ; who had suffered his judgment to be bo far tainted by the illusion of a dream as to call in question his property in his own child. The resemblance his son bore to Gonsalez he had himself noticed, but the Baron's straining that resemblance to such an extravagant conclusion overwhelmed him with grief and pity. At length he addressed the Baron. " My valued friend," said he, ** in the disappearance of Gonsalez, my grief did not fall short of your's, but I have long ceased to think he lives from his long silence and sudden removal, beyond which all is conjecture. As to the rest, hear my story, and be satisfied.12
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
The History of Don Pinto d'Antos.
You remember, that, previously to our going against Algesiras, we were entertained at the court of Alphonso, then at Burgos, and treated with much distinction. Don Juan de Merca was at that time the King's favourite, and his fair niece Donna Catarina, in beauty and splendor outshone all in the train of Queen Maria.—As Gonsalezand I were intimate with Don Juan, I soon found her mind wa$ equal to her person. A reciprocal tenderness ensued between us, and it was agreed, as her father was high in rank, and of a proud disposition,, that I should not demand her in marriage till my services had entitled me to rank. We soon after took the field, aad I obtained the- honor of knighthood. On your returning home, I remained with the army going back to Castile, actuated by a thirst of glory, and the love of Catarina.
Thinking, from my newly acquired honours, I had now more weight, I proposed the marriage lo Don Juan, who, while he affected to take my proposal iu good part, told me I must make my application to the King and Queen Dowager Maria, who had undertaken to provide a suitable alliance for his daughter. The next day I disclosed my hopes and pretensions in the humblest manner to Peter, who evinced manifest marks of displeasure, and finally forbid our union, stating that he had already provided a suitable match, and pledged his royal word to its performance.— Finding him inflexible to every remonstrance, I sought Juan, who told me that the King proposed marrying her into the noble family of Tenia.—The agitation of my mind brought on a fever, and I had nothing to depend upon for comfort but the fidelity of my noble Catarina, atid the attention of my trusty servant Simon, whose state of health had felt the shock of mine.
I remained for som^lii^e disgusted.with honours, titles, and even existence, when l.was aroused from my despair by an account that Peter was arming against our present King Henry. Love and revenge prompted me to join himr and I only waited for an opportunity of once more seeing my Catarina to set off.—This soon occurred, and we knelt down, and with the holy rosary and crucifix iu our hands, swore unceasing fidelity. That very evening Simon and I set off, and reached Toro in safety, where Henry receivedTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
13
me with open arms, and wished that Baron Morno and Gonsalez would join him, and abandon the tyrant. The fall of Toledo was the fate of our cause, when I and Simon escaped as it were by a miracle, and bent our course towards Portugal. Fatigue obliged me to halt at a peasant's cottage on tiie banks of the river Guadiana, where I remained, till the genial air and kind services of my faithful Simon restored me to my pristine health. I made the cottagers a handsome recompense for their good offices, and left them with regret. Simon, indeed* I thought would have broken his heart.—Ah ! your honour," said he, that is a life after God's own heart.-—No fear of being this day on the field of battle,, and the next on the scaffold.—■ No tyrants to cut us off, no rivals, no Peter to rob us of Our sweethearts."—This last word roused me from repose into action. I felt something dishonourahle in shrinking from the clouded fortunes of Count Henry, and leaving my Catarina, with whom, could I once get her into my power, I felt I bhould be happy any where, and for this purpose I resolved to brave every danger.
Having thus adjusted the matter in my own mind, jl recrossed the Guadiana, and, disguised in the dress of a peasant, made my way back through Spain, towards Tala-vera, near which her father had his abode. Arrived at a contiguous village, I put up at a neat looking cottage, to obtain information. After eating a hearty dinner, I retired to a small room, and soon fell into a profound, sleep, out of which I was awakened by Simon, who, with a.heart Over-* charged with joy, told me that the clean, neat, orderly, decent behaved, old body of a woman I saw sitting .in the wicker chair, was the nurse of Catarina, and that Lac^-Catarina had been there her own self that morning, and might, if luck befell, be at the cottage after dinner, or .in the evening; he farther added that the nurseJiad declared that I was the constant theme of her conversation,.of whom she spoke as of a person already her husband. In a fit of rapture I hugged Simon, and then dispatched Jiim to gladden the heart of the old nurse.—They had hot long quitted me, before the outer door opened, and a buzzing of female voices succeeded for some minutes. —At length 1 heard an enchanting sound, more ravishing to my ears than seraphs' songs, cry out, " Is it possible Don Pinto is in the house I—Where is he 1" Unable to contain myself, I burst14
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
from the room, and caught my Catarina in my arms, who sunk into a speechless delirium of joy and surprise. As soon as cool reason had resumed her seat, I told her every thing that had occurred, and learned that the division between Peter and the Queen Dowager, who secretly espoused the cause of Transtamare, had not changed the resolution of the latter, and Catarina candidly confessed she had received her father's .positive commands to entertain Tenia as her husband ; that she was convinced any attempt to alter his resolution would be vain, and that my discovering myself would be attended with utter ruin. Assured, however, of my sincerity and affection, she was willing to adopt any measure I should prescribe. We called the old .nurse into our consultation, and' it was finally agreed, -that we should be married the next morning, and the ensuing night Catarina should quit her father's, and-.come to the cottage; whence we could fly and take shelter in Arragon, where Transtamare had disposed of himself.
Early- the next day the good mirse procured a priest, and my lovely Catarina and I were, .united in the presence of the old couple, their daughter who attended on Catarina, and my honest Simon, ^/lio seemed no less happy than his master. After a day and night spent in mutual happiness, 'we prepared for our journey on horses, and set out >vith Bcza, my wife's maid. We arrived, without accident, at the city of Saragossa, where it was rumoured that a rupture was likely to take place between the Kings of Castile and Arragon. I sent an account of this to Transtamare, then at the court of France, nor was it long before he appeared at Saragossa, entered into league with the King of Arragon, and once more took the field against Peter. The war was successful; and the brave Henry was victorious wherever he came. The King of Arragon, however, patched up a pcace with Peter ; and Henry, conceiving it prudent not to trust too far in him, returned again to Paris, attended by his wife Joanna, myself, and Catarina.
While we were in Arragon, my wife was delivered of a son, that same boy you so much honour with your regard. Henry was his godfather, and he was named Carlos. His mother being extremely ill, it was thought expedient to put the child to nurse, and, as we were to go to France, we sent Simon to Catarina's old nurse at Talavera, to procure one jhe could depend on; to this woman the child was given,THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
15
and Simon conducted her safely back, leaving, a sufficient sum with her for three years disbursement. The anguish at parting with this ffirst pledge of our love was unutterable, nor did my wife recover her vivacity, though we arrived safely at Paris, and had two children in the three years after our arrival, both of which died infants : — in the fifth year she proved fatally pregnant:—she gave birth to a daughter, and died herself, leaving me the most miserable of beings.— When Catarina was brought to bed of htr first child, I wrote to her father to inform him of the event, but little hope of reconciliation existed with a man who would have forced his daughter to marry Tenia against her choice. The answer I received was rude and threatening, as despicable as the man who had written it.
Mean time I enquired about you and Gonsalez in vain, and from the vague reports I concluded you had fallen victims to the tyrant's jealousy or rage. When llenry killed the t3rrant, and gained possession of the throne, he proved a noble and generous master to his faithful adherents.—He bestowed this estate upon me, and solicited me earnestly to remain about his person. Unwilling to partake of the splendor of a court, I retired to the country, oil the condition that I should at least visit him once a year. He is still the same beneficent Prince, arid means amply to provide for his godson Carlos. This annual visit I was performing when you arrived. One of his chief favorites is married to an aunt of my wife's, the sister of her father; but I see that they abhor me, because they conceive I stand between them and the inheritance of Don Pedro Merca, my father-in-law's estate.—But I know the King, and am secure in his favour.
Since I came here, my son Carlos's instruction and improvement have much beguiled my sorrows, and the presence of ypu, my dear revered patron and father, will give the setting sun of my life that brightness which your counsel and protection afforded to its rising.—-Nevertheless, one thing has struck me with astonishment, that a soul so vigorous as your's should yield to the suggestions of a dream.
The Baron then endeavoured to account for the impression of his dream ; after which the dinner was served in, and the happy Carlos could hardly eat for the pleasure
X 2 " *18
THE WANDERING SPl'MT.
he took in the Baron's company. It was that day deter* mined Don Pinto should proceed to court, to get the atr tainder taken o» the Baron, and that, till it was effected, he should remain undiscovered. When Carlos withdrew after dinner, he was accosted-by Simon, who requested his young master to follow him; Carlos consented, and. Simon led him.through the yard into the garden, and thence into the field, of exercise, where he significantly told him that the harper in the hall was no other than the ghost of the old Baron Morno. Carlos bid hiin keep the secret to himself, and by no means to let it go further. lie then flew, into Don Pinto's, closet, to disclose to him and the Baron the conversation with Simon.; and it was determined that the Baron should speak to Simon, to convince him of 'tho truth, and to bind him to secresy, This he faithfully promised, and retired' immediately to the armory, where Carlos soon after perceived, him hard at work, taking down and' cleaning1 the armour with great industry.—" What is all this for?" said'Carlos. " We shall have rare doings," said Simon* " now the Baron de Morno is: here. He will tilt with you; as he used to do formerly with Don Pinto and'IJenry Gon-salez: nay, I will wager my head, that before to-morrow night you will see this armour employed. Why, it was tire Baron who made Don Pinto, what he was, for sure enough, it was like master like scholar, for they would both fight the devil himself; there, at Algesiras, he cut his, way. through a hundred Moors, and saved our army from being1 cut off by the Infidels, on which occasion the King knighted him." " Methinks," said Carlos, " war must be glorious: sport, the work of heroes !—I should like to try it!—" So thou shalt, my dear," said the Baron, suddenly appearing from behind;. " your father has consigned you to my care, and in so doing has conferred on me the greatest possible favour. I was your father's instructor, and wall this day Jeiegin to be your's."
Cailos was happy at having such a tutor, and gladly entered on his new exercises.—In a few weeks after,Don Pinto, according to an arranged plan, set off to court, and procured the reversal of the Baron's attainder, and special messengers were sent over the kingdom, aided by dispatches from the archbishop of Toledo to the heads of the church, to search for-Gonsalez, his wife, and child. Thus the Baro^ re-assumed his pioper rank, and had the consolation ofTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
If
fleeting that no means would be omitted o4|fracing, if possible, his lost children.—The progress of Carlos, in the science of arms, was equal to the Baron's wish, and before the end of the second year, Don Pinto, who had put on armour to enter the lists in mock fight with him, declared he was more than his equal in the encounter, such was his bulk and strength. Don Pinto and the Baron received increased delight in contemplating the rising Carlos, and the latter even insensibly felt his woes effaced from his heart.
The time when Don Alphonso should make his appearance on the theatre of life approaching, the Baron, Pinto, and Father Thomas, held frequent consultations on the subject. Their first plans, however, were suddenly deranged .by the melancholy death of King Henry, who was cut off by poison, administered by the intrigues of the Moorish King of Grenada. On the accession of John, Henry's son, Don Pinto went to pay him homage, and was well received, and pleased to find that the King's favorite was Don Marcos deCalvos, his most particular friend. He therefore returned home, and immediately dispatched Carlos, that he might be among the first who offered themselves as candidates for the young Monarch's favour.
Attended by Simon, he arrived at Burgos, and delivered a letter from his father to Don Marcos, who took the first opportunity of fulfilling his word, and introduced him himself to the royal chamber, where he met a most gracious reception, the King desiring him to remain about his person while it suited his honour and convenience.^ The war with Portugal, in the early years of this king's reign, afforded him various occasions of shewing his valour, particularly in the pursuit of a confidential officer, a deserter to the enemy, whom he brought back, after defeating and cutting through a large body of Portuguese. Peace being again restored, he became the constant companion of the King, and received the honours of knighthood. Among those whom the King distinguished was Don Alberto de Manca, son of a deceased nobleman, and favorite of the late Peter, and Donna Maria de Merca, sister to Don Pedro de Merca, Don Pinto's father-in-law. Stung to the quick at the progress Carlos made in the King's affection, Alberto wished for nothing so much as the destruction of his new rival.
X 3IS
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
His chagrin became visible to his mother, who' could ill brook any obstacle that opposed his greatness, or see with satisfaction the prospect of Don Carlos inheriting the estate of his grandfather, and her brother Don Pedro de Merca; hence she agreed, that something must be done, but of what nature she could not determine. It was the King's custom to make parties of hunting, attended by the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and. among the rest Don Alberto and his mother.—On the first day, the King, in pursuing a large boar, was suddenly turned upon by the animal, who with his tusk gored his horse, which fell; the boar was suddenly repeating the blow at the King, when Carlos, by a quick and extraordinary spring, placed himself between them, and with one stroke of his spear killed him on the spot. Carlos was overwhelmed with the compliments lavished on him by the company, and the king publicly expressed his obligations to him, adding, that his
services should neither be unrewarded nor forgotten.--
Although Alberto and his mother joined in the general praise, it was like poison to their entrails. As the. latter looked at him with a malignant eye, she thought she beheld features she had once been acquainted with.
This worthy lady had, previously to her marriage with Don Alberto's father conceived a tenderness for Gonsa-lez when he was first brought to court; nay, she had made overtures to him, which his attachment to the Baron de Morno's daughter would not permit him to take the advantage of. No wonder then that the resemblance which Carlos d'Antes bore to Gonsalez should soon be recognized ; and, strongly prejudiced by the similarity of the features, s»he set it down lie was really his son, and upon that idle conviction determined to carry the plan she had conceived into execution.
She charged her son to co-operate with her, and, after devising various schemes, they determined to try the temper of the King on the business by an anonymous letter, containing the information, that the person under the name of D'Antes was the son of the fugitive traitor Henry Gon-salez, and advising him to crush the young one in time.— It was dropped in the King's private closet, and picked up by him ; after deciding in his mind upon the base scrawl, he carried it to the Marquis Fertardo, who hesitated not to implicate the mischievous Donna Maria de Manca in theTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
business ; and suggested to the King that, injustice io his youth, he would devise a mode of discovering his enemies, if his Majesty would order him to withdraw from court, and place him under a feigned name at the court of Portugal, to watch its motions, while he would make it known that he was dismissed in consequence of this private admonition : thus the authors of the letter, eager for his approbation, would declare themselves.
The King approved the plan, though he lamented the removal of Carlos, and when he informed the latter of his wish, he regretted that his august Sovereign should be at any trouble on his account. His Majesty then shewed him the letter, and, informing him that he would remit to hiin the proper time of return, he placed a costly ring on his finger as a token of friendship, and gave him an order on Don Marcos for the expcnces of his journey. That night, Carlos, attended by Simon and two guides, set out, who at the end of" three days, quitted them. Left now to themselves, Simon amused his master with his notions of warfare. Just as Simon had concluded his last remark, they were ajarmed by a screaming of female voices, at some distance before them in the forest. Don Carlos spurred on his courscr, and was followed by Simon, who forgot all his peaceable apothegms, and drove-on with great fury and courage.
After riding a few hundred yards they found the object of their pursuit had changed its position, and that the screams were, more to the right hand; they therefore pressed forward with all their might, till they came up with a chaise driving full speed, and guarded by a number of men well mounted and armed. Simon at this, seeing- how the business stood, drove forward, passed the horsemen, and with a stroke of his sabre levelled the driver, and then cut one of the mules acrpss the back of the neck so effectually, as to lay him dead. In the mean time Carlos had charged the horsemen, and being joined by Simon, they killed one, .wounded two dangerously, and put the rest to flight. On coming up with the chaise, they found two ladies in it, one of whom had fainted, while the other, notwithstanding her terror, carefully kept the face of her companion closely concealed beneath her veil. After a handsome addres s en cavalier, on the part of Carlos, the lady requested lis jpt>Lection to a .town at a short distance, and in the mean20
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
time begged his servant might procure a little water to relieve the young lady. Alphonso flew himself to find it, and returned in a few minutes with his helmet full. The astonished Carlos surveyed with rapture the beauty of the fair unknown's features when the veil was withdrawn, and, stood transfixed with admiration as she wildly opened her penetrating beautiful eyes, and stared on him.—The elder lady quieted the apprehensions which seemed to agitate her fine form, and Carlos repeated his assurances of protection while he or his man had life to move an arm.
The prisoner being secured, they set forward, and arrived at the town at a late hour. They had the prisoners taken befbre the magistrate, and then proceeded to sup with the ladies in their chamber, where Carlos imbibed the poison of love at every glance. The elder lady hinted that she was flying with her young ward to Spain, to avoid the addresses of an old amorous Portuguese nobleman, who had taken that violent means of procuring by force what was denied to his rank and solicitations. Carlos followed this relation by a declaration of love, which*lhe prudence of the elder lad)' immediately repelled, till she had a better knowledge of his birth and virtues.
When Carlos retired to rest, he was agitated by every uneasiness a lover can feel, and determined on the following morning to discover to the ladies who he was, but, alas! when he arose at break of day, he was informed by his man Simon, that the ladies, directly after he left them, had departed ; but, if the beautiful young,lady would not herself stay with us," said Simon, " here is a portrait which may supply her place for the present I picked it up when the alguazils and I went to the spot where we rescued the ladies, to look for the other wounded ruflians. I brought it back to give it to her, but now, master, I can give it to ycu for that purpose." Having reached tha city of Lisbon, Carlos found to his regret, that an aunt of his, whom his father had particularly requested him to visit, had, in consequence of the de^th of her husband, retired from Lisbon, and gone again to Spain. It was Christmas when Carlos set out from Lisbon on his return to Castile, in consequence of a message from the King. Me had come near the ancient town of Carmona, when he demanded of a shepherd he overtook on the road, if he should be able to reach Cordova that night.—>" Truly/' said the shepherd,TITE WANDERING SPIRIT.
'* you may, if your horse keep the pace he is at, but there are so many roads, before you, that you may easily miss the right, and get among-the Moorish towers,, and the robbers on the ridges of Sierra Morena j byt if you keep to the right, till you come to Palma, and then to the left, you will meet some goatherd3 who can direct you."
Simon advised proceeding to Palma, and taking a guide to Cordova, for fear of the robbers and the spirits that might inhabit the cavernous bowels of the mountains they might have to travel over. Carlos, however, was deaf to any delay, and they insensibly proceeded till night shrouded them in the bosom of a deep forest, surrounded by stupendous mountains, from one of which fell a tlmn^-dering cataract of water, to augment the moonlight solemnity of the scene.—" Blessed Virgin exclaimed Simon,
what is it I see yonder stalking at such a rate Just as he spoke, Carlos descried a person of more than common size, walking through the path of the forest in the same direction he was going : but, though he galloped his horse, the object advanced before him, till, doubling the angle of a perpendicular rock, he disappeared. Carlos then turned the corner, and saw nothing before him but a boundless plain,, that frightened Simon, and made his.master hesitate nr. the choice of where he should pToceed next. He called loudly- to ascertain, if any one were within hearing, but echo was the only sound that answered. Simon advised ta make their retreat good by the way they came, to which Carlos consented, and they reached the corner of the rock, from whjich many paths proceeded, and made it difficult to knowwh'ich to take. While he stood undetermined, a sigh of deep anguish, as if heaved from the bosom of a giant, caught his ear; he turned his head, and again saw the figure, with a long spear in his hand, walking 'at an easy pace. Carlos pursued, but the figure outstripped him, and disappeared.
Determined hoover to proceed, he spurred his horse on in the same direction, and had not gone far, when the moon suddenly became obscured, the darkness was interrupted by vivid: flashes of lightning, accompanied with the tempestuous fury of rain and wind, mingled^with dismal groans acd hollow sounds. His horse soon after stopped suddenly, and he perceived through the gloom a high wall with battlements > and several windows, resembling tl.es*?22
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
of a churc h, became suddenly illuminated. Concluding it was a chapel, in which midnight mass was celebrating, he, with some difficulty, found^an entrance. He wondered much to find no one in this magnificent building, and concluding the service had not yet begun, he knelt down near the altar to pray. In a moment after loud voices chaunted the Dt Profundis, accompanied 'by the notes of an organ, whose tone was like thunder. When the music ceased, a bell, that seemed to shake the foundation of the building, tolled twelve — the light vanished — piercing cries were heard, and a dreadful crash, like the falling of rocks. Then followed a noise, like the flight of a heavy pair of wings, wafting its way round the vaulted cieling.
The terror of Carlos compelled him to conjure the cause, which had led him into this perilous state, to declare, in the name of Jesus, its intent.—Strait a figure, such as he had seen, environed by a lambent (lame which played round it, stood before him. It was much above the tallest size, and wore an enormous plume of feathers on. the helmet, which seemed reflected in the brightness of the armour it was cased in. " Fear not!" said the figure:— " Your sword must be reserved for Vengeance!"—With these words, the helmet fell from his head, and discovered a pale and bloody countenance, the hair clotted with gore. The figure gave a loud sigh, and glided backwards till it reached the yawning wall, which closed upon it. Carlos, with an instinctive impulse, darted his sword at the wall as it shut to, and found himself unable to extricate it. Soft music now struck up, and lulled him into a gentle sleep, so that he sunk upon the ground.
In this state he dreamed that the figure presented him with a large key, saying, " Take this, consult the Baron de Morno, and be resolute—no bars, no adamantine walls, nor fraud, can resist the instrument of heaven's vengeance !"—On which the' armour opened, a skeleton fell from it in fragments, and he found himself suddenly enveloped in its cumbrous weight, and armed cap-a-pie. He awoke under its pressure, and perceived that day had dawned, He thought the whole had been a dream, till he saw his sword sticking in the wall, which he easily withdrew. In doing this he missed his ring, and, in searching for it anxmg the rubbish, found near it a key, resembling that he had seen in his dream.—Having prayed for coura&cTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.	23
to go through the awful work he seemed chosen to perform, he surveyed the building, which appeared to be a church fallen to ruins, surrounded by desolation ; and re-entering the chapel, observed minutely where his sword had stuck in the wall, noting down in a book the place of his entrance, and every other particular, that he might recognize the spot, again.
After windii.g round the wall, he found Simon, waiting in a state of horror and suspense for his master; nor did he want any persuasion ta quit a place which he said had nothing to recommend it but ghosts, devils, and serpents.— In proportion as Simon mentioned the place with terror, Carlos became enamoured of it, and pointed out to him the grandeur of its wild sc~enery,. terminated on the east by the majestic and beautiful Guadalquiver. Here a bell tolled for some time, and afforded Don Carlos an opportunity of convincing his faithful and superstitious servant that there was some inhabited place in the bosom of the thick wood they were in, which they proceeded in quest of. Turning their horses to the west, they had not proceeded far before they could discern at the back of the chapel in which Carlos had spent the night, a building, that from having a belfry he concluded to be a convent. Near lay a magnificent castle, and an extensive demesne in high improvement behind it. lie wished to enquire of some one respecting its owner, and, seeing some goatherds on a hill a little beyond it, they traversed the edge of the wood, and at length came to the path which led them to the hill; Carlos, with his visual affability, acccosted the goatherds, who were sitting at breakfast, and invited him to eat. Finding himself inclined to accept their offer, he sat down, and, during the repast, the eldest of the goatherds gave him the following account of the castle:—
" I have lived a long while, Senor, but never in my life saw a place so beautiful as this spot of Vallesante. It has been long celebrated for the virtues of the family who were lords of it, the holiness of its convent, and the content of its inhabitants. The present lord is the Marquis Fertardo, who came into possession very early in life. He married a lady, his equal in every respect, but in piety she was superior to every one. They had two children, soon after whose birth the King called on the Marquis to attend him to the wars; there he went, leaving his lady behind him, sinceTHE WANDERING SPIRIT;
%hen the place has gone to decay. „At last lie returned, but much worse for the king's favour, for he was -proud* and quite changed from what he was. The Marchioness took it much to heart, and died suddenly, which made him so sorrowful, that he entered the convent, and it was said he would take the cowl. Some time after, however, he quitted it, and took his children to a distant part, where the King had given him a large estate, and then it was said my lady's ghost haunted the castle, and made it uneasy to him; however, at length he returned them back to the castle, because the young lady had fallen desperately in love with a picture, the original of which it is said was dead God knows how long. The young lady however, not quite satisfied, went to a fortune teller, who told her, that, ■whenevei she saw the resemblance of that picture, the house of Fertardo would fall to ruins. This being reported to the 'Marquis, he hurried her off here, and confined her in a chamber of the castle, suffering no one to have access to her, except the father of the convent, her brother, and certain domestics. The picture he burnt.— To add to his uneasiness, it soon appeared, that my young lord, his son, had fallen violently in love with his sister, and had made base proposals to her.
" The unhappy young lady, to shelter herself, told the Marquis, who shut her up in the convent, while he himself, racked by some inward affliction, spake to no one except the Padre Prior. Since that, Srnor, the chapel has gone to decay, and misfortune and frightful appearances have disturbed the family and neighbourhood ever since. To conclude this strange story then, the young Lord, finding himself unable to .prevail on his sister, determined to enjoy her by force .or stratagem, and therefore bribed her servant to put some laudanum in her drink, and let him in at night, Her chamber was in the uppermost story of the convent, looking into'the court-yard; this he reached in safety, and began to ascend "the .silken ladder, which his accomplice had fixed to the iron bars of the window above. Just as he had got .near the window, the ladder gave way, and he tumbled head long upon the spikes below, while the servant above threw oiit the ladder, and went to bed. In the morning his Lordship was found dead, and the maid was tortured into a-confession. Since that the Marquis ha brought a.nephew from court a* his Jieir, and wished theTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
25
young lady to marry him, but she absolutely refused.— Thus things are at presenthis Lordship miserable in his castle, and his daughter the same in the convent."
Carlo3 and Simon having, by the time the story was finished, refreshed themselves, repaid the hospitable goatherds, and proceeded on their journey. They at length reached Cordova, and then Burgos, in safety, whence he dispatched two letters, one to his father, stating his intention of visiting him after he had paid his respects to the King ; the other to the Baron de Morno, mentioning his anxious desire to acquaint him with the awful events he had experienced in his journey, and wishing that Don Pinto would accompany him to Burgos.
The King received Carlds very graciously, and though the trap laid for the anonymous author had not produced the intended effect, he was fully convinced Don Alberts and his mother were the parties. In a little more than & week Don Pinto and the Baron de Morno arrived at Burgos. After they had heard a full relation of the wonders a-t Val-lesante, the Ba,ron requested that Father Thomas and Pi-santo might be sent for, in addition'to the friendly assistance of Don Pinto and Carlos. The Baron's altered marines struck them forcibly; youthful vigour re-animftted every feature, and the feebleness' of old age totally disappeared, as he exclaimed, that it was the blood of Gonsa-lez crying from the ground, and, that though he could not repair, hfe would revenge the foul murders and'injuries that had ruined the house of Morno !
In eight days Simon returned to Burgos with Father Thomas and Pisanto, and the party set; oxit for Vallisahtfe without delay.—Oh the fifth day they arrived at the entrance of the valley, and Don, Pinto looked with rapture on the beauty of the surrounding scenery. Having sheltered themselves in a recess, concealed by a thick clump of trees, Carlos led them forth, and pointed out to them the wood, in which lay the scene of their intended operation; they returned to the thicket, and the vesper bell tilling, Father Thomas said mass, and they all joined in prayer.—;The bell presently tolled again, and Father Thomas proposed to proceed, leaving the servants to take care of the horses till they returned. A ffeW dim stars only pointed out their way to the convent, near which they heard a heavy footstep solemnly marcR before them.'—When they stopped, it did the same.—A violent rattling Of armour, and stamping26
THE WAN DERI NO SPIRIT.
of the foot was then heard, but it seemed only the more to animate the Baron. Carlos having groped along the wall till he found the narrow entrance, they proceeded through it, and entered the chapel. The Baron was just going to light a small lamp he had brought with him, when the chapel suddenly became, illuminated, by the light of which Carlos pointed out the chink where his sword had stuck in the wall.—In a moment darkness enveloped them, and the Baron having lighted his lamp, inspected the aisle, till he observed a large heap of rubbish, without any corresponding ruins over it. The Baron then drew a massy sabre from his side, fell to work, and dug the rubbish till a large stone appeared, which being removed, they came to another of so prodigious a size, that it required their united strength to displace it; beneath was a flight of steps, down which they descended, and found a door at the bottom ; having forced it open, a heavenly swell of music rushed upon their ears, and sweet voices chaunted the Nunc Di-mittis. Proceeding through a long passage, they came to the cemetery of the convent, which was an arched vault, filled with dead bodies, holding crucifixes in their hands. Hardly had they observed the place, when a rattling of armour behind them announced the approach of the figure, which lifted up its vizor ! " Ye holy saints of heaven," exclaimed the Baron, " it is my son, Gonsalez !"—He followed it up the dark passage, and in a few moments returned, saying they must enter the wall.
Having entered through a low door in it into another small vault, they took up a short sabre, the blade of which ■was rusty all over ; this the Baron told Father Thomas to preserve. As the ground they stood on seemed to spring sip, they sounded, and found it concealed a board, on removing which, beneatlj a bed of plank, they discovered ,& chest, in which was the skeleton of a man of extraordinary stature. The priest, in examining the scull, perceived .-it had been cloven across, which reminded them of Don Pinto's dream. In searching farther Father Thomas drew from the chest a seal ring, with the device of Gonsalez on it, Instar Fulminis. In one corner lay his coat of mail, and in another an old portmanteau, containing a dagger, a crucifix, and private papers, all which were written on by the parties present, and confided to the care of Father Thomas. When the Baron had recovered his grief, he remarked, that doubtless the hand which had murdered his son had not apared his daughter. Under this conviction they searchedTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
around, and found another door so neatly fitted to the wall, that no crevice or joint could be discovered to force a weapon in.—A key-hole was in the middle of the door, thfe key to which Carlos had received in a miraculous manner*, and on its application the lock flew open. Father Thomas now interposed, to prevent any farther discoveryy as thfe morning had dawned; therefore, replacing whatever they had removed, the party, to avoid suspicion, adjourned to the bower where they had left their servants anxiously waiting for them. Having refreshed themselves, thfey set forward towards Burgos, and in their way came to a beautiful recess, surrounded by trees, hills, and a murmuring rivulet, which fell into the Guadalquiver.— In this romantic spot were assembled a groupe of villagers dancing, one of whom, an old man, carried a garland in his hand, and led a beautiful female through all the mazy steps.—" Pray," said Don Pinto, " what is the occasion of your mirth ?"— " Why, you must know, Senor," replied the old man, " that the most charitable and good Marquis de Villaverde is to be married on this day ; all, rich and poor, love him : nay, the Marquis Fertardo, who has lived like a hermit since his wife's death, is to be at the wedding, and I am sure you will be heartily welcome."
Taking leave of the villagers, they went on, till they observed an inn at the point of two roads; there they stopped to refresh themselves, and talk over the night's adven-tuie. Every one agreed thatGonsalez had been murdered, but all rejected the Baron's scheme of challenging the Marquis Fertardo ; and at length he consented that Carlos should lay it before the King, when they arrived at Burgos, and persuade him "to give the Baron a private audience.— This being determined on, they proposed to remain at the inn that night, and set forward at day-break. Just at that moment the equipage of the Marquis Fertardo drove b)', and they called the host to know whose it was : the host told them, with a long addition of the Marquis's torments of mind, and seclusion from the world.—" 3ut," continued the host," after immersing his daughter in a convent, only out of fear of an old witch's prophecy, which cost his wicked son his life, no wonder he persecutes the poor youth he has bred up for charity. The Marquis screams whenever he meets him, ?nd one day was going to poniard him, and at last laid him in irons, calling him a villain and a traitor. The boy has always been beloved, and now he is grown up is as bold and as strong as a lion, which the rob-
Y 258
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
fcers in the Sierra Morena could very well testify not more than six months ago. Yet, though all people admired the greatness of his mind, the Marquis fettered him, and fed him on bread and water for a month, since which time he has been kept a close prisoner, permitted only now and then to walk on the battlements, with two men as his guard.s."
The cruelty of the Marquis excited the indignation of all present, and Don Pinto hinted his suspicion, that it might be the Baron's orphan-grandson ! " No !" exclaimed ihe Baron :—" When the Marquis had gone so far in guilt, he would not hesitate to cut off' the young branch. It can-DOt be ! but let the will of heaven be done —" Yet," said Don Pinto, " suppose we go ; we shall have a more perfect idea of the situation of the castle, if we obtain nothing more."—When they had dined, they departed, and soon made the tour of the walls, encircled by a large moat, over which was a drawbridge, drawn up. Near it were three men walking, whom Don Pinto saluted, and enquired the jjame of the owner of the castle.—One of them answered in a superior manner, and convinced the travellers that he was the youth of whom the innkeeper had spoken. Don Pinto then endeavoured to draw him into conversation, and stating that they were in search of the road to Cordova, requested as a favour that the youth would descend, and instruct them particularly in getting clear of their embarrassment, which they had endeavoured in vain to learn from the ignorant peasants. He had just placed an unwilling negative on their request, when one of the men whis-» pered to him, and in a few minutes they let down the drawbridge, over which the young man passed, and joined the Baron and Don Pinto.
They were struck with his lofty and manly beauties, gnd, leaving their horses to the* care of their servants, walked aside with him.—-Claudio (the name of the young man) then said : " Senor, I am a fatherless youth, ignorant to whom I belong, and educated by the Marquis Fertardo's bounty, 'who is the cJwner of the castle and estates about us. The Marquis for many years past, though highly esteemed at court, has preferred to exist in the most gloomy solitude. I owe every thing I possess to his goodness; and, though }je has been kind, I am not happy.—rl wish to serve my king and be a soldier, but he denies permission to go beyond the limits of the castle, and appoints a guard to watch me, w}io think my obedience at all times a duty."THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
The Baron and Don Pinto each pressed his hand by turnsr and gazed on him with delight.—" Surely he loves you!" said the former. " No," said Claudio, " lie treats me with a cruel rigour, which has almost dissolved the afl'ection I ought to feel for him.—Senors, drawn by instinctive emotion, to you, J have deviated from my accustomed silence."— "Let us," said the Baron, " call you child;" "And," added Don Pinto, " if any event happen which may give you liberty, Don Pinto d'Antos will be a father and. a friend to you." The Baron then addressed him; " Hope not, my child, to see the Marquis's unnatural feeling changed : he will pursue the same conduct to the end :—> therefore, fly from this castle as you wish for protection from heaven for yourself: guilt lays its foundation, and its downfall is at hand : neglect not my advice, and when you have determined on it, let this (giving him a written paper} be your guide.— Don Pnjto^" continued the Baron, " we must have that yquth between us, and, you, Carlos, must remember from this day you ar£ to be as brothers."—" I accept him willingly as a brother,—that blessing hitherto denied me," said- Carlos.:—The same welcome was made by Claudio.. One of the servants now calling to Claudio to return,, he embraced his nominal relatives, and, remounting the battlements, waved his haiul as a last adieu, and. disappeared,,
Simon had not Lost sight of the castle before he pull'etj Carlos on. one sider and spake thus •„—r" Pray, master, is this an enchanted, country or not I—and who do you think thf*t young cavalier is like?—By all the eyes that ever I saw with, he appeared; to me to be no other than my master Doo. Pinto : t^at is the very samp man who carried away my ladyy your motherr from her father's* near Talav^ra—who afterwards begat you, and who is now riding before us !"—: Carlos, seriously alarmed, for the intellects of his servant, rode up to. thp others to mention his fears.. " I have, observed th-5 same likeness/' said the Baron to Don Pinto : " that of Carlos to Gonsalez is not stronger than Claudio to-yourself. H is a mysterious business, and reserved lor us ouly to penetrate!"
A3 so011 aa they reached Burgos, the travellers remained at an inn, while Doii Carlos proceeded, tq court.—He wa§. admitted tq a private audience with -the king, in company with his patron Dan Marcos de Calvos. Carlos began by ^treating his Majesty's patience to the developement of an.-execrable conspiracy against the lives and fortunes of erne of30
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
the most distinguished houses in the service of the crown of Castile. He then earnestly requested the king's permission to bring his noble witnesses in support of the allegation on the morrow. " I grant it," said the King.—" May your faithful servant," said Carlos, " presume to suggest the ne-i. cessity of secresy for the present. Don Alberto is nearly concerned in the event, though not in the guilt. " Enough," said the King : " to-morrow morning at ten o'clock I will be at Don Marcos' house, when we will investigate this affair." All the parties attended at the time appointed, and the King brought the corrigedor of Burgos with him.—The Baron de Morno first commenced with an account of his services to the reigning kings of Castile, and concluded with adverting to his imprisonment, wanderings, and final reception by Don Pinto.
Carlos related the incidents at Vallesante : Don Pinto communicated the story of their search, and Father Thomas lastly produced the aitides in his possession, all of which were duly attested. Don Marcos was astonished.— He was intimate with Gonsalez, had fought by his side, and recollected that the Marquis Fertardo had retired from court soon after the disappearance of Gonsalez. From the fragments of the letters were collected the following : the first letter:—" Fly to the convent whither my domestics will lead you—this is your only sanctuary against the disappointed lust of P-
The second contained : " Haste, without delay !—Father Paolo will tell you all!—the loss of a moment may put your wife in the embraces of the k-^-."
The third : " I will develope the affair to the Baron, mean time your property and papers shall be secure ; depend on my good offices."—" Now," said the Baron,' " I should propose to his Majesty and your Lordship, that the Father Prior be brought to account for these suspicious circumstances, and that some of his Lordship's most intelligent Officers, duly authorized, proceed to the vaults with us, and there testify to your Lordship what shall-appear to them ; after which, that the ring, armour, sabre, and letters, be deposited in the archives of your court. On this your Majesty will ground an arrest of all the parties suspected, and to this end, while armed forces surround the castle and priory, we, with a chosen few, will enter the vault by a private passage, arid arrest any that may enter it through the castle." The Corrigedor gave his sanction, to the scheme; and the King piomised, on conviction, everyTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
31
practicable reparation should be made to the Baron's family. The Corrigedor sent a proper officer that evening to attend them, and they resolved to set olF the next morning.
It was just twilight when they entered the valley.—The Baron and Don Pinto remained in the bower with the horses, while Father Thomas, the officer, and Carlos, went toHhe chapel. Having demonstrated the certainty of the things before-mentioned, Father Thomas opened the cemetery to establish the relative situation of the convent; Carlos then unlocked the door, which, at the suggestion of Father Thomas, they had not inspected. They entered a long vaulted gallery, branching off to the right and left.— Soft and enchanting music now struck up from the l ight of the passage, and^ a female voice sweetly sung a melancholy strain, accompanied by a guittar. When the stanza was finished, a sigh of the most piercing kind succeeded, to which Carlos instinctively replied. Arrived at the end of the gallery, they found it branched off to the left, whence they heard another sigh, and a voice exclaimed, " O blessed and holy virgin, how long shall my soul pant for a release from its miseries \" They advanced to the dcor whence the voice proceeded, across which, near the top, was a small hole, grated with iron bars ; looking through, they beheld, in a low and gloomy chamber, a lady on her knees, devoutly praying to heaven. Her face bore the marks of dignified but faded beauty. Suddenly she stopped and wept, then sunk down upon a couch before her, and uttered a' piercing sigh.—Carlos's emotions made Father Thomas .draw him away, while the officer continued his remarks.— Presently a door opened at the farther end of the room, and a tall man, about fifty, advanced to her y/ith a lamp in one hand, and a dagger in the other. The lidy started, and sat down on the couch, while the other addressed her with, " Is my patience ever to be rewarded only with insult ?"— " Alas! my Lord," returned the lady, " is a lapse of so many years imprisonment, of indignity, and resistance of your hireling priest's persuasions, not sufficient to convince you of my unalterable resolution ? Cease then to torture me with a repetition of your polluted vows, nor insult the ashes of my murdered husband, whose arm, when living, would have annihilated you at a blow!"—" Once then for all !'' said the maji, " hear me!—I resolve that your son, convicted of traitorous designs against my life, shall Buffer death. One thing only, you know, can release him from32
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
his chains and save him !" " Let him die !" said the lady— " a son of the house of Morno would joyfully suffer at the shrine of his mother's honour!" " By heaven he shall die before you \" exclaimed the monster. " Thinkest thour wretch," returned the lady, " I shall tremble at the manner of his death ! Let it be ! and you shall see my heroism emulate his \" He concluded the interview,, by swearing, that he gave her one week more to retract her decision, and retired-The officer having noted what passed, and bore the armour away, at the suggestion of Father Thomas they departed with the utmost secrecy, and joined the Baron and Don Pinto, where they mounted their horses, and were out out of the valley by day break. Father Thomas had enjoined his companions silence, fearful of the impetuous temper of the Baron. They arrived at Burgos on the third, day, and Don Marcos, being acquainted with the particulars, carried the whole to the King, who was horror struck -r the Baron seemed like one on the brink of insanity, and when he recovered his speech, which seemed awhile suspended, he exclaimed, " It is my daughter, and the youth at the castle is her son ! O Sire ! if pity lead thee to sympathise with the feelings-of an old man, indulge my request. Permit that this very night the prior and heads of the convent of Vallesante, and the Marquis Fertardo and his domestics be secured/'
The King not only consented, but appointed Don Marcos to attend him with three troops of horse, and obtained leave of the Archbishop of Toledo to enter the convent.— On the fourth day at evening, they reached their destination, two troops surrounding the castle> and one the convent. Carlos, with his friends, having entered the vault, proceeded to the door that looked into the lady's chamber. She was, lying asleep, with a lamp burning beside her.— Just as the signal outside was given, they heard a clanking of chains on the far side of the chamber, and saw the same men drag in the unfortunate Claudio by the hair with one hand, while he pointed a sabre to his throat with the other. " Behold, madam," said the monster, " unless you relent, his hour is come V The lady suddenly awoke, screamed, and fainted on the body of her son. Carlos, no longer able to withhold his fury, shivered the door with an axe to pieces, and rushed in. " Villain! cried he, forbear, " or you instantly die !''—The Marquis viewed him for a few moments with tremendous agitation, and sunk prostrate on bis feoe in a swoon. The lady, in the mean time, assistedTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
33
by Don Marcos, recovered, and stared wildly around her, till her eyes fixed on her son, who on his part exclaimed 011 seeing Carlos, " Is this my friend, my brother Carlos ?
Ah, if it be, tell me where is the Baron de Morno ?"-
" What! my child !" said the lady, " did you ask for the Baron de Morno? Alas! my father has been long since; numbered with the d,ead, or we should not, my sou, hav^ languished here for so many years!"
While this was passing in the vaults of the castle, the Prior, perceiving the castle and convent beset by troops, flew to the private passage to seek the Marquis. He entered the chamber, and was instantly arrested by Don Marcos, who desired Carlos to raise up the Marquis, and take him away. The latter, suddenly regarding Carlos, bellowed out, " I am the murderer of Gonsalez !" In th^ confusion of removing the Prior and Fertardo through the private door, the lady caught a bide view of the face of Carlos, and exclaiming, " he is my husband !" flew to embrace Carlos.—Don Marcos, apprehensive she was deranged, conducted her back to the couch, assuring her that her husband was not alive, and that they were come to protect her and avenge his death !—'The lady then recognized Don Marcos as the former friend of Gonsalez, and she blessed heaven that had yet suffered her to have a father and child alive.
Don Marcos now left her, and went to the great hall? where the Marquis and the Prior were in custody. He announced the necessity he was under of conducting him a prisoner before the King, to which the Marquis willingly acceded, requesting only two hours to draw up an ample confession of his turpitude and that of the Father Prio'r. In the mean time the young Claudio was released, and th^ Baron pressed to his bosom his long lost daughter. Having closed up the vault where the bones of Gonsalez lay, they proceeded at the expiration of three hours to the room were the Marquis Fertardo was. Finding all was still, they burst open the door, and found the unhappy man dead, and \vel7 tering in his blood. Beside him lay the following paper, which Father Thomas read aloud. " One of my ancestors drove the Moors from the castle of Montalto, and hence became the possessors of the convent and domain by royal grant. The wretch who is now prior was elevated by my father's charity, and became the confidant of my father's amours : he afterwards by parental desire took the habit, and became my confessor. When I came to the estate I married, and lived happy with the Marchioness, till Gonsalez34
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
brought his wife to Toledo. I confessed my flame to Father Alma, ai.d his casuistry soon reconciled my hesitating mind to its guilty d( sire. He devised the plan, and aided in the execution of it. The Marchioness being an obstacle, and falling sick, the Rev. Father found a physician i'or her, and she died! The prior also died suddenly, and I ^avethe father his place. To further the plot, Gonsalez was made to believe, that Peter loved his wife, and intended to ravish her from him. I as his friend advised him to bring her to the convent; Father Alma was their guide.—The lady we deposited in a subterraneous chamber of the castle, and Gonsalez we led into the vault, where his body was found.—Here, as he stooped to enter the door, an assassin, pla.ced in readiness, cleft his scull with a sabre. Having buried him, we dispatched our accomplice to make all secure. Finding the lady resist all my eiibrts, I bribed the nurse, and got the child Claudio into my hands. By a feigned tale to the King, I got the family estate into my possession ; yet, as a small abatement of my injury, I must confess that Peter would have sacrificed the Baron for his haughtiness but for my remonstrance. Let this plead in favour of my innocent daughter. Claudio's nurse yet lives, and —— Feetardo." Their entrance into the room shortened the letter, and hastened the suicide. While they were preparing every thing for the King's investigation, the Baron and Claudio proceeded to the lady's chamber, whom the servant said was delirious. She still persisted that she had seen her dear Henry, her husband, in the vaults, when she was rescued. The Baron undertook to explain that he had at the first sight of Carlos been as strongly impressed with the same conviction, which had extended itself to the guilty Marquis; and informed her that the mistaken youth was the son of Don Pinto, the common friend of themselves and humanity. During this a young lady had rushed from the convent to the castle, demanding to see her deceased father. She disregarded every one till her eye met that of Carlos.— Re^aiding him with a fixed look, and strong tremulation, she exclaimed,The prediction is fulfilled ! The house of Fer-tardo is in ruins! now shew me to my father and she darted from their sight.
When the noble friends arrived at Burgos, the Kingcalled a council, which decreed that the Prior should be turned over to the Inquisition; that the title and estates of Fertardo 'should be confiscated, and those of the Baron and Gonsalf-z restored. On their return to the castle of Fertardo, to convey the lady and the remains of Gonsalez to Burgos, they ifound that Don Alberto had been there, threatening themTHE WANDERING SPIRIT.
35
with the King's vengeance for what they had done. Carlos was now introduced to the lady, and she had nearly relapsed into the same conviction that she saw her husband stand before her. At length she requested that she might consider both Claudio and Carlos as her children, and recommended to them the affection of brothers. Every thing being now arranged, they proceeded finally towards Burgos, Carlos and Claudio riding by their side. On the night of the fourth day, they were not far from the city. Claudio and Carlos -were behind the carriage at a little distance, and were just parted from it by the angle of a garden wall, when they were attacked by .a band of ruffians, one of whom buried his dagger deeply in the shoulder of Carlos, and struck him to the ground. Claudio and Simon attacked in turn, beat three of them down, and dispersed the rest. Simon then galloped to the carriage, and related the villainous assassination. They instantly returned, and finding that Carlos breathed, they hastened to the nearest inn, leaving the wounded in the care of the patrole,-who followed with them. Donna Henrietta hung like a statue over the almost lifeless body of Carlos, displaying every mark of tenderness and grief. Don Pinto immediately wrote word to Don Marcos, who himself arrived with the King's surgeon in two hours, and the latter made a favourable report. On inspecting the wounded ruffians, Don Marcos discovered Don Alberto in disguise, his servant, and a bravo. Carlos's wound not mendingso rapidly as was expected, there seemfed an unknown cause, which honest Simon could attribute to nothing but love for the picture which hung about Carlos's neck. This being said iq the hearing of Don Pinto, it led to the story of the rescue of the two ladies, at which he seemed extremely interested, and instantly dispatched letters of inquiry to the castle of Duero. The next day Don Pinto heard the whole affair from Carlos, and saw the picture. " It is as I feared," exclaimed Don Pinto ; " my son, my unhappy child, the young lady whom you are so enamoured of is your sister, and the other lady is the Marchioness Berino, my wife I" Carlos, equally with his father, was astounded at the dreadful conviction ; nor were the Baron and Father Thomas less so ; their reasoning however, though it calmed the fury of Pinto, had little effect on the despair of Carlos. He displayed signs of insanity, till his strength.gave way to exertion, and he fell into a swoorf. Donna Henrietta herself undertook to re-dress hi6 wound, in the doing which, she sunk lipon the bed, exclaiming, " Holy virgin, he is my son !" " Here'ife irfore madness ejaculated Don Pinto ! " If there be," replied the Baron,36
THE WANDERING SPIRIT.
" it is -with you Don Pinto. Look at that mark, given him in his mother's womb; his mother and I both can identify him by it, and yet you resist the evidence of Nature which cannot change. Some fraud has been practised; for I can testify my grandson ever had that mark, and it remains now to see if Claudio has it also." Claudio declared he had no such mark. The only way to settle this ambiguous affair, was to send Simon for the woman who had nursed Don Pinto'slady. They returned in a few days, and Father Thomas drew a frank confession from her, that Lady Pinto's child had been changed by a woman who came there to lodge one night, and ■whom they never had been able to trace. She certified that the children were much alike, except that her own had a mark of grapes at its back ; and that Don Pinto and his lady being then in France, she had hitherXo concealed the story from fear. Just as they had done examining the nurse, aletter came directed to the Baron from Fertardo castle, from the King's officer there, stating " that he had found a woman in the dungeon, just dying, who had confessed that she was the nurse of Henry Gonsalez's son, and that she was seduced by a priest (the prior) to give it up to the Marquis. Loving the infant, and wishing to save it, as she travelled- towards Andalusia, she^ stopped by accident at a cottage where achild of Don Pinto's was at nurse, whom she knew to be the cousin of Gonsalez ; and that she had left her own, and taken the other to the Marquis." " Here," said the Baron, " let us kneel and praise heaven, which has cleared up this mystery to our mutual satisfaction.— Claudio is your son, Don Pinto, and Carlos is mine!" " And shall still be mine, said Pinto, far he shall marry my daughter. I wrote to my sister, who arrived at Ducro castle, from Portugal, the day after we left it, whence she was obliged to fly with my daughter from an amorous old nobleman. - She wrote me an account of her rescue by a young Spaniard, long since, from Seville, and I am happy that we shall all gain so much and 110 one be the loser."
The body of Gonsalez was buried in pomp at Montalto ; Don Alberto was sent to the mines, and his mother banished. The Prior was turned over-to the Inquisition, and Father Thomas received the priory from the Archbishop of Seville. The Baron lived not only to see Claudio and Carlos the first of warriors, but to instruct a great-grandson in the service of arms, and at last died surrounded by a progeny of heroes in every respect worthy the ancient and illustriousancestry of the house of Monro !
F I NTS.CHARLES ff MARY,
OR THE
UNFORTUNATE LOVERS.
^CoUNT M. minister of the court of--wj».s a very
just, open, and generous man. His enemies,—and who has more than the man of integrity?—had long sought for an opportunity to effect his ruin. M— knew them well, but, fearless of self-reproach, he remained a tranquil spectator of their proceedings; nay, when his gracious monarch would have punished his base calumniators, he would frequently intercede for their pardon, and oppose the fall of those who had endeavoured to accomplish his. This magnanimous behaviour should have made them blush with shame, and have led to their reformation; but it produced an effect directly contrary; hence the Count M— saw the number of
bis enemies daily increase. At length the Count L-,
the favourite of the sovereign, joined their party; under hi*: protection the enterprise succeeded better, and the generous. M— became disgraced. In a short time they divested him of all his employments, without even the permission of justifying himself, and he was banished for ever from the court. His only daughter, whose beauty was of the most brilliant kind, accompanied him to a remote country; where, like a man disgusted with the world, and overcome by the natural consequence of his injuries, he commenced thech*? racter of a misanthrope. Those who had previously known, him were astonished at the change he exhibited,—that of a dull, cruel, and peevish old man. He very rarely quitted hie apartment, and spoke to no one except his daughter, who dared approach him only during certain hours. The beauties of nature , had no attractions for him ; he hated them as much as he detested men, whom he regarded as a race of monsters, and villains. In short, hia misanthropy increased to such a height, that he enjoyed the misfortune?
Z38
CHARLES AND MARY.
of his fellow men; he felt pleasure in their janisery, apd on :a certain day, when he had read in .the gazettes that the Rhine had broken down its banks, and overwhelmed cities, villages, and swallowed up many of their wretched inhabitants, he gave a fete on the occason.
The charming Maria, elevated in the most delicate man-.ner by sy^ceptible mother, had become not only the most tender, but also the most excellent creature existing.—The death of a beloved bird gave her many days of grief, in which she yielded to the .silence of sorrow, while her father was occupied by the liveliest joy; and frequently her benevolent hand has extended itself to the poor whom her father had abruptly sent away.
The Count regularly fastened the door of his chamber at seven o'clock in the evening.—After this time no one dared to approach him; and, if any of the family were inclined to ^muse themselves, they could only do it uninterruptedly till the morning, when the misanthrope ranged about anew, and banished every smiling countenance from his sight.— 'Having retired one evening at his customary hour, his servants, happy at his absence, were enjoying themselves together.
The Gazette, the only paper that lie took in, had that evening arrived very late, and he was reading it in bed.— He learned that Louis had had an unfortunate battle, in which two of his Generals in.chief, with 900 men, had been •filled on the spot. This intelligence pleased him extremely;; and like the generality of mankind, he had no sooner ex* perienced a-satisfaction than he wished to impart it: eager, .therefore, to convey the news to his daughter, he repaired' ►to her chamber. Smiling, as he hastily opened the door, he beheld ;her in the arms of the young Count L——, the son
of .his greatest ?nemy I L-- drew a little back, while
Maria tremblingly fell at the feet of her father. * The CQunt M. (scarcely believing tie evidence of Ms eyes,) ■Who are youi
2he Count L. The son of your implacable enemy; but one who thinks differently from his father; who, for; a con J siderable time has deplored the fall of the virtuous, and often in -secret laments over it with the idol of his heart.
Count M. Your pity to me is of no consequenceBut then you love my daughter ?—CHARLES AND MAJIY.
39
Count L. I. adore her.—Divested of hef affection, > my misery would be extreme indeed !
Count M. (taming to Maria) And you ?
Maria. O my father!
Count M. (sternly) And you?
Maria. I love him.—I -loved him before I knew his father was the enemy of mine, We have been separated, but we have again, met; and behold each other on this day after an absence of six months !
Count M. ("after, traversing the chamber auhile uithout speaking a word, and regarding the Count with a vindictive look,J Does the Count, your father* love you?
Count L. Yes, he does love me! Much he loves me, for I am his only son.
Count M. pointmg to his daughter. This is also my only daughter! (After this he again walked up. and down the chamber; then appeared to reflect: and, vnembairasscd by the cruel anguish of'the poor lovers, who every instant expected their sentence of deathfrom his lips, he seated himselfand thus addressed the young Count :) Could your father endure your eternal absence from his presence ? To hear you never spoken of, and to see his views and future hopes instantly annihilated ?
Count L. This would be pronouncing a sentence of death, on him, far he would languish, pine, and die!
Count M. Will you affirm this ?
Count L. 1 will swear it!
Count M. It is well!—you shall have my daughter!
Comt L, I have her ?-—1—shall I have Maria?
Maria. What I be thewifeof my dear Charles! Shall I spend my life with him ?
Count M. Yes!—but upon this, irrevocable* condition.
Count L. Tell it instantly, if it be-.your pleasure* that I may fulfil it. What, shall I accomplish ?~?Is it to escalade heaven ?—-Love would conduct me there- upon the clouds! Must I descend'to the. centre of the earth? Love would convey me over rocks, and into the abyss, with as much ease as on the beaten path !
Count M. Hold, Sir! Does the Count your father know where you are ?
Count L. •No, he believes I am with my regiment.
Count M. And your Colonel ? ■ Count L. Thinks I am at my father'?,
JZ.2>40
CHARLES AND MARY.
Count M. Is your servant with you ?
Count L. No, I have travelled 35 miles on my own horse, and alone.
Count M. It is well.—You shall return with me into my apartment, where you shall remain till the morrow.—At break of day I will have the horses put to the carriage, and conduct you and my daughter to a sea-port. rJ here you shall both embark on board a Spanish vessel, about to sail for America. Previously to this, however, the priest shall give his holy benediction on your marriage, after which I shall wait to see you depart!
Maria. And will you not accompany us ?
Count M. No, I shall remain until my hopes are fully accomplished,—(to the young Count) after which I shall return to you.—Does this meet your wish ?
Count L. Do I wish it!—In a few days Maria will be mine.—This is my utmost desire! For this I joyfully consent to every privation!—But, O thou best and most generousof men, dare I undertake to withdraw you from an error which will hinder me from being completely happy!
Count M. Let me hear it.
Count L. You are deceived in respect to the character of my father.—His heart, if I may be allowed the expression, is corrupt, but not hardened.—He is alive to the prayers of his son; and, if you approve, I will throw myself at his feet, I will display the ardour of my love, and engage that he shall yield to the pressure of my solicitation; nay, that he shall himself propose to effect our union, as the surety of his reconciliation.
Count M. Indeed!
Count L. Yes, indeed!—Maria and I ever despaired of obtaining your consent, and this consideration has been the cause of not sooner applying to my father; but now I can boldly present myself, and the effect of our love must produce the happy reconciliation of two families which have been disunited only through envy and disgraceful passions—the caustt aheady of many a deep regret to my father.
Count M. But what if you alone should carry this project into execution, and demand pardon of him in letters written from America?
Count L. Then he would recalme!—would receive me with open arms, and bless your daughter like his own!CIIA11KES AND MARY.
41
Count M. Ah!—What a foolish thing was I about to do! No!—you shall not have my daughter !
Count L. and Maria (at hisfeet.) My father,—my dear father!
Count M. I swear by heaven that you shall never possess her.—Leave me! (He forces Maria towards the. dooi.)
Count L. I accept all your conditions !—Ah, I cannot abandon her!—for without her death is my only portion!
Coiuit M. This is my very wish!—this is my most anxious hope! Go, shoot yourself, and I shall hear the news with pleasure!—Your father too would, doubtless follow your example, and. thus would his hated race be happily destroyed.—This plan is better and more secure than the
other!-(As he drove Maria from the chamber, she extended
her hand t& her dear Charles, and stammered out a tender aduu!' Her father, overcome by passion at what he saw, seized her by the hair, and drao her into his apartment..)
Charles, no longer able to continue in the liouse of th& old Count, nevertheless was determined not to be separated in this manner from his beloved girl. lie passed the night in a neighbouring wood, and at the break of clay was alarmed by hearing a carriage travelling on the highway.—-Having recognised the livery of the old Count, he followed it at a distance, and. to his great satisfaction saw it take the route which led to the town, where he was in garrison.—As he drew nearer, he observed that it stopped at the Convent of-the Penitents.:—Hither the Count conducted his fainting and wretched daughter, and in about an hour after he returned alone..
The heart of Charles now beat high with hope, since,. small as the information was, he knew at least the repository which contained, his precious treasure. From this moment he conceived the design of carrying her off, by the exertion of every means in his power.:—At first- he endeavoured to obtain an entrance into the convent',, but all his attempts, every means he employed, proved nugatory.— lie even expended, a large sum 3»f money, without ascertaining the certainty of her continuing to reside in the Convent.
The Convent was situated near the rampart of one of the gates of the city; some grated.windows,. and.a door almott continually closed, were on the same side.-—Charles ofttu
Z 342
CHARLES AND MARY.
mounted guard at the gate; and, frequently, when it was not his turn, he would change situations with his comrades; insomuch, that ho was by day and night a punctual observer of the Convent, ,the door of which never opened without his discovering who entered in- or came out: but these attentions however xvere* productive of no good effect. When he found "it impossible to k£ep watch in this manner, he'would frequently walk round the rampart,-or repair to the church, arid there offer up his prayers for -Whole hours together.
At the end of six weeks, the nuns celebrated one of the feasts 6f their order.—The church was filled 'with people, and Charles was .among the number who attended. Having remarked a lackey who bore tlhe livtry of the Count M—1 he sought the Count for some time; and at length perceived him in a secret place.—They had begun high mass, when a new and dreadful scene' threw the Wretched Charles into the most distressing situation.—The nuns entered iwo by two into the choir of the church, followed by Maria, who bore a crown on her head, and was surrounded by the elder sisters^ In an instant Charles rushed through thecrowd, and presented himself at the ^grating which divides the choir from the nave of the church, there he beheld, the amiable innocent dragged to the altar, 'and heard the mistress of his-heart pronounce the vow of eternal chastity. Almost fran-tic with grief, he "bit the iron bars of the grate, and shook it with more fury than the lion which finds itself imprisoned.. At last, divested of every hope, he quitted the church and returned home,, staggering as he went, and enduring in his mind all the pains of hell, yet meditating on new projects.
The unfortunate Maria, whom we left in 'the hands of her enraged father,.had suffered more tha'n'ber lover.—The misanthrope at first severely ill-treated, her, ' and then gave her the choice of either entering into the-convent, and becoming a nun, or of seeing him kill the idol of her heart befor<j her eyes.. "Then," added the furious old man, "I shall present myself before the criminal tribunal; there I will accuse myself of assassination,, and you will enjoy the pleasure of seeing your aged, father die on the scaffold."— Maria knew well, her father's resolution, and therefore chojse ike first proposal.:—He then conducted her tif> the Convent^ uttering incessantly the' most cruel mendces as-she •went.—He loaded the prioress with presents, aod came• Xm&RLES AND MARY.
43
the ehd of six weeks to^cmand Maria's consent to take the veil, with the permission of the. superior <of the monastery, notwithstanding the nuhs are allowed a year of noviciate to determine the motives by which they are actuated. The vows being pronounced, her father .cheerfully retook the road to his house, after having, without the least emotion, made his eternal adieus to his <j>nly child, whom, according to the rigid rules >of the order, he could see no more.—Let us represent to ourselves for a moment the situation of this unfortunate victim, for ever separated from her father and her lover, sadly seated in her .isolated cell, breathing out her sighs, and vainly wishing for the presence of the one or the other. With her heart full of the remembrance of her dear Charles, she threw herself on her couch; she saw him, in her slumbers, as when awake, notwithstanding her destiny had ordered their perpetual separation.—The earliest ray of morning was reflected in her tears, and the sun when he set shone in the humid lustre of her eyes.—When she made her orisons, often through inadvertency she invoked Charles as a saint ; and, when the nuns sung in the choir the/Psalm De profwidis, she joined it with An .ardour of .voice surpassing, aiiyother hymn. -
Charles, who on his side sought in vain for repose, had resolved to quit the military service, and terminate his life also in a monastery. Occupied with this idea,: he strayed round the rampart, near the walls of the Convent.—-The voice* of Maria only could draw him from the labyrinth of thought:Charles!" said she iiva. faint voice,.'' Charles ! do. I-behold you again ?" He looked up3, and recognised* Maria through the grated window* " OMaria L"—This was all he could'litter, "for her pale and'meagre visage had si-lenced his tongue. " .'Return atifch'e approach. of .night/'' said Maria in ai low whisper* and .instantly vanished from the astonished sight of Charles, \vh.o eortsidered her but as an apparition.	; v .
Having'recovered himself, he took a walk to shorten the delay; and traversed the fields, scarcely:ab^e to. ^contain his joy, and- praying heaven to orcter the sun to-accede rate its course.—-He gratefully blessed its.departing rays, as he hastened; to re-occupy his statipn under-the window .of his dear Maria.. After having waited halfaan.houi initfee most cruel suspense, a'white hand appearedr-and a stone,.: enveloped in^aper*- fell down at Ais feet.-—H,e j&ade,.a- sign* of44
CHARLES AND MARY.
acknowledgment to his mistress, and then fled with his treasure, till he reached home, when he eagerly unfolded it; but seeing nothing but a blank, he concluded that some other person had deceived him, till, inspecting it more closely, he saw the following lines written with a pencil: — " My Charles, I have seen you, and I thank heaven with tears of joy for this happiness.—I have remarked that you continue to be afflicted at the melancholy fate of your Maria, and that you walk round the walls which inclose her! At this moment I am the most fortunate of girls !—I love you with the same unabated ardour as fonnsrly.—I even, cherish your dear image, though a nun, yet more and more, and I will regard it eternally.—I have indeed sworn never more to think of your sex, but the Eternal read what passed in my heart, and shut his ears to the compulsory oath 1 took.—He is not unacquainted with the motive, which only sought the safety of your life, and lie will forgive whatever I have clone !—I am yet your's,^entirely devoted to you— eternally your's!—Save me, if you can! O my Charles, deliver me! Then will we range the world together^ and seek happiness and content in the most unfrequented spot. Oh ! could I beg my bread by your side, I would bless my fate at every morsel 1 should eat. Give me liberty! behold the thought which agitates me!—Ah, release your faithful Maria!
" P. S. In the joy of my heart I had nearly forgotten the most essential object;, to-morrow, at the same hour, you will find a thread suspended from the window, to which attach your reply.—Add also some paper and a pencil, for our austere order forbids us the use of either;, happily, however, I had a morsel of each left.—Farewell, my love! Deliver your faithful Maria !—I have taken no oath, but to. love you, and to remain unalterably, the same \"
Charles read the billet over and. over again a. hundred times, and scarcely laid it down before he took it up.— During the whole night lie formed projects which he as successively rejected.:—The correspondence of the two lovers continued a whole month, without fixing upon any decided plan. At last they surmounted every obstacle, and: Charles wrote the following billet to his dear Maria.
" My incomparable Maria, if wliat you remarked to me yesterday be true, that the key of the back gate is in your jjossession, and jou can get there without obstacle, ourCHARLES AND MARY.
45
flight i« not only possible, but sure and easy. Attend then to the means by which your freedom is to be effected, and yourself re-conducted to these arms!—Tn-morrow I mount guard at the entrance of the town ; at night I will pretend only to shut the gates, sending the keys to the Commander, according to general custom - -Three trusly men of my company have resolved to follow us, whom 1 shall place as a centinel, ready at a little distance from the corps de garde, and at the gate of the town.—When the convent clock strikes a quarter past eleven, leave your cell, open the back gate softly, and boldly advance towards the. centinel on the rampart, who will cry three times, " Who gors there ?—You are to make no answer, for this is the signal: the centinel will then descend from the rampart, and you are to follow, when I will come to the corps de garde, not only to wait for you, but to prevent the other soldiers from coming out and making observations.—When-we meet, I will clasp you in my arms, and death alone shall snatch you from me.—The centinels of the corps de garde, and at the entrance to the town, will afterwards join us, and the gate will be opened; when a worthy friend will wait for us in a coach, with my effects, and some clothes for yourself; after which in a quarter of an hour v/e shall be beyond the frontiers ! O my dear Maria, think what will be our pleasure and our happiness, when you are placed at my side, Qr enfolded in these arms! Heaven will bless our enterprise ! If you have yet any thing to write to me, impart it immediately, and 1 will wait during an hour on the rampart."
Maria shewed him l»y a sign that the key was in her possesion, and promised that she would punctually follow his injunctions. She added, " You will not have a poor woman in having me, for my father having left me all my jewels, I shall bring them away, the value of which will procure a comfortable subsistence for us."
This tedious night having glided away, the Count L— mounted guard with his faithful soldiers.:—The day, more tedious even than the. night, having also disappeared, Charles saw his Maria at the window as the appointed time drew near, whence she made a sign that she would speedily return.—Full of inquietude he seated himself by the corps de garde, counting the minutes by his watch, and rejoicing to see that the lime wanted but a quarter of eleven. For the last. time, he now assembled his trusty bandK who at this4 6
CHARLES AND MARY.
hour were to relieve the posts before-mentioned.—He prayed them to observe exactly the instructions he had given, and recommended a particular attention to the cen-tinel on the rampart.—He had scarcely finished when he heard a musket fire at a short distance: they immediately separated, after which he ran upon the rampart, and there ■beheld Maria bathed in her blood.
It may reasonably be supposed, that Maria, little reflecting on the consequences, had not punctually attended to the prefixed moment.—Perhaps she might have been deceived.in the time, or not have been sufficiently accurate in reading his letter: however this might be, she quitted the Convent at a quarter before eleven; the centi-nel on guard on the rampart, who was ignorant of the project, was not to be relieved till eleven o'clock, and therefore cried out three times, Who goes there? to which Maria made no reply, a silence that would have been the proper signal if the guard in succession had been', on duty.—Advancing without suspicion and fear, the soldier fired his musket, and she fell, or rather flew into eternity, full of the soft sentiments of her approaching felicity, for the ball had entered her heart! Charles threw himself upon her, and found rto sign of life remaining. Distractedly he ran towards the entrance of the town, and crossed the terrified soldiers, his trusty men following him.—The gate was immediately opened, and having arrived on the banks of the Rhine, which was in the vicinity, he threw himself in—nor could his adherents, who saw the dreadful deed, save him. The friend, who was waiting for the lovers, learned frorrv the soldiers this double misfortune, after which they/all fled together, and happily reached the frontiers.-^The former had all the effects and papers of his Orestes in charge; and -the recital of this history he has detailed to many^persons;
Maria, who had brought with her her box of jewels, was buried secretly the following morning. Her father when he received the news of her death could not refrain from tears; but joy succeeded to sorrow when he learned the melancholy end of the young Count, whose body was afterwards found in the Rhine. The lively grief of Charles's father brought on an apoplexy, of which he shortly after died, to the infinite satisfaction of the Count M—, who continued to live many years; but became afflicted at the loss of his daughter, or- rather at the circumstances of herCHARLES AND-, MARY.
47
death. His character was more softened before he died, and when this event took place, he deplored most poignantly the melancholy fate of his child, and to expiate his faults bequeathed his property to the poor.
A short time after the death of Maria, a report was spread among the soldiery and people, that this unfortunate walked at midnight, carrying her box of jewels under her arm, frequently stopping by the centinel, and seeming to request something pf Jaiin. ,To, this^ tale it j.s .aleo jadded, that a young soldier having had the courage to accost her, and demand the reason of her nocturnal visit, she requested him to give three knocks against the back gate of the Convent.—The soldier having done this, the gate opened, and the nun entered in.—She still continues, it is said, to walk up and down the rampart, while the soldiers, instructed by their bold comrade, give three knocks with the butt end.of their muskets, on the gate of the Convent, where she enters, and makes a sign of thankfulness for the civility. -When the gate opens, an officer mounts on the rampart, and runs after her,, hut he never appears to overtake her, the gate always shutting too quick.—He then pauses a few instants, fetches a deep sign, and slowly glides the length of the ram-; part .on thp side of the Rhine.
1 To this,.day the fishermen shew to strangers a.whirlpool in the river, at the place where Charles threw himself iij, and it is probable this whirlpool took its birth at, the moment of the. unhappy event.( 48 )
THKE
THREE SUICIDES.
In a coffee-house, in a city of Livonia, a man one day made the following proposition. " I am tired of life, and if any body would be of my party, I would not hesitate to quit this -world." No body answering him, he said no more; but, after some time, all the company having left the room except two persons, these came up to him, and asked him if he were really serious in the proposition which he had made ?—" Yes, gentlemen^' said he, in a determined tone of voice, " I .never speak without due reflection, and I never retract what I have advanced." " Then we will be of your party, for we have formed the 'same design."— " "Why so, gentlemen ? My actions are always determined "by an adequate motive, and 1 am incapable of urging a man to adhere to such a resolution as this, unless his misfortunes be such as to render life insupportable to him."
" We are loaded with debts without the means of discharging them. We are. unable to live any longer with honour, and we are incapable of having recourse to base and dishonourable means. Those whose hopes will be disappointed by our death have already received much more than they were legally entitled to."
" I had one day," said one of them, " the good luck to break a considerable bank at Spa. I wa6 immediately suf*-rounded with sharpers who proposed to play with me. I lost all my winnings in a few deals, and much more. I gave a. note for the surplus, which I cannot take up."
" I," said the other, " had a commission in the army.— I had given proofs of courage, and had merited promotion,THE THREE SUICIDES.
in order to obtain which I contracted some debts. But a young nobleman, who had never been in action, having been advanced over my head, I gave in my resignation, without reflecting, until it was too late, that I had no other resource in the world. The number of my creditors has increased, and I have now no credit with any one. I know my inability to fulfil my engagements, and, determined to impose on no man, I am compelled to put an end to my existence."
" Gentlemen," replied the man who had given rise to this conversation, " I admire your principles, your resolution, and your firmness. If, however, I possessed the means of removing the ground of your despair, I should feel happy in making you renounce your noble project, but all that I have left will barely suffice to pay for a supper, if you will accept one ; and at the last bottle we will immortalize ourselves —" Bravo !" exclaimed the others, " this is admirable \"
The day was fixed, and an excellent supper was ordered ; the table was covered with dainties, and there was plenty of the best wines. A strong dose of arsenic was put into one bottle, which was to be drunk at last. While these preparations were making, the two debtors repaired to a neighbouring house of ill-fame, where they met with another man, who had come thither to console himself, in the arms of venal beauty, for the rigour which he experienced from a lady to whom he paid his addresses. But this den of corruption only filled him with disgust and horror. He became gloomy and melancholy. When in this humour, he was addressed by the other two persons, who, after some conversation, informed him of their design. He seemed to relish it, and to be disposed to make a fourth in the party. In the state of mind in which he then was, the task qf persuasion was easy ; they blinded his judgment by their sophistry, and he accompanied them to the place.
The person, who was to pay for the supper, expecting only two guests, was surprized at seeing a third. He enquired into the motives which had influenced the determination of his new colleague, and, being satisfied with them, they all sat down to table. The original proposer of the plan was in a very good humour, and made a long speech50
THE THREE SUICIDES.
<4h the re's'olutioh •which he had formed. "Thavd," 'said frfe, " seen so riiuch <!6f human life, that I suspect there is little morfc for'ftie to s&e. Evfery thing tends to convince riie'tiiat hiari is a vfefV jyodr creature, arid that he can only to the happiness of others. One person may do this'in One way, another in another, but I could only do it'With'ihy fortune; arid I accordingly employed it for that pui'p^se in the best manrier I could. If any one proved to me, in a plausible way, that a certain sum would make him hajipy, I gave it hiiTL. The consequence was th'at my fortune was s'o'ori spent; arid I am how ruined and wholly tillable to render a Service to ari'y man. It would be possible, indeed, to subsi&t by my labour, but I should infallibly sink under sti'ch a riiode of life ; and, besides, .1 cannot believe th'at 'any man ought to exist for himself'alone.".
The last of our heroes Here interrupted the philosopher,
that is the very point on which I must contradict you.— If man did hot exist for himself, 'as you si'ippose, and "ybu have proved, by your life, that such is ybur opinion, I certainly ought to continue to live. But I, who am of a different opinion, and who hiave livecl only for rri'yself, finding no more pleasure in life, Mi. resolved to quit it."
J" Every man, liiy friend," replied the first, has his own mode <>f thinking on this subject, and acts kccordirigly.— There can be no wish, then, to make proselytes. You \vill die in pursuance' of your own system, and I in pursuance of mine." Much more conversation ensued'on 'the. fragility of lifi? i many traits, ancient arid iiiodferri^ were cited in favour of sui.dide ; and, during this disciissioii, the young candidate remained pensive. The bottle was freely circulated, arid a thousand'reasons 'were urged, each exceeding the other in absiir'dity. They tbok the last bottle but one, which they drank'with firmness, to a happy meeting, and without betraying the smallest syrriptfdfn .of irresolution.— At length, they came to the litst bottle. Yhe philosopher took it,'saving" In this reposes the'inlmortality which tve shall sopn'enjoy, It is( the precious panadfca^vhidh riiak6s the wretched forget their c'axes, and cures tile ridh fnan'is pain's. It reminds us tj&t we are freey it *is!liberty to the glave, gold to the poor, 'traiiqiiilllty to 'tie	Slid
happiness to the miserableTH^ THREE SUICIDES*
He divided the bottle into fpur equal parts; thep, taking his glass in his ha,nd, said, " I die tranquM and contented. Heaven gave me wealth to distribute, and 1 distributed if; as well as I could. I came into the world to live amongst men, and for them ; not having the ability to be any longer of use to them, I take my leave. 1 am induced to adopt this measure from the despair into which I should be plunged,, if any one of the unfortunate beings, whom t have been accustomed to relieve, were to come aqd implore tha,t assistance which I am unable to afford him. I believe in the existence of a future life, and I hope to pass from this world into another where I shall be able to do more good." After this exposition of his philosophy, he emptied his glass to the very last Arop. 11
The; other two men then took their glasses. " We have no occasion," said they, " for such profound reasoning.—-We expect to be visij-ed to-morrow by the same, number of creditprs who besieged us this morning, and of whom we hsid considerable difficulty tp rid ourselves. Whajt reasoijt can be assigned to prevent us from withdrawing ourselve^ from such persecution ? We believe in Predestination, and it was our destiny that we should finish cur days here," They both emptied their glasses without hesitation.
It now came to the turn of the fourth, who took his glas» in his hand, held it up to the candle, then, puttin^it down on the tab.le, said, u You have done me the honour, gentlemen, toi tvd/ilit me into your company, and I thank you for it. By your observations, I have acquired a, knowledge of death which I did not possess before. I was led to wish for it by some painful occurences, and a deep melancholy consequent thereon. I now know the madness of such wish. It was not death that I should have desired, but sufficient firmness to die. My wish is accomplished ; you, gentlemen, have given me that sublime lesson. I shall not censure the motives which have engaged you to quit the world ; on such a topic every man mast judge for himself. But my situation is absolutely different from yours. I owe nothing to any man. I must, therefore, have some other reasons for taking this beverage, which you are pleased to call immortality, and which shines with such brilliancy in this glass. The sophisms of that gentleman had rather disconcerted me, and, in the state of my mind at that time,
A a 252
THE THREE SUICIDES,
I yielded to his opinion; but reflection has come to my aid. I have a considerable fortune, and two profligate brothers, who wish for niy death, that they might squander it in the most scandalous manner/' ~
Here the poison beginning to operate, one of the debtors, with distorted features, begged him to finish his speech, because it would be too cruel for him to survive them, and suffer alone. "I have little more/' added the other, " to say. I have never before seen a man in his last moments. You have now afforded me the opportunity, and I confess to you, gentlemen, that the kind of death you have chosen only fills me with horror. The very sight of you makes me shudder. It was only in a moment of madness, that I could give my approbation to your project, and consent to follow your example. If I am so fortunate a6 to open my eyes in time, do you be still so wise as not to accuse me of cowardice, and accept my excuses for having so inconsiderately consented to make a fourth. JVIay the pleasing hopes which you have formed be realized ! May you be happier in the next world than you have been in this !"— He then rose to leave the room. " But," exclaimed the others, " did not you promise, upon your honour, to do as we did ?"-—" True, gentlemen, but you should congratulate yourselves on my conversion. Applaud yourselves for that return to my senses which your dreadful example has occasioned." He cast a look of pity upon them. They all endeavoured to follow him, but could not. " I then left them," said he, adding, " that the third, who was nearer to his end than the two others, testified his approbation of hia conduct, by an inclination of his head."( 53 )
THE-
SUICIDE OF FREDERIC.
The violence of love is of itself sufficient to lead on to the most ungovernable extremes, and make men guilty of actions which are disgraceful to human nature. If it be counteracted by circumstances, and impeded by weighty obstacles, its flame burns only the more strongly, devouring both the mind and body, and rendering its ravages the more difficult to arrest. The following instance will ex-* emplify the fatal consequences of this passion, when unchecked by reason and religion.
Frederic was the son of an artisan, who brought him up in his own profession. His fortune, without being very extensive, was sufficient to render him easy and respected.— He had a brother and sister, who enjoyed a small part of thi3 property, blessed with which, a good temper, and his-natural industry, he might have counted upon the enjoys ment of a tranquil and happy life. He worked in the employment of a widow, who had1 an only daughter; and deA rived a considerable salary from the confidence the mother placed in him, having the entire superintendency of the manufactory, in which he was so fortunate a&to give satis'-faction, by his ability and attention to the interest of hife employer. The wish of the latter was to make an impression on his heart, and marry him ; nor did she disguise her intentions, which soon became so notorious, that the young man could no longer disregard the information he received from popular report, and therefore determined to Adopt a. behaviour which should equally free him from her disagreeable advances, and teach her a more appropriate conduct. To this effect, he turned his attention privately to the laughter, whom he had from the first beheld with a favourable eye.
After several years had elapsed1 in this situation of affairs, he began to think seriously on the accomplishment of his wishes, reckoning himself perfectly assured of rnarrv-
A a 35*
SUICIDE OF FREDERIC.
ing. the. young, lady, who. had long, testified a reciprocal affection, which she had confirmed by proofs.—Nothing now remained but to obtain the consent of her mother in his favour, to. effect which, he offered to make some, very expensive, and indispensihle repairs in the manufactory, partly at his own charge. When these were finished, he discharged the various bills, and-securely persuaded that his project could not fail, he neglected to bind the widow in a deed for the sums he had advanced. The lady, who viewed this .oversight with much satisfaction, easily, foresaw that he could not very readily carry into effect any intention of a removal.
She was, as yfet unacquainted with the affection existing between the young lover?,, which Frederic one day took an opportunity. of disclosing to her, mentioning at the same time his intention of espousing her daughter. She endear voured to persuade him from thinking of one so inexperienced, and displayed all the advantages, that would result from making choice of wife of a riper age. Frederic readily penetrated her aim, and therefore dissemblingly requested her to think seriously on the subject, which the widow accordingly did, but it was only on the means of removing every obstacle to her passion, and rendering the disposal of her daughter to him impossible. A young student, of a poor, family, visited at the house of the widow. He knew that she was possessed of a good fortune, but no <>n.e ever suspected that the motives of his slight acquaintance were directed to the daughter: it was however certain, that the widow had fixed her eye upon him, and shp depicted to.her dayghter the happiness that awaited her iu being united to. a man who cultivated the sciences. The young lady assigned the love of Frederic as a sufficient pre?-te.xt for a refusal* which at length gave way to the repeated remonstrances and solicitations of her mother, who frankly confessed her own views upon Frederic, and her. deterr nunation never, to. consent to her daughter's marriage with him.
In this new situation the young lady began to think that she was designed to fill a higher station in life than the wife -of.artisan, and the former presentiments she had felt in favour, of; Frederic were soon stifled by the passion of self-consequence. The better to engage the young student to,.a step which, without this stjpat#gem, he . would never, fromSUICIDE OF FRUDEJCia
55
his own inclination have undertaken, the widow not, only, assisted his family, hut advanced considerable sums to-; enable him toi continue his studies, Frederic could not but observe the favourable light in which his rival was considered! by the whole house; that he was preferred on, every occasion, receiving not only the. caresses, of the mother, but also the attentions of the daughter; yet, as he seemed alike indifferent to the advances made, by both, Frederic concluded that it was one of the common amours of an elderly female, in which interest is the sole motive; and therefore he treated the mother with ridicule, and pitied the young man.
As the temper is not always the same, so that of Frederic partook of this inequality attimes; and when, he was out of humour, he reproached the young lady upon her indifference, and demanded an explanation of the repeated visits of this stranger, and why he received so much encouragement ?—It will be. readily admitted that she committed a great error in concealing the truth: doubtless she thought he would form his resolution when things had arrived at the last extremity, without once reflecting that he was but a man, subject to. the domineering power of fury and revengey and which might lead him to the most extravagant, conduct. Thus she informed him that all his suspicions of her inconstancy were visionary, that he alarmed himself without any cause, and appealed to the conduct she pursued towards the young student as. a proof of what she advanced.—Frederic admitted it, and was, silent. In the mean time the cold and reserved conductof thestranger proved unsatisfactory to the daughter, when she reflected that he could not be ignorant that he was encouraged for the purpose of espousing, her, and that he must be aware it was the design of -her mother.—As to the latter., she thought it was time to shew her intentions. The yoHng student and his relations owed her six hundred crowns, for which she had received an acknowf ledgment, executed in legal form,
As she sat alone with him one evening, engaged in conversation, she asked him roughly when he should take up his degrees, preparatory to marrying her daughter.—At this question he turned pale, and frankly replied, that he had never formed such a design, nor even thought of it; that he had paid his visits merely as a friend1; and that he had conj-sidered the pecuniary kindnesses he had received in no «ther light thaa acts of friendship* " No, Sir,'' replied56
SUICIDE OF FREDERIC.
the crafty woman, " you must not think to extricate yourself in this manner.—You have your choice, either to espouse my daughter, or remunerate me for "the money I have advanced."
44 With respect to the latter," replied the young man, 44 it is my- honest intention.—I hope shortly to obtain an engagement, and then I will discharge, the earliest possible, both principal and interest; but, till this can be effected, I cannot deprive myself of what is indispensible." 44 Ah, do you think," replied the old lady, 44 to dispose of the business in this manner? No, Sir, I always imagined you visited my house for the sake of my daughter:—I therefore require that you either marry her, or discharge the debt ok the morrow!"
Early the next day the widow repaired to the house of the young student's mother, to declare her definitive resolution. The poor woman was petrified at the declaration, which threatened entirely to ruin her, and render the maintenance of her other children impossible. The intercession of distress however touched not the heart of the cruel creditor, who quitted the weeping family, persisting in carrying her menaces into effect. When the son came home, he found the family in tears.—His mother dreaded to counsel him, knowing the fatal consequences which often attend on compulsive marriages ; but his brothers and sisters hung about him with tears and sighs, and intreated him not to abandon them.—44 Sophia," said one, 44 i& very pretty." 44 She loves you very much," said another. His little brother brought him books,, and .told him, as he sobbed, that they might now be thrown in the fire, since his mother no longer possessed the means of paying for his education.
The young student must have had a heart of adamant to have resisted these afflicting scenes.—How many, thought -he to himself, have nobly sacrificed themselves for the happiness of their families; and it is my destiny, perhaps, to do the same. —lie then formed the resolution to imitate their example, and carried his intention into immediate execu-"tion, by repairing to the house of his merciless creditor, t© whom he unhesitatingly gave his word that he would espouse her daughter.—This was on the Friday, and such was the -diligence and secresy in the preparations for the following Sunday, that the marriage was performed at a remote church without the least suspicion o& the part of Frederic, who. re^SUICIDE OF FREDERIC.
57
maitied industriously employed in his occupation, which admitted of little leisure. It happened however on the same Sunday evening that he went into a coffee-house, and sitting rather late, an acquaintance entered, and expressed his astonishment at seeing him there, nor could he withhold declaring his surprise at the good spirits he seemed to be in. " Why should I be otherwise?" replied Frederic. " It
follows of course," replied his friend, " that Miss-must
be extremely indifferent to you, since you yield her to another.. with so much sang froid." " What do you say ?" exclaimed Frederic: " I do not understand you.—Explain yourself." " No one," said his friend, " can know better than yourself that she was married at six o'clock this morning in the church of **** to the young student.—All the town is acquainted with it." " Indeed \" said Frederic, " I was wholly ignorant of it.—It is from me only it has been hidden.—But a moment, however, and I will cut off this race!" His friend now perceived that he had said more than he ought.—Knowing the violent disposition of Frederic, and fearing some mischief might follow, he endeavoured to repair his imprudence, in retracting what he had advanced. " Since," said he, " you are uninformed of thig event, it is highly probable it is only a false report.—You know what mankind are.—If a thing be spoken ever so slightly, it is immediately circulated as a truth, and repeated by every one with a suitable commentary." " No," replied Frederic, bluntly; " the thing is true and positive. I ought to have read it in their malicious countenances.— The foolish old woman thinks that I shall marry her, and the young faithless one fancies she is to become a lady of distinction: "but their conduct shall bring down my resentment. The hypocritical student, hidden under a cloud'
of reserve, scarcely ever looking at her-it is he who has
stolen her"from me!—He has turned the head of this charming girl—-he and her mother!—But, by the powers of hell, he shall not go unrewarded!"
Frederic then endeavoured to go out, burning with revenge, but his friend with some difficulty restrained him. " First," said he, " you must promise to make yourself a better master of the subject, before you take the smallest step in the way of retribution." Having consented to this, he became more tranquil, and they separated. At his return to the house, all the family were in bed, and therefor©si
SUICIDE OF FREDERIC.
it was impossible to undertake any measure then. Nevertheless, he sought an opportunity of entering the chamber of the new married couple, but without effect. The following morning he came early, and, contrary to his usual custom, went, intp the chamber of the widow, where he sa\y tlie young student in his robe de chambre, sitting and taking, coffee. At this convincing sight, his fury niounted to its, zenith, and he retired precipitately. We may easily imagine that at this moment he determined on effecting his fatal purpose, for, without delay, he went to a cutler's, and purchased a long pointed knife. The tradesman, remarking his agitated manner, demanded for what end he purchased it.—He replied, that he was about to travel, and bought it for the double purpose of use and defence. It is impqs/-sible, perhaps, to ascertain what he thought or determined after 4Jiis, but it may be concluded, firstly,. The lpss of her wjiom he loved, according to the declaration of those who l^new the state of his, mind, bore extremely hard on his affectionate: feelings.—The paifl he experienced' at being, openly treated with indifference;, at.seeing his ardent, lpyg disdained by on<3 for whom he had,done so much, and sacrificed so liberally; one who alone could constitute hi? felicity; doubtless laid his heart open, to despair, and im-pelled his fury, to the utmost excess. Secondly, He. saw, h©; was the laygl^ng-stpck, or imagined he was sp, of. all his acquaintance. Whenever he met them he felt abashed £ and mo^e.tlvan once has, confessed in their hearing, that hq would rather terminate, bis. existence ttjaai endure the. stjrigi of ridipule. Thirdly, No other prospect existed fox him than, either to \yed the widpw, who, since the proposal, she ha$ triade for. ai* union, had. be.come more insupportable than ever; or to lose the money he had advanced for the, benefit of her establishment, and. fox which he had neglected to take any security, although it formed the chief part of his property. If therefore these- circumstances be duly considered, and the prejudice he had imbibed against his rival, be added, whom he thought the most artful and culpable of all, because he was ignorant of the. circumstances of his marriage, a, very considerable share of the horror of his conduct will b,e abated. The following is the manner in, vyhich he carried his desperate resolution into effect.—Having informed himself of the exact room, in whiclx tUft. new husband slept, which joined, to that of the r&othecSUICIDE OF FREDERIC.

*and 'daughter, thebtetter to execute his purpose, he opened the Shutter of a window; and introduced himself at .night into the house; his own apartment bein'g in a building separated fidm the widow's reisid'ence. Without being perceived, he stole into the. chamber of his riv'al, threw'himself upon the bud, and, thinking to kill him instantly, plunged the knife twice on the spot wliere he lay, but he only wounded him in the arm: he had fastened the knife in his right hand, that it might not be wrested from him. The unfortunate hus-^ band awakened by his wounds, and seeing an assassin attempting his life, defended himself wifh all his strength; and, happily leaping from the bed, he struggled for some time with his adversary, who, with a hammer, how gave Him a violent blow oil the head, and pierced him in several places with the knife, occasioned by the movements of the band to whidi the weapon was fastened.—At length the assassin proved the strongest, and seized the student by the throat; where he would have struck him a mortal blow, if the young \fcife had not rushed in and arrested his arm.
She and her mother hatd been awakened by the noise of this sad scene.—The litter, when she heard (he cries and grdans, threw up the window arid called for help, while her daughter' fail to the chamber of her husband, where she arrived at 'the critical moment of'h'is fate. Notwithstanding Frederic thought he had dispatched' his rival, it was only theigreat ldss 6f blood the latter had sustained which made him lay apparently lifeless. He then quitted him to attack his wife, who in the darkness hid herself in a'corner of the room, Where she happily remained unobserved.
The alarm which the mother had spread soon brought the guard to the house, who burtt open the door, and presented thfeiilselves in the chamber. Frederic, seeing'that no resource'Was left, ttdw gave himself a deep blow with the knife in "the abdomen, and another "in tnV throaty which provt d so fatal, that he expired in a few minutes' &fter.-^-How unhappy was the fate of this young man, who had no other passion than a violent love for this young girl, and who in a moment fatally lost himself!
The young student was afterwards cured of his wounds, and entirely recovered his health. The body of the suicide was exposed upon the wheel,, while the mother escaped without any punishment, notwithstanding her unjustifiable find cruel conduct had been the primary cause of the doubleSUICIDE OF FREDERIC.
crime of the unfortunate Frederic. But, though tlie laws eould not touch the female contriver of his premature fall, the public took part in his misfortune: no one spoke ill— 'naturedly of him, but every one said with a sigh, " Ah ! how cruelly has he been deceived \" His sentence was considered hard and unjust; and his execution, far from producing no more than the ordinary feeling on such occasions, drew tears from the larger part of the numerous spectators. All the culpability fell upon the first authors of his crimes and death; and, as the motives which had determined the young student to marry Miss--could only bo
partially known, as well as the ma.nner in which the widow had conducted herself towards the family of her son-in-law, it was generally imagined that the former had basely gained over the mistress of poor Frederic, and thereby aroused his pride and vanity. The student however had in fact sacrificed to his family his own repose and happiness, and had narrowly escaped with his life, which remained a long and painful time before it was out of danger. When he was perfectly restored to health, the unfavourable eye with which he saw himself looked on by every one at length compelled him to fly from his native city. The mother and daughter were each more culpable than this young man, particularly the former, who continued unmoved and indifferent to these melancholy events.—In short she was a true automaton, existing as it were mechanically, and lost to the smallest feeling of sentiment.—The young wife exhibited herself in a more favourable view, attending her husband during his illness, and inducing thereby a hope that she would endeavour to soften the cares of his life. Her husband however contracted a gloomy and thoughtful habit.—The vivacity of his temper disappeared, and the melancholy scenes, notwithstanding the innocence of his mind, in which he had been a principal actor, were ever after present to his memory.( 61 )
jeannette and ubaldo,
AN INTERESTING STORY.
In the year I1Margaretta de ;- blessed her husband with a daughter who perfectly resembled herself,, and consequently was a model of beauty,—the figure of an angel under that of a woman. In those days the ladies ■vfrfere not ashamed to be the nurses of their children, and Margaretta often fulfilled this delightful duty under the areat linden tree which was close to the chateau of her Lord.—One day a gipsy fortune teller happened to pass that way, and addressed her. " Noble lady/' said she, " giv« me a trifle." " I will present you with something handsome," said Margaretta, " if y.ou will tell the future destiny of my daughter." *fhe prophetess then looked very attentively for some time at the hand of the infant, .and said, " In the.course of my life thave examined the hands of many thousand persons, but never yet saw one so full of lines, the intricacy of which almost baffle my art.—-According however to every appearance, your daughter will be very happy; but the line of her life, which extends to a length of years more than common, is broken in the ijiid-dle;—-indeed,t if I dare give an opinion on its duration, it will exceed the joint lives of us'both.—She will die, and afterwards live again.—She will have no children; a young gentleman will plunge her into the most direful situation, from whicH she will be extricated by a child.—This is all I can say at present."
Margaretta payed the gipsy very handsomely for her foolish whim, and then recited the prediction to her husband tienno, who had it carefully transcribed by a learned monk, and preserved in a gilt box which a chevalier of the name of Mina had brought from the holy land. As, Jeannette increased in stature, her beauty urifolded*itself fro jn day to day; and at the age of fifteen years she distributed the prize at a tournament where ti baldo was the con-
jeannette and ubaldo.
queror, who beheld tliis opening rose, and becahie enamoured of her.
He was a young and elegant Chevalier, possessed of handsome estates, many armed horsemen, and a great number, of serfs. The next day he entered the castle of old Benno,' surrounded by all the festivity of ancient times, and demanded his daughter in marriage. " Iler age," replied the father, is yet too tender to marry; but, were I inclined to look around for a husband for her, and to select from among all the Cavaliers one who would be most agreeable to me, my choice should fall on yourself.—If then, you will wait five years, and my. daughter at that time is of my opinion, I shall with pleasure embrace you as my son-in-law." Ubaldo replied, " Provided that I may have the happiness of calling your daughter rhine, I am willing to wait any term you may assign previous to my possessing such a treasure; but she can at present form some idea if I shalbbe agreeable to her.—Permit me then to enjoy the pleasure of her conversation to-day, and to-morrow you can question her on the state of my hopes."
Benno accepted this proposition with satisfaction, and provided magnificently for his guest, who found, himself much delighted with his daughter. When he quitted the castle, the beautiful Jeannette could not refrain from tears; and, after some strong solicitations on the part of the father, she -confessed, with virgin modesty, that the Chevalier ■was extremely agreeable; and that he was a man she should very soon learn to love, if she did not do it already.— Ubaldo blessed the day on which Benno returned this favourable answer. He made frequent visits to his lady, always hunted by her side, and was shortly beloved by her with all the warmth of youthful passion. His affection glowed with an equal ardour: her least desire was to him a command, and her will was his law.—Having at the first perceived that she had a marked esteem for gallant men, Ubaldo soon became the most valiant Chevalier in all the country. lie was admitted into the celebrated order of the Lion, and chosen in the first assembly for the chief of the confederacy. A number of abbots placed themselves under his protection, and the Imperial cities held him in awe.—■ When the first half of his fifth year-of probation had'passed away, he began to make every necessary preparation in his castle? for the suitable reception of his betrothed lady. The Chevaliers were invited from all parts to the fC'te, and th«JEANNETTE AND UBALDO.
tournament about to be celebrated in honour of bis nuptials. Previousl}' to this however it was reported that the Count Eberhard proposed to give a magnificent tournament in honour of his only daughter, in which the Knights were to fight to extremity.—In this kind of engagement the combatants used pointed laces, and it very rarely happened that some did not lose their lives. Prizes were to be given on the occasion, among the first of which was a cuirass elegantly gilt.—" You shall never lead me to the altar, unless you are adorned with this superb cuirass," said Jeannelte to her Chevalier, when he had related to her the circumstance; but she as suddenly retracted her sportive sally, when she saw that Ubaldo. took it in earnest: her application came too late; the ambitious youth, regardless of the tears of his lovely Jeannette, repaired at the appointed time to the chateau of the Count. When he arrived he found the flowers of chivalry assembled from every country; notwithstanding which Ubaldo obtained a decisive victory, overturning even the chief of the order of the Chevaliers comes, for which he received the first sign of applause from the hands of the young Countess, to whom he advanced respectfully, and taking off his casque knelt to receive hers. His light hair, curled by nature, sported in disorder over his shoulders unembarrassed of its ribbonds, while the perspiration fell in streams down his manly and hale cheeks, and his large blue eyes seemed to emit rays of fire. The Countess delayed placing the casque on the head of the handsome and interesting Chevalier, that she might demand of him his name and rank, adding, that she was-highly gratified in having seen the most brave of all the Knights who had assembled. In the evening her father found her in tears, and the following conversation ensued between them: Count Eberhard. Tell me, my dear Agnes, the cause of your uneasiness!—Upon this day, so honourable to yourself, could I expect to find you in tears?—Have you not remarked that all these Princes, Counts, and Chevaliers, are desirous only of your regards? to obtain which they have performed prodigies of valour, and yielded only in prowess to the l^night of the Lion ? The civil things you said to him have given them more pain than all the wounds they received, or the loss of the prize you have crowned him with. r Agnes. Ah! my father, it is he, this gallant, handsome, and invincible Chevalier, who has caused my misery.. The Count. And how has this happened IJEANNETTE AND UBALDO.
Agnes. Because he did not combat either to excite my attention, or prove his valour for my sake.
The Count. On what do you found these suspicions ?
Agnes. Ah! too plainly did I see, not only at the tournament, but at the entertainment after, he bore the portrait and the colours of another.
The Count. Judging by the manner in which you speak, the Chevalier is not indifferent to you.
Agnes. Indifferent !—No !—Without doubt I love him ; Ah ! it is too little to say that I adore him.—Even that does but. feebly express my love, while I feed upon his features, and only live through him and for his sake.
The Cuuiit. My daughter !
Agnes., The storm is too violent, and' my heart is pver-■pome !—It is necessary, my father, that you should know the ardour of my passion, and that I draw from your bo-< som that consolation I so niuch need. I blush foi^myself; 1 would willingly be concealed in some obscure cavern, and from the_ deep recess of it complain to the trees of the to.-, rest, If this brave knight were free, and I c.ould be his, O thou best of fathers '!—become his wife ! who would; dare to attack us !—Where would an enemy arise so hp,rdy as to approach your domains !—All would receive your commands with profound respect, and encamped round their castles, they would humbly wait the time when you. should think proper to accept their tribute ; and, were yojj. ravished from me by death, they would fall at my Knee?, rendering to me homage through the invincible chevalier, and revering my children as tJt\e'ir masters ! But, if it be not; he, on whom car* I fix ? whom shall I marry ? Seeing that all have been witnesses of his prowess, should I bestow my. liand on any one of the vanquished, he would probably, for the acquisition of niy domains, be envied, attacked, and conquered—perhaps by the invincible Knight himself! The Count. My child, my child !
Agnes. ifj VA fftct, he should undertake ^ny enterprise against me, if he should attack my territory !—W'hp coufd divert him from hv? purpose !—Can he l}e ignorant of his superiority over all our chevaliers ?—Has he pqt broken the lance of evjery Qne at his first encounter ?—t^-r What if he should ptace the beloved of hi? heart op my thrpne!—If % should ?oippel me to serve her, and attendJEANNETTS AND UB^tDO.	6$
her children !—O my father, rather than this humiliating situation, give me death !
The Count. My child; be less agitated.
Agnes. No, my father,, my heart is perpetually occupied with i-t. I could for ev^r speak of : J see him in the heat of-he comba;—he rushes forward,—he stopsr—he falls> on the brave Raynold, and overthrows him !-
The Count. Permit me to speak, and give you that con-* splation which you expected from me when you made this confession. Ubaldo is a gallant knight, sprung on the sid£' pf his mother from the Saxon line of Wirtemberg; hence' I shall not refuse him on this accpunt the hand of rag daughter. I have myself considered this business, and weighed the advantages which result to yqurself from itf completion. Ubaldo is in possession of rqany castles and fprtresses ; and, thpugh he wants the title of Count, h^ more thSn supplies the deficiency by his many other good qualities; besides, j cap obtain this of the Etppexor. ^ came hither for the purpose of penetrating into yqpr opinion.
Agnes. And you find rjje sorrowful and unhappy « for b^ is in love, while I unfortunately am not the ojbje,^ pif regard.
The Count. Have you any thing more than conjecture-fpr this ?	(	"
Agnes. I have the most convincing proof of it. I dis> tjnctly remarked, that, when he turned his horse, after lanc^ had rebounded from the cuirass of the Chcvaljer Robert, he kissed a portrait he had in his bosom ; auinjatedr by this, he Hew again upon his adversary, and threw, hip} the ground, as he would an infant!
The Count. But whose portrait was it ?—Might it not> be that of- a beloved sistej —the lust legacy of his mother f-
Agnes. Ah, if this were so, then would his sister be? mine ! She should be my bosom friend, and if I could not give, her my whole heart, she should at least share its with me!
The Count. To-morrow I will converse \yith him on the; subject.
Agnes. Be guarded, my father, not, to betray me; else he might jest with my passion in the arms of her he-esteems.
The Count. Agnes, your imagination leads yon autrav. You, my daughter, despised and di$dainqd ! Thfr insult
B b 3	-a*€6
JEANNETTE AND UBALDO.
•would personally wound me, and, rather than such an indignity should happen, I would bury my sword in your bosom. No ; it is proper that he should seek you, that he obtain you by earnest in treaty, and solicit it as a favour; with you he will acquire a fine country, of itself worth many anxious solicitudes I"
Agnes. Ah ! but if he should not seek me, nor solicit my hand as a favour ?
The Count. Then shall he never become the husband of my Agnes-
Agnes. Alas ! what if I should languish; if my grief should consume me, and I fall a sacrifice !
The Count. Then, as thy father, I would clad myself in mourning for my daughter, and wet in secret your ashes with my tears ; but, as a Prince, I would follow thy funeral procession with inflexibility, nor tremble when the earth should cover the last shoot of a race of heroes.—Let this regulate your conduct.—To-morrow I will speak with the Chevalier.
The conversation ended, Eberhard retired. The following night Agnes was agitated by an inquietude of mind, and could not sleep—an inconvenience which equally appertained to the Chevalier Ubaldo, who, notwithstanding the fatigue he had undergone in acquiring the honours of such a glorious day, lay restless on the hospitable couch of the Count Eberhard. The gilded cuirass glittered before his eyes in the midnight obscurity; he thought frequently on Jeannette, but oftener on the charming Agnes, whose celestial image was incessantly present to him. Her regard had penetrated his heart, and filled it with admiration.— But why should his criminal inconstancy be any longer concealed ? He burnt with the most violent flame for Agnes, If a sentiment of pity yet remained for Jeannette,-who only lived to love him, it was soon -stifled in the surrender he made to the new impulse of his heart, which now beat only for the enchanting Agnes.
In his eyes Jeannette appeared little more than an amiable girl, adapted only for the homely employment of doing the honours of the house, and providing for the reception-and good treatment of Chevaliers returning from the tournament. But Agnes was a heroine, worthy to accompany him every where, to combat by his side, and excite his ardour- " Jeannette," said he to himself, " will forget me as easily as I shall forget her. During the tournament IJEANNETTE AND UBALDO.
was entirely devoted to her; but, if a look from the adorable Agnes has been able to destroy my fidelity, Jeannette may experience the same cause for inconstancy."
In this manner did Ubaldo endeavour to excuse his perfidy, and rested satisfied that he had not broken his promise, since he had never formally made one ; after such a lapse of time, as old Beuno had remarked, he thought Jeannette, as well as himself, must be weary of expectar tion. On the other hand, when he thought of the possession of Agnes, though a number of obstacles presented themselves, they only served to redouble his efforts ; love and ambition alike concurring to heap unhappiness on the head- of the unfortunate Jeannette.—On the following morning the knights assembled to celebrate mass ; to which Ubaldo hastened, in the hope of seeing Agnes. The portrait of Jeannette, which he had worn, during four years, was now forgotten. Having obtained, with the gilded armour, the scarf of the Countess, he put it on, and the knight who yesterday resembled Mars, was to-day an Adonis, clad in a robe of cloth, ornamented with gold, and richly spangled with pearls.
Agnes was present at the mass, and, seated in a grated pew, whence she could see Ubaldo without being seen, with satisfaction she fixed her eyes on the scarf he wore. The service being erided, many of the Chevaliers departed; the horses of Ubaldo w6re also saddled, and he was about to set off; but a single word, detained him, whom a little before a hundred warriors could not have prevented an instant from flying to his Jeannette. The Count took an opportu -nity of speaking to him in private; and the latter did not hesitate to declare, that he should be the happiest of mankind if he dare but indulge the most distent hope of possessing Agnes. " She shall be yours," said the Count; " for you are worthy to have her.—You shall be farther the inheriter of my country, as the reward of your valour. Come, and present yourself to my daughter, and let us see what are her sentiments for Ubaldo. They repaired to the apartment of the Countess, who listened on hearing the approach of a footstep, and was much alarmed when her father entered alone, and with a stern air.
Agnes. In what view, Sir, am I to receive you ?—Do you come in the character of my father or my lord ?
The Count. As your lord, who requires an absolute submission to his wilk<>$	JEAN^EfTE AND UBALDO.
Agnes. Am I then disdained and rejected !—A Germa» irjgtid, however, feels the insult, and will avenge it!
The Count. But as the daughter of a Prince !
Agnes. She will obey ; it is her duty; yet she wishes to learn of her father if the Chevalier expressed himself in cjirect and positive terms, and in such a manner that the refusal is unequivocal-
The Count. It is my pleasure that he should tell you this himself. Now answer me this question. Will you accept from my hand, as jour husband, the Prince, Connt, or Chevalier, whom I' shall fix upon, regardless of his name and person ?
Agnes. Yes !—If he will avenge me of the imperio.us Ubaldo !
The Count. Your answer appears tp me a little too precipitate. Reflect well upon this important Yes ! I will not at present consider your determination ag final, and I again repeat the question.
Agnes. I have no reflections to make, when it is my duty to obey without restriction: but an equitable Prince will doubtless approve the condition I have attached to my ponsent.
The Covnt. Then I agree. It will now remaiu to see if this new lover will be gallant enough to hazard an.encou»ter with the Chevalier of the Lion !
Agnes. It will be somewhat difficult and dangerous:
The Count. WelJ, we sail see.
He theu left Agnes, and in a few minutes returned with Ubaldo, who, no Longer the redoubtable Chevalier, whose lance carried_ terror every where, and whose sword was the dread of every one, stood motionless, with a downcast look. He stammex'ed out several words, endeavoured tp repeat them, and still remained unintelligible. . Agnes spoke not a syllable, for joy and extacy had locked up the powers of her tongue. Their embarrassment, however, was relieved by Eberhard, who proposed that they should be united ; after which, Ubaldo affectionately embraced his mistress.— The knights who departed the latest were thus enabled to carry the news of'their approaching nuptials, as well as a new invitation to all Chevaliers to repair to a projected tournament, more" brilliant even than the one they had just quitted. Ubaldo, after continuing some time with the Count, at length retraced the road to his castle, pleased with the prospect of a speedy and perpetual return.
In the mean time Jeannette, abandoned and entirely for-JEANNETTE AND UBALDO.
fo.tten, impatiently looked for his arrival. She had cele-rated the day of the tournament in fasting and praying for the success of her beloved Ubaldo, and had calculated the exact time in which he ought to have returned. In vain did she expect him during two days, and promenade the road several times. On the third she repaired there before the dawn. Seeing a cloud of dust rise at some distance, she hastened to it with her arms extended, hut her expectation was deceived ; it was only some unknown Chevaliers. When the sun had arrived at its meridian zenith, her mother sent to inform her that dinner waited ; at thip juncture another cloud of dust appeared, apd a new company of horsemen approached. As they passed, Jeanrxettp addressed the one »hpm ,she observed had the most (obliging ipein. "Honoured jC^vaJigr; excuse piy curiosity y whence are you ?
The Chevalier. Noble lady, I am returning from th<? tournament which the Count Eberhard has given in honour jpf his daughter.
Jearinette. Which Chevalier hap most signalized Jriip?elf? •who ha? ohtained the first prize ?
The Chevalier. It is the gallant IJtaldo, the defender of the castles you see round about.
Jeannette, (her heqrt palpitating, and, hpr eyes sparkling tfiitk joy. J Is Ubaldo the victor ? Did he set out b/efore you, ay "does th,e e^tert^inmept jgiven in honour of hip^ $tilj tjel'ay hip return ? or is he wounded, sick, or-?
The £jieva}ie,r then rented the events which fyad tpke^ plfl.ee at the castle of Count Eberhard.
Jeannette received the intelligence like a stroke of thunr per, p,nd it wa$,some moments before her trembling limbs could bear her to the chateau. |"Ier father and ijipther unsuccessfully endeavoured to cpngole her. Her tears continued to flow, and she decayed like a rose eaten up t>y th$ worm of re,iporse. Qften wouljd sjie place herself the window, £nd Hs,t,ep tP tl)p distant sounds of horsep ap-
{jroachiog: but g-l^s! her unfaithful lover had forgotten xer!—JJennp, taking lively interest in the suffprjnjgs pjf daughter, repaired to the Ca$>jtle of Ubaldo, to h.arg fron? (himself, if he couAtj assign ^,r>y ca\ise for the uujusti^T a|a]e. treatment he ba^hewi? ; b.ut.tjfif guarcjs not only pret vented his entrance, but even treated! hinj iq^ujjipgly,. Foaming with, ^iger aud ^eathiiig vengeance^ UiQ augie^70
JEANNETTE AND UBALDO.
Benno returned home; and, when he learned that lh« happy Ubaldo was setting out to celebrate his nuptials, he took two servants only, and waited for him on the road. Ubaldo soon appeared with a retinue of two hundred horse. " If you be a true knight, and a man of honour," said Benno; "if you would not be treated as a base and cowardly knave by every gentleman, stand, and give me a justification of your conduct/'—Ubaldo stopped.—" Jeannette is my daughter/' continued Benno ; "it is her insult I wish to revenge." " I cannot fight with an old man," said Ubaldo. Benno, unable to contain himself, burst forth into the most poignant invectives. " Be it so," replied Ubaldo: " In what manner would you wish to engage?" " As a man," returned Benno, " without casque or buckler, and to extremity." Having thrown aside their cuirasses, and set to, the brave old man soon fell dead under the blows of his more hardy antagonist. Ubaldo, when he saw it, exclaimed in despair, " I wished indeed that Jeannette should forget,—but never that she should curse me!" He then remounted his horse, leaving the body in the care of two servants, and repaired to the castle of Count Eberhard.
Jeannette, having, like her father, learned the news of Ubaldo's nuptials, determined to be present when they took place,—not to attack him, but to give him back hia vows and presents,—to request he would take away the life which she had fondly flattered herself would have been passed with him, and which had now become a torment; or, if his generosity did not extend to the performance of this last request, to see him for the last time, then bury herself for ever in a cloister, and abandon herself to grief.
The unwillingness of her mother to part prevented Jeannette from setting out till towards midnight. At the break of day she met the corpse of her father, conducted by his own afflicted servants, who had no sooner imparted ■Qieir melancholy loss, than Jeannette fell from her horse in a fainting fit, in which state the servants were compelled to carry her back. Arrived near the castle, she recovered her senses, but, alas! at the sight of her weeping mother', she was nearly reduced to the same state* The following day the corpse of Benno was buried, when the tears of all his vassals, and the silent grief of his wife and daughter, were so many public testimonies of his virtues as a good master, aiid a kind father and husband. A few days after, Jeannette having learned from a ^avalier the name of he?JEANNETTE AND UBALDO.
71
father's murderer, which had been hitherto carefully conealed, she took horse, and set out unknown to any one.—Having reached at the castle, she took up her abode in the cottage of a poor woman, whom she liberally recompensed.—The day of the marriage being arrived, the most grand and magnificent preparations were made on' the occasion; the cavalcade to the church consisted of three hundred knights., sixty-five ladies of the nobility, and seven hundred gentlemen on horseback. The brilliant procession passed by the house of Jeannette, who followed it, habited in her s^ble weeds.—Just as the young pair had approached the altar, and the priest-had commenced the nuptial benediction, Jeannette rushed through the assembly, and precipitated herself upon Ubaldo, with a dagger which she had concealed under her garments.—Ubaldo stepped aside, and the lunge passed under his arm, without wounding him ; yet, overcome with surprise, and terrified at the imminent danger he had escaped, he withdrew several paces, .trembling so violently, that Jeannette concluded he was fatally wounded. "May heaven pardon you!" cried she; " I never can!" Then, turning the point of the \teapon to her breast, she ran against the altar!—It entered her heart, and she fell a corpse at the foot of it.
The calm which had hitherto reigned was now succeeded by whispers and tumult 5 the priest fled, arid the rest of the assembly followed him.—The* Count hastily led away his daughter, and Ubaldo remained alone in the clioir, almost frantic at the event which had taken place, dishonoured for ever by the death of a noble lady, and from the stain of which, by the laws of chivalry, he could never be cleansed. Two hours after he was seen to quit the church with an uneven step, surrounded by some of his faithful adherents, with whom he departed, -never to return. The corpse of Jeannette was conveyed to her mother, and Agnes, who had eternally lost her Ubaldo, took the veil and died, according to the testimony of the historian, in the situation of Abbess, in which character she was canonized.
The wretched Margaretta dispatched messengers in all directipns in search of her daughter, who returned without success. On the day of her death, Margaretta, overwhelmed with despair,- and: fatigued with weeping, had sunk into a slumber on her bed. Her daughter appeared to her in a dream, the blood flowing from the. teft side of her wounded bosom. " My mother," said she, in a slow and melan-JEANNETTE AND UBALDO.
c.holy tone, " I am dead—my death has been occasioned by my own hand.—When they bring my body home, deposit it in the tomb of my father.—Pray for me, for I am unhappy under the sever*? sentence which the Just Judge has pronounced against me.—I still live, although I am dead.—Day and night I shall be placed in the tomb, the door of which you ought not to fasten, norwill you be able. Here shall I incessantly do penance, expecting my deliveiy, but, alas! my deliverance will never come! After some years of repentance, Ubaldo will die, and by a decree of destiny, his skeleton will stand before the door of my tomby where he will remain till an infant, as yet unborn, shall obtain from me his pardon."
The phantom then disappeared, and Margaretta awoke. In three days after, her dream was fulfilled ; having received the body of her child, she deposited it in the tomb, ordering a mass to be daily said in the church for her repose.—The historian, F. Augustus Bornerius, a rigid monk, has asserted, that during fifteen years he said the mass, and that every time it commenced, tjie door of the tomb opened, and shut of itself when he pronounced the words Jtc, 7}>issa est. This miracle was visible to the clergy, but not to the laity. After ten years some strangers arrived at the castle, and asked for Margaretta. " Noble lady," they said, " we ■Wish to visit the tomb of your daughter, in consequence of a commission we have to execute on the part of our defunct master." They then related that they were the squires of Ubaldo, who, after the death of .Jeannett^, had gone to the Holy Land, to fight against the Infidels, where, before his death, he had ordered that his bones should be conveyed to Germany, to be laid with those of Jeannette ; that at their request a Greek physician had preserved his skeleton, which they had brought with them.—Margaretta having informed them that the tomb could not be opened, they placed it at the side of the door; " and," says the historian, " whenever the tomb opens during the mass, the skeleton of Ubaldo turns to the aperture, and attentively looks at the remains of his first love."
The subsequent part of this story explains the reserved conduct of the gips}', who.was unwilling to render the unfortunate family of Jeannette prematurely unhappy.
FINIS.
T. Plummer, Printer, Seething-Lane.