Letter XII

The Same to the Same

Cosenza

Why is it, my dear marquis, that the history of my life is so party-coloured and extraordinary, that I am unable to foresee at the smallest distance what is the destiny reserved for me? Happiness and misery, success and disappointment so take their turns, that in the one I have not time for despair, and in the other I dare not permit to my heart a sincere and unmingled joy.

The day after I dispatched my last letter the duke of Benevento, whose age is so much advanced, was seized with a slight paralytic stroke. He was for a short time deprived of all sensation. The trouble of his family, every individual of which regards him with the profoundest veneration, was inexpressible. Matilda, the virtuous Matilda, could not be separated from the couch of her father. She hung over him with the most anxious affection. She watched every symptom of his disorder, and every variation of his countenance.

I am convinced, my dear Rinaldo, that there is no object so beautiful and engaging as this. A woman in all the pride of grace, and fulness of her charms, tending with unwearied care a feeble and decrepid parent; all her features informed with melting anxiety and filial tenderness, yet suppressing the emotions of her heart and the wilder expressions of sorrow; subduing even the stronger sentiments of nature, that she may not by an useless and inconsiderate grief supersede the kind care, and watchful attention, that it is her first ambition to yield. It is a trite observation, that beauty never appears so attractive as when unconscious of itself; and I am sure, that no self-forgetfulness can be so amiable, as that which is founded in the emotions of a tender and gentle heart. The disorder of the duke however was neither violent nor lasting. In somewhat less than an hour, the favourable symptoms began to appear, and he gradually recovered. In the mean time a certain lassitude and feebleness remained from the shock he received, which has not yet subsided.

But what language shall I find to describe to my Rinaldo the scene to which this event furnished the occasion?

The next day the duke sent for his daughter and myself into his chamber. As soon as we were alone he began to describe, in terms that affected us both, the declining state of his health. "I feel," said he, "that this poor worn-out body totters to its fall. The grave awaits me. The summonses of death are such as cannot but be heard.

"Death however inspires me with no terror. I have lived long and happily. I have endeavoured so to discharge every duty in this world as not to be afraid to meet the supreme source of excellence in another. The greatness of him that made us is not calculated to inspire terror but to the guilty. Power and exalted station, though increased to an infinite degree, cannot make a just and virtuous being tremble.

"Heaven has blessed me with a daughter, the most virtuous of her sex. Her education has been adequate to the qualities which nature bestowed upon her. I may without vanity assert, that Italy cannot produce her parragon.—The first families of my country might be proud to receive her into their bosom, princes might sue for her alliance. But I had rather my Matilda should be happy than great.

"Come near, my dear count. I will number you also among the precious gifts of favouring heaven. Your reputation stands high in the world, and is without a blemish. From earliest youth your praises were music to my ears. But great as they were, till lately I knew not half your worth. Had I known it sooner, I would sooner have studied how to reward it. I should then perhaps have been too happy.

"Believe me, my St. Julian, I have had much experience. In successive campaigns, I have encountered hardships and danger. I have frequented courts, and know their arts. Do not imagine then, young and unsuspecting as you are, that you have been able to hide from me one wish of your heart. I know that you love my daughter. I have beheld your growing attachment with complacency. My Matilda, if I read her sentiments aright, sees you with a favourable eye. Pursue her, my son, and win her. If you can gain her approbation, doubt not that I will give my warmest benedictions to the auspicious union."

You will readily believe, that my first care was to return my most ardent thanks to my protector and father. Immediately however I cast an anxious and enquiring eye upon the mistress of my heart. Her face was covered with blushes. I beheld in her a timidity and confusion that made me tremble. But my suspence was not long. I have since drawn from her the most favourable and transporting confession. Oh, my friend, she acknowledges that from the first moment she saw me, she contemplated me with partiality. She confesses, that her father by the declaration he has made, so far from thwarting her ambition and disappointing her wishes, has conferred upon her the highest obligation. How much, my dear Rinaldo, is the colour of my fortune changed. It was upon this day, at this very hour, I had determined to leave Cosenza for ever. I had consigned myself over to despair. I was about to enter upon a world where every face I beheld would have been a stranger to me. The scene would have been uniform and desolate. I should have left all the attachments of my youth, I should have left the very centre of my existence behind me. I should have ceased to live. I should only have drawn along a miserable train of perceptions from year to year, without one bright day, without one gay prospect, to illuminate the gloomy scene, and tell me that I was.

Is it possible then that every expectation, and the whole colour of my future life, can be so completely altered? Instead of despair, felicity. Instead of one dark, unvaried scene, a prospect of still increasing pleasure. Instead of standing alone, a monument of misfortune, an object to awaken compassion in the most obdurate, shall I stand alone, the happiest of mortals? Yes, I will never hereafter complain that nature denied me a father, I have found a more than father. I will never complain of calamity and affliction, in my Matilda I receive an over-balance for them all.

Letter XIII

The Same to the Same

Cosenza

Alas, my friend, the greatest sublunary happiness is not untinged with misfortune. I have no right however to exclaim. The misfortune to which I am subject, however nearly it may affect me, makes no alteration in the substance of my destiny. I still trust that I shall call my Matilda mine. I still trust to have long successive years of happiness. And can a mortal blessed as I, dare to complain? Can I give way to lamentation and sorrow? Yes, my Rinaldo. The cloud will quickly vanish, but such is the fate of mortals. The events, which, when sunk in the distant past, affect us only with a calm regret, in the moment in which they overtake us, overwhelm us with sorrow.

I mentioned in my last, that the disorder of the duke of Benevento was succeeded by a feebleness and languor that did not at first greatly alarm us. It however increased daily, and was attended with a kind of listlessness and insensibility that his physicians regarded as a very dangerous symptom. Almost the only marks he discovered of perception and pleasure, were in the attendance of the adorable Matilda. Repeatedly at intervals he seized her trembling hand, and pressed it to his dying lips.

As the symptoms of feebleness increased upon him incessantly, he was soon obliged to confine himself to his chamber. After an interval of near ten days he became more clear and sensible. He called several of his servants into the room, and gave them directions which were to be executed after his decease. He then sent to desire that I would attend him. His daughter was constantly in his chamber. He took both our hands and joining them together, bowed over them his venerable head, and poured forth a thousand prayers for our mutual felicity. We were ourselves too much affected to be able to thank him for all his tenderness and attention.

By these exertions, and the affection with which they were mingled, the spirits and strength of the duke were much exhausted. He almost immediately fell into a profound sleep. But as morning approached, he grew restless and disturbed. Every unfavourable symptom appeared. A stroke still more violent than the preceding seized him, and he expired in about two hours.

Thus terminated a life which had been in the highest degree exemplary and virtuous. In the former part of it, this excellent man distinguished himself much in the service of his country, and engaged the affection and attachment of his prince. He was respected by his equals, and adored by the soldiery. His humanity was equally conspicuous with his courage. When he left the public service for his retirement at this place, he did not forget his former engagements, and his connexion with the army. It is not perhaps easy for a government to make a complete and ample provision for those poor men whose most vigorous years were spent in defending their standard. Certain it is that few governments attend to this duty in the degree in which they ought, and a wide field is left for the benevolence of individuals. This benevolence was never more largely and assiduously exhibited than by the duke of Benevento. He provided for many of those persons of whose fidelity and bravery he had been an eyewitness, in the most respectable offices in his family, and among his retinue. Those for whom he could not find room in these ways he gratified with pensions. He afforded such as were not yet incapacitated for labour, the best spur to an honest industry, the best solace under fatigue and toil, that of being assured that their decrepitude should never stand in need of the simple means of comfort and subsistence.

It may naturally be supposed that the close of a life crowded with deeds of beneficence, the exit of a man whose humanity was his principal feature, was succeeded by a very general sorrow. Among his domestics there appeared an universal gloom and dejection. His peasants and his labourers lamented him as the best of masters, and the kindest of benefactors. His pensionaries wept aloud, and were inconsolable for the loss of him, in whom they seemed to place all their hopes of comfort and content.

You might form some idea of the sorrow of the lovely Matilda amidst this troop of mourners, if I had been able to convey to you a better idea of the softness and gentleness of her character. As the family had been for some years composed only of his grace and herself, her circle of acquaintance has never been extensive. Her father was all the world to her. The duke had no enjoyment but in the present felicity and future hopes of his daughter. The pleasures of Matilda were centered in the ability she possessed of soothing the infirmities, and beguiling the tedious hours of her aged parent.

There is no virtue that adds so noble a charm to the finest traits of beauty, as that which exerts itself in watching over the tranquility of an aged parent. There are no tears that give so noble a lustre to the cheek of innocence, as the tears of filial sorrow. Oh, my Rinaldo! I would not exchange them for all the pearls of Arabia, I would not barter them for the mines of Golconda. No, amiable Matilda, I will not check thy chaste and tender grief. I prize it as the pledge of my future happiness. I esteem it as that which raises thee to a level with angelic goodness. Hence, thou gross and vulgar passion! that wouldst tempt me to kiss away the tears from her glowing cheeks. I will not soil their spotless purity. I will not seek to mix a thought of me with a sentiment not unworthy of incorporeal essences.

I shall continue at this place to regulate the business of the funeral. I shall endeavour to put all the affairs of the lovely heiress into a proper train. I will then wait upon my dear marquis at his palace in Naples. For a few weeks, a few tedious weeks, I will quit the daily sight and delightful society of my amiable charmer. At the expiration of that term I shall hope to set out with my Rinaldo for his villa at this place. Every thing is now in considerable forwardness, and will doubtless by that time be prepared for your reception.

Letter XIV

The Count de St. Julian to Matilda della Colonna

Naples

I will thank you a thousand times for the generous permission you gave me, to write to you from this place. I have waited an age, lovely Matilda, that I might not intrude upon your hours of solitude and affliction, and violate the feelings I so greatly respect. You must not now be harsh and scrupulous. You must not cavil at the honest expression of those sentiments you inspire. Can dissimulation ever be a virtue? Can it ever be a duty to conceal those emotions of the soul upon which honour has set her seal, and studiously to turn our discourse to subjects uninteresting and distant to the heart?

How happy am I in a passion which received the sanction of him, who alone could claim a voice in the disposal of you! There are innumerable lovers, filled with the most ardent passion, aiming at the purest gratifications, whose happiness is traversed by the cold dictates of artificial prudence, by the impotent distinctions of rank and family. Unfeeling parents rise to thwart their wishes. The despotic hand of authority tears asunder hearts united by the softest ties, and sacrifices the prospect of felicity to ridiculous and unmeaning prejudices. Let us, my Matilda, pity those whose fate is thus unpropitious, but let us not voluntarily subject ourselves to their misfortune. No voice is raised to forbid our union. Heaven and earth command us to be happy.

Alas, I am sufficiently unfortunate, that the arbitrary decorums of society have banished me from your presence. In vain Naples holds out to me all her pleasures and her luxury. Ill indeed do they pay me for the exchange. Its court, its theatres, its assemblies, and its magnificence, have no attractions for me. I had rather dwell in a cottage with her I love, than be master of the proudest palace this city has to boast.

In compliance with the obliging intreaties of the marquis of Pescara, I have entered repeatedly into the scene of her entertainments. But I was distracted and absent. A variety of topics were started of literature, philosophy, news, and fashion. The man of humour told his pleasant tale, and the wit flashed with his lively repartee. But I heard them not. Their subjects were in my eye tedious and uninteresting. They talked not of the natural progress of the passions. They did not dissect the characters of the friend and the lover. My heart was at Cosenza.

Fatigued with the crowded assembly and the fluttering parterre, I sought relief in solitude. Never was solitude so grateful to me. I indulged in a thousand reveries. Gay hope exhibited all her airy visions to my fancy. I formed innumerable prospects of felicity, and each more ravishing than the last. The joys painted by my imagination were surely too pure, too tranquil to last for ever. Oh how sweet is an untasted happiness! But ours, Matilda, shall be great, beyond what expectation can suggest. Ours shall teem with ever fresh delights, refined by sentiment, sanctified by virtue. Nothing but inevitable fate shall change it. May that fate be distant as I wish it!

But alas, capricious and unbounded fancy has sometimes exhibited a different scene. A heart, enamoured, rivetted to its object like mine, cannot but have intervals of solicitude and anxiety. If it have no real subject of uncertainty and fear, it will create to itself imaginary ones. But I have no need of these. I am placed at a distance from the mistress of my heart, which may seem little to a cold and speculative apprehension, but which my soul yearns to think of. My fate has not yet received that public sanction which can alone put the finishing stroke to my felicity. I cannot suspect, even in my most lawless flights, the most innocent and artless of her sex of inconstancy. But how many unexpected accidents may come between me and my happiness? How comfortless is the thought that I can at no time say, "Now the amiable Matilda is in health; now she dwells in peace and safety?" I receive an account of her health, a paquet reaches me from Cosenza. Alas, it is two tedious days from the date of the information. Into two tedious days how many frightful events may be crowded by tyrant fancy!

Letter XV

The Same to the Same

Naples

I have waited, charming Matilda, with the most longing impatience in hopes of receiving a letter from your own hand. Every post has agitated me with suspense. My expectation has been continually raised, and as often defeated. Many a cold and unanimated epistle has intruded itself into my hands, when I thought to have found some token full of gentleness and tenderness, which might have taught my heart to overflow with rapture. If you knew, fair excellence, how much pain and uneasiness your silence has given me, you could not surely have been so cruel. The most rigid decorum could not have been offended by one scanty billet that might just have informed me, I still retained a tender place in your recollection. One solitary line would have raised me to a state of happiness that princes might envy.

A jealous and contracted mind placed in my situation, might fear to undergo the imputation of selfishness and interest. He would represent to himself, how brilliant was your station, how exalted your rank, how splendid your revenues, and what a poor, deserted, and contemptible figure I made in the eyes of the world, when your father first honoured me with his attention. My Matilda were a match for princes. Her external situation in the highest degree magnificent. Her person lovely and engaging beyond all the beauty that Italy has to boast. Her mind informed with the most refined judgment, the most elegant taste, the most generous sentiments. When the dictates of prudence and virtue flow from her beauteous lips, philosophers might listen with rapture, sages might learn wisdom. And is it possible that this all-accomplished woman can stoop from the dignity of her rank and the greatness of her pretensions, to a person so obscure, so slenderly qualified as I am?

But no, my Matilda, I am a stranger to these fears, my breast is unvisited by the demon of suspicion. I employ no precaution. I do not seek to constrain my passion. I lay my heart naked before you. I shall ever maintain the most grateful sense of the benevolent friendship of your venerable father, of your own unexampled and ravishing condescension. But love, my amiable Matilda, knows no distinction of rank. We cannot love without building our ardour upon the sense of a kind of equality. All obligations must here in a manner cease but those which are mutual. Those hearts that are sensible to the distance of benefactor and client, are strangers to the sweetest emotions of this amiable passion.

But who is there that is perfectly master of his own character? Who is there that can certainly foretel what will be his feelings and sentiments in circumstances yet untried? Do not then, fairest, gentlest, of thy sex, torture the lover that adores you. Do not persist in cold and unexpressive silence. A thousand times have those lips made the chaste confession of my happiness. A thousand times upon that hand have I sealed my gratitude. Yet do I stand in need of fresh assurances. Mutual attachment subsists not but in communication and sympathy. I count the tedious moments. My wayward fancy paints in turn all the events that are within the region of possibility. Too many of them there are, against the apprehension of which no precaution can secure me. Do not, my lovely Matilda, do not voluntarily increase them. Is not the comfortless distance to which I am banished a sufficient punishment, without adding to it those uneasinesses it is so much in your power to remove?

Letter XVI

Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian

Cosenza

Is it possible you can put an unfavourable construction upon my silence? You are not to be informed that it was nothing more than the simplest dictates of modesty and decency required. I cannot believe, that if I had offended against those dictates, it would not have sunk me a little in your esteem. Your sex indeed is indulged with a large and extensive licence. But in ours, my dear friend, propriety and decorum cannot be too assiduously preserved. Our reputation is at the disposal of every calumniator. The minutest offence can cast a shade upon it. A long and uninterrupted course of the most spotless virtue can never restore it to its first unsullied brightness. Many and various indeed are the steps by which it may be tarnished, short of the sacrifice of chastity, and the total dereliction of character.

There is no test of gentleness and integrity of heart more obvious, than the discharge of the filial duties. A truly mild and susceptible disposition will sympathize in the concerns of a parent with the most ardent affection, will be melted by his sufferings into the tenderest sorrow. The child whose heart feels not with peculiar anguish the distresses of him, from whom he derived his existence, to whom he owes the most important obligations, and with whom he has been in habits of unbounded confidence from earliest infancy, must be of a character harsh, savage, and detestable. How can he be expected to melt over the tale of a stranger? How can his hand be open to relief and munificence? How can he discharge aright the offices of a family, and the duties of a citizen?

Recollect, my friend, never had any child a parent more gentle and affectionate than mine. I was all his care and all his pride. He knew no happiness but that of gratifying my desires, and outrunning my wishes. He was my all. I have for several years, and even before I was able properly to understand her value, lost a tender mother. In my surviving parent then all my attachments centered. He was my protector and my guide, he was my friend and my companion. All other connexions were momentary and superficial. And till I knew my St. Julian, my warmest affections never strayed from my father's roof.

Do not however imagine, that in the moment of my sincerest sorrow, I scarcely for one hour forget you. My sentiments have ever been the same. They are the dictates of an upright and uncorrupted heart, and I do not blush to own them.

Undissipated in an extensive circle of acquaintance, untaught by the prejudices of my education to look with a favourable eye upon the majority of the young nobility of the present age, I saw you with a heart unexperienced and unworn with the knowledge and corruptions of the world. I saw you in your character totally different from the young persons of your own rank. And the differences I discovered, were all of them such, as recommended you to my esteem. My unguarded heart had received impressions, even before the voice of my father had given a sanction to my inclinations, that would not easily have been effaced. When he gave me to you, he gave you a willing hand. Your birth is noble and ancient as my own. Fortune has no charms for me. I have no attachment to the brilliant circle, and the gaiety of public life. My disposition, naturally grave and thoughtful, demands but few associates, beside those whose hearts are in some degree in unison with my own. I had rather live in a narrow circle united with a man, distinguished by feeling, virtue, and truth, than be the ornament of courts, and the envy of kingdoms.

Previous to my closing this letter, I sent to enquire of the maître d'hôtel of the villa of the marquis, in what forwardness were his preparations for the intended visit of his master. He informs me that they will be finished in two days at farthest. I suppose it will not be long from that time, before his lordship will set out from Naples. You of course are inseparable from him.

END OF VOLUME I Italian Letters

VOLUME II

Letter I

The Marquis of Pescara to the Marquis of San Severino

Cosenza

My dear lord,

I need not tell you that this place is celebrated for one of the most beautiful spots of the habitable globe. Every thing now flourishes. Nature puts on her gayest colours, and displays all her charms. The walks among the more cultivated scenes of my own grounds, and amidst the wilder objects of this favoured region are inexpressibly agreeable. The society of my pensive and sentimental friend is particularly congenial with the scenery around me. Do not imagine that I am so devoid of taste as not to derive exquisite pleasure from these sources. Yet believe me, there are times in which I regret the vivacity of your conversation, and the amusements of Naples.

Is this, my dear Ferdinand, an argument of a corrupted taste, or an argument of sound and valuable improvement? Much may be said on both sides. Of the mind justly polished, without verging to the squeamish and effeminate, nature exhibits the most delightful sources of enjoyment. He that turns aside from the simplicity of her compositions with disgust, for the sake of the over curious and laboured entertainments of which art is the inventor, may justly be pronounced unreasonably nice, and ridiculously fastidious.

But then on the other hand, the finest taste is of all others the most easily offended. The mind most delicate and refined, requires the greatest variety of pleasures. So much for logic. Let me tell you, however, be it wisdom or be it folly, I owe it entirely to you. It is a revolution in my humour, to which I was totally a stranger when I left Palermo.

I have not yet seen this rich and celebrated heiress of whom you told me so much. It is several years since I remember to have been in company where she was, and it is more than probable that I should not even know her. If however I were to give full credit to the rhapsodies of my good friend the count, whose description of her, by the way, has something in it of romantic and dignified, which pleases me better than yours, as luscious as it is, I should imagine her a perfect angel, beautiful as Venus, chaste as Diana, majestic as the mother of the gods, and enchanting as the graces. I know not why, but since I have studied the persons of the fair under your tuition, I have felt the most impatient desire to be acquainted with this nonpareil.

No person however has yet been admitted into the sanctuary of the goddess, except the person destined by the late duke to be her husband. He himself has seen her but for a second time. It should seem, that as many ceremonies were necessary in approaching her, as in being presented to his holiness; and that she were as invisible as the emperor of Ispahan. I am however differently affected by the perpetual conversations of St. Julian upon the subject, than I am apt to think you would be. You would probably first laugh at his extravagance, and then be fatigued to death with his perseverance. For my part, I am agreeably entertained with the romance of his sentiments, and highly charmed with their disinterestedness and their virtue.

Yes, my dear marquis, you may talk as you please of the wildness and impracticability of the sentiments of my amiable solitaire, they are at least in the highest degree amusing and beautiful. There is a voice in every breast, whose feelings have not yet been entirely warped by selfishness, responsive to them. It is in vain that the man of gaiety and pleasure pronounces them impracticable, the generous heart gives the lie to his assertions. He must be under the power of the poorest and most despicable prejudices, who would reduce all human characters to a level, who would deny the reality of all those virtues that the world has idolized through revolving ages. Nothing can be disputed with less plausibility, than that there are in the world certain noble and elevated spirits, that rise above the vulgar notions and the narrow conduct of the bulk of mankind, that soar to the sublimest heights of rectitude, and from time to time realize those virtues, of which the interested and illiberal deny the possibility.

I can no more doubt, than I do of the truth of these apothegms, that the count de St. Julian is one of these honourable characters. He treads without the airy circle of dissipation. He is invulnerable to the temptations of folly; he is unshaken by the examples of profligacy. They are such characters as his that were formed to rescue mankind from slavery, to prop the pillars of a declining state, and to arrest Astraea in her re-ascent to heaven. They are such characters whose virtues surprize astonished mortals, and avert the vengeance of offended heaven.

Matilda della Colonna is, at least in the apprehension of her admirer, a character quite as singular in her own sex as his can possibly appear to me. They were made for each other. She is the only adequate reward that can be bestowed upon his exalted virtues. Oh, my Ferdinand, there must be a happiness reserved for such as these, which must make all other felicity comparatively weak and despicable. It is the accord of the purest sentiments. It is the union of guiltless souls. Its nature is totally different from that of the casual encounter of the sexes, or the prudent conjunctions in which the heart has no share. In the considerations upon which it is founded, corporeal fitnesses occupy but a narrow and subordinate rank, personal advantages and interest are admitted for no share. It is the sympathy of hearts, it is the most exalted species of social intercourse.

Letter II

The Count de St. Julian to Signor Hippolito Borelli

Cosenza

My dear Hippolito,

I have already acquainted you as they occurred, with those circumstances, which have introduced so incredible an alteration in my prospects and my fortune. From being an outcast of the world, a young man without protectors, a nobleman without property, a lover despairing ever to possess the object of his vows, I am become the most favoured of mortals, the happiest of mankind. There is no character that I envy, there is no situation for which I would exchange my own. My felicity is of the colour of my mind; my prospects are those, for the fruition of which heaven created me. What have I done to deserve so singular a blessing? Is it possible that no wayward fate, no unforeseen and tremendous disaster should come between me and my happiness?

My Matilda is the most amiable of women. Every day she improves upon me. Every day I discover new attractions in this inexhaustible mine of excellence. Never was a character so simple, artless and undisguised. Never was a heart so full of every tender sensibility. How does her filial sorrow adorn, and exalt her? How ravishing is that beauty, that is embellished with melancholy, and impearled with tears?

Even when I suffer most from the unrivalled delicacy of her sentiments, I cannot but admire. Ah, cruel Matilda, and will not one banishment satisfy the inflexibility of thy temper, will not all my past sufferings suffice to glut thy severity? Is it still necessary that the happiness of months must be sacrificed to the inexorable laws of decorum? Must I seek in distant climes a mitigation of my fate? Yes, too amiable tyrant, thou shalt be obeyed. It will be less punishment to be separated from thee by mountains crowned with snow, by impassable gulphs, by boundless oceans, than to reside in the same city, or even under the same roof, and not be permitted to see those ravishing beauties, to hear that sweet expressive voice.

You know, my dear Hippolito, the unspeakable obligations I have received from my amiable friend, the marquis of Pescara. Though these obligations can never be fully discharged, yet I am happy to have met with an opportunity of demonstrating the gratitude that will ever burn in my heart. My Rinaldo even rates the service I have undertaken to perform for him beyond its true value. Would it were in my power to serve him as greatly, as essentially as I wish!

The estate of the house of Pescara in Castile is very considerable. Though it has been in the possession of the noble ancestors of my friend for near two centuries, yet, by the most singular fortune, there has lately arisen a claimant to more than one half of it. His pleas, though destitute of the smallest plausibility, are rendered formidable by the possession he is said to have of the patronage and favour of the first minister. In a word, it is become absolutely necessary for his lordship in person, or some friend upon whose integrity and discretion he can place the firmest dependence, to solicit his cause in the court of Madrid. The marquis himself is much disinclined to the voyage, and though he had too much delicacy in his own temper, and attachment to my interest, to propose it himself, I can perceive that he is not a little pleased at my having voluntarily undertaken it.

My disposition is by nature that of an insatiable curiosity. I was not born to be confined within the narrow limits of one island, or one petty kingdom. My heart is large and capacious. It rises above local prejudices; it forms to itself a philosophy equally suited to all the climates of the earth; it embraces the whole human race. The majority of my countrymen entertain the most violent aversion for the Spanish nation. For my own part I can perceive in them many venerable and excellent qualities. Their friendship is inviolable, their politeness and hospitality of the most disinterested nature. Their honour is unimpeached, and their veracity without example. Even from those traits in their character, that appear the most absurd, or that are too often productive of the most fatal consequences, I expect to derive amusement and instruction. I doubt not, however pure be my flame for Matilda, that the dissipation and variety of which this voyage will be productive, will be friendly to my ease. I shall acquire wisdom and experience. I shall be better prepared to fill up that most arduous of all characters, the respectable and virtuous father of a family.

In spite however of all these considerations, with which I endeavour to console myself in the chagrin that preys upon my mind, the approaching separation cannot but be in the utmost degree painful to me. In spite of the momentary fortitude, that tells me that any distance is better than the being placed within the reach of the mistress of my soul without being once permitted to see her, I cannot help revolving with the most poignant melancholy, the various and infinitely diversified objects that shall shortly divide us. Repeatedly have I surveyed with the extremest anguish the chart of those seas that I am destined to pass. I have measured for the twentieth time the course that is usually held in this voyage. Every additional league appears to me a new barrier between me and my wishes, that I fear to be able to surmount a second time.

And is it possible that I can leave my Matilda without a guardian to protect her from unforeseen distress, without a monitor to whisper to her in every future scene the constancy of her St. Julian? No, my Hippolito, the objection would be insuperable. But thanks, eternal thanks to propitious heaven! I have a friend in whom I can confide as my own soul, whose happiness is dearer to me than my own. Yes, my Rinaldo, whatever may be my destiny, in whatever scenes I may be hereafter placed, I will recollect that my Matilda is under thy protection, and be satisfied. I will recollect the obligations you have already conferred upon me, and I will not hesitate to add to them that, which is greater than them all.

Letter III

The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara

Naples

Best of friends,

Every thing is now prepared for my voyage. The ship will weigh anchor in two days at farthest. This will be the last letter you will receive from me before I bid adieu to Italy.

I have not yet shaken off the melancholy with which the affecting leave I took of the amiable Matilda impressed me. Never will the recollection be effaced from my memory. It was then, my Rinaldo, that she laid aside that delicate reserve, that lovely timidity, which she had hitherto exhibited. It was then that she poured forth, without restraint, all the ravishing tenderness of her nature. How affecting were those tears? How heart-rending the sighs that heaved her throbbing bosom? When will those tender exclamations cease to vibrate in my ear? When will those piercing cries give over their task, the torturing this constant breast? You, my friend, were witness to the scene, and though a mere spectator, I am mistaken if it did not greatly affect you.

Hear me, my Rinaldo, and let my words sink deep into your bosom. Into your hands I commit the most precious jewel that was ever intrusted to the custody of a friend. You are the arbiter of my fate. More, much more than my life is in your disposal. If you should betray me, you will commit a crime, that laughs to scorn the frivolity of all former baseness. You will inflict upon me a torture, in comparison of which all the laborious punishments that tyrants have invented, are couches of luxury, are beds of roses.

Forgive me, my friend, the paroxysm of a lover's rage. I should deserve all the punishments it would be in your power to inflict, if I harboured the remotest suspicion of your fidelity. No, I swear by all that is sacred, it is my richest treasure, it is my choicest consolation. Wherever I am, I will bear it about with me. In every reverse of fortune I will regard it as the surest pledge of my felicity. Mountains shall be hurled from their eternal bases, lofty cities shall be crumbled into dust, but my Rinaldo shall never be false.

It is this consideration that can only support me. The trials I undergo are too great for the most perfect fortitude. I quit a treasure that the globe in its inexhausted variety never equalled. I retire to a distance, where months may intervene ere the only intelligence that can give pleasure to my heart, shall reach me. I shall count however with the most unshaken security upon my future happiness. Walls of brass, and bars of iron could not give me that assured peace.

Letter IV

Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian

Cosenza

Why is it, my friend, that you are determined to fly to so immense a distance? You call me cruel, you charge me with unfeelingness and inflexibility, and yet to my prayers you are deaf, to my intreaties you are inexorable.

I have satisfied all the claims of decorum. I have fulfilled with rigid exactness the laws of decency. One advantage you at least gain by the distance you are so desirous to place between us. My sentiments are less guarded. Reputation and modesty have fewer claims upon a woman, who can have no intercourse with her lover but by letter. My feelings are less restrained. For the anxiety, which distance inspires, awakens all the tenderness of my nature, and raises a tempest in my soul that will not be controled.

Oh, my St. Julian, till this late and lasting separation, I did not know all the affection I bore you. Ever since you were parted from my aching eyes, I have not known the serenity of a moment. The image of my friend has been the constant companion of my waking hours, and has visited me again in my dreams. The unknown dangers of the ocean swell in my eyes to ten times their natural magnitude. Fickle and inconstant enemy, how much I dread thee! Oh wast the lord of all my wishes in safety to the destined harbour! May all the winds be still! May the tempests forget their wonted rage! May every guardian power protect his voyage! Open not, oh ocean, thy relentless bosom to yield him a watery grave! For once be gentle and auspicious! Listen and grant a lover's prayer! Restore him to my presence! May the dear sight of him once more refresh these longing eyes! You will find this letter accompanied with a small parcel, in which I have inclosed the miniature of myself, which I have often heard you praise as a much better likeness than the larger pictures. It will probably afford you some gratification during that absence of which you so feelingly complain. It will suggest to you those thoughts upon the subject of our love that have most in them of the calm and soothing. It will be no unpleasant companion of your reveries, and may sometimes amuse and cheat your deluded fancy.

Letter V

The Answer

Alicant

I am just arrived at this place, after a tedious and disagreeable voyage. As we passed along the coast of Barbary we came in sight of many of the corsairs with which that part of the world is infested. One of them in particular, of larger burden than the rest, gave us chace, and for some time we thought ourselves in considerable danger. Our ship however proved the faster sailer, and quickly carried us out of sight. Having escaped this danger, and nearly reached the Baleares, we were overtaken by a tremendous storm. For some days the ship was driven at the mercy of the winds; and, as the coast of those islands is surrounded with invisible rocks, our peril was considerable.

In the midst of danger however my thoughts were full of Matilda. Had the ocean buried me in its capacious bosom, my last words would have been of you, my last vows would have been made for your happiness. Had we been taken by the enemy and carried into slavery, slavery would have had no terrors, but those which consisted in the additional bars it would have created between me and the mistress of my heart. It would have been of little importance whether I had fallen to the lot of a despot, gentle or severe. It would have separated us for years, perhaps for ever. Could I, who have been so much afflicted by the separation of a few months, have endured a punishment like this? That soft intercourse, that wafts the thoughts of lovers to so vast a distance, that mimics so well an actual converse, that cheats the weary heart of all its cares, would have been dissolved for ever. Little then would have been the moment of a few petty personal considerations; I should not long have survived.

I only wait at this place to refresh myself for a few days, from a fatigue so perfectly new to me, and then shall set out with all speed for Madrid. My Matilda will readily believe that that business which detains me at so vast a distance from my happiness, will be dispatched with as much expedition as its nature will admit. I will not sacrifice to any selfish considerations the interest of my friend, I will not neglect the minutest exertion by which it may be in my power to serve his cause. But the moment I have discharged what I owe to him, no power upon earth shall delay my return, no not for an hour.

I have seen little as yet of that people of whom I have entertained so favourable ideas. But what I have seen has perfectly equalled my expectation. Their carriage indeed is cold and formal, beyond what it is possible for any man to have a conception of, who has not witnessed it. But those persons to whom I had letters have received me with the utmost attention and politeness. Sincerity is visible in all they do, and constancy in all their modes of thinking. There is not a man among them, who has once distinguished you, and whose favour it is possible for you to forfeit without having deserved it. Will not an upright and honest mind pardon many defects to a virtue like this?

Oh, my Matilda, shall I recommend to you to remember your St. Julian, to carry the thoughts of him every where about with you? Shall I make to you a thousand vows of unalterable attachment? No, best of women, I will not thus insult the integrity of your heart. I will not thus profane the purity of our loves. The world in all its treasure has not a second Matilda, and if it had, my heart is fixed, all the tender sensibilities of my soul are exhausted. Your St. Julian was not made to change with every wind.

Letter VI

Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian

Cosenza

I begin this letter without having yet received any news from you since you quitted the port of Naples. The time however that was requisite for that purpose is already more than expired. Oh, my friend, if before the commencement of this detested voyage, the dangers that attended it appeared to me in so horrid colours, how think you that I support them now? My imagination sickens, my poor heart is distracted at the recollection of them. Why would you encounter so many unnecessary perils? Why would you fly to so remote a climate? Many a friend could have promoted equally well the interests of the marquis of Pescara, but few lives are so valuable as thine. Many a friend could have solicited this business in the court of Madrid, but believe me, there are few that can boast that they possessed the heart of a Matilda. Simple and sincere, I do not give myself away by halves. With a heart full of tenderness and sensibility, I am affected more, much more than the generality of my sex, with circumstances favourable or adverse. Ah cruel, cruel St. Julian, was it for a lover to turn a deaf ear to the intreaties of a mistress, that lived not but to honour his virtues, and to sympathize in his felicity? Did I not for you lay aside that triple delicacy and reserve, in which I prided myself? Were not my sighs and tears visible and undisguised? Did not my cries pierce the lofty dome of my paternal mansion, and move all hearts but yours?

They tell me, my St. Julian, that I am busy to torment myself, that I invent a thousand imaginary misfortunes. And is this to torment myself to address my friend in these poor lines? Is this to deceive myself with unreal evils? Even while Matilda cherishes the fond idea of pouring out her complaints before him, my St. Julian may be a lifeless corse. Perhaps he now lies neglected and unburied in the beds of the ocean. Perhaps he has fallen a prey to barbarous men, more deaf and merciless than the warring elements. Distracting ideas! And does this head live to conceive them? Is this hand dull and insensible enough to write them?

Believe me, my friend, my heart is tender and will easily break. It was not formed to sustain a series of trials. It was not formed to encounter a variety of distress. Oh, fly then, hasten to my arms. All those ideas of form and decency, all the artificial decorums of society that I once cherished, are dissolved before the darker reflections, the apprehensive anxieties that your present situation has awakened. Yes, my St. Julian, come to my arms. The moment you appear to claim me I am yours. Adieu to the management of my sex. From this moment I commit all my concerns to your direction. From this moment, your word shall be to me an irrevocable law, which without reasoning, and without refinement, I will implicitly obey.

* * * * *

I have received your letter. The pleasure it affords me is exquisite in proportion to my preceding anguish. From the confession of the bravest of men it now appears that my apprehensions were not wholly unfounded. And yet upon reviewing what I have written, I almost blush for my weakness. But it shall not be effaced. Disguise is little becoming between lovers at so immense a distance. No, my friend, you shall know all the interest you possess in my heart. I will at least afford you that consolation amidst the pangs of absence. May heaven be propitious in what yet remains before you! I will even weary it with my prayers. May it return you to my arms safe and unhurt, and no other calamity shall wring from me a murmur, or a sigh!

One thing however it is necessary I should correct. I do not mean to accuse you for the voyage you have undertaken, however it may distress me. In my calmer moments I feel for the motives of it the warmest approbation. It was the act of disinterested friendship. Every prejudice of the heart pleaded against it. Love, that passion which reigns without a rival in your breast, forbad the compliance. It was a virtue worthy of you. There needed but this to convince me that you were infinitely superior to the whole race of your fellow mortals.

Letter VII

The Answer

Buen Retiro

Ten thousand thanks to the most amiable of women for the letter that has just fallen into my hands. Yes, Matilda, if my heart were pierced on every side with darts, and my life's blood seemed ready to follow every one of them, your enchanting epistle would be balm to all my wounds, would sooth all my cares. Tenderest, gentlest of dispositions, where ever burned a love whose flame was pure as thine? Where ever was truth that could vie with the truth of Matilda? Hereafter when the worthless and the profligate exclaim upon the artifices of thy sex, when the lover disappointed, wrung with anguish, imprecates curses on the kind, name but Matilda, and every murmur shall be hushed; name but Matilda, and the universal voice of nature shall confess that the female form is the proper residence, the genuine temple of angelic goodness.

I had upon the whole a most agreeable journey from Alicant to Madrid. It would be superfluous to describe to a mind so well informed as yours, the state of the country. You know how thin is its population, and how indolent is the character of its inhabitants. Satisfied with possessing the inexhaustible mines of Mexico and Peru, they imagine that the world was made for them, that the rest of mankind were destined to labour that they might be maintained in supineness and idleness. The experience of more than two centuries has not been able to convince them of their error, and amidst all their poverty, they still retain as much pride as ever. The country however is naturally luxuriant and delicious; and there are a considerable number of prospects in the provinces through which I have passed that will scarcely yield to any that Italy has to boast. As soon as I arrived at the metropolis I took up my residence at this place, which is inexpressibly crowded with the residences of the nobility and grandees. It is indeed one of the most beautiful spots in nature, as it concentres at once the simplest rusticity with the utmost elegance of refinement and society. My reception has been in the highest degree flattering, and I please myself with the idea that I have already made some progress in the business of the marquis of Pescara.

You are not insensible that my character, at least in some of its traits, is not uncongenial to that of a Spaniard. Whether it be owing to this or any other cause I know not, but I believe never was any man, so obscure as myself, distinguished in so obliging a manner by the first personages in the kingdom. In return I derive from their society the utmost satisfaction. Their lofty notions of honour, their gravity, their politeness, and their sentimental way of thinking, have something in them that affords me infinite entertainment and pleasure. Oh, Matilda, how much more amiable is that character, that carries the principles of honour and magnanimity to a dangerous extreme, than that which endeavours to level all distinctions of mankind, and would remove and confound the eternal barriers of virtue and vice!

One of the most agreeable connexions I have made is with the duke of Aranda. The four persons of whom his family is composed, his grace, the duchess, their son and daughter, are all of them characters extremely interesting and amiable. The lady Isabella is esteemed the first beauty of the court of Madrid. The young count is tall, graceful, and manly, with a fire and expression in his fine blue eyes beyond any thing I ever saw. He has all the vivacity and enterprize of youth, without the smallest tincture of libertinism and dissipation. I know not how it is, but I find myself perfectly unable to describe his character without running into paradox. He is at once serious and chearful. His seriousness is so full of enthusiasm and originality, that it is the most unlike in the world to the cold dogmatism of pedantry, or the turgid and monotonous stile of the churchman. His chearfulness is not the gaiety of humour, is not the brilliancy of wit, it is the result of inexhaustible fancy and invincible spirit. In a word, I never met with a character that interested me so much at first sight, and were it not that I am bound by insuperable ties to my native soil, it would be the first ambition of my heart to form with him the ties of an everlasting friendship.

Once more, my Matilda, adieu. You are under the protection of the most generous of men, and the best of friends. I owe to the marquis of Pescara, a thousand obligations that can never be compensated. Let it be thy care thou better half of myself to receive him with that attention and politeness, which is due to the worth of his character, and the immensity of his friendship. There is something too sweet and enchanting in the mild benevolence of Matilda, not to contribute largely to his happiness. It is in your power, best of women, by the slightest exertions, to pay him more than I could do by a life of labour.

Letter VIII

The Same to the Same

Buen Retiro

I little thought during so distressing a period of absence, to have written you a letter so gay and careless as my last. I confess indeed the societies of this place afforded me so much entertainment, that in the midst of generous friendship and unmerited kindness, I almost forgot the anguish of a lover, and the pains of banishment.

Alas, how dearly am I destined to pay for the most short-lived relaxation! Every pleasure is now vanished, and I can scarcely believe that it ever existed. I enter into the same societies, I frequent the same scenes, and I wonder what it was that once entertained me. Yes, Matilda, the enchantment is dissolved. All the gay colours that anon played upon the objects around me, are fled. Chaos is come again. The world is become all dreary solitude and impenetrable darkness. I am like the poor mariner, whose imagination was for a moment caught with the lofty sound of the thunder, round whom the sheeted lightning gilded the foaming waves, and who then sinks for ever in the abyss.

It is now four eternal months, and not one line from the hand of Matilda has blessed these longing eyes, or cooled my burning brain. Opportunity after opportunity has slipped away, one moment swelled with hope has succeeded another, but to no purpose. The mail has not been more constant to its place of destination than myself. But it was all disappointment. It was in vain that I raged with unmeaning fury, and demanded that with imprecation which was not to be found. Every calm was misery to me. Every tempest tore my tortured heart a thousand ways. For some time every favourable wind was balm to my soul, and nectar to my burning frame. But it is over now—. How, how is it that I am to account for this astonishing silence? Has nature changed her eternal laws, and is Matilda false? Has she forgotten the poor St. Julian, upon whom she once bestowed her tenderness with unstinted prodigality? Can that angel form hide the foulest thoughts? Have those untasted lips abjured their virgin vows? And has that hand been given to another? Hence green-eyed jealousy, accursed fiend, with all thy train of black suspicions! No, thou shall not find a moment's harbour in my breast. I will none of thee. It were treason to the chastest of hearts, it were sacrilege to the divinest form that ever visited this lower world, but to admit the possibility of Matilda's infidelity.

And where, ah where, shall I take refuge from these horrid thoughts? To entertain them were depravity were death. I fly from them, and where is it that I find myself? Surrounded by a thousand furies. Oh, gracious and immaculate providence, why hast thou opened so many doors to tremendous mischief? Innumerable accidents of nature may tear her from me for ever. All the wanton brutalities that history records, and that the minds of unworthy men can harbour, start up in dreadful array before me.

Cruel and inflexible Matilda! thou once wert bounteous as the hand of heaven, wert tender as the new born babe. What is it that has changed thy disposition to the hard, the wanton, the obdurate? Behold a lover's tears! Behold how low thou hast sunk him, whom thou once didst dignify by the sweet and soothing name of thy friend! If ever the voice of anguish found a passage to your heart, if those cheeks were ever moistened with the drops of sacred pity, oh, hear me now! But I will address myself to the rocks. I will invoke the knotted oaks and the savage wolves of the forest. They will not refuse my cry, but Matilda is deaf as the winds, inexorable as the gaping wave.

In the state of mind in which I am, you will naturally suppose that I am full of doubt and irresolution. Twice have I resolved to quit the kingdom of Spain without delay, and to leave the business of friendship unfinished. But I thank God these thoughts were of no long duration. No, Matilda, let me be set up as a mark for the finger of scorn, let me be appointed by heaven as a victim upon which to exhaust all its arrows. Let me be miserable, but let me never, never deserve to be so. Affliction, thou mayest beat upon my heart in one eternal storm! Trouble, thou mayest tear this frame like a whirlwind! But never shall all thy terrors shake my constant mind, or teach me to swerve for a moment from the path I have marked out to myself! All other consolation may be taken from me, but from the bulwark of innocence and integrity I will never be separated.

Letter IX

The Marquis of Pescara to the Count de St. Julian

Cosenza

I can never sufficiently thank you for the indefatigable friendship you have displayed in the whole progress of my Spanish affairs. I have just received a letter from the first minister of that court, by which I am convinced that it cannot be long before they be terminated in the most favourable manner. I scarcely know how, after all the obligations you have conferred upon me, to intreat that you would complete them, by paying a visit to Zamora before you quit the kingdom, and putting my affairs there in some train, which from the negligence incident to a disputed title, can scarcely fail to be in disorder.

Believe me there is nothing for which I have more ardently longed, than to clasp you once again in my arms. The additional procrastination which this new journey will create, cannot be more afflicting to you than it is to me. Abridge then, I intreat you, as much as possible, those delays which are in some degree inevitable, and let me have the agreeable surprize of holding my St. Julian to my breast before I imagined I had reason to expect his return.

Letter X

The Answer

Zamora

My dear lord,

It is with the utmost pleasure that I have it now in my power to assure you that your affair is finally closed at the court of Madrid, in a manner the most advantageous and honourable to your name and family. You will perceive from the date of this letter that I had no need of the request you have made in order to remind me of my duty to my friend. I was no sooner able to quit the capital with propriety, than I immediately repaired hither. The derangement however of your affairs at this place is greater than either of us could have imagined, and it will take a considerable time to reduce them to that order, which shall render them most beneficial to the peasant, and most productive to the lord.

The employment which I find at this place, serves in some degree to dissipate the anguish of my mind. It is an employment embellished by innocence, and consecrated by friendship. It is therefore of all pursuits that which has the greatest tendency to lull the sense of misery.

Rinaldo, I had drawn the pangs of absence with no flattering pencil. I had expressed them in the most harsh and aggravated colours. But dark and gloomy as were the prognostics I had formed to myself, they, alas, were but shadows of what was reserved for me. The event laughs to scorn the conceptions I had entertained. Explain to me, best, most faithful of friends, for you only can, what dark and portentous meaning is concealed beneath the silence of Matilda. So far from your present epistle assisting the conjectures of my madding brain, it bewilders me more than ever. My friend dates his letter from the very place in which she resides, and yet by not a single word does he inform me how, and what she is.

It is now six tedious months since a single line has reached me from her hand. I have expostulated with the voice of apprehension, with the voice of agony, but to no purpose. Had it not been for the tenfold obligation in which I am bound to the best of friends, I had long, very long ere this, deserted the kingdom of Spain for ever. The concerns of no man upon earth, but those of my Rinaldo, could have detained me. Had they related to myself alone, I had not wasted a thought on them. And yet here I am at a greater distance from the centre of my solicitude than ever.

You, my friend, know not the exquisite and inexpressible anguish of a mind, in doubt about that in which he is most interested. I have not the most solitary and slender clue to guide me through the labyrinth. All the events, all the calamities that may have overtaken me, are alike probable and improbable, and there is not one of them that I can invent, which can possibly have escaped the knowledge of that friend, into whose hands I committed my all. Sickness, infidelity, death itself, all the misfortunes to which humanity is heir, are alike certain and palpable.

Oh, my Rinaldo, it was a most ill-judged and mistaken indulgence, that led you to suppress the story of my disaster. Give me to know it. It may be distressful, it may be tremendous. But be it as it will, there is not a misfortune in the whole catalogue of human woes, the knowledge of which would not be elysium to what I suffer. To be told the whole is to know the worst. Time is the medicine of every anguish. There is no malady incident to a conscious being, which if it does not annihilate his existence, does not, after having attained a crisis, insensibly fall away and dissolve. But apprehension, apprehension is hell itself. It is infinite as the range of possibility. It is immortal as the mind in which it takes up its residence. It gains ground every moment. Compounded as it is of hope and fear, there is not a moment in which it does not plume the wings of expectation. It prepares for itself incessant, eternal disappointment. It grows for ever. At first it may be trifling and insignificant, but anon it swells its giant limbs, and hides its head among the clouds.

Lost as I am to the fate, the character, the present dispositions of Matilda, I have now no prop to lean upon but you. Upon you I place an unshaken confidence. In your fidelity I can never be deceived. I owe you greater obligations than ever man received from man before. When I was forlorn and deserted by all the world, it was then you flew to save me. You left the blandishments that have most power over the unsuspecting mind of youth, you left the down of luxury, to search me out. It was you that saved my life in the forest of Leontini. They were your generous offers that afforded me the first specimens of that benevolence and friendship, which restored me from the annihilation into which I was plunged, to an existence more pleasant and happy than I had yet known.

Rinaldo, I committed to your custody a jewel more precious than all the treasures of the east. I have lost, I am deprived of her. Where shall I seek her? In what situation, under what character shall I discover her? Believe me, I have not in all the paroxysms of grief, entertained a doubt of you. I have not for a moment suffered an expression of blame to escape my lips. But may I not at least know from you, what it is that has effected this strange alteration, to what am I to trust, and what is the fate that I am to expect for the remainder of an existence of which I am already weary?

Yes, my dear marquis, life is now a burden to me. There is nothing but the dear business of friendship, and the employment of disinterested affection that could make it supportable. Accept at least this last exertion of your St. Julian. His last vows shall be breathed for your happiness. Fate, do what thou wilt me, but shower down thy choicest blessings on my friend! Whatever thou deniest to my sincere exertions in the cause of rectitude, bestow a double portion upon that artless and ingenuous youth, who, however misguided for a moment, has founded even upon the basis of error, a generous return and an heroic resolution, which the most permanent exertions of spotless virtue scarce can equal!

Letter XI

Signor Hippolito Borelli to the Count de St. Julian

Palermo

My dear lord,

I have often heard it repeated as an observation of sagacity and experience, that when one friend has a piece of disagreeable intelligence to disclose to another, it is better to describe it directly, and in simple terms, than to introduce it with that kind of periphrasis and circumlocution, which oftener tends to excite a vague and impatient horror in the reader, than to prepare him to bear his misfortune with decency and fortitude. There are however no rules of this kind that do not admit of exceptions, and I am too apprehensive that the subject of my present letter may be classed among those exceptions. St. Julian, I have a tale of horror to unfold! Lay down the fatal scrowl at this place, and collect all the dignity and resolution of your mind. You will stand in need of it. Fertile and ingenious as your imagination often is in tormenting itself, I will defy you to conceive an event more big with horror, more baleful and tremendous in all its consequences.

My friend, I have taken up my pen twenty times, and laid it down as often again, uncertain in what manner to break my intelligence, and where I ought to begin. I have been undetermined whether to write to you at all, or to leave you to learn the disaster and your fate, as fortune shall direct. It is an ungrateful and unpleasant task. Numbers would exclaim upon it as imprudence and folly. I might at least suspend the consummation of your affliction a little longer, and leave you a little longer to the enjoyment of a deceitful repose.

But I am terrified at the apprehension of how this news may overtake you at last. I have always considered the count de St. Julian as one of the most amiable of mankind. I have looked up to him as a model of virtue, and I have exulted that I had the honour to be of the same species with so fair a fame, and so true a heart. I would willingly lighten to a man so excellent the load of calamity. Why is it, that heaven in the mysteriousness of its providence, so often visits with superior affliction, the noblest of her sons? I should be truly sorry, that my friend should act in a manner unworthy of the tenor of his conduct, and the exaltation of his character. You are now, my lord at a distance. You have time to revolve the various circumstances of your condition, and to fix with the coolest and most mature deliberation the conduct you shall determine to hold.

I remember in how pathetic a manner you complained, in the last letter I received from you before you quitted Italy, of the horrors of banishment. Little did my friend then know the additional horrors that fate had in store for him. Two persons there were whom you loved above all the world, in whom you placed the most unbounded confidence. My poor friend would never have left Italy but to oblige his Rinaldo, would never have quitted the daughter of the duke of Benevento, if he could not have intrusted her to the custody of his Rinaldo. What then will be his astonishment when he learns that two months have now elapsed since the heiress of this illustrious house has assumed the title of the marchioness of Pescara?

Since this extraordinary news first reached me, I have employed some pains to discover the means by which an event so surprising has been effected. I have hitherto however met with a very partial success. There hangs over it all the darkness of mystery, and all the cowardice of guilt. There cannot be any doubt that that friend, whom for so long a time you cherished in your bosom, has proved the most detestable of villains, the blot and the deformity of the human character. How far the marchioness has been involved in his guilt, I am not able to ascertain. Surely however the fickleness and inconstancy of her conduct cannot be unstained with the pollution of depravity. After the most diligent search I have learned a report, which was at that time faintly whispered at Cosenza, that you were upon the point of marriage with the only daughter of the duke of Aranda. Whether any inferences can be built upon so trivial a foundation I am totally ignorant.

But might I be permitted to advise you, you ought to cast these base and dishonourable characters from your heart for ever. The marquis is surely unworthy of your sword. He ought not to die, but in a manner deeply stamped with the infamy in which he has lived. I will not pretend to alledge to a person so thoroughly master of every question of this kind, how poor and inadequate is such a revenge: what a barbarous and unmeaning custom it is, that thus puts the life of the innocent and injured in the scale with that of the destroyer, and leaves the decision of immutable differences to skill, to fortune, and a thousand trivial and contemptible circumstances. You are not to be told how much more there is of true heroism in refusing than in giving a challenge, in bearing an injury with superiority and virtuous fortitude, than in engaging in a Gothic and savage revenge.

It is not easy perhaps to find a woman, deserving enough to be united for life to the fate of my friend. Certain I am, if I may be permitted to deliver my sentiments, there is a levity and folly conspicuous in the temper of her you have lost, that renders her unworthy of being lamented by a man of discernment and sobriety. What to desert without management and without regret, one to whom she had vowed eternal constancy, a man, of whose amiable character, and glorious qualities she had so many opportunities of being convinced? Oh, shame where is thy blush? If iniquity like this, walks the world with impunity, where is the vice that shall be branded with infamy, to deter the most daring and profligate offender? Let us state the transaction in a light the most favourable to the fair inconstant. What thin veil, what paltry arts were employed by this mighty politician to confound and mislead an understanding, clear and penetrating upon all other subjects, blind and feeble only upon that in which the happiness of her life was involved?

My St. Julian, the exertion of that fortitude with which nature has so richly endowed you, was never so completely called for in any other instance. This is the crisis of your life. This is the very tide, which accordingly as it is improved or neglected, will give a colour to all your future story. Let not that amiable man, who has found the art of introducing heroism into common life, and dignifying the most trivial circumstances by the sublimity and refinedness of his sentiments, now, in the most important affair, sink below the common level. Now is the time to display the true greatness of your mind. Now is the time to prove the consistency of your character.

A mind, destitute of resources, and unendowed with that elasticity which is the badge of an immortal nature, when placed in your circumstances, might probably sink into dereliction and despair. Here in the moral and useful point of view would be placed the termination of their course. What a different prospect does the future life of my St. Julian suggest to me? I see him rising superior to misfortune. I see him refined like silver from, the furnace. His affections and his thoughts, being detached by calamity from all consideration of self, he lays out his exertions in acts of benevolence. His life is one tissue of sympathy and compassion. He is an extensive benefit to mankind. His influence, like that of the sun, cheers the hopeless, and illuminates the desolate. How necessary are such characters as these, to soften the rigour of the sublunary scene, and to stamp an impression of dignity on the degeneracy of the human character?