THE UNFORTUNATE BRIDE;
OR, THE BLIND LADY A BEAUTY.

TO RICHARD NORTON, OF SOUTHWICK IN
HANTSHIRE, ESQUIRE.

Honour’d Sir,

Eminent Wit, Sir, no more than Eminent Beauty, can escape the Trouble and Presumption of Addresses; and that which can strike every body with Wonder, can never avoid the Praise which naturally flows from that Wonder: And Heaven is forc’d to hear the Addresses as well as praises of the Poor as Rich, of the Ignorant as Learned, and takes, nay rewards, the officious tho’ perhaps impertinent Zeal of its least qualify’d Devotees. Wherefore, Sir, tho’ your Merits meet with the Applause of the Learned and Witty, yet your Generosity will judge favourably of the untaught Zeal of an humbler Admirer, since what I do your eminent Vertues compel. The Beautiful will permit the most despicable of their Admirers to love them, tho’ they never intend to make him happy, as unworthy their Love, but they will not be angry at the fatal Effect of their own Eyes.

But what I want in my self, Sir, to merit your Regard, I hope my Authoress will in some measure supply, so far at least to lessen my Presumption in prefixing your Name to a Posthumous Piece of hers, whom all the Men of Wit, that were her Contemporaries, look’d on as the Wonder of her Sex; and in none of her Performances has she shew’d so great a Mastery as in her Novels, where Nature always prevails; and if they are not true, they are so like it, that they do the business every jot as well.

This I hope, Sir, will induce you to pardon my Presumption in dedicating this Novel to you, and declaring my self, Sir,

Your most obedient
 and most humble Servant,
   S. Briscoe.

THE UNFORTUNATE BRIDE:
or, The Blind Lady a Beauty.

Frankwit and Wildvill, were two young Gentlemen of very considerable Fortunes, both born in Staffordshire, and, during their Minority, both educated together, by which Opportunity they contracted a very inviolable Friendship, a Friendship which grew up with them; and though it was remarkably known to every Body else, they knew it not themselves; they never made Profession of it in Words, but Actions; so true a Warmth their Fires could boast, as needed not the Effusion of their Breath to make it live. Wildvill was of the richest Family, but Frankwit of the noblest; Wildvill was admired for outward Qualifications, as Strength, and manly Proportions, Frankwit for a much softer Beauty, for his inward Endowments, Pleasing in his Conversation, of a free, and moving Air, humble in his Behaviour, and if he had any Pride, it was but just enough to shew that he did not affect Humility; his Mind bowed with a Motion as unconstrained as his Body, nor did he force this Vertue in the least, but he allowed it only. So aimable he was, that every Virgin that had Eyes, knew too she had a Heart, and knew as surely she should lose it. His Cupid could not be reputed blind, he never shot for him, but he was sure to wound. As every other Nymph admired him, so he was dear to all the Tuneful Sisters; the Muses were fired with him as much as their own radiant God Apollo; their loved Springs and Fountains were not so grateful to their Eyes as he, him they esteemed their Helicon and Parnassus too; in short, when ever he pleased, he could enjoy them all. Thus he enamour’d the whole Female Sex, but amongst all the sighing Captives of his Eyes, Belvira only boasted Charms to move him; her Parents lived near his, and even from their Childhood they felt mutual Love, as if their Eyes, at their first meeting, had struck out such Glances, as had kindled into amorous Flame. And now Belvira in her fourteenth Year, (when the fresh Spring of young Virginity began to cast more lively Bloomings in her Cheeks, and softer Longings in her Eyes) by her indulgent Father’s Care was sent to London to a Friend, her Mother being lately dead: When, as if Fortune ordered it so, Frankwit’s Father took a Journey to the other World, to let his Son the better enjoy the Pleasures and Delights of this: The young Lover now with all imaginable haste interred his Father, nor did he shed so many Tears for his Loss, as might in the least quench the Fire which he received from his Belvira’s Eyes, but (Master of seventeen Hundred Pounds a Year, which his Father left him) with all the Wings of Love flies to London, and sollicits Belvira with such Fervency, that it might be thought he meant Death’s Torch should kindle Hymen’s; and now as soon as he arrives at his Journey’s end, he goes to pay a Visit to the fair Mistress of his Soul, and assures her, That tho’ he was absent from her, yet she was still with him; and that all the Road he travell’d, her beauteous Image danced before him, and like the ravished Prophet, he saw his Deity in every Bush; in short, he paid her constant Visits, the Sun ne’er rose or set, but still he saw it in her Company, and every Minute of the Day he counted by his Sighs. So incessantly he importuned her that she could no longer hold out, and was pleased in the surrender of her Heart, since it was he was Conqueror; and therefore felt a Triumph in her yielding. Their Flames now joyned, grew more and more, glowed in their Cheeks, and lightened in their Glances: Eager they looked, as if there were Pulses beating in their Eyes; and all endearing, at last she vowed, that Frankwit living she would ne’er be any other Man’s. Thus they past on some time, while every Day rowl’d over fair; Heaven showed an Aspect all serene, and the Sun seemed to smile at what was done. He still caressed his Charmer, with an Innocence becoming his Sincerity; he lived upon her tender Breath, and basked in the bright Lustre of her Eyes, with Pride, and secret Joy.

He saw his Rivals languish for that Bliss, those Charms, those Raptures and extatick Transports, which he engrossed alone. But now some eighteen Months (some Ages in a Lover’s Kalendar) winged with Delights, and fair Belvira now grown fit for riper Joys, knows hardly how she can deny her pressing Lover, and herself, to crown their Vows, and joyn their Hands as well as Hearts. All this while the young Gallant wash’d himself clean of that shining Dirt, his Gold; he fancied little of Heaven dwelt in his yellow Angels, but let them fly away, as it were on their own golden Wings; he only valued the smiling Babies in Belvira’s Eyes. His Generosity was boundless, as his Love, for no Man ever truly loved, that was not generous. He thought his Estate, like his Passion, was a sort of a Pontick Ocean, it could never know an Ebb; But now he found it could be fathom’d, and that the Tide was turning, therefore he sollicits with more impatience the consummation of their Joys, that both might go like Martyrs from their Flames immediately to Heaven; and now at last it was agreed between them, that they should both be one, but not without some Reluctancy on the Female side; for ’tis the Humour of our Sex, to deny most eagerly those Grants to Lovers, for which most tenderly we sigh, so contradictory are we to our selves, as if the Deity had made us with a seeming Reluctancy to his own Designs; placing as much Discords in our Minds, as there is Harmony in our Faces. We are a sort of aiery Clouds, whose Lightning flash out one way, and the Thunder another. Our Words and Thoughts can ne’er agree. So this young charming Lady thought her Desires could live in their own longings, like Misers wealth-devouring Eyes; and e’er she consented to her Lover, prepared him first with speaking Looks, and then with a fore-running Sigh, applyed to the dear Charmer thus: ‘Frankwit, I am afraid to venture the Matrimonial Bondage, it may make you think your self too much confined, in being only free to one.’ ‘Ah! my dear Belvira,’ he replied, ‘That one, like Manna, has the Taste of all, why should I be displeased to be confined to Paradice, when it was the Curse of our Forefathers to be set at large, tho’ they had the whole World to roam in: You have, my love, ubiquitary Charms, and you are all in all, in every Part.’ ‘Ay, but,’ reply’d Belvira, ‘we are all like Perfumes, and too continual Smelling makes us seem to have lost our Sweets, I’ll be judged by my Cousin Celesia here, if it be not better to live still in mutual Love, without the last Enjoyment.’ (I had forgot to tell my Reader that Celesia was an Heiress, the only Child of a rich Turkey Merchant, who, when he dyed, left her Fifty thousand Pound in Money, and some Estate in Land; but, poor Creature, she was Blind to all these Riches, having been born without the use of Sight, though in all other Respects charming to a wonder.) ‘Indeed,’ says Celesia, (for she saw clearly in her Mind) ‘I admire you should ask my Judgment in such a Case, where I have never had the least Experience; but I believe it is but a sickly Soul which cannot nourish its Offspring of Desires without preying upon the Body.’ ‘Believe me,’ reply’d Frankwit, ‘I bewail your want of Sight, and I could almost wish you my own Eyes for a Moment, to view your charming Cousin, where you would see such Beauties as are too dazling to be long beheld; and if too daringly you gazed, you would feel the Misfortune of the loss of Sight, much greater than the want of it: And you would acknowledge, that in too presumptuously seeing, you would be blinder then, than now unhappily you are.’

‘Ah! I must confess,’ reply’d Belvira, ‘my poor, dear Cousin is Blind, for I fancy she bears too great an Esteem for Frankwit, and only longs for Sight to look on him.’ ‘Indeed,’ reply’d Celesia, ‘I would be glad to see Frankwit, for I fancy he’s as dazling, as he but now describ’d his Mistress, and if I fancy I see him, sure I do see him, for Sight is Fancy, is it not? or do you feel my Cousin with your Eyes?’ ‘This is indeed, a charming Blindness,’ reply’d Frankwit, ‘and the fancy of your Sight excels the certainty of ours. Strange! that there should be such Glances even in blindness? You, fair Maid, require not Eyes to conquer, if your Night has such Stars, what Sunshine would your Day of Sight have, if ever you should see?’ ‘I fear those Stars you talk of,’ said Belvira, ‘have some Influence on you, and by the Compass you sail by now, I guess you are steering to my Cousin. She is indeed charming enough to have been another Offspring of bright Venus, Blind like her Brother Cupid.’ ‘That Cupid,’ reply’d Celesia, ‘I am afraid has shot me, for methinks I would not have you marry Frankwit, but rather live as you do without the last Enjoyment, for methinks if he were marry’d, he would be more out of Sight than he already is.’ ‘Ah, Madam,’ return’d Frankwit, ‘Love is no Camelion, it cannot feed on Air alone.’ ‘No but,’ rejoyn’d Celesia, ‘you Lovers that are not Blind like Love it self, have am’rous Looks to feed on.’ ‘Ah! believe it,’ said Belvira, ‘’tis better, Frankwit, not to lose Paradice by too much Knowledge; Marriage Enjoyments does but wake you from your sweet golden Dreams: Pleasure is but a Dream, dear Frankwit, but a Dream, and to be waken’d.’ ‘Ah! Dearest, but unkind Belvira,’ answer’d Frankwit, ‘sure there’s no waking from Delight, in being lull’d on those soft Breasts of thine.’ ‘Alas! (reply’d the Bride to be) it is that very lulling wakes you; Women enjoy’d, are like Romances read, or Raree-shows once seen, meer Tricks of the slight of Hand, which, when found out, you only wonder at your selves for wondering so before at them. ’Tis Expectation endears the Blessing; Heaven would not be Heaven, could we tell what ’tis. When the Plot’s out you have done with the Play, and when the last Act’s done, you see the Curtain drawn with great indifferency.’ ‘O my Belvira’, answered Frankwit, ‘that Expectation were indeed a Monster which Enjoyment could not satisfy: I should take no pleasure,’ he rejoin’d, ‘running from Hill to Hill, like Children chasing that Sun, which I could never catch.’ ‘O thou shalt have it then, that Sun of Love,’ reply’d Belvira, fir’d by this Complaint, and gently rush’d into Arms, (rejoyn’d) so Phœbus rushes radiant and unsullied, into a gilded Cloud. ‘Well then, my dear Belvira,’ answered Frankwit, ‘be assured I shall be ever yours, as you are mine; fear not you shall never draw Bills of Love upon me so fast, as I shall wait in readiness to pay them; but now I talk of Bills, I must retire into Cambridgeshire, where I have a small Concern as yet unmortgaged, I will return thence with a Brace of thousand Pounds within a Week at furthest, with which our Nuptials, by their Celebration, shall be worthy of our Love. And then, my Life, my Soul, we shall be join’d, never to part again.’ This tender Expression mov’d Belvira to shed some few Tears, and poor Celesia thought herself most unhappy that she had not Eyes to weep with too; but if she had, such was the greatness of her Grief, that sure she would have soon grown Blind with weeping. In short, after a great many soft Vows, and Promises of an inviolable Faith, they parted with a pompous sort of pleasing Woe; their Concern was of such a mixture of Joy and Sadness, as the Weather seems, when it both rains and shines. And now the last, the very last Adieu’s was over, for the Farewels of Lovers hardly ever end, and Frankwit (the Time being Summer) reach’d Cambridge that Night, about Nine a Clock; (Strange! that he should have made such Haste to fly from what so much he lov’d!) and now, tir’d with the fatigue of his Journey, he thought fit to refresh himself by writing some few Lines to his belov’d Belvira; for a little Verse after the dull Prose Company of his Servant, was as great an Ease to him, (from whom it flow’d as naturally and unartificially, as his Love or his Breath) as a Pace or Hand-gallop, after a hard, uncouth, and rugged Trot. He therefore, finding his Pegasus was no way tir’d with his Land-travel, takes a short Journey thro’ the Air, and writes as follows:

My dearest dear Belvira,

Frankwit.

This Letter Belvira receiv’d with unspeakable Joy, and laid it up safely in her Bosom; laid it, where the dear Author of it lay before, and wonderfully pleas’d with his Humour of writing Verse, resolv’d not to be at all behind-hand with him, and so writ as follows:

My dear Charmer,

Your ever true Belvira.

When this Letter was written, it was strait shown to Celesia, who look’d upon any Thing that belong’d to Frankwit, with rejoycing Glances; so eagerly she perus’d it, that her tender Eyes beginning to Water, she cry’d out, (fancying she saw the Words dance before her View) ‘Ah! Cousin, Cousin, your Letter is running away, sure it can’t go itself to Frankwit.’ A great Deal of other pleasing innocent Things she said, but still her Eyes flow’d more bright with lustrous Beams, as if they were to shine out; now all that glancing Radiancy which had been so long kept secret, and, as if, as soon as the Cloud of Blindness once was broke, nothing but Lightnings were to flash for ever after. Thus in mutual Discourse they spent their Hours, while Frankwit was now ravished with the Receipt of this charming Answer of Belvira’s, and blest his own Eyes which discovered to him the much welcome News of fair Celesia’s. Often he read the Letters o’re and o’re, but there his Fate lay hid, for ’twas that very Fondness proved his Ruin. He lodg’d at a Cousin’s House of his, and there, (it being a private Family) lodged likewise a Blackamoor Lady, then a Widower; a whimsical Knight had taken a Fancy to enjoy her: Enjoy her did I say? Enjoy the Devil in the Flesh at once! I know not how it was, but he would fain have been a Bed with her, but she not consenting on unlawful Terms, (but sure all Terms are with her unlawful) the Knight soon marry’d her, as if there were not hell enough in Matrimony, but he must wed the Devil too. The Knight a little after died, and left this Lady of his (whom I shall Moorea) an Estate of six thousand Pounds per Ann. Now this Moorea observed the joyous Frankwit with an eager Look, her Eyes seemed like Stars of the first Magnitude glaring in the Night; she greatly importuned him to discover the Occasion of his transport, but he denying it, (as ’tis the Humour of our Sex) made her the more Inquisitive; and being Jealous that it was from a Mistress, employ’d her Maid to steal it, and if she found it such, to bring it her: accordingly it succeeded, for Frankwit having drank hard with some of the Gentlemen of that Shire, found himself indisposed, and soon went to Bed, having put the Letter in his Pocket: The Maid therefore to Moorea contrived that all the other Servants should be out of the Way, that she might plausibly officiate in the Warming the Bed of the indisposed Lover, but likely, had it not been so, she had warmed it by his Intreaties in a more natural Manner; he being in Bed in an inner Room, she slips out the Letter from his Pocket, carries it to her Mistress to read, and so restores it whence she had it; in the Morning the poor Lover wakened in a violent Fever, burning with a Fire more hot than that of Love. In short, he continued Sick a considerable while, all which time the Lady Moorea constantly visited him, and he as unwillingly saw her (poor Gentleman) as he would have seen a Parson; for as the latter would have perswaded, so the former scared him to Repentance. In the mean while, during his sickness, several Letters were sent to him by his dear Belvira, and Celesia too, (then learning to write) had made a shift to give him a line or two in Postscript with her Cousin, but all was intercepted by the jealousy of the Black Moorea, black in her mind, and dark, as well as in her body. Frankwit too writ several Letters as he was able, complaining of her unkindness, those likewise were all stopt by the same Blackmoor Devil. At last, it happened that Wildvill, (who I told my Reader was Frankwit’s friend) came to London, his Father likewise dead, and now Master of a very plentiful fortune, he resolves to marry, and paying a visit to Belvira, enquires of her concerning Frankwit, she all in mourning for the loss, told him his friend was dead. ‘Ah! Wildvill, he is dead,’ said she, ‘and died not mine, a Blackmoor Lady had bewitched him from me; I received a Letter lately which informed me all; there was no name subscribed to it, but it intimated, that it was written at the request of dying Frankwit.’ ‘Oh! I am sorry at my Soul,’ said Wildvill, ‘for I loved him with the best, the dearest friendship; no doubt then,’ rejoyned he, ‘’tis Witchcaft indeed that could make him false to you; what delight could he take in a Blackmoor Lady, tho’ she had received him at once with a Soul as open as her longing arms, and with her Petticoat put off her modesty. Gods! How could he change a whole Field Argent into downright Sables.’ ‘’Twas done,’ returned Celesia, ‘with no small blot, I fancy, to the Female ’Scutcheon.’ In short, after some more discourse, but very sorrowful, Wildvill takes his leave, extreamly taken with the fair Belvira, more beauteous in her cloud of woe; he paid her afterwards frequent visits, and found her wonder for the odd inconstancy of Frankwit, greater than her sorrow, since he dy’d so unworthy of her. Wildvill attack’d her with all the force of vigorous love, and she (as she thought) fully convinc’d of Frankwit’s death, urg’d by the fury and impatience of her new ardent Lover, soon surrender’d, and the day of their Nuptials now arriv’d, their hands were joyn’d. In the mean time Frankwit (for he still liv’d) knew nothing of the Injury the base Moorea practis’d, knew not that ’twas thro’ her private order, that the fore-mention’d account of his falshood and his death was sent; but impatient to see his Dear Belvira, tho’ yet extremely weak, rid post to London, and that very day arriv’d there, immediately after the Nuptials of his Mistress and his Friend were celebrated. I was at this time in Cambridge, and having some small acquaintance with this Blackmoor Lady, and sitting in her Room that evening, after Frankwit’s departure thence, in Moorea’s absence, saw inadvertently a bundle of Papers, which she had gathered up, as I suppose, to burn, since now they grew but useless, she having no farther Hopes of him: I fancy’d I knew the Hand, and thence my Curiosity only led me to see the Name and finding Belvira subscrib’d, I began to guess there was some foul play in Hand. Belvira being my particularly intimate Acquaintance, I read one of them, and finding the Contents, convey’d them all secretly out with me, as I thought, in Point of Justice I was bound, and sent them to Belvira by that Night’s Post; so that they came to her Hands soon after the Minute of her Marriage, with an Account how, and by what Means I came to light on them. No doubt but they exceedingly surpriz’d her: But Oh! Much more she grew amaz’d immediately after, to see the Poor, and now unhappy Frankwit, who privately had enquir’d for her below, being received as a Stranger, who said he had some urgent Business with her, in a back Chamber below Stairs. What Tongue, what Pen can express the mournful Sorrow of this Scene! At first they both stood Dumb, and almost Senseless; she took him for the Ghost of Frankwit; he looked so pale, new risen from his Sickness, he (for he had heard at his Entrance in the House, that his Belvira marry’d Wildvill) stood in Amaze, and like a Ghost indeed, wanted the Power to speak, till spoken to the first. At last, he draws his Sword, designing there to fall upon it in her Presence; she then imagining it his Ghost too sure, and come to kill her, shrieks out and Swoons; he ran immediately to her, and catch’d her in his Arms, and while he strove to revive and bring her to herself, tho’ that he thought could never now be done, since she was marry’d. Wildvill missing his Bride, and hearing the loud Shriek, came running down, and entring the Room, sees his Bride lie clasp’d in Frankwit’s Arms. ‘Ha! Traytor!’ He cries out, drawing his Sword with an impatient Fury, ‘have you kept that Strumpet all this while, curst Frankwit, and now think fit to put your damn’d cast Mistress upon me: could not you forbear her neither ev’n on my Wedding Day? abominable Wretch!’ Thus saying, he made a full Pass at Frankwit, and run him thro’ the left Arm, and quite thro’ the Body of the poor Belvira; that thrust immediately made her start, tho’ Frankwit’s Endeavours all before were useless. Strange! that her Death reviv’d her! For ah! she felt, that now she only liv’d to die! Striving thro’ wild Amazement to run from such a Scene of Horror, as her Apprehensions shew’d her; down she dropt, and Frankwit seeing her fall, (all Friendship disannull’d by such a Chain of Injuries) Draws, fights with, and stabs his own loved Wildvill. Ah! Who can express the Horror and Distraction of this fatal Misunderstanding! The House was alarm’d, and in came poor Celesia, running in Confusion just as Frankwit was off’ring to kill himself, to die with a false Friend, and perjur’d Mistress, for he suppos’d them such. Poor Celesia now bemoan’d her unhappiness of sight, and wish’d she again were blind. Wildvill dy’d immediately, and Belvira only surviv’d him long enough to unfold all their most unhappy fate, desiring Frankwit with her dying breath, if ever he lov’d her, (and now she said that she deserv’d his love, since she had convinced him that she was not false) to marry her poor dear Celesia, and love her tenderly for her Belvira’s sake; leaving her, being her nearest Relation, all her fortune, and he, much dearer than it all, to be added to her own; so joyning his and Celesia’s Hands, she poured her last breath upon his Lips, and said, ‘Dear Frankwit, Frankwit, I die yours.’ With tears and wondrous sorrow he promis’d to obey her Will, and in some months after her interrment, he perform’d his promise.

 

THE DUMB VIRGIN; OR,
THE FORCE OF IMAGINATION.

INTRODUCTION.

Consanguinity and love which are treated in this novel so romantically and with such tragic catastrophe had already been dealt with in happier mood by Mrs. Behn in The Dutch Lover. Vide Note on the Source of that play, Vol. I, p. 218. Cross-Reference: The Dutch Lover, Sources.

In classic lore the Œdipus Saga enthralled the imagination of antiquity and inspired dramas amongst the world’s masterpieces. Later forms of the tale may be found in Suidas and Cedrenus.

The Legend of St. Gregory, based on a similar theme, the hero of which, however, is innocent throughout, was widely diffused through mediæval Europe. It forms No. 81 of the Gesta Romanorum. There is an old English poem1 on the subject, and it also received lyric treatment at the hands of the German meistersinger, Hartmann von Aue. An Italian story, Il Figliuolo di germani, the chronicle of St. Albinus, and the Servian romaunt of the Holy Foundling Simeon embody similar circumstances.

Matteo Bandello, Part II, has a famous2 novel (35) with rubric, ‘un gentiluomo navarrese sposa una, che era sua sorella e figliuola, non lo sapendo,’ which is almost exactly the same as the thirtieth story of the Heptameron. As the good Bishop declares that it was related to him by a lady living in the district, it is probable that some current tradition furnished both him and the Queen of Navarre with these horrible incidents and that neither copied from the other.3

Bandello was imitated in Spanish by J. Perez de Montalvan, Sucesos y Prodigios de Amor—La Mayor confusion; in Latin by D. Otho Melander; and he also gave Desfontaines the subject of L’Inceste Innocent; Histoire Véritable (Paris, 1644). A similar tale is touched upon in Amadis de Gaule, and in a later century we find Le Criminel sans le Savoir, Roman Historique et Poëtique (Amsterdam and Paris, 1783). It is also found in Brevio’s Rime e Prose; Volgari, novella iv; and in T. Grapulo (or Grappolino), Il Convito Borghesiano (Londra, 1800). A cognate legend is Le Dit du Buef and Le Dit de la Bourjosee de Rome. (ed. Jubinal, Nouveau Recueil; and Nouveau Recueil du Sénateur de Rome . . . ed. Méon.) Again: the Leggenda di Vergogna, etc. testi del buon secolo in prosa e in verso, edited by A. D’Ancona (Bologna, 1869) repeats the same catastrophe. It is also related in Byshop’s Blossoms.

In Luther’s Colloquia Mensalia, under the article ‘Auricular Confession’, the occurrence is said to have taken place at Erfurt in Germany. Julio de Medrano, a Spanish writer of the sixteenth century, says that a similar story was related to him when he was in the Bourbonnois, where the inhabitants pointed out the house which had been the scene of these morbid passions. France, indeed, seems to have been the home of the tradition, and Le Roux de Lincy in the notes to his excellent edition of the Heptameron quotes from Millin, Antiquités Nationales (t. iii. f. xxviii. p. 6.) who, speaking of the Collegiate Church of Ecouis, says that in the midst of the nave there was a prominent white marbel tablet with this epitaph:—

The tradition ran that a son of ‘Madame d’Ecouis avait eu de sa mère sans la connaître et sans en être reconnu une fille nommée Cécile. Il épousa ensuite en Lorraine cette même Cécile qui était auprès de la Duchesse de Bar . . . Il furent enterrés dans le même tombeau en 1512 à Ecouis.’ An old sacristan used to supply curious visitors to the church with a leaflet detailing the narrative. The same story is attached to other parishes, and at Alincourt, a village between Amiens and Abbeville, the following lines are inscribed upon a grave:—

When Walpole wrote his tragedy, The Mysterious Mother (1768), he states he had no knowledge of Bandello or the Heptameron, but he gives the following account of the origin of his theme. ‘I had heard when very young, that a gentlewoman, under uncommon agonies of mind, had waited on Archbishop Tillotson and besought his counsel. A damsel that served her had, many years before, acquainted her that she was importuned by the gentlewoman’s son to grant him a private meeting. The mother ordered the maiden to make the assignation, when she said she would discover herself and reprimand him for his criminal passion; but, being hurried away by a much more criminal passion herself, she kept the assignation without discovering herself. The fruit of this horrid artifice was a daughter, whom the gentlewoman caused to be educated very privately in the country; but proving very lovely and being accidentally met by her father-brother, who never had the slightest suspicion of the truth, he had fallen in love with and actually married her. The wretched guilty mother learning what had happened, and distracted with the consequence of her crime, had now resorted to the Archbishop to know in what manner she should act. The prelate charged her never to let her son and daughter know what had passed, as they were innocent of any criminal intention. For herself, he bad her almost despair.’

The same story occurs in the writings of the famous Calvinistic divine, William Perkins (1558-1602), sometime Rector of St. Andrew’s, Cambridge. Thence it was extracted for The Spectator.

In Mat Lewis’ ghoulish romance, The Monk (1796) it will be remembered that Ambrosio, after having enjoyed Antonia, to whose bedchamber he has gained admittance by demoniacal aid, discovers that she is his sister, and heaping crime upon crime to sorcery and rape he has added incest.

There is a tragic little novel, ‘The Illegal Lovers; a True Secret History. Being an Amour Between A Person of Condition and his Sister. Written by One who did reside in the Family.’ (8vo, 1728.) After the death of his wife, Bellario falls in love with his sister Lindamira. Various sentimental letters pass between the two, and eventually Bellario in despair pistols himself. The lady lives to wed another admirer. The tale was obviously suggested by the Love Letters between a Nobleman and his Sister.

THE DUMB VIRGIN:
or, the Force of Imagination.

Rinaldo, a Senator of the great City Venice, by a plentiful Inheritance, and industrious Acquisitions, was become Master of a very plentiful Estate; which, by the Countenance of his Family, sprung from the best Houses in Italy, had rendred him extreamly popular and honoured; he had risen to the greatest Dignities of that State, all which Offices he discharged with Wisdom and Conduct, befitting the Importance of his Charge, and Character of the Manager; but this great Person had some Accident in his Children, sufficient to damp all the Pleasure of his more smiling Fortunes; he married when young, a beautiful and virtuous Lady, who had rendred him the happy Father of a Son; but his Joys were soon disturbed by the following Occasion.

There stands an Island in the Adriatick Sea, about twenty Leagues from Venice, a Place wonderfully pleasant in the Summer, where Art and Nature seem to out-rival each other, or seem rather to combine in rendring it the most pleasant of their products; being placed under the most benign climate in the World, and situated exactly between Italy and Greece, it appears an entire Epitome of all the Pleasures in them both; the proper glories of the Island were not a little augmented by the confluence of Gentlemen and Ladies of the chiefest Rank in the City, insomuch that this was a greater mark for Beauty and Gallantry, than Venice for Trade. Among others Rinaldo’s Lady begged her Husband’s permission to view this so much celebrated place.

He was unwilling to trust his treasure to the treachery of the watry element; but repeating her request, he yielded to her desires, his love not permitting him the least shew of command, and so thro’ its extent, conspiring its own destruction. His Lady with her young Son (whom she would not trust from her sight) and a splendid attendance in a Barge well fitted, sets out for the Island, Rinaldo being detained at home himself about some important affairs relating to the publick, committed the care of his dear Wife and Child to a faithful Servant call’d Gaspar; and for their greater security against Pyrates, had obtained his Brother, who commanded a Venetian Galley, to attend them as Convoy. In the evening they set out from Venice, with a prosperous gale, but a storm arising in the night, soon separated the Barge from her Convoy, and before morning drove her beyond the designed Port, when, instead of discovering the wish’d-for Island, they could see a Turkish Pyrate bearing towards them, with all her Sail; their late apprehensions of Shipwrack, were drowned in the greater danger of Captivity and lasting Slavery, their fears drove some into resolutions as extravagant as the terrors that caused them, but the confusion of all was so tumultuous, and the designs so various, that nothing could be put in execution for the publick safety; the greatest share of the passengers being Ladies, added strangely to the consternation; beauty always adds a pomp to woe, and by its splendid show, makes sorrow look greater and more moving. Some by their piteous plaints and wailings proclaimed their griefs aloud, whilst others bespoke their sorrows more emphatically by sitting mournfully silent; the fears of some animated them to extravagant actions, whilst the terrors of others were so mortifying, that they shewed no sign of Life, but by their trembling; some mourned the rigour of their proper fate, others conscious of the sorrows their Friends and Relations should sustain through their loss, made the griefs of them their own; but the heaviest load of misfortunes lay on Rinaldo’s Lady, besides the loss of her liberty, the danger of her honour, the separation from her dear Husband, the care for her tender Infant wrought rueful distractions; she caught her Child in her Arms, and with Tears extorted thro’ Fear and Affection, she deplor’d the Misfortune of her Babe, the pretty Innocent smiling in the Embraces of its Mother, shew’d that Innocence cou’d deride the Persecution of Fortune; at length she delivered the Infant into the Hand of Gasper, begging him to use all Endeavours in its Preservation, by owning it for his, when they fell into the Hands of the Enemy.

But Gasper, who amidst the universal Consternation, had a peculiar Regard to his own Safety, and Master’s Interest, undertook a Design desperately brave. Two long Planks, which lay lengthwise in the Barge, as Seats, he had ty’d together with Ropes, and taking the Infant from the Mother, whilst the whole Vessel was in a distracted Confusion, he fast’ned it to the Planks, and shoving both over-board before him, plung’d into the Sea after, dragging the Planks that bore the Infant with one Hand, and swimming with t’other, making the next Land; he had swam about two hundred Paces from the Barge before his Exploit was discover’d, but then the Griefs of Rinaldo’s Lady were doubly augmented, seeing her Infant expos’d to the Fury of the merciless Winds and Waves, which she then judged more rigorous than the Turks; for to a weak Mind, that Danger works still the strongest, that’s most in View; but when the Pirate, who by this time had fetch’d them within Shot, began to Fire, she seem’d pleas’d that her Infant was out of that Hazard, tho’ exposed to a greater. Upon their Sign of yielding, the Turk launching out her Boat, brought them all on board her; but she had no time to examine her Booty, being saluted by a Broadside, vigorously discharg’d from a Venetian Galley, which bore down upon them, whilst they were taking aboard their Spoil; this Galley was that commanded by Rinaldo’s Brother, which cruising that Way in quest of the Barge, happily engag’d the Turk, before they had Leisure to offer any Violence to the Ladies, and plying her warmly the Space of two Hours, made her a Prize, to the inexpressible Joy of the poor Ladies, who all this time under Hatches, had sustain’d the Horrors of ten thousand Deaths by dreading one.

All the greater Dangers over, Rinaldo’s Lady began to reflect on the strange Riddle of her Son’s Fortune, who by shunning one Fate, had (in all Probability) fallen into a worse, for they were above ten Leagues from any Land, and the Sea still retain’d a Roughness, unsettled since the preceeding Storm; she therefore begg’d her Brother-in-Law to Sail with all Speed in Search of her Son and Gasper; but all in vain, for cruising that Day, and the succeeding Night along the Coasts, without making any Discovery of what they sought, he sent a Boat to be inform’d by the Peasants, of any such Landing upon their Coast; but they soon had a dismal Account, finding the Body of Gasper thrown dead on the Sand, and near to him the Planks, the unhappy Occasion of his Flight, and the Faithless Sustainers of the Infant. So thinking these mournful Objects Testimonies enough of the Infant’s Loss, they return’d with the doleful Relation to their Captain and the Lady; her Grief at the recital of the Tragic Story, had almost transported her to Madness; what Account must she now make to the mournful Father, who esteem’d this Child the chief Treasure of his Life; she fear’d, that she might forfeit the Affection of a Husband, by being the unfortunate Cause of so great a Loss; but her Fears deceiv’d her, for altho’ her Husband, receiv’d her with great Grief, ’twas nevertheless moderated by the Patience of a Christian, and the Joy for recovering his beloved Lady.

This Misfortune was soon lessen’d by the growing Hopes of another Off-spring, which made them divest their Mourning, to make Preparations for the joyful Reception of this new Guest into the World; and upon its Appearance their Sorrows were redoubled, ’twas a Daughter, its Limbs were distorted, its Back bent, and tho’ the face was the freest from Deformity, yet had it no Beauty to Recompence the Dis-symetry of the other Parts; Physicians being consulted in this Affair, derived the Cause from the Frights and dismal Apprehensions of the Mother, at her being taken by the Pyrates; about which time they found by Computation, the Conception of the Child to be; the Mother grew very Melancholy, rarely speaking, and not to be comforted by any Diversion. She conceiv’d again, but no hopes of better Fortune cou’d decrease her Grief, which growing with her Burden, eased her of both at once, for she died in Child-birth, and left the most beautiful Daughter to the World that ever adorn’d Venice, but naturally and unfortunately Dumb, which defect the learn’d attributed to the Silence and Melancholy of the Mother, as the Deformity of the other was to the Extravagance of her Frights.

Rinaldo, waving all Intentions of a second Marriage, directs his Thoughts to the Care of his Children, their Defects not lessening his Inclination, but stirring up his Endeavours in supplying the Defaults of Nature by the Industry of Art; he accordingly makes the greatest Provision for their Breeding and Education, which prov’d so effectual in a little Time, that their Progress was a greater Prodigy than themselves.

The Eldest, called Belvideera, was indefatigably addicted to Study, which she had improv’d so far, that by the sixteenth Year of her Age, she understood all the European Languages, and cou’d speak most of’em, but was particularly pleas’d with the English, which gave me the Happiness of many Hours Conversation with her; and I may ingenuously declare, ’twas the most Pleasant I ever enjoy’d, for besides a piercing Wit, and depth of Understanding peculiar to herself, she delivered her Sentiments with that easiness and grace of Speech, that it charm’d all her Hearers.

The Beauties of the second Sister, nam’d Maria, grew with her Age, every twelve Months saluting her with a New-years Gift of some peculiar Charm; her Shapes were fine set off with a graceful and easy Carriage; the Majesty and Softness of her Face, at once wrought Love and Veneration; the Language of her Eyes sufficiently paid the Loss of her Tongue, and there was something so Commanding in her Look, that it struck every Beholder as dumb as herself; she was a great Proficient in Painting, which puts me in mind of a notable Story I can’t omit; her Father had sent for the most Famous Painter in Italy to draw her Picture, she accordingly sat for it; he had drawn some of the Features of her Face; and coming to the Eye, desired her to give him as brisk and piercing a Glance as she cou’d; but the Vivacity of her Look so astonished the Painter, that thro’ concern he let his Pencil drop and spoiled the Picture; he made a second Essay, but with no better Success, for rising in great Disorder, he swore it impossible to draw that which he cou’d not look upon; the Lady vexed at the Weakness of the Painter, took up his Pencils and the Picture, and sitting down to her Glass, finished it herself; she had improv’d her silent Conversation with her Sister so far, that she was understood by her, as if she had spoke, and I remember this Lady was the first I saw use the significative Way of Discourse by the Fingers; I dare not say ’twas she invented it (tho’ it probably might have been an Invention of these ingenious Sisters) but I am positive none before her ever brought it to that Perfection.

In the seventeenth of Belvideera’s, and sixteenth Year of Maria’s Age, Francisco, Brother to Rinaldo, was made Admiral of the Venetian Fleet, and upon his first Entrance upon his Command, had obtained a signal Victory over the Turks; he returning to Venice with Triumph, applause and spoil, presented to the great Duke a young English Gentleman, who only as a Volunteer in the Action, had signalized himself very bravely in the Engagement, but particularly by first boarding the Turkish Admiral Galley, and killing her Commander hand to hand; the Fame of this Gentleman soon spread over all Venice, and the two Sisters sent presently for me, to give an Account of the Exploits of my Countryman, as their Unkle had recounted it to them; I was pleas’d to find so great an Example of English Bravery, so far from Home, and long’d extreamly to converse with him, vainly flattering myself, that he might have been of my Acquaintance. That very Night there was a grand Ball and Masquerade at the great Duke’s Palace, for the most signal Joy of the late Success, thither Belvideera invited me to Accompany her and Maria, adding withal as a Motive, that we might there most probably meet, and Discourse with this young Hero; and equipping me with a Suit of Masquerade, they carried me in their Coach to the Ball, where we had pass’d half an Hour, when I saw enter a handsom Gentleman in a rich English Dress; I show’d him to Belvideera, who moving towards him, with a gallant Air, slaps him on the Shoulder with her Fan, he turning about, and viewing her Person, the Defaults of which were not altogether hidden by her Disguise; ‘Sir, (said he) if you are a Man, know that I am one, and will not bear Impertinence; but, if you are a Lady, Madam, as I hope in Heavens you are not, I must inform you, that I am under a Vow, not to converse with any Female to Night;’ ‘Know then, Sir, (answered Belvideera very smartly) that I am a Female, and you have broke your Vow already; but methinks, Sir, the Ladies are very little oblig’d to your Vow, which wou’d rob them of the Conversation of so fine a Gentleman.’

‘Madam, (said the Gentleman) the Sweetness of your Voice bespeaks you a Lady, and I hope the breaking my Vow will be so far from Damning me, that I shall thereby merit Heaven, if I may be blest in your Divine Conversation.’ Belvideera made such ingenious and smart Repartees to the Gentleman, who was himself a great Courtier, that he was entirely captivated with her Wit, insomuch, that he cou’d not refrain making Protestations of his Passion; he talked about half an Hour in such pure Italian, that I began to mistrust my Englishman, wherefore taking some Occasion to jest upon his Habit, I found ’twas only a Masquerade to cloak a down-right Venetian; in the mean Time, we perceiv’d a Gentleman Gallantly attir’d with no Disguise but a Turkish Turbant on, the richliest beset with Jewels I ever saw; he addressed Maria with all the Mien and Air of the finest Courtier; he had talked to her a good while before we heard him, but then Belvideera, knowing her poor Sister uncapable of any Defence, ‘Sir, (said she to the Venetian,) yonder is a Lady of my Acquaintance, who lies under a Vow of Silence as you were, I must therefore beg your Pardon, and fly to her Relief’: ‘She can never be conquer’d, who has such a Champion,’ (reply’d the Gentleman) upon which Belvideera turning from him, interpos’d between the Gentleman and her Sister, saying, ‘This Lady, Sir, is under an Obligation of Silence, as a Penance imposed by her Father-Confessor.’ ‘Madam, (reply’d the Gentleman) whoever impos’d Silence on these fair Lips, is guilty of a greater Offence than any, such a fair Creature cou’d commit.’ ‘Why, Sir, (said Belvideera) have you seen the Lady’s Beauty’: ‘Yes, Madam, (answer’d he) for urging her to talk, which I found she declin’d, I promis’d to disengage her from any farther Impertinence, upon a Sight of her Face; she agreed by paying the Price of her Liberty, which was ransom enough for any Thing under Heavens, but her fair Company’; he spoke in an Accent that easily shew’d him a Stranger; which Belvideera laying hold of, as an Occasion of Railery, ‘Sir, (said she,) your Tongue pronounces you a great Stranger in this Part of the World, I hope you are not what that Turbant represents; perhaps, Sir, you think your self in the Seraglio’; ‘Madam, (reply’d he,) this Turbant might have been in the Turkish Seraglio, but never in so fair a one as this; and this Turbant (taking it off) is now to be laid at the Foot of some Christian Lady, for whose safety, and by whose protecting Influence, I had the Happiness to win it from the Captain of the Turkish Admiral Galley.’ We were all surpriz’d, knowing him then the young English Gentleman, we were so curious of seeing; Belvideera presently talk’d English to him, and made him some very pretty Complements upon his Victory, which so charm’d the young Soldier, that her Tongue claim’d an equal Share in his Heart with Maria’s Eyes; ‘Madam, (said he to her) if you have the Beauty of that Lady, or if she has your Wit, I am the most happy, or the most unfortunate Man alive.’ ‘Sir,’ said the Venetian coming up, ‘pray give me leave to share in your Misfortunes.’ ‘Sir, (said Belvideera very smartly) you must share in his good Fortunes, and learn to conquer Men, before you have the Honour of being subdu’d by Ladies, we scorn mean Prizes, Sir.’ ‘Madam, (said the Venetian in some Choler) perhaps I can subdue a Rival.’ ‘Pray, Sir, (said the Stranger) don’t be angry with the Lady, she’s not your Rival I hope, Sir.’ Said the Venetian, ‘I can’t be angry at the Lady, because I love her; but my Anger must be levell’d at him, who after this Declaration dare own a Passion for her.’ ‘Madam, (said the English Gentleman turning from the Venetian) Honour now must extort a Confession from me, which the Awfulness of my Passion durst never have own’d: And I must declare,’ added he in a louder Voice, ‘to all the World, that I love you, lest this Gentleman shou’d think his Threats forc’d me to disown it.’ ‘O! then (said Belvideera) you’re his Rival in Honour, not in Love.’ ‘In honourable Love I am, Madam,’ answer’d the Stranger. ‘I’ll try,’ (said the Venetian, going off in Choler,) he Whisper’d a little to a Gentleman, that stood at some Distance, and immediately went out; this was Gonzago, a Gentleman of good Reputation in Venice, his Principles were Honour and Gallantry, but the Former often sway’d by Passions, rais’d by the Latter. All this while, Maria and I were admiring the Stranger, whose Person was indeed wonderfully Amiable; his Motions were exact, yet free and unconstrain’d; the Tone of his Voice carried a sweet Air of Modesty in it, yet were all his Expressions manly; and to summ up all, he was as fine an English Gentleman, as I ever saw Step in the Mall.

Poor Maria never before envied her Sister the Advantage of Speech, or never deplor’d the Loss of her own with more Regret, she found something so Sweet in the Mien, Person, and Discourse of this Stranger, that her Eyes felt a dazling Pleasure in beholding him, and like flattering Mirrours represented every Action and Feature, with some heightning Advantage to her Imagination: Belvideera also had some secret Impulses of Spirit, which drew her insensibly into a great Esteem of the Gentleman; she ask’d him, by what good Genius, propitious to Venice, he was induced to Live so remote from his Country; he said, that he cou’d not imploy his Sword better than against the common Foe of Christianity; and besides, there was a peculiar Reason, which prompted him to serve there, which Time cou’d only make known. I made bold to ask him some peculiar Questions, about Affairs at Court, to most of which he gave Answers, that shew’d his Education liberal, and himself no Stranger to Quality; he call’d himself Dangerfield, which was a Name that so pleas’d me, that being since satisfied it was a Counterfeit, I us’d it in a Comedy of mine: We had talk’d ’till the greater Part of the Company being dispers’d, Dangerfield begg’d Leave to attend us to our Coach, and waiting us to the Door, the Gentleman, whom Gonzago whisper’d, advanc’d and offer’d his Service to hand Maria; she declin’d it, and upon his urging, she turn’d to the other Side of Dangerfield, who, by this Action of the Ladies finding himself intitled to her Protection, ‘Sir, (said he) Favours from great Beauties, as from great Monarchs, must flow Voluntarily, not by Constraint, and whosoever wou’d extort from either, are liable to the great Severity of Punishment.’ ‘Oh! Sir, (reply’d the Venetian very arrogantly,) I understand not your Monarchy, we live here under a free State; besides, Sir, where there is no Punishment to be dreaded, the Law will prove of little Force; and so, Sir, by your Leave,’ offering to push him aside, and lay hold on the Lady. Dangerfield returned the Justle so vigorously, that the Venetian fell down the Descent of some Stairs at the Door, and broke his Sword: Dangerfield leap’d down after him, to prosecute his Chastizement, but seeing his Sword broken, only whisper’d him, that if he wou’d meet him next Morning at Six, at the Back-part of St. Mark’s Church, he wou’d satisfie him for the Loss of his Sword; upon which, the Venetian immediately went off, cursing his ill Fate, that prevented his quarrelling with Dangerfield, to whom he had born a grudging Envy ever since his Success in the late Engagement, and of whom, and his Lodgings, he had given Gonzago an Account, when he whisper’d him at the Ball. Dangerfield left us full of his Praises, and went home to his Lodgings, where he found a Note directed to him to this Effect:

SIR,

You declared Publickly at the Ball, you were my Rival in Love and Honour: If you dare prove it by Maintaining it, I shall be to morrow Morning at Six, at the Back-part of St. Mark’s Church, where I shall be ready to fall a Sacrifice to both.

Gonzago.

Dangerfield, on the Perusal of this Challenge, began to reflect on the Strangeness of that Evening’s Adventure, which had engag’d him in a Passion for two Mistresses, and involv’d him in two Duels; and whether the Extravagance of his Passion, or the Oddness of his Fighting-Appointments, were most remarkable, he found hard to Determine; his Love was divided between the Beauty of one Lady, and Wit of another, either of which he loved passionately, yet nothing cou’d satisfy him, but the Possibility of enjoying both. He had appointed the Gentleman at the Ball to meet him at the same Time and Place, which Gonzago’s Challenge to him imported; this Disturbance employed his Thought till Morning, when rising and dressing himself very richly, he walked to the appointed Place. Erizo, who was the Gentleman whose Sword he had broke, was in the Place before him; and Gonzago entered at the same Time with him. Erizo, was surprized to see Gonzago, as much as he was to find Erizo there. ‘I don’t remember, Friend (said Gonzago) that I desired your Company here this Morning.’ ‘As much as I expected yours,’ answered Erizo. ‘Come, Gentlemen, (said Dangerfield, interrupting them) I must fight you both, it seems: which shall I dispatch first?’ ‘Sir, (said Erizo) you challeng’d me, and therefore I claim your Promise.’ ‘Sir, (reply’d Gonzago) he must require the same of me first, as I challenged him.’ Said Erizo, ‘the Affront I received was unpardonable, and therefore I must fight him first, lest if he fall by your Hands, I be depriv’d of my Satisfaction.’ ‘Nay (reply’d Gonzago) my Love and Honour being laid at Stake, first claims his Blood; and therefore, Sir, (continued he to Dangerfield) defend yourself.’ ‘Hold (said Erizo interposing,) if you thrust home, you injure me, your Friend.’ ‘You have forfeited that title, (said Gonzago all in Choler,) and therefore if you stand not aside, I’ll push at you.’ ‘Thrust home then, (said Erizo) and take what follows.’ They immediately assaulted each other vigorously. ‘Hold, Gentlemen, (said Dangerfield striking down their Swords) by righting your selves you injure me, robbing me of that Satisfaction, which you both owe me, and therefore, Gentlemen, you shall fight me, before any private Quarrel among your selves defraud me of my Revenge, and so one or both of you,’ thrusting first at Erizo. ‘I’m your Man,’ (said Gonzago) parrying the Thrust made at Erizo. The Clashing of so many Swords alarm’d some Gentlemen at their Mattins in the Church, among whom was Rinaldo, who since the Death of his Wife, had constantly attended Morning-Service at the Church, wherein she was buried. He with Two or Three more, upon the Noise ran out, and parting the three Combatants, desired to know the Occasion of their Promiscuous Quarrel. Gonzago and Erizo knowing Rinaldo, gave him an Account of the Matter, as also who the Stranger was. Rinaldo was overjoy’d to find the brave Britain, whom he had received so great a Character of, from his Brother the Admiral, and accosting him very Courteously, ‘Sir, (said he) I am sorry our Countrymen shou’d be so Ungrateful as to Injure any Person, who has been so Serviceable to the State; and pray, Gentlemen, (added he, addressing the other two) be intreated to suspend your Animosities, and come Dine with me at my House, where I hope to prevail with you to end your Resentments.’ Gonzago and Erizo hearing him Compliment the Stranger at their Expence, told him in a Rage, they wou’d chuse some other Place than his House, to end their Resentments in, and walk’d off. Dangerfield, on Rinaldo’s farther Request, accompanied him to his House.

Maria had newly risen, and with her Night-gown only thrown loose about her, had look’d out of the Window, just as her Father and Dangerfield were approaching the Gate, at the same Instant she cast her Eyes upon Dangerfield, and he accidentally look’d up to the Window where she stood, their Surprize was mutual, but that of Dangerfield the greater; he saw such an amazing Sight of Beauty, as made him doubt the Reality of the Object, or distrust the Perfection of his Sight; he saw his dear Lady, who had so captivated him the preceeding Day, he saw her in all the heightning Circumstances of her Charms, he saw her in all her native Beauties, free from the Incumbrance of Dress, her Hair as black as Ebony, hung flowing in careless Curls over her Shoulders, it hung link’d in amorous Twinings, as if in Love with its own Beauties; her Eyes not yet freed from the Dullness of the late Sleep, cast a languishing Pleasure in their Aspect, which heaviness of Sight added the greatest Beauties to those Suns, because under the Shade of such a Cloud, their Lustre cou’d only be view’d; the lambent Drowsiness that play’d upon her Face, seem’d like a thin Veil not to hide, but to heighten the Beauty which it cover’d; her Night-gown hanging loose, discover’d her charming Bosom, which cou’d bear no Name, but Transport, Wonder and Extasy, all which struck his Soul, as soon as the Object hit his Eye; her Breasts with an easy Heaving, show’d the Smoothness of her Soul and of her Skin; their Motions were so languishingly soft, that they cou’d not be said to rise and fall, but rather to swell up towards Love, the Heat of which seem’d to melt them down again; some scatter’d jetty Hairs, which hung confus’dly over her Breasts, made her Bosom show like Venus caught in Vulcan’s Net, but ’twas the Spectator, not she, was captivated. This Dangerfield saw, and all this at once, and with Eyes that were adapted by a preparatory Potion; what must then his Condition be? He was stricken with such Amazement, that he was forced to Support himself, by leaning on Rinaldo’s Arm, who started at his sudden Indisposition. ‘I’m afraid, Sir, (said he) you have received some Wound in the Duel.’ ‘Oh! Sir, (said he) I am mortally wounded’; but recollecting himself after a little Pause, ‘now I am better.’ Rinaldo wou’d have sent for a Surgeon to have it searched. ‘Your pardon, Sir, (said Dangerfield) my Indisposition proceeds from an inward Malady, not by a Sword, but like those made by Achilles’s Spear, nothing can cure, but what gave the Wound.’ Rinaldo guessing at the Distemper, but not the Cause of it, out of good Manners declined any further enquiry, but conducting him in, entertained him with all the Courtesy imaginable; but in half a Hour, a Messenger came from the Senate, requiring his immediate Attendance; he lying under an indispensable Necessity of making his personal Appearance, begg’d Dangerfield’s Pardon, intreating him to stay, and command his House till his return, and conducting him to a fine Library, said he might there find Entertainment, if he were addicted to Study; adding withal, as a farther Engagement of his Patience, that he should meet the Admiral at the Senate, whom he wou’d bring home as an Addition to their Company at Dinner. Dangerfield needed none of these Motives to stay, being detained by a secret Inclination to the Place; walking therefore into the Library, Rinaldo went to the Senate. Dangerfield when alone, fell into deep Ruminating on his strange Condition, he knew himself in the House, with one of his dear Charmers, but durst not hope to see her, which added to his Torment; like Tantalus remov’d the farther from Happiness, by being nearer to it, contemplated so far on the Beauties of that dear Creature, that he concluded, if her Wit were like that of his t’other Mistress, he wou’d endeavour to confine his Passion wholly to that Object.

In the mean Time, Maria was no less confounded, she knew herself in Love with a Stranger, whose Residence was uncertain, she knew her own Modesty in concealing it; and alas! she knew her Dumbness uncapable of ever revealing it, at least, it must never expect any Return; she had gather’d from her Sister’s Discourse, that she was her Rival; a Rival, who had the Precedency in Age, as the Advantage in Wit, and Intreague, which want of Speech render’d her uncapable of; these Reflections, as they drew her farther from the dear Object, brought her nearer Despair; her Sister was gone that Morning with her Unkle, the Admiral, about two Miles from Venice, to drink some Mineral Waters, and Maria finding nothing to divert her, goes down to her Father’s Library, to ease her Melancholy by reading. She was in the same loose Habit in which she appeared at the Window, her Distraction of Thought not permitting her any Care in dressing herself; she enter’d whilst Dangerfield’s Thoughts were bent by a full Contemplation of her Idea, insomuch that his Surprize represented her as a Phantom only, created by the Strength of his Fancy; her depth of Thought had cast down her Eyes in a fix’d Posture so low, that she discover’d not Dangerfield, till she stood close where he sat, but then so sudden an Appearance of what she so lov’d, struck so violently on her Spirits, that she fell in a Swoon, and fell directly into Dangerfield’s Arms; this soon wakened him from his Dream of Happiness, to a Reality of Bliss, he found his Phantom turn’d into the most charming Piece of Flesh and Blood that ever was, he found her, whom just now he despair’d of seeing; he found her with all her Beauties flowing loose in his Arms, the Greatness of the Pleasure rais’d by the two heightning Circumstances of Unexpectancy and Surprize, was too large for the Capacity of his Soul, he found himself beyond Expression happy, but could not digest the Surfeit; he had no sooner Leisure to consider on his Joy, but he must reflect on the Danger of her that caus’d it, which forced him to suspend his Happiness to administer some Relief to her expiring Senses: He had a Bottle of excellent Spirits in his Pocket, which holding to her Nose, soon recover’d her; she finding herself in the Arms of a Man, and in so loose a Dress, blush’d now more red, than she look’d lately pale; and disengaging herself in a Confusion, wou’d have flung from him; but he gently detaining her by a precarious Hold, threw himself on his Knees, and with the greatest Fervency of Passion cry’d out: ‘For Heavens sake, dearest Creature, be not offended at the accidental Blessing which Fortune, not Design, hath cast upon me; (She wou’d have rais’d him up,) No Madam, (continu’d he) never will I remove from this Posture, ’till you have pronounc’d my Pardon; I love you, Madam, to that Degree, that if you leave me in a distrust of your Anger, I cannot survive it; I beg, intreat, conjure you to speak, your Silence torments me worse than your Reproaches cou’d; am I so much disdain’d, that you will not afford me one Word?’ The lamentable Plight of the wretched Lady every one may guess, but no Body can comprehend; she saw the dearest of Mankind prostrate at her Feet, and imploring what she wou’d as readily grant as he desire, yet herself under a Necessity of denying his Prayers, and her own easy Inclinations. The Motions of her Soul, wanting the freedom of Utterance, were like to tear her Heart asunder by so narrow a Confinement, like the force of Fire pent up, working more impetuously; ’till at last he redoubling his Importunity, her Thoughts wanting Conveyance by the Lips, burst out at her Eyes in a Flood of Tears; then moving towards a Writing-Desk, he following her still on his Knees, amidst her Sighs and Groans she took Pen and Paper, writ two Lines, which she gave him folded up, then flinging from him, ran up to her Chamber: He strangely surpriz’d at this odd manner of Proceeding, opening the Paper, read the following Words: