St. Jago de Cuba.
The French emigrants begin to seek in their talents some resource from the frightful poverty to which they are reduced, but meet with very little encouragement. The people here are generally poor, and unaccustomed to expensive pleasures. A company of comedians are building a theatre; and some subscription balls have been given, at which the Spanish ladies were quite eclipsed by the French belles, notwithstanding their losses.
Madame D——, of Jeremie, who plays and sings divinely, gave a concert, which was very brilliant.
The French women are certainly charming creatures in society. The cheerfulness with which they bear misfortune, and the industry they employ to procure themselves a subsistence, cannot be sufficiently admired. I know ladies who from their infancy were surrounded by slaves, anticipating their slightest wishes, now working from the dawn of day till midnight to support themselves and their families. Nor do they even complain, nor vaunt their industry, nor think it surprising that they possess it. Their neatness is worthy of admiration, and their taste gives to their attire an air of fashion which the expensive, but ill-chosen, ornaments of the Spanish ladies cannot attain. With one young lady I am particularly acquainted whose goodness cannot be sufficiently admired. Ah! Eliza, how shall I describe thy sweetness, thy fidelity, thy devotion to a suffering friend. Why am I not rich that I could place thee in a situation where thy virtues might be known, thy talents honoured. Alas! I never so deeply regret my own want of power as when reflecting that I am unable to be useful to you.
This amiable girl was left by her parents, who went to Charleston at the beginning of the revolution, to the care of an aunt, who was very rich, and without children. At the evacuation of Port-au-Prince, that lady embarked for this place. Her husband died on the passage; and they were robbed of every thing they possessed by an English privateer. The father of Eliza wrote for them to join him in Carolina; but the ill health of madame L—— would not suffer her to undertake the voyage, and Eliza will not hear of leaving her, but works day and night to procure for her aunt the comforts her situation requires. She is young, beautiful and accomplished. She wastes her bloom over the midnight lamp, and sacrifices her health and her rest to soothe the sufferings of her infirm relation. Her patience and mildness are angelic. Where will such virtues meet their reward? Certainly not in this country; and she is held here by the ties of gratitude and affection which, to a heart like hers, are indissoluble.
In the misfortunes of my French friends, I see clearly exemplified the advantages of a good education. Every talent, even if possessed in a slight degree of perfection, may be a resource in a reverse of fortune; and, though I liked not entirely their manner, whilst surrounded by the festivity and splendour of the Cape, I now confess that they excite my warmest admiration. They bear adversity with cheerfulness, and resist it with fortitude. In the same circumstances I fear I should be inferior to them in both. But in this country, slowly emerging from a state of barbarism, what encouragement can be found for industry or talents? The right of commerce was purchased by the Catalonians, who alone exercise it, and agriculture is destroyed in consequence of the restraints imposed on it by the government. The people are poor, and therefore cannot possess talents whose acquisition is beyond their reach; but they are temperate, even to a proverb, and so hospitable that the poorest among them always find something to offer to a stranger. At the same time they are said to be false, treacherous, and revengeful, to the highest degree. Certainly there are here no traces of that magnanimous spirit, which once animated the Spanish cavalier, who was considered by the whole world as a model of constancy, tenderness and heroism.
They feel for the distressed, because they are poor; and are hospitable because they know want. In every other respect this is a degenerate race, possessing none of the qualities of the Spaniards of old except jealousy, which is often the cause of tragical events.
A young gentleman of this place fell in love with a beautiful girl who rejected him because she was secretly attached to another. Her lover was absent; and she feared to avow her passion lest his rival might use some means to destroy him, for she knew he was cruel and vindictive; but her lover returning, she declared her attachment, and declined receiving the visits of him who had pretended to her hand. A few evenings previous to that fixed on for her marriage, she was returning from church with her mother, when at the door of her house a man, wrapped in a large cloak, seized her arm, and plunging a dagger in her breast, fled, leaving her lifeless on the ground. The cries of her affrighted mother brought people to her assistance, but the blow was directed by a secure hand; she breathed no more. Every body was convinced that the perpetrator of this abominable act was her rejected lover; but, as no proofs existed, the law could not interfere. Shortly after he was found dead in the street; and probably it was the hand of him he had driven to despair, that inflicted the punishment due to his crime.
Nothing is more common than such events. They excite little attention, and are seldom enquired into. How different is this from the peaceful security of the country in which I first drew breath, and to which I so ardently, but I fear hopelessly, desire to return.
St. Jago de Cuba.
General Rochambeau, after having made a shameful capitulation with the negroes, has evacuated the Cape. He presented his superb horses to Dessalines, and then embarked with his suite, and all the inhabitants who chose to follow him, intending to fight his way through the British ships. They were, however, soon overpowered and taken. The English admiral would not admit the general in chief into his presence. He has been sent to Jamaica, from whence he will be transported to England.
Many of the inhabitants of the Cape have arrived here, after having lost every thing they possessed. Numbers have remained. After the articles of capitulation were signed three days were allowed for the evacuation, during which the negroes entered the town, and were so civil and treated the inhabitants with so much kindness and respect, that many who had embarked their effects, allured by the prospect of making a fortune rapidly, paid great sums to have them relanded, supposing they would be protected as they had been in the time of Toussaint. But in less than a week they found that they had flattered themselves with false hopes. A proclamation was issued by Dessalines, in which every white man was declared an enemy of the indigenes, as they call themselves, and their colour alone deemed sufficient to make them hated and to devote them to destruction. The author of this eloquent production, a white man, became himself the first sacrifice.
The destined victims were assembled in a public square, where they were slaughtered by the negroes with the most unexampled cruelty. One brave man, who had often distinguished himself in the defence of the Cape, and who had been weak enough to stay in it, seized with desperate fury the sword of one of the negroes, and killing several, at length fell, overpowered by numbers. A few were preserved from this day's massacre by their slaves. Some were concealed by the American merchants, though it was very dangerous to venture on such benevolent actions. One vessel was searched, and several inhabitants being found on board, they were taken and hanged. The mate of the vessel, though an American, shared their fate. The captain saved himself by declaring that he was ignorant of their being on board. Major B——, whom I have so often mentioned, had also the folly to stay. One of his slaves concealed him on the day of the massacre, and, shut up in a hogshead, he was put on board an American vessel. After many perilous adventures he has arrived here, and relates scenes which cannot be thought of without horror.
The women have not yet been killed; but they are exposed to every kind of insult, are driven from their houses, imprisoned, sent to work on the public roads; in fine, nothing can be imagined more dreadful than their situation.
Two amiable girls, whom I knew, hung to the neck of their father when the negroes seized him. They wept and entreated these monsters to spare him; but he was torn rudely from their arms. The youngest, attempting to follow him, received a blow on the head with a musquet which laid her lifeless on the ground. The eldest, frantic with terror, clung to her father, when a ruthless negro pierced her with his bayonet, and she fell dead at his feet. The hapless father gave thanks to God that his unfortunate children had perished before him, and had not been exposed to lingering suffering's and a more dreadful fate.
Some ladies have found protectors in the American merchants, who conceal them in their stores. Some have been saved by the British officers; but the greatest number have been driven into the streets, and many are forced to carry on their heads baskets of cannon balls from the arsenal to the fosset, a distance of at least three miles.
I enquired after a most accomplished and exemplary woman, who with three beautiful daughters remained at the Cape after the evacuation, and I have wept at the story of their sufferings till I am unable to relate them.
What could have induced these infatuated people to confide in the promises of the negroes? Yet to what will not people submit to avoid the horrors of poverty, or allured by the hope of making a rapid fortune.
During the reign of Toussaint the white inhabitants had been generally respected, and many of them, engaging in commerce, had accumulated money which they sent to the United States, where they are now living at their ease. Even at the arrival of the French fleet, the lives of the people, except in a few solitary instances, had been spared. These considerations had without doubt great weight, but alas! how soon were their hopes blasted, and how dearly have they paid for their credulity. Yet even these monsters, thirsting after blood, and unsated with carnage, preserved from among the devoted victims those whose talents could be useful to themselves. A printer and several artists have been suffered to live, but are closely guarded, and warned that their lives will be the forfeit of the first attempt to escape. With the sword suspended over their heads they still cherish perhaps a secret hope of eluding the vigilance of their savage masters.
St. Jago de Cuba.
Madame G——, a native of the Gonaives, having lost her husband at the beginning of the revolution, left St. Domingo, and sought a retreat from the horrors that ravaged that devoted island in the peaceful obscurity of Barracoa. Three infant daughters cheered her solitude; and she found in cultivating their minds a never failing source of delight. Some faithful slaves who had followed her, supplied by their industry her wants. The beauty of her person, the elegance of her manners and the propriety of her conduct, rendered her the admiration of all who beheld her, whilst her benevolence, which shared with the poor the scanty pittance she possessed, made her the idol of those whose wants she relieved. Thus she lived, contented, if not happy, till the arrival of the French army at St. Domingo recalled its inhabitants to their deserted homes.
Madame G——, lured by the hope of reinstating her children in their paternal inheritance, left Barracoa, followed by the blessings and regret of all to whom she was known. On arriving at the Cape she found a heap of ashes, and shuddered with horror at the dreary aspect of her native country. But she viewed her children, recollected that on her exertions they depended, and determined to sacrifice every thought of comfort to their advancement. Some houses she owned in the Cape, upon being rebuilt, promised to yield her a handsome revenue; and she passed in anxious expectation the time during which the army kept possession of the Cape. At length the moment of the evacuation arrived, and the wretched Creoles were again reduced to the dreadful alternative of perishing with want in foreign countries, or of becoming victims to the rage of the exasperated negroes in their own. Whilst Madame G—— hesitated, she received a letter from one of the black chiefs, who had been a slave to her mother. He advised her not to think of leaving the country; assured her that it was the intention of Dessalines to protect all the white inhabitants who put confidence in him, and that herself and her children would be particularly respected. The dread of poverty in a strange country with three girls, the eldest of whom was only fifteen, induced her to stay. Many others, with less reason to expect protection, followed her example.
When the time allowed for the evacuation had expired, the negroes entered as masters. During the first days reigned a deceitful calm which was followed by a dreadful storm.
The proclamation of Dessalines, mentioned in my last letter was published. Armed negroes entered the houses and drove the inhabitants into the streets. The men were led to prison, the women were loaded with chains. The unfortunate madame G——, chained to her eldest daughter, and the two youngest chained together, thus toiled, exposed to the sun, from earliest dawn to setting day, followed by negroes who, on the least appearance of faintness, drove them forward with whips. A fortnight later the general massacre took place, but the four hopeless beings of whom I particularly write, were not led to the field of slaughter. They were kept closely guarded, without knowing for what fate they were reserved, expecting every moment to hear their final sentence. They were sitting one day in mournful silence, when the door of their prison opened, and the chief, whose letter had induced them to stay, appeared. He saluted madame G—— with great familiarity, told her it was to his orders she owed her life, and said he would continue his friendship and protection if she would give him her eldest daughter in marriage. The wretched mother caught the terrified Adelaide, who sunk fainting into her arms. The menacing looks of the negro became more horrible. He advanced to seize the trembling girl. Touch her not, cried the frantic mother; death will be preferable to such protection. Turning coldly from her he said, You shall have your choice. A few minutes after a guard seized the mother and the two youngest daughters and carried them out, leaving the eldest insensible on the floor. They were borne to a gallows which had been erected before their prison, and immediately hanged. Adelaide was then carried to the house of the treacherous chief, who informed her of the fate of her mother, and asked her if she would consent to become his wife? ah! no, she replied, let me follow my mother. A fate more dreadful awaited her. The monster gave her to his guard, who hung her by the throat on an iron hook in the market place, where the lovely, innocent, unfortunate victim slowly expired.
St. Jago de Cuba.
I finished my last letter abruptly, my dear friend, but a good opportunity offered of sending it, and the story of madame G—— had so affected me that I could think of nothing else.
St. Louis is determined to buy a plantation here, and establish himself on it till he can return to St. Domingo. His old disease has seized him with fresh violence, and he intends to carry his wife beyond the reach of men. He is jealous of an interesting Spaniard who has lately been very assiduous towards my sister; and who is, I believe, much more dangerous than the redoubted general Rochambeau. His person is perfectly elegant; his face beautiful; his large black eyes seem to speak every emotion of his soul, but I believe they express only what he pleases. Clara listens to him, and looks at him as if she was fully sensible of his advantages, and frequently holds long conversations with him in his own language, which, if gestures deceive not, are on no uninteresting subject. But I hope, and would venture to assert, that she will never, to escape from the domestic ills she suffers, put her happiness in the power of a Spaniard. She is violent in her attachments, and precipitate in her movements, but she cannot, will not, be capable of committing such an unpardonable act of folly. All idea of her going to the continent is abandoned; and when I only breathe a hint of leaving her, she betrays such agony that I yield and promise to stay; yet I render her little service, and destroy myself, being wearied of this place, which has no charm after the gloss of novelty is gone, and that has been long since worn off.
A company of French comedians had built a theatre here, and obtained permission from the governor to perform. They played with eclat, and always to crowded houses. The Spaniards were delighted. The decorations, the scenery, above all the representation of the sea, appeared to them the effect of magic. But the charm was suddenly dissolved by an order from the bishop to close the theatre, saying, that it tended to corrupt the morals of the inhabitants. Nothing can be more ridiculous, for the inhabitants of this island have long since reached the last degree of corruption; devoted to every species of vice, guilty of every crime, and polluted by the continued practice of every species of debauchery. But it is supposed the order was issued to vex the governor, with whom the bishop is at variance, and the orders of the latter are indisputable. It is impossible for him not to know that even the vices of the French lose much of their deformity by the refinement that accompanies them, whilst those of his countrymen are gross, disgusting, and monstrously flagrant. Gaming is their ruling passion; from morning till night, from night till morning, the men are at the gaming table. They all wear daggers, and a night very seldom passes without being marked by an assassination, of which no notice is taken. The women have recourse to intrigue, sipping chocolate, or reciting prayers on their rosaries. The custom is to dine at twelve, then to sleep till three, and this is the hour favourable to amorous adventures. Whilst the mother, the husband or the guardian sleeps, the lover silently approaches the window of his mistress, and in smothered accents breathes his passion. It is not at all uncommon to see priests so employed; nor are there more dangerous enemies to female virtue, or domestic tranquillity, than these pretended servants of the Lord.
I was at first shocked beyond measure, at their licentiousness, for I had been taught to consider priests as immaculate beings; but when I reflect that they are men, and doomed to an unnatural condition, I pardon their aberrations, and abhor only their filth, which is abominable. Consider how agreeable a monk must be in this hot country, clothed in woollen, without a shirt, without stockings, and his legs so dirty that their colour cannot be distinguished, to which is added a long beard; and yet these creatures are favourites with women of all ranks and all descriptions.
There are many religious orders here, among which the Franciscan friars are the richest, and they are also the most irregular in their conduct. They had begun, a number of years since, to build a church, which they were obliged to discontinue for want of funds. Shortly after our arrival here the wife of a very rich merchant fell dangerously ill. When her life was despaired of by the physicians, she made a vow to St. Francis, that if she recovered, she would finish his church. The saint, it seems, was propitious, for she was restored to health, and her husband instantly performed the promise of his wife, which has cost him a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The church was consecrated last week, with great pomp and due solemnity. The lady, who is certainly very beautiful, assisted at the ceremony, covered with diamonds, and displaying in her dress almost regal splendour. She kneeled on the steps of the great altar, and more than shared the adoration offered to the saint by the admiring multitude.
Half the money expended in this pious work would have raised thousands of the inhabitants of this place, who are in the greatest want, to comparative ease. But it would not if thus employed, have had such an effect on the minds of the people; nor would the lady have had any hope of becoming herself a saint, an honour to which she aspires, and which she may perhaps attain.
St. Jago de Cuba.
Clara and her husband are separated for ever! St. Louis is frantic, and I am distressed beyond measure. My heart is torn with anxiety for her fate, and I shall know no tranquillity till I hear that she is at least content. Being acquainted with many of the circumstances which led to this event, I pity and pardon her. As for the world, its sentence is already pronounced, and she will be condemned by those who possess not a thousandth part of her virtues. Her husband spares neither pains nor expense in searching after her retreat; but, though I am absolutely ignorant of it, I believe she is beyond his reach. His house is so disagreeable to me, since she left it, and the wry faces made by all our friends, seeming to involve me in the scandal occasioned by her elopement, excite such unpleasant sensations that it will be impossible for me to remain here. Therefore I shall leave this place immediately with a lady who is going to establish herself in Jamaica. I have always desired to see that island, and there I intend to stay till I have some positive information of Clara. If she is gone to the continent I shall follow her immediately; if she is in Cuba my friendship, my presence will console her, and they shall not be wanting. One of my friends, a man of intelligence and discretion, has promised to find her, if possible, and has promised also not to betray her, for she must never be restored to the power of her husband. Far from being an advocate for the breach of vows so sacred as those which bound her to St. Louis, I have always expressed with unqualified warmth, my disapprobation of the levity of many women who had abandoned their husbands. But there are circumstances which palliate error. Many of those which led to Clara's elopement plead for her; but if she has sought protection with another, if she will not accompany me, my heart renounces her, and she will no longer have a sister.
We sail in three days. St. Louis makes no objection to my going, and I leave Cuba without regret, for in it I have never been happy. Write to me at Kingston. Never was the assurance of your friendship more necessary to my heart than at this moment.
Kingston, Jamaica.
We arrived at Kingston after a passage of twenty-four hours. On entering the harbour our little vessel, as it passed near the admiral's ship, appeared like an ant at the foot of a mountain. Nothing is more delightful than the bustle and continual movement that strikes the eye on entering this port. Innumerable boats are continually plying round the vessels, offering for sale all the fruits of the season. I like the town. There is an air of neatness in the houses which I have no where seen since I left my own country; but the streets are detestable; none of them are paved, and at every step you sink ankle deep in sand.
I have found numbers of my French friends here, and among others madame M——, who was more than gallant at the Cape, and who at St. Jago appeared not insensible to the pleasure of being loved. She left her sister in a fit of jealousy and went to Jamaica, hoping to captivate some Englishman, or at least to rival him in his attachment to roast beef and Madeira. But it seems she has been disappointed, no lover having yet offered his homage to her robust attractions. She accuses them of wanting taste, and hates the place and all who inhabit it.
I have also met here my little friend Coralie, whose adventures since I parted with her at the Cape, have been distressing and romantic.
Her mother and herself had been persuaded to remain at the Cape, after the evacuation, by a brother on whom they entirely depended, and who, seduced by the hope of making a fortune, staid and shared the melancholy fate of the white inhabitants of that place. Coralie and her sister were concealed by an American merchant in his store, among sacks of coffee and boxes of sugar. Their mother had been led, with the rest of the women, to the field of slaughter.
The benevolent man who concealed these unfortunate girls at the risk of his life, after some weeks had elapsed, and the vigilance of the negroes a little relaxed, entreated the captain of an English frigate to receive them on board his vessel, to which he readily agreed. Disguised in sailors' clothes, and carrying baskets of provisions on their heads, they followed the captain to the sea side. As they approached the guard placed on the wharf to examine all that embarked, they trembled, and involuntarily drew back. But their brave protector told them that it was too late to recede and that he would defend them with his life. As the English were on the best terms with the negroes, the supposed boys were suffered to pass. On entering the ship the captain congratulated them on their escape, and Coralie, overpowered by a variety of sensations, fainted in the arms of her generous protector.
A few days after, they sailed for Jamaica. On entering Port Royal, the frigate was driven against a small vessel, and so damaged it, that it appeared to be sinking. The boat was instantly hoisted out, and the captain of the frigate went himself to the assistance of the sufferers. The passengers and crew jumped into the boat, and were making off, when the screams of a female were heard from below, and it was recollected that there was a sick lady in the cabin. The English captain descended, brought her up in his arms, and put her in the boat. Then, saying that the vessel was not so much injured as they imagined, ordered some of his people to assist him in saving many things that lay at hand. Four sailors jumped on board, and followed their commander to the cabin, where they had scarcely descended, when the vessel suddenly filled and sunk. They were irrecoverably lost.
Coralie, standing on the deck of the frigate, beheld this catastrophe, saw perish the man to whom she owed her life, and whose subsequent kindness had won her heart.
The lady found in the sinking vessel was her mother, who had escaped almost miraculously from the Cape, fully persuaded that her daughters existed no longer. The joy of their meeting was damped by the melancholy fate of their deliverer, which has been universally lamented.
The scenes of barbarity, which these girls have witnessed at the Cape, are almost incredible. The horror, however, which I felt on hearing an account of them, has been relieved by the relation of some more honourable to human nature. In the first days of the massacre, when the negroes ran through the town killing all the white men they encountered, a Frenchman was dragged from the place of his concealment by a ruthless mulatto, who, drawing his sabre, bade him prepare to die. The trembling victim raised a supplicating look, and the murderer, letting fall his uplifted arm, asked if he had any money. He replied, that he had none; but that if he would conduct him to the house of an American merchant he might probably procure any sum he might require. The mulatto consented, and when they entered the house, the Frenchman with all the energy of one pleading for his life, entreated the American to lend him a considerable sum. The gentleman he addressed was too well acquainted with the villainy of the negroes to trust to their word. He told the mulatto, that he would give the two thousand dollars demanded, but not till the Frenchman was embarked in a vessel which was going to sail in a few days for Philadelphia, and entirely out of danger. The mulatto refused. The unfortunate Frenchman wept, and the American kept firm. While they were disputing, a girl of colour, who lived with the American, entered, and having learned the story, employed all her eloquence to make the mulatto relent. She sunk at his feet, and pressed his hands which were reeking with blood. Dear brother, she said, spare for my sake this unfortunate man. He never injured you; nor will you derive any advantage from his death, and by saving him, you will acquire the sum you demand, and a claim to his gratitude. She was beautiful; she wept, and beauty in tears has seldom been resisted. Yet this unrelenting savage did resist; and swore, with bitter oaths to pursue all white men with unremitting fury. The girl, however, hung to him, repeated her solicitations, and offered him, in addition to the sum proposed, all her trinkets, which were of considerable value.
The mulatto, enraged, asked if the Frenchman was any thing to her? Nothing, she replied; I never saw him before; but to save the life of an innocent person how trifling would appear the sacrifice I offer. She continued her entreaties in the most caressing tone, which for some time had no effect, when softening all at once, he said, I will not deprive you of your trinkets, nor is it for the sum proposed that I relent, but for you alone, for to you I feel that I can refuse nothing. He shall be concealed, and guarded by myself till the moment of embarking; but, when he is out of danger, you must listen to me in your turn.
She heard him with horror; but, dissembling, said there would be always time enough to think of those concerns. She was then too much occupied by the object before her.
The American, who stood by and heard this proposal, made to one to whom he was extremely attached, felt disposed to knock the fellow down, but the piteous aspect of the almost expiring Frenchman withheld his hand. He gave the mulatto a note for the money he had demanded, on the conditions before mentioned, and the Frenchman was faithfully concealed till the vessel was ready to sail, and then embarked.
When he was gone, the mulatto called on the girl, and offering her the note, told her that he had accepted it as a matter of form, but that he now gave it to her; and reminded her of the promise she had made to listen to his wishes. Her lover entering at that moment told him that the vessel was then out of the harbour, and that his money was ready. He took it, and thus being in the power of the American gentleman, who had great weight with Dessalines, he probably thought it best to relinquish his projects on the charming Zuline, for she heard of him no more.
The same girl was the means of saving many others, and the accounts I have heard of her kindness and generosity oblige me to think of her with unqualified admiration.
Kingston, Jamaica.
I pass my time agreeably enough here, though I am obliged to stay in a boarding house till madame L—— can be fixed in her own. A few days ago a Spanish sloop of war was captured by a British frigate, and brought into Jamaica. The officers were suffered to land, and came to lodge in the house where I stay. When called to dinner I was surprized at finding myself among a group of strangers. As the mistress of the house never dines at table, and madame L—— was abroad, I would have retreated, but curiosity prompted me to remain.
The Spanish captain is an elderly man of most respectable appearance. All the rest are young, full of spirits, and two of them remarkably beautiful. Taking it for granted that I was French, and not imagining I could understand their language, as soon as they were seated at table they indulged very freely in their remarks on myself. One said I was not pretty; another, that I was interesting; another, that I resembled somebody he had seen before; and one elegant young man, who sat next me, having brushed his arm against mine made in Spanish an apology, which I appeared not to understand. He then asked me if I spoke English? I shook my head; and he observed to his companions, that he had never so much regretted his ignorance of the French. They laughed; and he continued lamenting the impossibility of making himself understood. After dinner I withdrew, and having been engaged by Coralie to pass the evening at her house, I forgot the strangers, and thought of them no more till the next morning at breakfast, where they were all assembled, and where madame L—— related to me an adventure she had met with the day before. She spoke English, and as I was answering her my eyes met those of the young officer, and his look covered me with confusion. Ah! he said, you speak English, and were cruel enough to refuse holding converse with a stranger and a prisoner. I speak so little, I replied. No, no, he cried, your accent is not foreign; I could almost swear that it is your native language. He looked at the others with an air of triumph; and the one who had said I was not pretty, observed, that he was glad I did not speak Spanish; but I understand it perfectly, I answered in the same language.
He looked petrified; and the old captain was delighted. He made many inquiries after his friends at Cuba, with all of whom I was acquainted. The young officer who speaks English, is by birth an Irishman. He entered the Spanish service at the age of fifteen; had been several years at Lima; had returned to Europe, and was on his way to Vera Cruz when they were taken by the English. With him my heart claimed kindred, for in every Irishman I fancy I behold a brother and a friend. His manners are elegant and interesting beyond expression. There is an appearance of sadness in his face, which heightens the interest his fine form creates; and if I had an unoccupied heart, and he a heart to offer, I believe we should soon forget that he is a prisoner and I a stranger!
I have learned from him, that on his arrival at Lima, he was lodged in the house of a gentleman who had a beautiful daughter. She was a widow, though very young. The seclusion in which the ladies of this county live rendered such a companion as Don Carlos doubly dangerous, and the beauty and sweetness of Donna Angelina, made an indelible impression on his heart. Their mutual passion was soon acknowledged; but obstacles, which appeared insurmountable, seemed to deprive them even of hope.
Angelina had inherited the immense fortune left by her husband, on condition of remaining a widow. Her father was very rich, but avarice was his ruling passion. He had sacrificed his only child at the age of thirteen to an old man, merely because he was wealthy, and there was no reason to expect that he would suffer her to abandon the fortune she had so dearly acquired, and marry a man who had no inheritance but his sword. Though these considerations cast a cloud over their mutual prospects, they still cherished their mutual affection, and hoped that some fortunate event would at length render them happy. The father of Angelina never suspected the situation of his daughter's heart, and her intercourse with Don Carlos was without restraint. Delightful moments of visionary happiness how quickly ye passed; delivering in your flight two victims to the gripe of despair!
A new viceroy arrived from Spain and Angelina was obliged to appear at a ball given to celebrate his entry into Lima.
She danced with Don Carlos, and her beauty, eclipsing all other beauty, attracted universal notice, but particularly that of the viceroy, who went the next day to offer at her feet the homage of his adoration. She received him coldly, but the father was transported with joy, and when, a few days after, the viceroy demanded her hand, without hesitation favoured his suit. Angelina declined, and acquainted him with the conditions on which she inherited her husband's wealth, and her resolution to remain a widow. He told her that his own fortune was more than sufficient to replace that he wished her to sacrifice, but her evident aversion raised a suspicion of other reasons than those she avowed, and his jealous watchfulness soon discovered her attachment to Don Carlos. He informed her father of his discovery, who, furious at seeing his hopes of aggrandizing his family thwarted by a boy, forbad all intercourse between them.
The means employed by the viceroy to separate them were still more effectual. A vessel was on the point of sailing for Spain, and Don Carlos received orders to embark instantly to bear dispatches of importance to the court. Resistance would have been vain. He sailed without being permitted to see the object he had so long adored.
When he arrived in Spain, he learned that his rival had taken every precaution to prevent his return to Lima. Fortunately he knew the heart of his Angelina, and felt assured that the hopes of that detested rival would never be crowned with success; nor was he disappointed.
She had been deprived by her father and the viceroy of the man she loved, but their power extended no farther. There was an asylum to which she could retreat from their tyranny; that asylum was a convent. She entered one, took the vows, and gave her immense fortune to the society of which she became a member.
On the eve of entering the convent she wrote to Don Carlos, informing him of her intention; of the impossibility of preserving herself for him, and her determination never to belong to another. He received this letter the day on which he sailed for Vera Cruz, and I believe, does not regret being a prisoner, since he has found in the place of his captivity a kind being who listens to his tale of sorrows and seeks to pour the balm of consolation into his wounded heart.
He amuses me continually with his stories of Lima; describing the splendour of its palaces, the magnificence of its churches, filled with golden saints and silver angels, and the beautiful women with which it abounds. He tells me there can be nothing more fascinating than their manners; nor more singular and picturesque than their dress, which consists of a petticoat, reaching no lower than the knee, and a veil that covers the head and waist, but through which a pretty face is often shewn in a most bewitching manner. At the same time I perceive that he talks on every subject with reluctance, except on that nearest his heart; and when speaking of this, he seems animated by all the energy of despair.
I have heard of Clara by a person just arrived from Cuba, and have written to her. My heart is torn with anxiety for her fate, and will remain a stranger to repose till I receive more satisfactory intelligence. I fear she was not born to be at ease. She lives continually in an ideal world. Her enthusiastic imagination filled with forms which it creates at pleasure, cherishes a romantic hope of visionary happiness which never can be realized.
Yet with all my fine sentiments of correctness and propriety, and the duty of content and resignation, my heart refuses to condemn her for having left her husband. Never was there any thing more directly opposite than the soul of Clara, and that of the man to whom she was united. Their tempers, their dispositions, were absolutely incompatible. And should I abandon this poor girl to misfortune? should I leave her to perish among strangers? ah! no, she is twined round my heart, and I love her with more than a sister's affection. As soon as I hear from her again, you shall be informed of my intentions. If I can induce her to return with me to Philadelphia, in rejoining you I shall think myself no longer unhappy.
To Clara.
Kingston, Jamaica.
I have received the message, sent me by Anselmo, my dear Clara, and my joy at hearing of your welfare, made me forget for a moment, the many causes you have given me of complaint. Yet what more have I learned than that you exist? of all that concerns you I remain ignorant. Unkind Clara! thus you repay my friendship! thus console me for all the solicitude I have felt for you! To have staid with St. Louis, after you left him, was not possible, for he did not conceal his suspicions of my having been in your secret, nor could I find in Cuba an eligible retreat; for all my friends were his, and all disposed to condemn you. I accepted therefore, with pleasure, the offer made by Madame L——, to take me with her to Jamaica.
Write to me, my dear sister, immediately. Tell me every thing. Does not your heart require the affectionate sympathy it has been accustomed to receive from mine? Can you live without me?—without me who have followed you, and love you with an affection so tender? Dearest Clara, speak, and I will fly to you! Means shall be found to return to Philadelphia, where, in peaceful obscurity we may live, free from the cares which have tormented you, and filled myself with anxiety.
Anselmo will be careful of your letter. Write fully, and remember that you are writing to more than a sister; to a friend, who loves you, who adores your virtues, and who pardons, while she weeps, your faults!