WHEN the ſick languor of the faintings gave place to reflection, I found myſelf in my own bed; whither I un⯑derſtood I had been conveyed by the or⯑ders of Lord Arlington, as ſoon as the wound was ſtaunched:—his proved ſo ſlight, that it left him no pretence for apprehenſion. Eagerly I enquired for Lady Pembroke, when to my inexpreſſi⯑ble rage and aſtoniſhment I was informed, ſhe had been turned, from my door, whi⯑ther friendſhip led her to venture a re⯑pulſe. [2] The immaculate character of that admirable woman I thought even Lord Arlington would have reſpected; but with⯑out deigning to inform himſelf of the real circumſtances of the unforeſeen interview he had ſo dreadfully interrupted, by this rude implication he treated two of the moſt eſtimable and diſtinguiſhed perſons in the kingdom as abettors, if not con⯑trivers, of his diſhonor.—The little blood left in my veins turned to gall at the idea. I watched an opportunity to tear away the bandages; and diſdainfully reſigning myſelf to a premature fate, endeavoured to forget the generous hearts this raſh action would pierce.—The awful God whoſe juſtice I thus queſtioned, ſtill ex⯑tended to me his mercy—my dangerous ſituation was diſcovered in time by my careful attendants, who infinitely more attached to me than their Lord, uſed every means to prolong the life he, perhaps, wiſhed at its period.

In the cruel ſtate of mind which dic⯑tated this deſperate reſolution, it proved [3] a melancholy advantage; as the injury now fell on my conſtitution only, and my intellects eſcaped. It was many months ere I had ſtrength to croſs a room, or ſpirts to venture a queſtion—during this memorable interval I called together every enfeebled power, and placing my conſci⯑ence as umpire between myſelf and Lord Arlington, fixed and aſcertained the rights of either. Convicted even by my own heart of imprudence, I wondered not he conſtrued error into guilt; and while thus cool offered him every vindication of my innocence he could reaſonably de⯑ſire: but Lord Arlington was the ſlave of paſſion and caprice, and not having firmneſs of ſoul to form, or fix, a judg⯑ment, followed through years with in⯑vincible obſtinacy the impreſſion of the firſt moment.—From this period he ever treated me as an artful woman, whoſ e licentious conduct had obliged him to riſque his life in vain defence of that honor already ſullied, and loſt in my [4] perſon; nor did he affect to aſſert his legal rights from any other reaſon than to ſeparate me from Lord Eſſex. This con⯑duct, and the miſrepreſentations of Lady Eſſex, blazed the fatal incident throughout the Court, and fixed a ſtain on my charac⯑ter, time could never eraſe—happily that ſtain reached not my perſon or my heart, and an injuſtice ſo aggravating on the part of Lord Arlington, entitled me to forgive the little error in myſelf which oc⯑caſioned it.

In this conjuncture I once more turned my tearful eyes every way around in ſearch of a protector to interfere between me, and a fate alike unmerited and ſe⯑vere.—Alas! there was not a human be⯑ing virtue allowed me to call to my aid; and I exerciſed the faculties Heaven had ſo unexpectedly bleſſed me with, by re⯑ſolving to ſuffer with patience.

Elizabeth Vernon (our old companion) the fair and gentle couſin of Lord Eſſex, reſolved if poſſible to ſee me—ſhe ad⯑dreſſed [5] Lord Arlington, and demanded that privilege; the favor ſhe held with the Queen hindered him from denying a requeſt he granted with the utmoſt re⯑luctance. That ſweet girl bathed me in the tears of innocence and affection—ſhe told me the fear leſt his preſence ſhould incenſe Lord Arlington to further brutality, had induced Eſſex, when I loſt my ſenſes, to withdraw from a ſcene which rent his very heart—the ſame reaſon ſtill obliged him to remain at a diſtance.—That dur⯑ing the long and dire uncertainty attend⯑ing my illneſs, he had ſcarcely breathed—his own ſoul continually told him how pure mine was. Fancy preſented me to him forever, pale, ſpeechleſs, expiring, my ſad eyes rivetted on his with a tender⯑neſs death itſelf could not extinguiſh: however guiltleſs of my blood, every drop which oozed from my veins ſeemed to congeal on his heart; in fine, that al⯑moſt deified by my ſufferings, and his ſenſe of them, I reigned alone in his af⯑fections, which were from this moment [6] conſecrated to me by a moſt convincing proof. Having uſed the utmoſt art and diligence to diſcover how Lord Arlington ſo ſoon became apprized of his ſecret re⯑turn to England, and a meeting ſo un⯑planned, and ſudden, as to interrupt it almoſt immediately, though ſuppoſed to be as far off as Greenwich; Lord Eſſex learnt that his Maſter of the Horſe being among the domeſtics he brought with him to Pembroke Houſe, had quitted it as ſoon as he alighted, and haſtened to Greenwich in ſearch of a girl attending on Lady Eſſex, of whom he was enamor⯑ed; through her means her Lady became likewiſe acquainted with his ſecret ar⯑rival without knowing its motive. That ſuſpicious woman had already remarked Lord Arlington was among the bridal train, and in his hearing publiſhed the return of her Lord, with all her own in⯑jurious ſurmiſes—ill fortune for once had given them the colour of truth, and Lord Arlington needed no more than the hint to make him mount the ſwifteſt horſe and [7] fly to ſatisfy himſelf.—Lady Eſſex was quickly informed of an incident ſhe ought to have foreſeen, and giving way to another extravagance, paſſionately conjured every friend ſhe met to follow, and prevent the conflict to which her Lord now ſtood ex⯑poſed—but when could friendſhip keep pace with love and vengeance? The ſtraggling mediators arrived only time enough to witneſs the event no human power could guard againſt. Incenſed be⯑yond all bounds at the conduct of his Lady, the raſh Eſſex took the only ſtep wanting to my ruin. Determined to make her ſhare the miſery ſhe had occaſioned, he parted with her at once and forever—in vain were all her ſubſequent vows of ſor⯑row and repentance—in vain had ſhe from that moment indulged hopes of his cooling and conciliating—his temper till this fatal period, no leſs yielding than fiery, now aſſumed a cold and philoſo⯑phic ſternneſs; in fine, that the grief and diſappointment to which Lady Eſſex re⯑ſigned herſelf would ſeverely puniſh her [8] unjuſt ſuſpicions, and ere long releaſe her Lord from the ill-judged bondage he had hitherto groaned ſo impatiently under."

The fair Elizabeth thus ended her re⯑cital, which was ſo clear, conciſe, and affecting, that I could not avoid taxing her with being the emiſſary of her couſin; her bluſhes acquitted her, and beſpoke a ſecret, time ſoon explained. She was ſecretly beloved by the gallant South⯑ampton, that heroic friend who was only leſs attached to Eſſex than myſelf, and from him had learnt the various parti⯑culars public report could not appriſe her of.—I held myſelf infinitely indebted to her friendſhip, and through her means ſent that farewell to Lady Pembroke I was not allowed to pronounce.

It had been but too obvious through her whole recital, that I was totally the victim of calumny, nor could any human power now juſtify me.—I had been found in the arms of Eſſex—the fact was indu⯑bitable, the true cauſe of that fatal impulſe not likely to be credited, even when re⯑peated. [9] My youth, my wound, and my paſt conduct, blended the raſh judg⯑ment of the many with compaſſion, but the moſt liberal-minded ventured not to acquit me. Thoſe impaſſioned vindica⯑tions the conſcious ſoul of Eſſex offered, were always conſidered as a mere point of honor in him, and no leſs neceſſary to his own juſtification than mine, and thus only ſerved to ſtamp guilt on both.—Oh, misjudging world, how ſeverely on the moſt ſuperficial obſervation doſt thou venture to decide!—let the barbed ar⯑row of misfortune reſt in the boſom it has wounded, nor by inhumanly tearing it out to diſcover whence it came, rack the heart already broken.

Defamed, dejected, and forgotten by all but the generous ſiſters of the Sydney family, I followed, once more, my fate in Lord Arlington; and reached again that Abbey deſtined alike to entomb me in playful childhood, and in blaſted youth—the ſame imperious will which had de⯑ſtroyed me, had deprived that venerable manſion of its ſweet, its ſolitary charms—the [10] hallowed ſpot where once the ivied trophies of time bound up the defaced ones of religion, preſented nothing now but a bare and barren level; and the lofty woods which ſo long protected alike the living and the dead, had wholly given place to infant plantations, through the thinneſs of which the weary eye every where pierced: I turned with diſguſt from the deſolated ſcene, and locking myſelf up in the remoteſt, and moſt gloomy chamber of the Abbey, ſpent my life in meditating on my every loſs.

Lord Arlington now valuing me only as the appendage of his pride, conſoled himſelf for my undiſſembled averſion, and cared not what employed me, pro⯑vided I was yet his legal priſoner.—Alas, I had no longer reſolution to reſt my hopes on any object—to form any ſubordinate deſign, or to reap any ſub⯑ordinate pleaſure. The poor children ſtill ſupported by my bounty, no more touched the Jute in my preſence—that over which my own fingers once wandered with the wild elegance of untried youth, [11] now uſeleſs and unſtrung, hung up, an emblem of the diſcordant ſoul of its owner. Taſte, genius, and ſcience, thoſe rich columes with which enthuſiaſtic fancy erects in peaceful minds a thouſand light aerial ſtructures, deep ſunk, and broken in my heart, preſented to the mental eye a ruin more terrible than the nobleſt ſpeculation ever pauſed over.—Miſan⯑thropy, black-viſaged miſanthropy, reign⯑ed there like a ſolitary ſavage, uncon⯑ſcious of the value of thoſe treaſures his rude hand every day more and more de⯑faced.

I was rouſed one night with the infor⯑mation that a favorite ſervant of Lord Ar⯑lington's, who had long languiſhed in a conſumption, now found himſelf at the point of death, and importunately de⯑manded to ſpeak with me—but ill-diſ⯑poſed at this ſeaſon even to the gentle offices of humanity, and convinced he could have nothing to impart I ſhould think of conſequence, I rejected the re⯑queſt; but finding his Lord was inebri⯑ated beyond the power of comprehend⯑ing [12] him, on being again ſollicited, I roſe, and accompanied by a maid who loved me, entered the ſick man's chamber.—I caſt a harſh and cold glance round, and hardly heard the thanks he gave me—having diſmiſſed all the ſervants except the maid I mentioned, I prepared to liſten to him, imagining ſome matter relative to his office of chief bailiff and ſurveyor, alone, could thus diſturb his laſt hours.—"Lady, ſaid he, in the hollow broken voice of approaching diſſolution, I could not have departed in peace had you not beſtowed this indulgence—pardon me, I beſeech you, for propoſing to my Lord the deſtruction of thoſe ruins I have ſince ſeen too plainly your heart was ever wrapt in—alas, that propoſal coſts me my life.—Condeſcend too to liſten to a ſecret which continually drags back my ſoul when ſtriving to quit her dungeon—my crime perhaps brings with it a ſufficient puniſhment.—In removing the rubbiſh of the artificial hermit's cell, in compli⯑ance with the directions of my Lord, I one day ſaw a common laborer turn up [13] ſomething which tried his whole ſtrength, when caſting a quick and fearful glance around, he covered it with earth. I diſpatched the men in hearing to another part, and ſeizing the arm of him I had watched, I inſiſted on ſeeing what he had endeavoured to conceal—it proved to be a ſmall iron cheſt ſtrongly faſtened—I agreed with him to convey it away till the evening, when he might rejoin me, and we would open it and divide the contents together. He yielded rather to neceſſity than choice, and I took the caſket with a purpoſe, God has ſeverely puniſhed—the many keys intruſted to my care ſup⯑plied one which immediately opened it; under a number of papers and trifles of no value, I found a large ſum in gold, and a few jewels—as I knew my part⯑ner in the diſcovery had remarked that the cheſt was heavy; in the room of the gold and jewels, I ſubſtituted an iron crucifix, and many ruſty keys; then lock⯑ing the caſket, waited anxiouſly for the evening. The poor laborer ſeeing me return, wiſtfully examined my features, [14] but not daring to expreſs the doubt vi⯑ſible in his own, expected in ſilence the deciding hour. I ſuffered him to take infinite pains to break open a cheſt I was conſcious would not repay the labor—great was the poor wretch's diſappoint⯑ment when he emptied it—I affected the ſame chagrin; but turning over the pa⯑pers, I offered to give him twenty nobles; a ſure proof, had he reflected a ſingle moment, that I muſt have wronged him: he readily accepted this propoſal, and at my deſire, promiſed never to mention the incident; then with much apparent gratitude departed. Eagerly I replaced my guilty gains, and ſecretly reſolved to take an early opportunity of quitting my Lord to commence builder in London; but fear did not ſuffer me for a time to venture this meaſure; alas, I have wanted health ſince to do any thing—from this moment, peace, appetite, and reſt, have fled me—if worn out with watching, I dropt into a ſlumber, the idea that my treaſure was ſtolen, has made me often ſtart up, and regardleſs of the cold ſweat [15] the mere apprehenſion has produced, I have flown in the dead of night to convince myſelf it was ſafe—imaginary whiſpers have ever been near my bed, and uncertain forms have glided through my chamber—the dawn of day never gave me relief, every eye ſeemed to dive into my ſecret, and every hand to be intent on impo⯑veriſhing me—in a word, Lady, to this ſad moment it has prematurely brought me; for many months doubtful whether I ſhould ſurvive, I have been conſidering how to beſtow that wealth I could no longer hope to enjoy—the poor man I ſo baſely defrauded, of it, periſhed a ſhort time after by the fall of a pillar, and reſtitution to him can never be made. It came into my head this evening, that you were ſaid to have been brought up in theſe ruins; certainly I had often ſeen you walk and weep on the very ſpot where this cheſt was found; perhaps in giving it to you I only reſtore it to the right owner; accept it, Madam, and ſwear you will never diſcover the gift to my Lord."—This requeſt appeared a [16] needleſs injunction, if the treaſure had not been obtained by defrauding Lord Arlington; and though perhaps I ſhould have been ſilent through choice, I thought it beneath me to engage to be ſo—find⯑ing me pauſe, he continued, "fear not any ill deſign in this requeſt, Madam, you will one day be glad you complied with it, and for your own ſake alone is it propoſed; the hand of my Lord is grudg⯑ing—yours bounteous as that of heaven.—Do not rob yourſelf of the means to be liberal which now are offered to you—yet on no other condition than the vow of ſilence will I give it up." A ſtrange de⯑ſire to examine the papers, more than any I felt for the money, made me at laſt ac⯑quieſce. My maid by his direction, drew the iron cheſt from an obſcure corner, and emptied it of both gold, jewels, and papers, which ſhe and I divided, and with ſome difficulty concealed till we reached my apartment—he ſeemed only to have lived to make this diſcovery, and a few hours after expiated his ſin with his life.

[17] While he ſtrove to impreſs my mind with the neceſſity of concealing the ad⯑venture, I pondered deeply over it; not eaſily diſcerning how I ſhould interpret this ſtrange ordination of providence; it at laſt occurred to me the treaſure might be put into my hands for the aſ⯑ſiſtance and comfort of my ſiſter—how did I know whether ſhe was not even then haſtening towards me, perhaps impo⯑veriſhed, certainly diſtreſſed?—Oh, how conſolatory ſhould I find it to miniſter to her external wants, though thoſe of her heart ſhould be beyond my power of com⯑forting! The contempt I felt for Lord Arlington was rooted too deep to admit of my thus applying his fortune, had I been the unlimited miſtreſs of it; I therefore ſaw a degree of wiſdom and propriety in receiving and ſecreting a gift heaven ſeemed ſo ſtrangely to put into my hands, as if it were to forerun ſome yet unknown incident.

The papers conſiſted chiefly of the correſpondence between Mrs. Marlow and [18] Father Anthony, while yet they were lo⯑vers, and after the cruel diſcovery which annulled the nominal union—I peruſed theſe invaluable epiſtles with pulſations of tenderneſs I lately thought myſelf in⯑capable of; they recalled me to life and ſenſibility, and I gathered fortitude from thoſe who now were duſt; I raiſed my eyes to heaven in ſearch of their pure tranſlated ſouls, and wandering from pla⯑net to planet, fancied there muſt be one peculiarly allotted to lovers now no lon⯑ger unhappy—A thouſand trifles whoſe value muſt ever be ideal and local, were preſerved with theſe letters: cyphers, hair, ſonnets, dear perpetuators of thoſe bright hours of youth we look back on with pleaſure to the lateſt moment of decaying life. I kiſſed the innocent re⯑liques of ſuch an unhappy attachment with devout regard, and held them not the leaſt part of my legacy.

Time diſſipated the flattering illuſion which led me to expect my ſiſter—my mind ſunk into its uſual inertitude, [19] and the acquiſition remained, if not for⯑gotten, at leaſt neglected.

From this profound ſtupor I was at laſt rouſed as by an earthquake—Lord Arlington in hunting fell from his horſe, and breaking ſome blood-veſſel, was brought home to appearance lifeleſs—conſcience and humanity called on me to forget my injuries; I made every effort to ſave him, and for a time he appeared to mend; but the incurable habit of inebriety he even at this period indulged, defeated both care and medicine; and after enduring a ſeries of ſufferings which annihilated my ſenſe of wrong, he expired in the prime of his days.

Good heaven, what a tranſition did this event make in my life!—habituated to ſlavery—accuſtomed to ſuppoſe Lord Arlington deſtined to ſurvive me, I be⯑held this incredible revolution with mute ſurpriſe—the horror of his ſufferings gave way, when they ceaſed, to the ſweet idea of liberty—liberty, ſighed out my weary heart, ah! to what purpoſe is mine now [20] reſtored? I beheld myſelf in the ſituation of a criminal, whoſe ſhackles are ſtruck off only to launch him into the immenſe ocean in a little boat, without rudder, oars, or ſuſtenance—where could I find a hope to reſt on? alone in the vaſt uni⯑verſe, I turned around in vain in ſearch of one generous hand, whoſe aid I might receive without fear or ſhame.

The relation of Lord Arlington who ſucceeded to his title and eſtate was an illiterate rude ſea officer, whom his ill⯑neſs alone had detained in England. He came on the news of his deceaſe; eſcort⯑ing the late Lord's two ſiſters, to whom the perſonals were all deviſed. I waited only the reading of the will to quit the melancholy manſion I meant to abjure for the future.—Gracious heaven! how deep was my indignation and rage to find myſelf mentioned in it as an inſane wretch to whom he bequeathed a mere maintenance, and left to be confined un⯑der the charge of his ſiſters in St. Vincent's Abbey, which as a purchaſe of his own, [21] deſcended to them! Never, in all the trials I had hitherto experienced, had I felt a tranſport like that this uſage exci⯑ted—to extend his tyranny beyond the grave!—Mean, execrable wretch! even at the moment I was exhauſting the little conſtitution his cruelty had left me in un⯑wearied attendance, deliberately to con⯑demn me to an impriſonment ſo ſhock⯑ing, and render it perpetual!—human nature could not reſiſt ſo pungent a pang—it made the miſery it puniſhed; and I ſunk into the dreary gulph once more from which I was lately emerging—my brain ſtill fires but to remember it.—Oh, my ſiſter! whatever the inflictions of your myſterious fate, thoſe of mine may ſurely diſpute the woeful pre-emi⯑nence.

The overjoyed Eſſex diſpatched an ex⯑preſs, as ſoon as the news of Lord Ar⯑lingtons death reached the Court, con⯑juring me to quit the melancholy priſon I had ſo long inhabited, and retire to a [22] ſeat of Lord Southampton, in Here⯑fordſhire; whither that nobleman's bride would immediately repair to meet and com⯑fort me. Lady Southampton was the fair couſin of Lord Eſſex, I formerly mentioned, who by marrying privately had wholly loſt the favor of the Queen. The declining ſtate of Lady Eſſex's health, he added, daily promiſed him that freedom, made doubly deſirable now I had recovered mine. It had always been the intention of Lady Southampton to follow her Lord to Ireland; and he beſought me to give him the ſweet ſatisfaction of know⯑ing I was ſafe in the company and protec⯑tion of his couſin, ſolemnly promiſing not to obtrude himſelf on me ere the laws of ſociety authorized the avowal of thoſe ſentiments which had ſo long lived in his heart.

The relations of Lord Arlington, poſ⯑ſeſſing by his will an abſolute power, inter⯑cepted, and opened this Letter—far from pouring the balm it contained into my bleeding heart, they kept the dear teſti⯑mony [23] of an unequalled attachment; and ſent back the meſſenger with the melan⯑choly news of my inſanity and confine⯑ment: but Lord Eſſex had been already duped, and could not eaſily credit this in⯑formation. He deputed Henry Tracey, a young officer, much in his confidence, to aſcertain my real ſituation; command⯑ing him not to be diſmiſſed by any other mode of conviction than being admitted into my preſence.—Alas! ere this was reſolved on, reſentment had again fired my bewildered brain, and Lord Arling⯑ton had little to apprehend in allowing Tracey to enter my apartment. Buried in a profound ſtupor, I replied not to his queſti⯑ons, but drawing my mourning veil over my eyes, ſat like a ſelf-devoted Perſian, the voluntary victim of deſpair. The faithful Tracey, ſtill fearful of being im⯑poſed on, inſiſted on having my picture, and a lock of my hair, to prove to his Lord it was indeed myſelf he had beheld in this deplorable ſtate: he obtained this requeſt and departed.

[24] But what became of Eſſex when Tra⯑cey returned with this melancholy con⯑firmation?—the teſtimonials his confi⯑dante had brought, added force to the eternal paſſion of his ſoul: a thouſand times he made Tracey deſcribe the apart⯑ment—my dreſs—my looks—and ſome⯑times fancying even that cautious friend had been deceived; at others, that the wretches in whoſe power I was left, had, for the ſhort period Tracey was permitted to behold me, ſtupified my ſenſes; he created a thouſand deluſions to coun⯑teract the fearful impreſſion of the truth.

Diſtracted with theſe ideas, Lord Eſſex fet out for Ireland, inveſted with abſolute powers, and heading an army attached to him alike by gratitude and expectation—he had not marched far ere he formed the bold reſolution of committing the con⯑duct of the troops to Lord Southampton, and turning off, he poſted to St. Vincent's Abbey, determined to judge from his own ſenſes of the ſtate of mine: he ar⯑rived there at midnight, and requiring [25] the unwilling owners to produce me, in a tone which admitted neither denial or delay, they conducted him to my chamber—a dim lamp alone glim⯑mered in it, and cloſing my eyes as the ſtronger lights approached, I waved my hand in ſtupid ſilence to have them removed. The tranſports of grief and ſurpriſe which overcame the generous Eſſex at this terrible convicton, threat⯑ened his own intellects—by ſome wonder⯑ful ordination of providence my cold and apparently uninformed heart waked at that well known voice—day broke once more upon my ſoul, and my eyes once more opened to behold their darling ob⯑ject. This ſurprizing effect of his pre⯑ſence would have perſuaded him that rea⯑ſon had never deſerted me, had not my poor maids expreſſed a joy at this unex⯑pected revolution too unfeigned to be miſ⯑conſtrued; they intreated him to leave me time to ſtrengthen my faculties ere he again abſorbed them, and he confined to [26] ſtifled exclamations, and ſilent homage, all the paſſion and the projects with which his boſom ſwelled.

Alithea, who had for years been my favorite attendant, informed him (as ſoon as he could be perſuaded to withdraw, and leave me to repoſe) of the cruel and unjuſt will, which, by rendering me a priſoner for life, had occaſioned this dreadful relapſe. His haughty ſoul, neg⯑ligent at all times of prudence, and now perhaps of propriety, induced him to tell the Arlington family, that he would pe⯑riſh ere I ſhould again be left in their power: having planted ſome of his moſt faithful domeſtics to guard my chamber door from every one but my own maids, he retired to the apartment allotted him, to meditate on the mode of proceeding leaſt likely to endanger my newly reco⯑vered intellects.

Alithea very prudently had me bled, and I ſunk into a ſweet and ſound ſleep, the comfort I had long moſt wanted. I waked late the next morning with in⯑tellects [27] entirely clear, though weak; I remembered I had ſeen, or fancied I had ſeen Eſſex; Alithea imparted to me the truth, and ſhed tears of joy to find I an⯑ſwered her rationally—I yielded to her intreaties in delaying till the afternoon a meeting ſo dear and affecting, and took the medicinal cordials and other nouriſh⯑ment ſhe offered me; a few hours ſtrength⯑ened me ſurprizingly, and I was at laſt allowed to receive the generous lover my ſoul ſo much deſired. While he poured forth the moſt ardent vows of unremitting affection, and ſurveyed in tender ſorrow, the ravages grief and diſappointment had thus early made in my wan countenance, and emaciated form, I beheld with ſur⯑prize the advantages he had acquired in both inſtances; his graceful flower of youth was ſettled into firmer manhood; his fair and florid complexion, ſunned over by his military exploits, had gained ſtrength without loſing delicacy, and his eye, now no leſs accuſtomed to command than charm, ſeemed to employ its firſt power on all the reſt of the world, while [28] its laſt was ſolely reſerved for me. Ah man, happy man! how ſuperior are you in the indulgence of nature! bleſt with ſci⯑entific reſources, with boldneſs, and an ac⯑tivity unknown to more perſecuted woman; from your various diſappointments in life ever ſpring forth ſome vigorous and blooming hope, inſenſibly ſtaunching thoſe wounds in the heart through which the vital powers of the feebler ſex bleed helpleſsly away; and when relenting fortune grants your wiſhes, with un⯑blighted powers of enjoyment you em⯑brace the dear bought happineſs; ſcarce conſcious of the cold dew-drops your cheeks imbibe from thoſe of her, permitted too late to participate your fate.

It was ſome days ere I dared truſt my⯑ſelf to converſe long with Eſſex, who em⯑ployed that ſweet interval in amuſing my mind with lighter topics, while he ar⯑ranged his future plans; but finding I ſtill appeared calm, he ventured at laſt to unfold to me the mighty deſigns which floated in his imagination. "Inexorably oppoſing choice to fate, my deareſt Elli⯑nor, [29] ſaid he, never from the moment I firſt beheld you, have I formed a project in which you were not a ſharer; this I am about to unfold has been for years the child of my dotage—collect yourſelf, liſten without wonder, and, if poſſible, ap⯑prove it: from the moment I knew the baſe arts that muſt have been made uſe of to ſeparate us, I clearly comprehended we ſhould never unite with the conſent of Elizabeth; but, however indebted to her partial diſtinction, it was a point in which even ſhe could not controul me; it is not the poſts or advantages I derive from her favor, on which my ſoul values itſelf; elevated on a more ſolid foundation, it has taken every road to glory, and I may proudly ſay, given a grace to dotage; yet as that dotage, however unbecoming her years and her rank, has been uniform and generous, I have ſworn to yield Eli⯑zabeth, to the lateſt moment of her life, every homage but that of the heart; and ſacrifice to my fealty all but my happineſs.—It is hard to reconcile duties [30] and inclinations ſo entirely oppoſite, yet I think you will own I have done ſo.

To a blind partiality for me, and her own egregious ſelf-love, the Queen igno⯑bly ſacrificed your youth, your hopes, your happineſs; but alas, ſhe forgot in ſo doing, that ſhe would only make them more perfectly mine—without any con⯑ſideration for the huſband ſhe had given you, a wretch I could at any time look into inſignificance, I ſtudied ſolely how to extricate you from a bondage not more inſupportable to you than myſelf.—Among a thouſand other projects, I re⯑ſolved to apprize the King of Scots of your exiſtence and ſituation, ſoliciting from his fraternal regard a ſafe aſylum, and that peace and protection my youth and circumſtances would not allow me to offer you. I found means to convey to his knowledge your whole melan⯑choly ſtory—but how ſhall I declare to you his ungenerous conduct? Fool that I was to think the man who could tamely ſubmit to the murder of his mother, would be intereſted by any other tye! Far from [31] exerting himſelf to reſcue the dear un⯑happy ſiſter I conjured him to compaſ⯑ſionate, he affected to diſbelieve the ſtory of his mother's marriage with the Duke of Norfolk; though the Counteſs of Shrewſbury ſolemnly aſſured me he had, through her hands, received from the Royal Mary the moſt authentic proofs of it, as ſoon as he eſcaped from the power of the Regent, and was allowed to act as an independent Sovereign. Anxious with⯑out doubt to center in himſelf every right of his mother, he voluntarily re⯑nounced all regard for either her aſhes or her offspring, ignominiouſly ſubmit⯑ting to kiſs the hand which had ſhortened her days.—What after this is to be hoped from the King of Scots? and why ſhould you ſacrifice to a brother who diſ⯑owns you, thoſe bright proſpects which now dawn before you? Born of the firſt Engliſh Peer, and the Princeſs immedi⯑ate in ſucceſſion to the Throne—a native of this kingdom; there is only one thing wanting to eſtabliſh rights from whence you may juſtly form the higheſt hopes—authentic [32] teſtimonials of theſe facts: and that ſuch ſtill exiſt, I have certain in⯑formation—it is true they are diſperſed among the Catholick relations and friends of Mary, yet do I not deſpair of obtain⯑ing them.—The Engliſh ever diſpoſed to be jealous of their national rights, dread the remoteſt chance of their anni⯑hilation, and already turn their eyes to⯑ward the family of Suffolk in preference to receiving a foreign Monarch.—That unhappy branch of the royal line, by turns the martyrs of fear and policy, have bled through ſucceeding generations, till re⯑duced wholly to females; among whom there is not one endued with courage or talents to venture a conteſt, had they even the priority of birth which reſts with you. Let us then adopt the views of Lord Lei⯑ceſter, who certainly meant by the moſt watchful policy, to pave the way for your ſiſter's ſucceſſion, whenever Eliza⯑beth ſhould expire. Your fate is bound up with that of a man much more capable of effecting whatever views he ſhall adopt. [33] Elizabeth daily totters on the verge of the grave—diſpoſed to hate the Prince ſhe has irretrievably injured in the perſon of his mother, ſhe ſtill refuſes to acknow⯑ledge the King of Scots for her heir; and has fully inveſted me with every power that may enable me to profit by the po⯑pularity I have honorably acquired. My own birth, though it does not give me a lineal claim to the Crown of England, is yet noble in many generations, and princely in ſome. Circumſtances and merit thus entitle me to match with you—doubt not the ſucceſs of this project.—Born as you are for empire, endued with beauty to adorn, and majeſty to dig⯑nify it—with inconteſtable evidence of your birth (which I will employ every art to procure) I will boldly preſent to the people of England another blooming Queen—they will with joy adopt you; nor can the feeble attempts of the boyiſh Scotch pedant againſt an army won by my munificence, endeared to my com⯑mand, and relying on my valor, affect a [34] claim ſo ſtrongly ſupported. How many inſtances does our own hiſtory ſupply where courage and popularity have de⯑throned monarchs in full poſſeſſion of every other advantage? —You now are in⯑formed of what has long been the ul⯑timate object of my life; every action and view has had a ſecret reference to it, and far from idling away my youth in the various pleaſures the gay Court of Eli⯑zabeth offered to her favorite, I have con⯑tinually ranged the ſeas, watched in camps, diſciplined armies, and by every poſſible means ſtudied to increaſe my mili⯑tary fame, knowledge, and popularity, as what muſt one day decide more than my own fate. It is this that has made me eager to conduct the Iriſh war—In that country I ſhall be at the head of an army, which will eaſily enable me to profit by the loſs of the Queen, without alarming her declining years with the appearance of cabal, myſtery, or rebellion.—Boldly reſolve then, my love, to accompany me thither, as the only place on earth where [35] you can be entirely ſafe; I will lodge you in ſome impregnable fortreſs with Lady Southampton; I will remain in the camp, and never approach it but by your permiſſion—I demand this inſtance of your confidence, of your love; and ſwear in return inviolable honor and obe⯑dience—Oh! anſwer me not raſhly ſweet Ellinor—rather recall the fatal moment of obſtinate prudence which once before brought on both ſo tedious a period of ſuffering, and remember you again have the power of deciding my fate and your own.

Eſſex roſe from my feet, and left me ab⯑ſorbed in the deepeſt reflection; my mind however inſtantaneouſly adopted the aſpir⯑ing project he had preſented to it. Through the dark and heavy cloud which had long hung over my ſoul, the ſun of love now pierced at once, and turned it all to am⯑bient gold.—To mount a throne; to ſhare it with the choice of my heart; to give to him that ſovereignty I owed to his valor—I was aſtoniſhed the idea had [36] ſo long eſcaped me: yet ſuch a train of misfortunes had ſucceeded my birth, as might well obliterate my ſenſe of its rights. "Baſe and unworthy ſon! ſighed I, ungenerous, cruel brother! why ſhould I ſacrifice to thee my only chance on this ſide the grave?" The mean acquieſcence of James, under a blow which almoſt nerved my arm againſt the royal mur⯑derer, had already ſufficiently ſhocked my feelings, and ſhut him out of all my plans; alas, I could only excuſe his miſ⯑conduct by ſuppoſing he was yet ſubjected to his mother's enemies; though even then, a generous ſoul would reſolutely have proteſted againſt the evil it could not prevent; but to learn he ſacrificed an inviolable duty, and every ſocial feeling, at the ſhrine of that bloated idol, ſelf, robbed him of all claim to the feelings, the duties, he renounced. The deter⯑mined plan of the generous Eſſex had every thing in its favor, nor was my concurrence ſo neceſſary to his ſucceſs as happineſs—but wherefore ſhould I he⯑ſitate, [37] when not to unite in it was to deliver myſelf up to an implacable ene⯑my? yet as avowedly to depart with Eſſex, or even after him, would awaken dan⯑gerous ſuſpicions in the mind of Elizabeth, and confirm all the ſlanders of the world; I pondered much on a ſingular idea that aroſe in my mind, by which both might be obviated; indeed the ſituation of my health would have ſufficently oppoſed my going with him, had no other objection oc⯑curred.—I perceived an air of ſtifled an⯑ger in Eſſex when he returned, which I con⯑jured him to expound:—"It is a matter of no conſequence, ſaid he, with his uſual frankneſs; fortunately the few friends I have brought with me are tried and valiant, and we have the power in our own hands: the wretches, my love, who ſurround you, pretend an authority from the Queen, as well as from the late Lord Arlington, for your detention; this will oblige us to uſe a violence I had rather have avoided, but that is a trifle." Oh! call not any thing a trifle which affects your ſafety, [38] however remotely cried I; in yielding to the bold project you have ventured to form, beware I do not become its ruin—yes, look not on me with ſo marked a wonder; my ſoul accords to, adopts at once all your views. I will at laſt indulge my heart, and thus affiance it to yours—born to purſue your fortune, I will joyfully con⯑ſent to partake it, ſo you, in return, ſwear the confidence will render you but more guarded; in conſidering my own honor, I am only watching over yours; pledge then your word that you will not inter⯑fere with my plan, and I in return will vow, that all I henceforward form, ſhall have the ſame tendency with your own."

The generous Eſſex ſcarce credited his ſenſes, and gave with readineſs the aſſur⯑ance I deſired.—Reſolved to guard my ſiſter's prior rights, and unable to judge of the motives which might bury her for a time in oblivion, I inſiſted on his ſupporting her claim in preference to mine, if ever ſhe ſhould appear; and he perhaps the more readily acquieſced in this requeſt, from a conviction ſhe no [39] longer exiſted, as all my opinions on that head appeared to him entirely viſionary.

Refuſing to confide in this dear raſh lover the means by which I meant to re⯑join him, I obliged him to aſſume an air of grief and deſpair, Which perſuaded the Arlington family I had relapſed into inſanity. In the interim a maid of mine had been ſeized with an epidemic fever of the moſt dangerous kind; I impati⯑ently haſtened the departure of Eſſex, leſt the cruel malady ſhould infect him, and conjured him to wait with Lady South⯑ampton at the Port, from whence the troops had already embarked, till I ſhould rejoin him. The air of ſatisfac⯑tion he perceived in me, made him com⯑ply againſt his better judgment, and the Arlington race no leſs overjoyed at his departure than my ſuppoſed relapſe, and fearful of the epidemic fever, ſhut up thoſe who immediately attended on me, in the quarter of the Abbey I inhabited, avoiding it themſelves as though the plague were encloſed there.

[40] In this ſolitude I executed a ſurprizing project I had long meditated: from the moment I was informed of the mock interment of Lord Leiceſter, my mind had dwelt on the idea; I ſaw it was only to methodize the moſt wild and romantic plan, and however unfeaſible it at firſt appeared, time might form and bring it to effect.—The treaſure of the ſurveyor now became a treaſure indeed; reflection convinced me the bequeſt originated in that wretch's having been the confidante as well as witneſs of his Lord's ungenerous will, and by thus diſpoſing of it, he enabled me to eſcape from the deſpicable bondage it entailed upon me, without betraying his truſt.—The maid, who alone witneſſed the myſterious legacy, had, by her inviolable ſilence on ſo ſingular an event, ſufficiently proved that ſhe could merit my whole confidence; fortunately, ſhe was no leſs favored by thoſe in whoſe power I was left, and became of courſe the propereſt, and only aſſiſtant I could fix on:—by thus turning the artifice of the Queen upon herſelf, I might at once eſcape from [41] her power, and that of the guardians un⯑der whoſe care ſhe had placed me; and gratify the firſt wiſh of Eſſex without endangering his ſafety.

Alithea embraced the plan with joy, and engaged her parents, who were la⯑borers in the neighbourhood, to aid the deluſion.—I affected to be ſeized with the ſame fatal fever as ſoon as the maid's ſymptoms became mortal, and when ſhe ſoon after died, reſigned my bed to her corpſe: her hair, height, complexion, and age, ſo far agreed with mine as to ſecure me from common obſervation, and dread of the contagion ſaved us from a very ſtrict ſcrutiny; as it was believed the maid expired at the ſame time with my⯑ſelf, by Alithea's judicious management her ſuppoſed body was to be delivered to the parents of that faithful domeſtic; when placing myſelf and treaſure in the homely coffin, I was boldly conveyed like the Empreſs Maud through the midſt of my enemies, and lodged in their humble cot till enough recovered to purſue the route of Eſſex.

[42] Alithea now publiſhed the news of my death through the family, who heard of it with joy; the unguarded conduct of the generous Eſſex had ſuggeſted to them, that to have acted under the authority of the Queen, might one day be a very inſufficient vindication:—this idea added fear to that hatred they always enter⯑tained for me, and with pleaſure they bu⯑ried both thoſe paſſions in my grave.— Having ſurveyed my wardrobe, jewels, and papers, without finding the leaſt defi⯑ciency, they prepared for my interment, and diſcharged my immediate attendants; among them the favored one who had aided my ſcheme, and her return to her parents reſtored peace to my boſom.

From the humble cot of that honeſt creature's parents do I cloſe this period of my memoirs—here, as from an invi⯑ſible world, have I ſurveyed the gloomy pageant, with which the erroneous judg⯑ments of thoſe from whom I eſcaped have dignified a low-born female, and by plac⯑ing her pompouſly at the ſide of Lord Arlington, they perhaps have blundered [43] unconſciouſly on propriety.—As the ſable train wound by my window, my ſoul pauſed on the ſolemn vanity—Oh! that in thy tomb, thou quiet ſleeper, ſighed I, may be interred with my name all the painful part of my exiſtence! that renovated to a new and happier being, I may emerge again into that world which ſtill opens a flowery path before me, with corrected ſpirits, unfaltering reaſon, and a temper ſuperior to the ſhocks of misfortune! —

The ſoul, ever capricious and uncer⯑tain, fully enjoys only the pleaſures it makes for itſelf.—Often do I ſeem even in this ruſtic aſylum, concealed in the coarſe garments of the other ſex, and looking to⯑wards a diſtant kingdom as my home, to have hoards of hope and happineſs to build on, my youthful, healthful days were ne⯑ver bleſt with.—

[44] My own fate has once more recalled to my mind that of Matilda—I have medi⯑tated much on a ſiſter ſo dear—alas, too certainly Eſſex is in the right, and there exiſts not a being I can call by that name.—Long years have ſucceeded each other, and ſtill that incomprehenſible myſtery, that dreadful ſilence continues; there is no circumſtance but death that could occaſion it.—Farewell then, oh name ever ſo pleaſant to my lips, ſink deep into my heart, and remain eternally en⯑graved there—farewell, thou pure ſpirit! too etherial for a world ſo groſs, I will no more look for thee on its ſurface, I will no more imagine thee beneath it— no, I will now raiſe my ſtedfaſt eye to that heaven "where the wicked ceaſe from troubling," and in ſome yet undiſcovered ſtar fancy I behold thee! Ah deign, if ſo, to guide the uncertain ſteps of a wan⯑derer, and if my cruel fate conduct them ſtill toward precipices, irradiate the ſcene, and deliver me from the danger!—My ſpirits are high wrought, and a ſolemnity too exquiſite for deſcription poſſeſſes [45] every faculty—I muſt ſteep them all in a lethargy ere I recover my equanimi⯑ty.—

Happineſs! undefinable good, in what ſhall I comprize you? no, I will not ſuppoſe it can be done in gold, and yet how pure was the tranſport a little of that vile metal called into the care-furrowed countenances of Alithea's venerable pa⯑rents! To the earth which gave, I have reſtored the remainder; it is buried eaſt⯑ward under the ſpreading cheſnut planted by Edward IV.—that popular tree, pro⯑tected alike from the caprice of its owner, and the ſpade of the laborer, will hide it ſafely: but, oh! if ever one noble heart ſighs under its ſhade, oppreſſed with the ſting of penury, may ſome good angel whiſper, "you reſt on that which can fully relieve you."

All is now prepared for my flight; I have refuſed the attendance of Alithea; it will be well ſupplied in the remem⯑brance [46] that ſhe is happy—indulgent hea⯑ven has given to her, parents who grow old in peace and virtue, a lover who knows not falſehood or ambition, and a ſoul juſtly grateful for bleſſings beyond all valuation—the faithful creature delays the happineſs of him ſhe loves till he ſhall have conveyed this broken narrative into the hands of Lady Pembroke; nor do I fear to truſt him with it.—Dear, noble friend, once more my ſoul fondly ſalutes you; beſtow on my flight thoſe pious prayers with which virtue conſecrates our purpoſes, and believe mine riſe ever for you. If we meet again, remember it muſt be with pleaſure.

THE RECESS, &c.
PART V.

A Silence ſo tedious will make you number me among the dead; recover yourſelf, my beloved friend—born to a perpetual conteſt with ill fortune, I ſink not even yet under, the oppreſſion.—I have been collecting all my thoughts to purſue my ſtrange recital, more ſtrange indeed every day.

[59] In our way toward Ulſter, we were in⯑tercepted by a body of the rebellious Iriſh, and a deſperate ſkirmiſh enſued—how ſhall I own it, and call myſelf the the love of Eſſex; yet ſo it was—I, who had been ſo valiant in imagination, and remote from the field of action—I, who had in fancy lifted a ſword with the ſtrength of Goliah, and interpoſed a ſhield before Eſſex, heavier perhaps than myſelf, ſhrunk into annihilation at the bare ſight of the conflict; and the faintings which laid me among the ſlain, perhaps alone ſaved me from being added to their number. I revived in the hands of ſome ferocious women, who in ſtripping the dead, had diſcovered at one moment that I yet lived, and was of their own ſex. Induced either by a ſentiment of huma⯑nity, or the hope of a reward, they liſtened to my eager ſupplications for life, and conveyed me to a neighbouring cabin; whither they ſoon ſummoned a prieſt, who opened a vein in my arm. On feebly [60] reviving once more, I caſt my eyes round in ſpeechleſs aſtoniſhment, ſcarce know⯑ing whether I ſhould think my eſcape a bleſſing. I was environed by a ſet of beings who in complexion alone bore any reſemblance to myſelf, their language, manners, and lives, ſeeming no more ana⯑logous, than thoſe of the inhabitants of the Torrid Zone. I laboured in vain to com⯑prehend them, or to make myſelf under⯑ſtood, and was, in deſpair giving up the attempt, when the prieſt already menti⯑oned came to my relief. Through his means I informed them that the Lord De⯑puty would redeem me at any ranſom, provided they ſecured me from danger and inſult. I ſhould, I believe, have en⯑ſured my own ſafety, had not the victo⯑rious party learnt, by ſome ſtraggler, that an Engliſh woman of diſtinguiſhed rank had been diſcovered among the ſlain. They eagerly turned back to demand me, and the hope of reward alike influencing my preſervers to keep me in their hands, a diſpute no leſs fierce, though not ſo [61] bloody, as that I had before witneſſed, followed; it was too violent to be com⯑promiſed, and at length, as the only way to prevent murder, both parties agreed I ſhould be put into the hands of their General Tiroen; or, as ſome called him, O'Neal. Intreaties or reſiſtance would have been equally vain, and I was obliged to rejoice they thought me of conſequence enough to act ſo honorably by me.

During this interval, one of the ſer⯑vants deputed by Lady Southampton im⯑mediately to attend on me, having lin⯑gered a few minutes behind the Engliſh troop, followed to rejoin them at the mo⯑ment of the onſet; the ſound of the firing reached him ere he fell in with the ſcouts, and clapping ſpurs to his horſe, he flew back to the village we all had lately quitted, there to wait in ſafety the event of the conteſt: at this place he was informed, a band of rebels had iſſued out from an ambuſcade formed in the neighbouring mountain; and while he was wavering what ſtep to take, the [62] news of my ſex and capture ſuddenly reached him; ſtruck with the idea of ſome important myſtery, as well from my diſguiſe as the cautions of his Lady, he haſtened back to her with the ſtrange in⯑telligence. The generous but timid Lady Southampton, impreſſed ſolely with the idea of my danger, wrote inſtantaneouſly to Eſſex, briefly reciting all he did not know of my ſtory, and ſtrongly conjuring him to exert his utmoſt influence to pre⯑ſerve me from inſult.

But who ſhall paint the feelings of Eſſex, when the ſurprizing intelligence firſt reached him! intelligence which, in one moment, opened all thoſe ſources of tenderneſs in his ſoul, grief and deſ⯑pair had well nigh congealed. To think I ſtill lived would have been conſummate happineſs, had I not been thus unaccount⯑ably ſnatched away, even at the very mo⯑ment of my miraculous renovation: ſo ſingular a complication of events almoſt deprived him of his ſenſes, and wrought impulſe up to agony. Perhaps the laſt [63] untoward incident of my life was neceſ⯑ſary to ſave his brain from partaking the diſtractions of his mind—ſick at the heart of an incurable ſorrow—fatigued with the cares of government, and the ſlavery of command, the news of my exiſtence and capture made him find in diſtinctions hitherto ſo oppreſſive, the ſole proſpect of recovering a treaſure, which, alone could give value to his future life.

From the knowledge acquired in his mili⯑tary command, Eſſex was enabled to decide on the character of Tiroen—he juſtly be⯑lieved it unprincipled and ungovernable; how muſt he tremble then to recollect my fate was in his hands! In a conjuncture ſo dangerous, he reſigned himſelf entirely up to the guidance of an impaſſioned heart, and diſpatched an officer of rank, charging the arch-rebel by the blood of thousands yet unſpilt, not to exaſperate the Engliſh, and himſelf in particular, by maltreating the lady fortune had thrown into his power; for whoſe ranſom any [64] ſum was tendered her captors ſhould de⯑mand.

This raſh and impetuous addreſs had conſequences only leſs dangerous than thoſe it guarded againſt. Tiroen unfor⯑tunately diſcovered at once that he had the happineſs of the Lord Deputy in his keeping, and though he flattered him from time to time with promiſes of noble treatment, he ſecretly determined no doubt, that if he ever parted with me, it ſhould be upon his own terms.

It was not till ſeveral of theſe meſſages had paſſed, that Tiroen's curioſity led him to viſit me: the attention excited by my maſculine habit had led me imme⯑diately to requeſt one more ſuited to my ſex; and the delicate ſituation I ſtood in, obliging me to conduct myſelf with the utmoſt caution, I had thought it pe⯑culiarly fortunate to eſcape the notice of the General.

The continual repetition of his tedious viſits, when once he had ſeen me; the laviſh ſupply of ſuch accommodations as [65] that ravaged country then afforded—an obſtinate ſilence on the ſtate of my affairs, and the moſt weariſome diſcuſſions of his own, all too ſoon convinced me, that neither his pride, his ambition, or his fe⯑rocity, had been able to guard the heart of Tiroen from that powerful paſſion which invigorated the being of his diſ⯑tinguiſhed rival—I trembled at the recol⯑lection that I was wholly in his power—already misjudged as the voluntary miſ⯑treſs of Eſſex, unwilling to announce myſelf, and unable, had I done ſo, to prove my right to any name or diſtinction, mine was indeed a fearful ſituation. I was not allowed to hold any correſpondence with the Engliſh, and only knew by the watch kept over me, that a human being was anxious for my releaſe.

Whatever conſequences might follow my appearing pleaſed with the diſtincti⯑ons laviſhed on me by Tiroen, I felt every day more ſenſibly that I had no other means of avoiding the licentious inſolence of his officers; who fancied their ſervices ſo im⯑portant [66] to the cauſe they had eſpouſed, as to ſecure their conduct from too ſtrict a ſcrutiny.

Tiroen ſought occaſions to break off, renew, and prolong, the ſecret intercourſe in which he had now engaged with Eſſex; but a lingering treaty agreed not with the fiery impatience of that unfortunate hero. His divided ſoul no longer could attend to the duties of his command—the buſi⯑neſs of the war was at an end—Eſſex was no longer a cool and prudent General, watchful to ſeize every advantage, and harraſs the enemy—alas, he was now only a mad and extravagant lover, ready to ſacrifice every thing to the recovery of one adored individual.—Delivered up to paſſion, to terror, to agony, to every tor⯑turing exceſs of overſtrained ſenſibility, at this fatal period the generous Eſſex was gradually ſacrificing the whole renown of a life hitherto ſo glorious. The news of Tiroen's love crowned his misfortunes; and that execrable traitor, determined to bring the Lord Deputy to his terms, by various [67] emiſſaries had him informed of plots he never laid againſt me, and repulſes he never ſuſtained; ſpeciouſly diſowning ſuch deſigns in terms calculated only to redouble the ſuſpicions of his rival.

By artifices like theſe the warlike talents and dignified mind of Eſſex were kept in abſolute ſubjection; he no longer dared to exert the valour which burned proudly at his heart, but ſtifling every emotion love did not excite, he eagerly engaged in a ſecret and dangerous treaty.—The raſh propoſal of Eſſex to confer with Tiroen from the oppoſite banks of a rivu⯑let, I imputed to the paſſionate deſire a lover ever has to judge of the perſon and talents of the man who dares to rival him—this interview could not be kept a ſecret—alas, perhaps it decided the fortune of the Lord Deputy.—Misjudged from that moment by a buſy world which ſees only the ſurface of things, to timidity, to ava⯑rice, to indolence, to ambition, by turns, has been aſcribed an incident, of which love had all the merit or the ſhame.—Ah! had the erroneous multitude conſidered [68] but a moment, ſurely they had diſcerned a myſtery in his conduct.—What could ambition, glory, pride, require, he did not poſſeſs already? If to hold the moſt abſolute ſway over the moſt abſolute of Sovereigns conld gratify thoſe wiſhes, they were gratified.—Rather, ye buſy Many, learn to pity than condemn the generous frenzy of a bleeding heart which boldly ſacrificed every thing to an over⯑ruling, an irreſiſtible paſſion—a paſſion mine muſt break to anſwer—and it will break.—Oh! my ſhook brain, how wild it wanders!—

THE RECESS, &c.
PART VI.

TIME, which inures us to every kind of ſuffering, at length ſtrengthened my mind againſt the heavy ſadneſs impreſſed on it by the fate of this dear unconſci⯑ous ſufferer. Slowly I ventured to pon⯑der on the paſt; to meditate the future. It was with true gratitude and concern I learnt Heaven had called to itſelf the amiable and accompliſhed ſiſter of Lady Arundell, who caught a cold during [194] her attendanee on the ſick Queen, which ended in a conſumption, and carried her off a few months after Elizabeth. Actu⯑ated to the laſt by the ſublimeſt ſym⯑pathy and friendſhip, Lady Pembroke had added, to the moiety of the ſurvey⯑or's treaſure (which ſhe had cauſed to be dug for in the ſpot ſpecified) a ſufficient ſum to ſecure the dear unfortunate every comfort her forlorn ſtate admitted; plac⯑ing with her Alithea, the favorite maid ſhe had ſo tenderly commemorated, and committed both to the charge of Lady Arundel; who with equal generoſity re⯑ceived ſo anxious a truſt. A virtue thus conſummate ſanctifies itſelf, and can re⯑ceive neither glory or grace from the gra⯑titude of humanity; yet ſurely the in⯑cenſe of the heart ariſes even to Heaven! accept it then, oh, gentleſt of the Syd⯑neys, although inſphered there!

The ſtrange and unaccountable differ⯑ence in my ſiſter's opinion and my own, reſpecting Lord Leiceſter, ſupplied me a ſource of endleſs meditation: yet as this difference became obvious only from [195] the time we arrived in London, I could not help imputing her blindneſs to the ſame cauſe ſhe aſſigned for mine.—Certainly ſhe imbibed the unreaſonable prejudices of Lord Eſſex; whoſe ambition (however fatally expiated) always inclined him to diſlike a Nobleman born to ſuper⯑ſede him. I ſaw but too plainly from the irritation and vehemence to which her temper from that period became ſub⯑ject, how much a woman inſenſibly adopts of the diſpoſition of him to whom ſhe gives her heart. I had not however look⯑ed on her choice with the contemptuous aſperity with which ſhe regarded mine.—Lord Eſſex, I will frankly own, ere yet he roſe into favor, was gifted like her⯑ſelf with every captivating advantage of nature.—The fire and ingenuouſneſs which afterwards marked his character, then lived only in his eyes; and the cul⯑tivated underſtanding he poſſeſſed, point⯑ed every glance with elegance and ex⯑preſſion. One muſt have loved Lord Leiceſter to ſee Eſſex with indifference—one muſt have loved him to the exceſs [196] I did perhaps, not to remark the attach⯑ment my ſiſter avowed.—Innumerable inſtances of it now flaſhed on my memo⯑ry, I was aſtoniſhed could at the moment eſcape me. If ſhe was indeed more clear ſighted than myſelf—But why do I en⯑ter on ſo vain a diſcuſſion?—Alas, dear Ellinor! beloved Leiceſter! I have no right but to lament ye.

I had likewiſe gathered another pain⯑ful doubt from the ſtory of my ſiſter. England had gained a King in the ſon of Mary Stuart, but her unfortunate daugh⯑ters muſt not hope to acquire a brother. From the moment I had been informed mine had acceded to the throne, the tender mother's heart had fluttered with the idea of preſenting to him that lovely girl ſo nearly allied to his blood. Al⯑though regardleſs of diſtinction in my own perſon, I could not turn my eyes on the fair daughter of Lord Leiceſter with⯑out coveting for her every human advan⯑tage.—Unwilling to be ſwayed by pre⯑judice, I ſeparately conſulted with the [197] few friends fortune had left me; who all concurred in giving me an impreſſion of the King, degrading, if not contempti⯑ble. They repreſented him as national, vain, pedantick, credulous, and partial: wanting generoſity to beſtow a royal fu⯑neral on the body of the martyred ſaint, his unhappy mother; yet daily impo⯑veriſhed to meanneſs by favorites and pa⯑raſites. Enſlaved by the imperious ſpirit of a Queen he neither loved nor valued, and only endeared to the people he go⯑verned through the fickleneſs of their natures, which are always gratified by change. As thoſe who ſpoke thus, could have no poſſible intereſt in villifying or depreciating him, I could not but give ſome credit to their account; and made it my firſt concern to ſee the King; anxious to read in his countenance a confutation of every charge. How unaccountably was I diſappointed when my ſenſes took part with his enemies!—I beheld with aſtoniſhment in the perſon of James, youth without freſhneſs, royalty without [198] grandeur, height without majeſty—an air of ſlyneſs and a ſecret ſervility, cha⯑racterized features, which, though devoid of the graces of either diſtinguiſhed pa⯑rent, wanted not regularity; and a ſtoop⯑ing ſlouch gait gave an invincible awk⯑wardneſs to a figure nature had endued with ſymmetry. Offended and repelled, my heart ſunk again into its own little manſion, nor claimed the leaſt alliance with his.—I determined to watch at lei⯑ſure his real character and conduct, nor ventured to confide to his care the ſin⯑gle treaſure Heaven had permitted me to retain, of all it once beſtowed. Reſolved to educate my daughter ſuitably to the fortune ſhe was born to, I thought it wiſe to bury in my own boſom, at leaſt for a time, the ſecret of her right to it; and the eccentric turn of mind every ſucceed⯑ing day rendered more obvious in the King, made me continually applaud the moderation and foreſight which guarded me on this intereſting occaſion.

[199] I, however, judged it neceſſary to aſ⯑ſume a title no human being envied, or offered to diſpute with me; and to ſupport it properly without encroaching on my daughter's valuable acquiſition, I found I muſt reſolve to re-viſit Kenil⯑worth Caſtle, now the property of ano⯑ther family.—In the building were con⯑tained cabinets ſo ſecure and unknown, that Lord Leiceſter always depoſited there, ere he journeyed to London, ſuch pa⯑pers, jewels, and other valuables, as he thought it unſafe to take with him. On the memorable night when laſt we quitted that pleaſant dwelling, I had aſſiſted him to place in the moſt curious of theſe reſervoirs ſeveral caſkets, for which he ſeemed more than commonly anxious; and I added to their number, that containing Mrs. Mar⯑low's papers, and the teſtimonials of my birth. As if actuated by ſome ſad pre-ſenti⯑ment that he ſhould never more re-viſit this ſpot, my Lord took great pains to familia⯑rize me to the management of the ſprings, and gave into my hands duplicates of the [200] keys. By a ſingular chance amidſt all the tranſitions of my fate, theſe keys re⯑mained, and ſeemed continually to re⯑mind me, how important to my daugh⯑ter's welfare it might one day be to re⯑cover the caſkets.—A motive ſtrong as this alone could conquer the reluctance I felt again to behold a ſpot ſacred to the memory of a huſband ſo beloved. You will call this, perhaps, a childiſh weak⯑neſs, after all I had borne; but alas, the mind feebler and feebler from every conflict, ſometimes ſinks under a trifle, after repelling the more powerful attacks of ill-fortune with magnanimity.

Lady Arundel, with her uſual kindneſs, propoſed accompanying me; and we ſor⯑rowfully meaſured once more thoſe miles which ſo ſtrongly revived in my mind the moſt intereſting remembrances. At Coven⯑try we reſted to enquire into the character of the preſent owner of Kenilworth Caſtle. We were told that this magnificent man⯑ſion I had left fit for the reception of a Sovereign, had long been in the hands [201] of a miſer, whoſe avarice had induced him to ſtrip it of its princely ornaments: not leſs from the deſire of converting thoſe into money, than to deprive it of every charm that might tempt the en⯑quiring traveller to knock at the inhoſ⯑pitable gate. Yet even when this ruin was effected, the ſtructure itſelf was ſo complete a piece of architecture, as to attract a number of unwelcome viſitors; to exclude whom, he had now let it to ſome manufacturers, and reſided himſelf in a remote apartment. The chagrin this extraordinary revolution could not but occaſion in my mind, was increaſed when I recollected how hard it would be, perhaps, to gain admiſſion; and even when that was obtained, we knew not whether the only room I wiſhed to lodge in was now habitable. Lady Arundell, with her uſual foreſight, adviſed me to ſeem to have no other motive for this viſit, than a deſire to re-purchaſe the Caſtle; and when ſhewn through it, to appear to be ſtruck with ſo ſevere an in⯑diſpoſition, as ſoon as I reached the [202] chamber which contained the cabinets, as ſhould render it impoſſible to remove me; leaving it to her to reconcile the owner to ſo troubleſome an intruder, by the moſt laviſh generoſity. A fineſſe of this kind alone could aſcertain me any ſucceſs, and the ſicklineſs of my aſpect, I was ſure, would ſufficiently corroborate ſuch an aſſertion.

We ſet out immediately, that by ar⯑riving in the evening we might have a pretence for paſſing the night there.— My ſoul turned from the well-known ſcene, and ſickened alike at ſight of the reviving verdure, and the ſplendid man⯑ſion, to me alas, only a gay mauſoleum. Humbly I ſollicited entrance at a gate which once flew open whenever I appear⯑ed; but, ah, though the exterior was the ſame, how ſtrange ſeemed the alter⯑ation within!—No more did the liveried train of aſſiduous domeſtics aſſemble to the diſtant winding of the huntſman's horn.—No longer did I reſt in gilded galleries, whoſe pictured ſides delighted one ſenſe, while their coolneſs refreſhed [203] another. No longer could I, even in idea, behold the beloved, the noble own⯑er, whoſe gracious mien endeared the welcome it conveyed—A change which jarred every feeling had taken place. A numerous body of diligent mechanics were plodding in thoſe halls were Eliza⯑beth had feaſted, and their battered ſides hardly now informed us where the rich tapeſtry uſed to hang. My ears were ſud⯑denly ſtunned with the noiſe of a hundred looms; and the diſtant lake once covered with gay pageants, and reſounding only to the voice of pleaſure, preſented us ano⯑ther ſcene of induſtry not leſs buſy, ſtrange, and ſurprizing. By incidents of this kind, one becomes painfully and inſtantaneouſly ſenſible of advancing into life. When firſt we find ourſelves ſailing with the imperceptible current of time, engroſſed either by the danger of our ſitu⯑ation, or enchanted with its proſpects, we glide ſwiftly on, ſcarce ſenſible of our progreſs, till the ſtream reviſits ſome fa⯑vorite ſpot: alas, ſo viſible is the deſo⯑lation of the ſhorteſt interval, that we [204] grow old in a moment, and ſubmit once more to the tide, willing rather to ſhare the ruin than review it.

Among the few ſervants retained by the meagre maſter of this deſolated man⯑ſion, one appeared who immediately re⯑called himſelf to my mind by the name of Gabriel. I recollected his having been warden of the outer lodges. The title by which I was announced—the weed I ſtill continued to wear, overcame one already bowed to the earth by age, infir⯑mity, and penury: and when to theſe circumſtances was ſuperadded the re⯑membrance of the plentiful and peaceful days he had known under a Lord ever munificent to his domeſtics, gratitude became agony, and the poor old man ſunk in a fit at my feet. An incident like this might well have affected an indif⯑ferent ſpectator.—I was ſcarce more ſen⯑ſible than himſelf: and the alarm ſoon ſpread through the laborious mechanics, till it was conveyed to Sir Humphry Moreton.—Timorouſly he emerged from [205] his apartment, and as the humble croud made way for him, he meaſured me afar off with his eye, and ſeemed loſt in conjecture on the ſubject of my viſit.—My purſe was yet in my hand, and part of its contents in thoſe of ſome perſons who had lent a ready aſſiſtance. Whether this, or the wan delicacy of my looks intereſted him, I know not; but every care-fur⯑rowed feature gradually relaxed as he ap⯑proached me, ſtriving in vain to ſoften into the ſmile of benevolence. I roſe to return his courteous ſalutation, and in⯑formed him, that when laſt I paſt the walls of this Caſtle, I was its miſtreſs, the dear and happy wife of Lord Leiceſter; but perceiving uncertain apprehenſions of ſome remote claim began again to con⯑tract his brow, I added, that ſenſible I had loſt every right in a ſpot yet dear to me, I came to enquire whether he was diſpoſed to part with it, and to reſcue from po⯑verty ſuch worthy ſervants of its late noble owner as had alike outlived their labour, and him who ſhould have recompenſed it. [206] What heart is inſenſible to that virtue in which we alone can reſemble our Maker?—Benevolence, like religion, awes even thoſe it cannot win. The miſer loudly applauded my liberality; and by a greater effort on his part, al⯑lowing for the difference of our charac⯑ters, invited me to ſpend the night in the Caſtle. The chamber I had been accuſtomed to inhabit, he called his beſt, and thither was I conducted. I was not unprovided with the means of enſuring my own welcome, and my ſervants hav⯑ing ſpread the cold viands we brought, Sir Humphry's ſpirits grew light over luxuries he was not to pay for. A temp⯑tation ſo agreeable prolonged his ſtay, and I at length diſcovered the only way to ſhorten his viſit, would be to compli⯑ment him with all that remained: ſee⯑ing my ſervants in compliance with the hint, were about to convey it out of the room, fear leſt any ſhould be loſt by the way, prevailed over the hilarity [207] of the moment, and he departed with the wine.

With an impatient beating heart I raiſed the tapeſtry, which providentially had been preſerved in this room, leſs from its beauty than antiquity; as it was ſo worn that it had long been pannelled in many places.—Behind the bed we diſcovered the ſecret ſpring of the cabinet, which I opened without any difficulty; and with the aſſiſtance of Lady Arundell took down the well-remembered caſkets, pauſ⯑ing at intervals, to weep over all the tender ideas the ſight of them recalled ſo forcibly to my memory; then raiſing my eye toward Heaven, while devoutly thanking the God who thus proſpered my remaining wiſhes, I almoſt fancied I beheld the bea⯑tified ſpirit of him who concealed theſe treaſures.

Lady Arundell would not reſt without inſpecting their contents. The largeſt was filled with family papers, bonds, contracts, mortgages, many of which were to me unintelligible, and all uſeleſs. [208] The next contained letters and little or⯑naments, leſs precious from their intrin⯑ſic value, than their analogy to particu⯑lar events.—Under theſe was a gilt caſket filled with jewels of great value, and what was of infinitely more, the authenti⯑cated bonds and acknowledgments of all the ſums Lord Leiceſter had informed me he had providentially depoſited in other countries; and of which I knew not any memorandum remained. This was ſo noble an addition to the bequeſt which already enriched my ſweet Mary, that it ſeemed to me, her father even from the grave delighted to endow her: while the Almighty, gracious even when we think him moſt ſevere, had thu [...] ſe⯑creted for her advantage, treaſure it would have been impoſſible for me to have preſerved through ſo many deſperate viciſſitudes.

The next caſket was a gift from the fond mother to the darling of her heart: it contained all the teſtimonials of the Queen of Scots, and other parties con⯑cerned, [209] on the ſubject of my birth, with the contract of marriage between Lord Leiceſter and myſelf. I felt rich in theſe recovered rights; and though prudence might never permit me to claim alliance with King James, yet to bequeath to my daughter the power of doing ſo, at whatever period it ſhould appear ad⯑vantageous, was a great conſolation to me.

Lady Arundell and I paſt part of the night in packing theſe valuables in empty trunks brought for that purpoſe; then cloſing the ſecret cabinet, and leaving no traces of our ſearch for it, we retired to reſt. We departed early the next morning, carrying with us that ancient domeſtic of Lord Leiceſter, on whom me⯑mory had ſo powerfully operated, and two others, who long ſince expelled from the Caſtle, ſought a miſerable ſubſiſtence in the hamlets around it. It joyed my very heart to ſupply to theſe poor wretches a loſs irremediable with reſpect to myſelf, and the profound attachment of their [210] few remaining days amply rewarded me.

Through the intervention of the friends I yet poſſeſſed, ſome eminent merchants in London undertook to get the bonds, notes, &c. duly acknowledged: and in proceſs of time, ſuch conſiderable ſums were of conſequence recovered, as aſcer⯑tained to myſelf and child our accuſtomed affluence. Years and misfortune had only cemented the ancient friendſhip be⯑tween me and Lady Arundell.—I added my income and family to hers.—Her houſe was fortunately ſo near London, as to allow me the advantage of procur⯑ing the firſt inſtructors for my daughter, and the infirm ſtate of Lady Arundell's health, rendering her as much a priſoner from neceſſity, as I was from choice, both inſenſibly found in the improve⯑ment of my daughter, a mild and grow⯑ing ſatisfaction, which more than made amends for the world we ſhut out.

Ah! could I deſire a greater pleaſure? Pardon, madam, the fond extravagance [211] of maternal love, and allow me to pre⯑ſent to you the darling of my heart in her ſixteenth year. Already ſomething taller than myſelf, to a form that united the ſtricteſt ſymmetry with the wild and vari⯑able graces of glowing youth, my Mary added the perfect features of her father; exquiſitely feminized by a complexion tranſparently fair, and a bloom alike de⯑licate and vivid; her hair, of the golden brown I have deſcribed as peculiar to his, fell below her waiſt in a profuſion of artleſs ringlets, heightening her beauty even to luxuriance.—If ſhe had borrowed any thing from me, it was the collected modeſty of her mien; and from my ſiſter ſhe had ſtolen that penetrating, faſ⯑cinating ſmile, thoſe two alone of all I ever ſaw were gifted with:—alas, it was now wholly her own.—Although light⯑neſs and elaſticity characterized her figure, every limb was rounded even to poliſh⯑ing, and never did I contemplate the ſoft turn of her white arms when raiſed to touch the lute, without thinking thoſe [212] more perfect than even her face.—Her voice was no leſs ſweet in ſpeaking than ſinging; with this difference—in the firſt ſhe ſoftened the ſoul to pleaſure, in the laſt, elevated it to rapture.—Her underſtanding was ſtrong and penetrating, yet elevated and refined.—Her ſenſibility (the firſt formed of all her feelings) was Father deep than ardent. Maternal ex⯑perience had moderated the enthuſiaſm incident to youth, nor was it obvious in any inſtance but the love of knowledge. Inceſſant, unremitting, in her ſtudies, books were her only extravagance, and muſick her only relaxation. To com⯑penſate for the worldly pleaſures I judged it prudence to deprive her of, I was laviſh in indulgences to which her taſte natu⯑rally led: I kept muſicians on purpoſe to accompany her, and found in the years filled up by herſelf and her employ⯑ments, that ſweet though ſaddened plea⯑sure parents only know, and which, perhaps, more than makes us amends for all the more lively ones it recalls to [213] our memory. In effect, the more lovely ſhe grew, the more neceſſary I found it to hide her; and offering her daily up to God, I left her wholly to his diſpoſal, determined neither my pride, vanity, or ambition, ſhould interfere with the happi⯑neſs I ſupplicated for her.

On peruſing this deſcription, I per⯑ceive at once the impoſſibility of your crediting it; yet far from accuſing my⯑ſelf of partiality, I could call on all who ever beheld my daughter to atteſt my candor.—How readily would Lady Arun⯑dell have done ſo—entendered to her by a love only inferior to my own, that faith⯑ful friend found in declining life a new tye wound round her heart, for which ſhe daily thanked me.

As nothing robs us of the confidence of youth like the appearance of myſtery, when time called reflection to being in her tender mind, I ſlowly, and by de⯑grees, confided to my daughter the pain⯑ful events you have thus obliged me to commemorate. This indulgence ſecured [214] to me her whole heart, and I trembled only leſt her deep ſenſe of paſt misfor⯑tunes ſhould affect her health; for ſenſi⯑bility was the leading feature in her cha⯑racter. Far from ſeeking to expound the future in her own favor, the flattering proſpects her diſtinguiſhed birth, and yet more diſtinguiſhed endowments, might well ſpread before her, paſſed away like a ſhadow, and ſhe ſaw only her mo⯑ther. A thouſand times has ſhe bedewed my hand with a reverence the moſt en⯑dearing; and the tears with which ſhe often embalmed the memory of her fa⯑ther, almoſt recompenſed me for his loſs. From that period her expreſſive eyes were fixed ever on mine with ſuch blended ſadneſs and admiration, as proved ſhe thought me almoſt ſainted by miſ⯑fortune. More ſtudious henceforward of my pleaſure, more ſubmiſſive to my will, more ſolicitous for my repoſe, it ſeemed as if in learning ſhe was my only re⯑maining tye on earth, ſhe conceived the various affections and duties of all I had [215] loſt devolved to, and centered in, her⯑ſelf. But ſympathy was the genuine im⯑pulſe of her nature; for with equal care ſhe watched over her unhappy aunt.— Whenever that dear creature's incurable malady aſſumed the appearance of me⯑lancholy, ſhe was extravagantly fond of muſick.—At thoſe intervals my lovely Mary would lean over her lute with the meek benignity of a deſcending angel, and extract from it ſuch ſolemn ſounds as breathed at once of peace and ſorrow: inſenſibly ſoothing the perturbed ſpirit, and melting only thoſe yet undiſturbed. That ſubtle eſſence of our natures, ſen⯑ſibility, which madneſs can only unfix, not annihilate, often pauſed unconſciouſly upon the pleaſure, and ſoftly ſunk into repoſe.

A child thus eminently amiable at once concentered my affections—commanded my eſteem—poſſeſſed my whole confi⯑dence —actuated, in ſhort, my very being.—Ah, how noble, how affecting is the friendſhip grounded on the maternal and [216] filial tye; when unconſcious of any weak⯑neſs in her own heart, the mother dares preſent it as a pure and unflattering mir⯑ror to her child, and with that ſelf-ap⯑plauſe which even Heaven approves, con⯑templates the upright, the innocent ſoul it reflects!—Sacred and indelible becomes that precept which is expreſſed but by example.—Happy are thoſe enabled to form ſuch an attachment as inexperience ſtrengthens on one hand, and knowledge on the other:—Neither the guſts of youthful paſſion, nor the nipping froſts of age, can deſtroy a plant rooted thus by mutual virtue;—it only gains vigor from time, and by the peculiar indul⯑gence of the Almighty, our ſublimeſt merit ripens into our moſt perfect plea⯑ſure.

Satisfied I had already acquired ſuch an influence in my daughter's mind as ſhould enable me to regulate her princi⯑ples, I left it to time and circumſtances to call them into action.—The great buſineſs of my life now ſeemed over; [217] and delivering my heart up to the flatter⯑ing preſages of maternal love, a thou⯑ſand viſions of almoſt forgotten gran⯑deur and happineſs floated before my eyes, and ſometimes half-deluded them.

The fluctuating complaints of Lady Arundell at length ſettled into a con⯑ſumption:—It was an hereditary diſorder of the Sydneys; nor perhaps could all the ſolicitude of myſelf and my ſweet Mary have availed toward her reſtora⯑tion, even if a cruel ſhock in which we were all equal ſufferers, had not precipi⯑tated her fate.

Among the unconſcious caprices which by turns actuated my unfortunate ſiſter, was a paſſion for ſitting in the open air.—Neither times, or ſeaſons, had any influ⯑ence over her; and ſhe would inſiſt on it alike in the ſnow of December, and the ſcorching ſun of July.—To this ſelf-will I had no doubt greatly contributed. From the moment of my return to Eng⯑land, I had vehemently oppoſed the ſe⯑vere controul to which ſhe had hereto⯑fore [218] been ſubject, and habituated her at⯑tendants to yield to her in every inſtance which did not abſolutely endanger her ſafety: fully determined not to render an exiſtence wholly wretched no human being could now make happy. But as uninformed minds never know a medi⯑um, the people appointed to watch her, gradually ſuffered her to become ſenſible of her power, which ſoon grew into an unbounded indulgence. It was now the depth of winter, and ſhe had ſat in the keen air for hours, watching the ſnow, which fell in abundance.—The moſt violent ſhiverings enſued, followed by a fever which ſettled at laſt on the nerves, and brought her to the very verge of the grave.—Nevertheleſs, it appeared to have ſalutary effects—her ſpirits were ſunk indeed to extreme lowneſs, but they became more equal; and traces of reaſon were often diſcernable in her acti⯑ons. If ſhe did not remember, ſhe yet ſtrove to know me; and ſometimes ſtu⯑died my features in a manner the moſt [219] touching.—I conſidered this as the very criſis of her fate—her only chance on this ſide Heaven, and ſcarce dared leave her for a ſingle moment. I entruſted the care of Lady Arundell (whoſe ſituation, though more dangerous, was not ſo me⯑lancholy) to my daughter; fearful leſt her youthful ſpirits ſhould be injured by conſtantly beholding an object ſo affect⯑ing. But I had forgot that my own ſhat⯑tered conſtitution was not equal to the fa⯑tigue and anxiety of watching over my ſiſ⯑ter. I fell one evening into a ſucceſſion of fainting fits; the ſervants conveyed me to bed; and the fear of alarming Lady Arundell hindered them from informing my daughter of my ſituation. My faint⯑ings at length gave place to a drowſineſs ſo intenſe, I might call it a ſtupor.—I remained thus for ſome hours, when I ſtarted with an indiſtinct idea of a heavy fall, and a deep groan. Terror rouſed, and collected in a moment, every dor⯑mant faculty.—I ruſhed through the chamber which divided mine from my ſiſter's; but I blamed myſelf for impe⯑tuoſity [220] when I perceived all was pro⯑foundly ſilent in hers. The two nurſes were in a deep ſleep, and the expiring watchlights heavily winked, and revived, before the cold dawn of the morning. I gently opened the curtains of her bed—Ah, gracious Heaven, what did I feel when I beheld it empty!—The agonized ſhriek I gave, rouzed both her careleſs attendants, who impreſſed with but one idea, flew towards a door I now firſt perceived to be open: it led to a gal⯑lery ornamented with ſuch portraits of our family as had ſurvived the wreck of their fortunes; among them was incau⯑tiouſly placed that (already fatally com⯑memorated) of the Earl of Eſſex at the ſtorming of Cadiz; an unfortunate le⯑gacy bequeathed to Ellinor by Lady Pembroke.—My ſoul took in at a thought all the fearful conſequences.—I tottered into the gallery—alas, only to behold my worſt apprehenſion verified.—The fair ſpectre, which once was Ellinor, lay proſtrate before the picture—one hand had convulſively gathered her diſordered [221] garments over her thin cheſt; the other was ſtill expreſſively extended towards the inanimate image of him ſo belov⯑ed.—Impatiently I laid my hand upon her heart—it anſwered not the trembling enquirer—its wandering eſſence was ex⯑haled, and ſhe had ceaſed forever to ſuf⯑fer. Thy parting prayer, oh Eſſex! was ſurely prophetic, for her ſoul in re⯑covering memory, had burſt its mortal bound, and ſoared to Heaven.

Scarce were the dear remains quietly interred, ere thoſe of the amiable Lady Arundell followed them. I bore theſe loſſes with devout reſignation.—The tears which fall when Heaven recalls the unfortunate, ſtill the wild paſſions of the ſad ſurvivor, and deeply wound only the ſoul yet new to ſuffering. It was with a quickened apprehenſion I per⯑ceived the effect of theſe firſt afflictions on the tender ſpirits of my daughter: not that I ſought totally to ſtifle the lively impreſſions of natural affection;—the tears of youth, like the genial ſhowers of [222] May, ſerve only to ſave the planter's toil, and ſimply ripen the rich fruits of the mind; but when either fall too often, they impoveriſh the ſoil, and waſh away the buds yet blowing.

My own ſoul afforded no variety of chearful images with which I could hope to invigorate the gentle ſpirits of my Mary; unwilling to form new connec⯑tions, I rather thought it prudent to change my abode, and by a variety of ſcenes inſenſibly amuſe her; and my ſteward was ſent accordingly to ſeek ano⯑ther manſion. I called back the moment when the gloomy aiſles of a ruined con⯑vent, by poſſeſſing the ſimple advantage of novelty, diverted my mind even at the ſorrowful criſis which robbed me of a foſter mother. Alas, in yet untried youth, the proſpect that is unknown, ever adds to its own charms thoſe of imagination; while in maturer life, the heart lingers on all which once delighted it, hopeleſs of finding in the future, a pleaſure fancy can ever compare with thoſe it reviews [223] in the paſt. To my daughter, however, the whole world was yet new, and in fixing on a ſcene habitual to my feelings, I could not fail to delight hers. I hired a man⯑ſion near the Thames ſide, in Richmond, to which we removed early in the ſpring.

Perhaps, in this choice, I was influ⯑enced almoſt without knowing it, by a latent motive: diſtinct as I had lived from the world ſince my return to Eng⯑land, the fame of the Prince of Wales had yet reached me.—This accompliſhed youth had at once roſe above the weak⯑neſſes of his father, and the prejudices of his rank; devoting his heart to the virtues, his mind to the ſciences, and his perſon to thoſe manly and becoming exerciſes, which invigorating every hu⯑man power, prepared him alike for the enjoyment of peace, or the purſuit of war. Delighted to underſtand a Stuart was riſing to redeem the glory of his declining race, I paſſionately longed to ſee, know, and be valued by the royal [224] Henry. The King, unworthy a ſon ſo diſtinguiſhed, took no pleaſure in his company; but even in tender youth, reſigned him to a court of his own, from the adulation of which, merit ſu⯑perior to praiſe alone could have guarded him. Henry had, like myſelf, a par⯑tiality for the beautiful village of Rich⯑mond; he always paſſed part of the ſummer in a palace near the Thames, and I took pleaſure in thinking a par⯑tition of wood alone ſeparated his gar⯑dens from mine. With a judgment unequalled at his years, the Prince knew how to be affable without abating aught of his dignity; and, while in the circle of his own court he preſerved the authority of a Sovereign, to the unfor⯑tunate who addreſſed him, he had the benignity of a brother: ſuch was his character in Richmond, where the peo⯑ple almoſt adored him, and took plea⯑ſure in amplifying on the ſuperior qua⯑lities he ſo eminently poſſeſſed. The ſweet hopes his merit ſometimes infuſed [225] into my boſom, came accompanied with an equal number of fears, yet could not my heart forbear to cheriſh them.

The revolving ſeaſon tinged this ſweet retreat with every variety of verdure; the waves of the Thames were more tranſlucent than ever; all nature awak⯑ened once more to perfection, when the Prince of Wales took up his abode in the adjacent palace.—This news height⯑ened the ſoft red of my daughter's cheek, and even faintly colored my wan one.—Not daring to expreſs to her the eager deſire I felt to ſee the Prince, and not ac⯑cuſtomed to venture out without her, day after day elapſed in anxious expecta⯑tion. My gentle Mary, with a delicacy from which I drew the moſt happy pre⯑ſages, now always choſe to go abroad either ſo early or ſo late that it was almoſt impoſſible we ſhould ever meet the Prince, and the veil ſhe uſually wore was cloſed with ſo much care as to enſure her the happineſs of being overlooked, even if fortune threw him in our way.

[226] Nevertheleſs, I took notice the arrival of the royal Henry ſtrangely filled up the void in our lives.—What he would do, or what he would not do, conſtantly regulated our motions, and employed my daughter's thoughts even more than my own. His taſte afforded us a variety of indulgencies of which he knew not we were partakers.—Sometimes moon-light concerts, or magnificent fireworks; at others, parties on the Thames; where the Prince ſtill took pleaſure in beholding a variety of little veſſels, built and orna⯑mented for the amuſement of his early years, and which were manned by chil⯑dren.—They were often ſo near, we fan⯑cied we heard the voice of Henry, when both mother and daughter would give way to the ſame impulſe, and haſtily re⯑tire. The ſummer might have elapſed in this manner had not chance been more favorable to our wiſhes than we could re⯑ſolve to be.

We were returning home one morning in an ill-contrived carriage, newly in⯑vented [227] for airings, the inconvenience of which I bore patiently from not being able to walk or ride on horſeback for any length of time ſince my memorable fever.—The ſervant who drove, ſtopt as uſual at the brow of the enchanting hill, that we might enjoy for a few minutes its beau⯑ties, when the ſound of horns approach⯑ing near, informed us the Prince of Wales was returning from hunting, which at once ſtartled the horſes and ourſelves. My Mary actuated only by the impreſſion of the moment, made an eager ſign to the man to drive on; and the horſes, already frightened, yielded impetuouſly to the ſlighteſt touch of the rein, fly⯑ing forward with the moſt dangerous ra⯑pidity. The clumſineſs of the carriage, and the badneſs of the road, threatened us every moment with being overturned—for me there was no eſcape, but could my daughter be prevailed on to leap out, I was ſenſible ſhe would be ſafe. Far from obeying my intreaties, or even commands, ſhe threw her arms around [228] me, and proteſted it was for me alone ſhe feared. The carriage ſunk into a deep rut at laſt, and we were thrown out at a ſmall diſtance, with a violence that al⯑moſt deprived me of my ſenſes:—my darling Mary had wholly loſt hers. I perceived the train of Henry approach⯑ing, but the favorite wiſh of ſeeing him was forgotten in that of recovering her.—I was preſently environed by the hunters without regarding them, till their extreme ſollicitude obliged me to raiſe my eyes from the lifeleſs face of my daughter in acknowledgment. I per⯑ceived with a ſurprize even that mo⯑ment could not conquer, that on either hand ſtood a young man, adorned with the order of the garter, and ſo diſtin⯑guiſhingly handſome, that I knew not which was the Prince of Wales, but turned from the one to the other with an air of wildneſs and ſtupor.—My looks, however, made little impreſſion on the ſtrangers, their whole attention being fixed on the inanimate form of my daugh⯑ter. [229] —In truth, fortune had contrived to ſhew her to the utmoſt advantage. I had thrown up her veil to give her air, and bared her beautiful hands and arms, poliſhed and white as Parian marble; the wild rings of her auburn hair played on her youthful face as the yellow leaves of Autumn curl over a later peach; whilſt every feature formed with a truth which might bear the niceſt examination, perhaps only appeared more exquiſitely regular from the abſence of expreſſion; and even her figure and attitude (leaning on her mother's knees) preſented a perfect mo⯑del for a ſculptor. The aſſiduities of the ſtrangers, together with my own, at length recalled her ſcattered ſenſes.—She opened thoſe eyes ſo dear to me, and fixing them on the two ſtran⯑gers, a roſy ſuffuſion alone proved ſhe ſaw them, with ſuch quickneſs did ſhe turn toward her mother; when be⯑holding me to appearance unhurt, ſhe liſted her ſoul to Heaven in a look of gratitude, and throwing her arms round [230] my neck, relieved her overcharged heart by weeping on my boſom. "An an⯑gel in ſoul as well as form! exclaimed one of the ſtrangers; aſſure me, madam, continued he, that this terror is the only ill conſequence of my ſudden approach, or I know not how I ſhall forgive it to my⯑ſelf." This addreſs aſcertaining the Prince of Wales, he became the ſole object of my attention.—Ah, where ſhall I find words to endear to you, Ma⯑dam, the royal youth my heart at once opened to adopt? Henry was yet but in the dawn of manhood, nevertheleſs his height was majeſtic, and his figure finiſhed. The beauty of his features was their leaſt charm—virtue herſelf ſeemed to ſublime every happy lineament, and ſpare beholders the trouble of developing his character by conveying it in a glance. His manly voice united the firmneſs of his own ſex, with the ſenſibility of ours. A confuſion of ſad remembrances were at once preſented with him to my mind; and the admiration he excited [231] was ſtrangely blended with regret.—I forgot that he had addreſſed me, and con⯑tinued to contemplate him in ſilence; ever and anon turning my ſtreaming eyes wildly from him to Heaven, even then, my dilating heart bids me add, ſcarce changing the object. The amiable Hen⯑ry, in whoſe nature ſympathy was the prevailing ſentiment, touched with a conduct ſo myſterious, almoſt forgot my daughter in turn, ſo wholly was he en⯑groſſed by me.—Informed of my un⯑fortunate lameneſs by my attempting to riſe, he immediately concluded it to be the conſequence of the recent accident, and ſcarce was ſatisfied by my aſſuran⯑ces of the contrary. Oh! as my eyes ſurveyed the ſuperior ſoul, living irradi⯑ated in the bright orbs of his, how did they ſtream at remembering that had his father been born to half his virtues, I might now have been cheriſhed by af⯑fection—dignified by rank—unwidow⯑ed—unbroken—a ſtranger yet to ſorrow!—My mother too.—Moſt unhappy of parents as well as ſovereigns! I had a [232] tear for thee at this intereſting mo⯑ment.

The reſpect due to ſtrangers induced the Prince to conceal the curioſity my conduct could not fail to excite, but hav⯑ing informed himſelf from the attendants of my title, he addreſſed me by it, and inſiſted on conducting me home. I now underſtood the nobleman who had divid⯑ed my firſt looks with the Prince, to be the Viſcount Rocheſter: that contemp⯑tible favorite of the King, celebrated only for his beauty.—The viſible coldneſs of my air checked a forward inſolence I obſerved in him, and obliged him to quit us on our arriving at home.

With what ſecret tranſport did my ſoul welcome a Stuart worthy that name, glo⯑rious for ſo many ages!—The Prince ſeemed delighted with his new acquaint⯑ances.—The ſoft reſerve of my daugh⯑ter's air—the deepening roſes of her cheek, and the low accent of her har⯑monious voice, when politeneſs obliged her to anſwer the Prince, whoſe ani⯑mated eyes reduced hers often to ſeek the [233] ground, preſented to my elated heart every ſymptom of that paſſion which alone endears the ſufferings it occaſions. A flow of happy ſpirits new to my daughter, almoſt forgotten by myſelf, gave chear⯑fulneſs to the hour which Henry ſaw elapſe with regret.

On this chance introduction was grounded an acquaintance a few days ripened into intimacy.—Led to diſtin⯑guiſh the Prince alike by his own merit, and the ties of blood, which ſecretly allied me to him, it was with the ten⯑dereſt ſatisfaction I beheld him cheriſh the inclination he had already conceived for my daughter: yet the dignity of his mind forbidding him to form, an en⯑gagement he knew not how to fulfill, it was through me alone he addreſſed himſelf to her. Convinced it was in my power to prove her entitled even to ſuch a lover, I ſuffered fate to take its courſe, attending only to prudences.

Conſcious that Henry had hitherto moved in a very confined circle, I was aware to extend it muſt draw much obſer⯑vation [234] on thoſe he favored. To guard therefore againſt the malice of ſurmiſe, I fixed on the hour of the Prince's viſit for my daughter to ride out; and always received him alone. His attendants, who ſaw her regularly depart, were at a loſs to imagine what could attach their royal maſter to the infirm widow of Lord Lei⯑ceſter. The charm was in truth ſimply affection.—The amiable Henry had early been accuſtomed to every kind of homage but that of the heart, and had too much ſenſibility not to feel the want he knew not how to ſupply. Deeply ſuſceptible of the true regard I had conceived for him, impreſſed at once by my mind, my manners, and my mien, with the idea of myſtery, and the deſire of obtaining my confidence, it was only by his own candor he ſought to gain upon mine. Slowly and by degrees he deigned to re⯑poſe with me thoſe regrets and anxieties from which the utmoſt indulgence of na⯑ture and fortune cannot exempt a ſingle individual. He often lamented the dangerous diſtinction of being the firſt⯑born [235] born of his father's children, ſince it coſt him every other.—Separated almoſt in infancy from his parents—ſurrounded with mercenary, ſycophants, who ſought to make their court to the reigning King by a partial repreſentation or miſconſtruc⯑tion of his actions, he had ſhot up un⯑loved, uncheriſhed, and ſeen thoſe ten⯑der affections he was born to ſhare, gra⯑dually center in that ſon from whom his parents had nothing to fear.—Nor were wanting inſidious flatterers equally ready to undermine his filial duty, by pointing out the weakneſſes of his father, even where they were moſt likely to wound him. He had puniſhed himſelf, he added, for yielding to theſe impreſſi⯑ons by an abſolute, obedience to his au⯑thority, but it was with grief he remem⯑bered that was now the only tye between them.—Nor would I wonder, he conti⯑nued, it ſhould be ſo, if I conſidered that, born as he was to imperial power, with an ardent paſſion for glory, he had hi⯑therto been ſhut up in the narrow ſphere of his own court, languiſhing away the [236] flower of his youth without a choice, a friend, or a purſuit:—Till the infamous Carr ſhould deign to decide what foreign Prince's bribe he would condeſcend to accept, and to what bigoted Papiſt he ſhould ſacrifice the ſon of his maſter.

While the admired Prince of Wales, the idol of the People, the heir of Em⯑pire, the endued of Heaven, thus con⯑fided to me the ſimple and rational griefs which clouded a fortune ſo brilliant, could I fail to meditate on the equality of providence?—Which graciouſly allots even to the loweſt ſituation, ſome portion of happineſs, and depreſſes the higheſt with the ſad ſenſe of misfortune.

It is the fatal peculiarity of youth to throw the ſtrongeſt light on every ſecret grief, and waſte away under an oppreſſion imagination often doubles. To cure this propenſity is therefore the province of experience. I ſought to imbue the Prince's mind with the only principle mine had derived from all my ſufferings.—That the nobleſt uſe we can make of [237] underſtanding, is to convert it into hap⯑pineſs; and every talent which does not conduce to that great end, ought rather to be conſidered as a burthen than a bleſſing to the poſſeſſor.—That the mind, like the eye, ever magnifies the object of fear or averſion, which often on a ſtrict examination, excites no other ſentiment than contempt.—Infine, that he was not at liberty to ſhew any other ſenſe of his father's errors, than by preſenting a faultleſs example in his own life; and that if he would have it without blemiſh, he muſt divert his taſte from channels where it would meet with oppoſition, and turn it into thoſe through which it might flow freely.—That the culti⯑vation of the ſciences would at once fill up that void in his life ever ſo painful at his years, and attach to his welfare all who loved them: a body whoſe in⯑fluence was never known unleſs oppo⯑ſition called forth the powers of elo⯑quence.

[238] The Prince had too much judgment not to ſee the utility of this council, and too much generoſity not to value its can⯑dour: nevertheleſs, it was a language yet new to his ears.—Ingenuity had been exhauſted to teach him to govern others, but to ſubdue himſelf was a leſſon none had ventured to inculcate. How did I lament a ſoul ſo ductile had, in childhood been injudiciouſly delivered up to its own guidance, and ſuffered every day to imbibe ſome new prejudice, deſ⯑tined perhaps to mark the character through life; and which an upright and ſkilful monitor might ſo eaſily have era⯑dicated!

The Prince could not be inſenſible to the maternal caution which induced me to ſend my daughter abroad whenever he honored me with a viſit, yet the obſerva⯑tion did not for ſome time appear to influ⯑ence his conduct.—Satisfied with merely beholding her as he entered or departed, the deſire of opening his heart to me ſeemed to ſupercede every other impreſ⯑ſion. [239] Nevertheleſs, long reveries would follow the moſt accidental meeting, and long pauſes intervene in the moſt inter⯑eſting converſation; rendering it ſuffi⯑ciently obvious that his mind labored with ſome project, hitherto ſuppreſſed either by pride or prudence.

Perhaps I ſhould ever have wanted courage to open my lips on ſo delicate an occaſion, had not my daughter com⯑plained to me that ſhe was now become the univerſal object of attention; and that the ſuite who attended her were often rudely ſurrounded, and ſometimes inter⯑rogated by ſuch of the Prince's court as had not benefited by his example.—By going abroad unexpectedly with her, I found ſhe was not offended without reaſon, and ſenſible of my imprudence in thus riſquing her ſafety, I came to the reſolution rather to abridge myſelf of the pleaſure of the Prince's ſociety, than purchaſe it by endangering my daughter.—I deſired her to retire for awhile when Henry ſhould viſit [240] me next, and ere he could account for the ſingularity of finding her at home, entered into the delicate explanation. With an acknowledged attachment to him, that I bore my child, alone could have over-ruled, I ſubmitted it to him⯑ſelf, whether I could too cautiouſly guard againſt a cenſure or inſult ſhe had no na⯑tural protector to reſent.—The generous Henry pauſed for a few moments with ir⯑reſolution, when ſuddenly collecting cou⯑rage, he broke ſilence.—"Will Lady Leiceſter pardon, ſaid he, thoſe ob⯑truſive viſits ſhe has ſubmitted to with ſo much complacency? —Will ſhe deign to become the confidant of the only in⯑cident in my life I have hid from her—will ſhe liſten with indulgence?"—He pauſed a moment, but ere I could reſolve how to anſwer, purſued the diſ⯑courſe.—"Accuſtomed even from childhood to the enſnaring glances of the light and the lovely—led to imagine myſelf older than my years by the con⯑tinual propoſals for marrying me that [241] have conſtantly ſucceeded each other, it is not wonderful that a heart naturally ſuſceptible, ſhould mature before its time. Among the many beautiful girls, who have already ſought to attract me, I ſoon diſtinguiſhed one by whom my peace, my honour, my innocence became en⯑dangered: perhaps they had been loſt, had I not found her ſelfiſh and ambitious. I need hardly inform you that this ſeducing fair one is the Counteſs of Eſſex!—Vain of her influence over me, ſhe took plea⯑ſure in publiſhing it, and taught me early to bluſh for my choice; but I could not reſolve to do ſo continually. I formed the bold reſolution of contending with my own heart, and retired hither to reco⯑ver it, or die. Lady Eſſex, enraged and humbled at this conduct, confirmed me in it, by attaching herſelf to Viſcount Ro⯑cheſter: thus rendering it ſufficiently ob⯑vious ſhe had never loved me.—Beſotted with her beauty, that weak favourite is go⯑verned by her caprices, and him I was born to obey yields to thoſe of Rocheſter. Al⯑though [242] I do not immediately perceive how Lady Eſſex means to effect her revenge, I am convinced it is only maturing; and daily expect a blow from which I know not how to guard myſelf. Under theſe circumſtances how can I venture to in⯑volve your fate with mine? —How can I aſk you, to permit me to offer to your lovely daughter the heart which ever ho⯑vers near her? —Speak, Madam—my hap⯑pineſs is in your hands—dare you riſque your own to promote it?" While I li⯑ſtened to this ſenſible, this frank declara⯑tion of the Prince's error, and his at⯑tachment, my fond heart found its firſt with accompliſhed, and adopted at once the royal youth; ſolemnly vowing to ſhare, without repining, every evil that might follow an alliance ſo dear: nor did I fail ſecretly to exult in my Mary's hereditary right even to this diſtinction.

To cement the confidence between us, and convince the Prince his preſent choice was judicious, I reſolved to confide to him the ſecret ſo long, ſo painfully preſerved; [243] and related my whole hiſtory. As I re⯑traced its affecting incidents, I knew them to be ſo only by his eager, his generous ſympathy; ſo wholly was my own ſoul engroſſed by the happy proſpect he had opened before it.

The Prince of Wales acknowledged with joy the relationſhip I claimed; to confirm all I had advanced, I preſented to him the long-ſaved teſtimonials, which he peruſed with ſilent reverence: then fix⯑ing his eyes, ſtill impreſſed with that ele⯑vated ſentiment, on mine, he gave ut⯑terance to the dictates of his heart.— "Who could ſuppoſe, exclaimed he, a fortitude ſo unexampled could poſſibly be combined with a frame delicate even to fragility!—May the misfortunes you have indelibly impreſſed on my memory, my more than, mother, be the laſt of your life.—May that being who directed my ſoul to cheriſh the admiration and eſteem inſpired by your lovely daughter, and matchleſs ſelf, ſuffer the youth before you to ſupply to your heart, all it ought to have inherited—all it unhappily has [244] loſt. Dear will be the moment when to the form of your angel mother my autho⯑rity ſhall add the name, and that moment will hereafter, oh! moſt honoured of wo⯑men, infallibly be mine."

While I liſtened to predictions ſo flat⯑tering, I almoſt believed them accom⯑pliſhed. In thy unblown youth, [...]h, [...]oyal Henry, was comprized every pro⯑miſe that could dilate or fill the heart: mine centred at once in thee, and my daughter: finding in the mere hope of ſo glorious a union, a total ſuſpenſion from ſuffering and ſorrow.

I had now no reſerves with the Prince, and leading in my bluſhing Mary pre⯑ſented her to her royal Couſin; who gracefully offered up his unblemiſhed ſoul on the hand he bowed over. So pure a tranſport took poſſeſſion of mine, as obliterated every other impreſſion. I ſnatched the united hands ſo dear, ſo be⯑loved, and preſſing them to my boſom, ſickened with very extaſy, and withdrew to recover myſelf.—Wandering alone by [245] the ſide of the Thames, I raiſed my full eyes to heaven; and called the happy ſpirits of my mother, ſiſter, and Lord Leiceſter, to ſympathize with me in an event which promiſed to end the perſecu⯑tions of my family, by thus bleſſedly uniting the laſt ſprung branches of it. A ſerenity of the ſublimeſt nature ſucceeded the ſweet trouble of my ſpirits, and ena⯑bled me to rejoin the youthful lovers with the dignity due to my own character.

The ſituation in which we ſtood en⯑deared us ſtill more to the Prince, by per⯑petually reminding him how intimately our welfare was connected with his own. Every hour ſeemed to unite us more and more to each other. Henry ſpoke to me with the freedom of a ſon; conjuring me not to take any ſtep that might create the leaſt ſuſpicion of my birth, or the ſecret tye formed between us, till he had well weighed every conſequence that might enſue: and to elude the watchful ſpies, with whom we were alike ſurrounded, he propoſed paſſing in the evening through his garden to ours, if I would deign for [246] awhile to allow him thus to reach the ſaloon. Our ſituation was too delicate not to require the ſtricteſt caution, yet as I could diſcover no mode of receiving the Prince which was not equally que⯑ſtionable, and more dangerous, I con⯑ſented to that he propoſed: as well as that he ſhould render one of his gentle⯑men (Sir David Murray) a confidante of this intimacy, though not of its nature, or extent.

An incident ſo important engroſſing my every thought, my heart returned once more eagerly into the world. It had now an intereſt in fully underſtanding the real characters of the King, the Queen, Viſcount Rocheſter, and every indivi⯑dual likely or intitled to interfere at this intereſting criſis.—I examined, conſi⯑dered, weighed every thing. I ſoon diſ⯑covered the whole Royal Family were at variance! That the imperious Queen, unable to wreſt her huſband from his fa⯑vourites, or her ſon from his duties, ſcorned the firſt, and neglected the latter: confining herſelf wholly to a [247] court formed of her own creatures, who aſſiſted her to ſpoil her younger ſon; whom ſhe had almost eſtranged from his brother. Her beautiful daughter who united in her own perſon the graces of Mary, with the ſpirit of Elizabeth, alone allured to the court of the Queen the few perſons of merit it afforded. Henry was often laviſh in the praiſes of his ſiſter, and as ſhe was the only relation he ever voluntarily ſpoke of, I naturally conclud⯑ed ſhe was the only one entitled by ſu⯑perior qualities to that diſtinction. King James, who had mounted the throne under happier auſpices than almoſt any preceding ſovereign of England, had al⯑ready lived long enough to loſe the affec⯑tions of his people. By turns a pedant and a buffoon, his ſolemnity was even more diſguſting than his levity. Go⯑verned by a predilection of the moſt ab⯑ſurd and ſingular nature, to a beautiful favourite he always delivered up the reins of empire; readily ſubmitting to a ſhame⯑ful ſubjection in all important points, provided he might enjoy a ridiculous ſu⯑permacy [248] in his hours of indulgence and retirement. From ſuch a weak and in⯑conſiſtent King, and his profligate Mi⯑niſters, the wiſe, the ſcientific, and the good, had gradually retreated; and in neglect and ſilence contemplated from far the growth of that exemplary Prince, who promiſed to retrieve the fame of his anceſtors, and the glory of the kingdom he was born to reign over. A youth of eighteen capable of uniting the unble⯑miſhed virtues of that age, with the diſ⯑cernment of a maturer one, was a phae⯑nomenon, and of courſe either adored or deteſted—While the body of the king⯑dom regarded him only with the firſt ſentiment, the worthleſs favorites of his father were actuated ſolely by the latter.

To marry and eſcape the plans of Ro⯑cheſter was the intereſt of Henry; and to marry without his father's knowledge his unwilling choice.—Yet highly ſenſible of the ſlavery impoſed by his rank, he had reſiſted every temptation from beau⯑ties of an inferior one:—but when ap⯑prized of my ſtory, he ſaw, or fancied he [249] ſaw in my daughter, a wife alloted him by heaven—one to whom no juſt objection could poſſibly be made, one born to give happineſs to his heart, and honor to his name. Nor could he doubt, even if his father ſhut his eyes againſt the truth, but that he ſhould be able to convince the people of my birth, when the publica⯑tion of the marriage ſhould give my ſtory the whole weight of his credence.

Succeſs in his judgment depended ſole⯑ly on the concealment of the purpoſed union till it could be accompliſhed; for if the intention tranſpired ere the event, he was ſatisfied the moſt deſperate efforts would be made to wreſt us from him. Yet as at this very period a publick treaty was negociating with a foreign Prince, he could not form a tye of ſuch import⯑ance without giving his father juſt cauſe of offence, the nation at large a contempt for his character, and the diſtant Sove⯑reign thus inſulted, a mortal diſguſt. We therefore agreed to wait till this Miniſte⯑rial project like many others ſhould diſap⯑point itſelf, and ſeize that moment to [250] celebrate and publiſh a marriage, which was to end all our fears, and complete all our hopes.

During this interval I obſerved with pain that the extreme timidity of my daughter's character prevailed over the enthuſiaſm incident to her years; and damped with vague apprehenſions thoſe moments love and hope might have made ſo happy. I ſaw this little feminine weak⯑neſs with extreme uneaſineſs. The Prince of Wales was diſtinguiſhed by a manly firmneſs, which ever wiſely weighed the approaching trial, then calmly dared it. For a ſoul ſo noble, I deſired to find a faultleſs bride; and looking fearfully into the future, I ſometimes thought my Ma⯑ry's timid heart would one day throb without cauſe againſt that of a ſovereign oppreſſed with innumerable cares, he perhaps ſought to loſe the remembrance of, in her ſociety. Nevertheleſs I did not perceive my tender admonitions on this ſubject, had any other conſequence than that of inducing my daughter to bury in her boſom thoſe ſentiments and emo⯑tions, [251] I had ſo many years delighted to participate.

It was now autumn!—The time of the King's periodical progreſſes.—The Prince could not avoid following his father, but he lingered in his duty; and having ſtaid a day too long with us, ha⯑ſtened to overtake the King, whom he was to feaſt at Woodſtock. He wrote to me from thence, complaining of fatigue and laſſitude; but with his uſual atten⯑tion, informed me he was in treaty for Kenilworth Caſtle, where he flattered himſelf I ſhould again ſee golden days like thoſe I ſtill remembered with ſo much pleaſure.

Alas, thoſe he had irradiated, were quickly haſtening to a period! At the firſt viſit he paid me on his return, my ſoul was ſtruck with a very apparent alteration in his perſon; which was grown thin and wan beyond conception, conſidering the ſhortneſs of the time. Not all the joy he expreſſed a our meeting could ſatisfy me, he was ei⯑ther well or happy, but obſerving he evaded my queſtion; and fearful of alarm⯑ing [252] him without reaſon, I ſtrove to ſup⯑preſs that maternal anxiety all his aſſu⯑rances of health and chearfulneſs could not diſpel. I perceived my daughter was impreſſed with the ſame idea, for though ſhe ſpoke not, it was viſible to me ſhe wept greatly when alone.

The evenings were now too ſhort and damp for me to allow the evening viſits of the Prince; and I rather choſe to riſque every danger by receiving him openly, than ſubject him to any by an ill-judged caution.—Alas, theſe cares were vain.—The rapid decay of the Royal Henry's health, became viſible even to indifferent ſpectators. An affecting languor was the only expreſſion of thoſe fine eyes once ſo full of fire, and the youthful cheeks every following day ſhould have tinged with a deeper bloom, grew more and more wan and hollow—He could no longer conceal his illneſs. Alas! it pierced me to the ſoul! I was miſerable at remembering a charge ſo precious, as his welfare ſhould be com⯑mitted to ſervants of whatever denomi⯑nation. [253] —No mother—no ſiſter—duties indiſpenſable in every other rank of life, were it ſeems incompatible with royalty. Oh, Henry!—dear amiable youth! even yet am I tempted to accuſe myſelf for not having better deſerved the tender ap⯑pellation thy filial reverence ſo often be⯑ſtowed on me, by daring every thing for thy ſake! Slaves to imperious cuſtom, our actions are too often regulated by that idle multitude, whoſe moſt laviſh ap⯑plauſes would but ill conſole us for one ſingle reproach, from that unerring mo⯑nitor, our own conſcience.

Either not convinced this ſecret malady was undermining his conſtitution, or in⯑different to the event, the Prince ſtill con⯑tinued in the purſuit of his uſual athletic exerciſes and habits, till his ſtrength was wholly unequal to them. I once more perſuaded him to call in medical aſſiſtance, and he promiſed to attend to himſelf as ſoon as his ſiſter and the elector ſhould depart.—Obliged to appear at the celebration of their marriage in London, he came to pay us a parting vi⯑ſit. [254] Impreſſed, perhaps, with the idea it would be the laſt, he threw himſelf into my arms, and ſhed there the firſt tears I had ever ſeen fall from his eyes.—Mine readily overflowed—a grief too deep for utterance preſſed upon my ſoul, and Henry recovered ere I could. His heart miſſed my daughter, who was gone abroad.—He ſighed, ſunk into a little reverie, and breaking it, with a faint ſmile, ſaid, "he ought rather to congra⯑tulate himſelf on her abſence." He ſighed again, and after another pauſe, reſumed his diſcourſe in a low and broken voice.— "Mourn not thus, my mother (for I will ſtill give you a title you may juſtly claim from her who bore me; ſince who ever loved me as you have done?) I have youth in my favor, and this oppreſſive malady may not be mortal: for your ſake alone do I wiſh it to be otherwiſe, believe me.—Already weary, diſguſted with this world, I could retreat from it almoſt without a pang, did I not know my loſs would be to you an irremediable calamity. Yet, who ſhall judge of the diſpenſations [255] of the Almighty?—I might fulfil all your wiſhes without ſeeing you happy—I might obtain all my own without ceaſing to be wretched. Recall this often to your memory, whatever follows our part⯑ing; and remember your name will be ever on theſe lips while they have power to utter a ſound.—For the adored of my ſoul—but ſhe is ſurely become a part of it; and if not permitted to poſſeſs her in this world, I will expect her in a bet⯑ter."—Perceiving his dim eye was fixed on a picture of my daughter which hung at my boſom, I preſented it to him.—"And do you too, beloved Henry, re⯑turned I, in a broken voice, remember the mother who gives you this, would have comprized in the original every grace, every virtue, to be found through human nature; and having done ſo, would ſtill have thought her honored in your choice.—Ah! royal youth! reſign not a heart ſo noble to vapouriſh depreſ⯑ſion!—Your life, your happineſs, are not your own merely—a nation are born to pray for the former, to crown you with [256] the latter.—For myſelf—upon the ſweet hope of matching my daughter with you, of ſharing the ſoft tranſports of mutual virtue and affection, I have learnt to live, but ſurely I could never ſurvive its ex⯑tinction."—My full ſoul allowed not of another ſyllable. The Prince fixed his ſuffuſed eyes on mine, with a myſterious melancholy, almoſt amounting to deſpair; and touching with his lips thoſe hands his trembling ones ſtill graſped, ruſhed pre⯑cipitately into the court yard. The ſound of his voice drew me towards the window—the graceful youth made me a laſt obeiſance, and galloped away; while my partial eye purſued him till beyond its reach, and even then my ear ſeemed to diſtinguiſh the feet of his horſe.

With his uſual kind conſideration, Henry wrote to me the next day, that he found himſelf better; and in the pleaſure of ſeeing his ſiſter happy, felt reconciled to the impolitick match made for her.—He even aſſiſted at the various feſtivals with which the nuptials of the royal Eli⯑ [...]abeth were honored; but ſcarce were [257] they over, when his health and ſpirits failed at once, and the faculty were called in to his aid. A malady which had been ſo long engrafting itſelf on his conſtitu⯑tion, left but little hope of his life;—I had ceaſed to entertain any: yet, far from ſupporting the idea of loſing him with fortitude, my ſoul mourned as if it then had firſt known ſorrow. Not daring to give free vent to my appre⯑henſions in the preſence of my daughter, I ſtrove with cold and watery ſmiles to flatter thoſe hopes in her heart my own had long rejected, and ſaw with vain regret, the deep exceſſes of a ſenſibility I had laboured to excite and ſtrengthen.

What days, what nights of ſadneſs and ſuſpenſe were ours, while the unfortunate Henry was languiſhing away every vital power ere yet they had reached maturity!—Frequently delirious, our names eſ⯑caped unconſciouſly from thoſe lips, which at his lucid intervals, uttered only ſighs and groans. Murray, his beloved at⯑tendant, gave us conſtant information of the progreſs of his fever; nor did the [258] amiable Henry fail at intervals to charge him with tender remembrances. Sir Da⯑vid at length acquainted me that the im⯑paſſioned delirium of the Prince, pointing ever towards us, the King had been ap⯑prized of it;—that he had minutely queſtioned his ſon's moſt favored at⯑tendants, and among them himſelf, on the origin, progreſs, and ſtrength, of an attachment thus ſuddenly and ſtrangely brought to light, deeply ruminating on all he heard. "I could not feel ac⯑quitted to myſelf, madam, concluded the faithful Murray, were I to conceal this, nor dare I add a ſurmiſe on ſo delicate an occaſion."

Ah; of what importance to us are all the late enquiries, the vague conjectures of James! cried I, folding my daughter to my boſom, if heaven deprives us of his ineſtimable ſon, neither his love or his hatred can greatly affect us.—Beloved Mary—dear inheritor of misfortune!—widowed ere yet thou art a wife, a long obſcurity, a ſolitary youth is all thy por⯑tion—a ſorrow which can never end thy [259] Mother's.—But why ſhould I heſitate to avow myſelf? —Wherefore ſhould I not publiſh claims which even tyranny can not cancel; but perhaps it will not diſ⯑pute? The timid, abject ſpirit of James knows not how to contend with one firm in virtue—immutable in truth.—Ah, had I done ſo long ſince, I might at this moment, dear Henry, have hovered near thy couch, and ſoftened the anguiſh no mortal can prevent!—Perhaps the King already ſurmiſes the fact—let him de⯑mand it.

Sir David Murray's next letter breathed the very ſpirit of deſpair.—"Prepare yourſelf, madam, ſaid he, for the worſt; perhaps, ere this reaches you, England will have loſt its deareſt hope, the royal Henry's friends their only one. The moſt deſperate efforts of art have failed, and exhauſted reaſon often now reviſits with a languid ray the noble heart ſhe is ſo ſoon to quit forever. The Prince has juſt ordered me to commit to the flames every letter and paper in which [260] your name is mentioned:—a ſure proof that he has given himſelf up.—Alas, he knows not how often names ſo dear have eſcaped him; he has called for you, madam, and your angelic daughter, almoſt the whole night, but frequently recollect⯑ing himſelf, has waved his feeble hand, and ſighed out no—no—no."—

Three hours after, another expreſs ar⯑rived.—"Pardon, madam, the haſte and incoherency of ſcrawls penned at ſo trying a moment.—Alas, the moſt ſan⯑guine of us has now ceaſed to hope.—Our royal maſter's ſpeech entirely fails him—his laſt effort was haſtily and re⯑peatedly to call me—I flew to his bedſide, but though my every ſenſe ſeemed to re⯑ſolve into ear, I found it impoſſible to underſtand him—either I widely erred or he named France; perhaps I commit a ſecond error in ſuppoſing he referred to you, madam, but I voluntarily riſque every thing to fulfil the parting wiſh of a maſter ſo adored. The King, the phy⯑ſicians, all have taken a long leave of [261] the almoſt beatified Prince; and there is nothing left for thoſe who love him beſt to wiſh, but that his pure ſpirit may paſs away in peace."

The agony and ſtupor this affecting billet occaſioned, were hardly abated when another arrived.—"It is all over, ma⯑dam, concluded the worthy Murray, raiſe your ſtreaming eyes to heaven; it is there alone you can now look for the incomparable Prince of Wales.—Fatigue and anguiſh diſable me from ſay⯑ing more."

It was not till the awful moment which reſtored the unſullied ſoul of Henry to its omniſcient Creator, that I had dared to breathe a wiſh of which he was not the object, or allowed my thoughts to paſs beyond himſelf.—That exquiſite ſenſibi⯑lity which lives through all dear to us, had made me ſeverely ſuffer with him, and conſequently pray for that releaſe which alone ſeemed likely to give him eaſe, nor did I recollect till he was gone forever, the void his loſs would leave in [262] my hopes.—The tremendous calm by which death is ever followed, now took its turn.—Bereft of a ſupport on which I had long unconſciouſly reſted, I ſunk into a deſolation which made me almoſt wiſh to follow the lamented Prince.—It is at theſe intervals, madam, we be⯑come moſt truly ſenſible of all the im⯑perfections of our nature.—How often had I flattered my own erring heart with the vain belief it had acquired ſtrength, purity, and virtue, from its various tri⯑als! alas, what but pride, vanity, and ambition, ſtill throbbed unalterably there! time had only altered the object, not the paſſion, and centred them all in my daughter.

We ſhut ourſelves entirely up, and deep⯑ly joined in the general mourning. The ſad pleaſure of knowing him we bewail⯑ed, univerſally lamented, was yet ours. I peruſed, I appropriated, with a mother's fondneſs, the laviſh eulogies, all ſects, all parties, all poets, graced the memo⯑ry of the Prince with:—it was the only [263] mitigation my grief could know.—A conſiderable time had elapſed without our hearing any thing from Murray, in con⯑firmation of his conjecture concerning Henry's laſt wiſh, and the imperfect ac⯑cents which lingered on his dying lips.—But though I could not reſolve to be⯑come a guiltleſs fugitive even in com⯑pliance with Prince Henry's will, I had had no other motive for remaining in England than to ſhew I was not driven out of it. I now determined to quit a country which had been the grave of a hope ſo dear, and found my daughter en⯑tirely of my mind. In gratitude for the unwearied attention of Sir David Murray, I informed him "of my intention to re⯑tire into Flanders, not doubting but that the Hollanders would afford, an honor⯑able aſylum to the widow and orphan of Lord Leiceſter.—I beſought him to ac⯑cept a ring of conſiderable value in token of my deep ſenſe of the generous attach⯑ment he had ſhewn alike to myſelf, and that incomparable Prince whoſe loſs was ever preſent to my mind; and requeſted [264] as a laſt proof of his regard, the reſtoration of that picture of my daughter I had given the royal Henry at our memorable parting."

The anſwer of Murray ſtrangely ſtartled and alarmed me.—"Your intention of quitting England, madam, ſaid he, re⯑lieves my mind from extreme anxiety;—time and circumſtances have united to convince me I did not miſunderſtand the laſt imperfect accents of my much-loved maſter.—Loſe not a moment in haſten⯑ing to the aſylum you have fixed on.—The picture, madam, is, I fear, irre⯑trievably gone—I cannot by either bribes or intreaties procure any tidings of it—power, alas, I now have not!—If ever it comes to my hands, rely on its being re⯑ſtored by him, who will ever devoutly pray for your happineſs."

This inexplicable letter rouſed every dormant faculty.—Wherefore ſhould my retiring abroad relieve the mind of a perſon unconnected with me from ex⯑treme anxiety?—Why ſhould he urge thus my departure? As it was rather [265] pride than prudence which induced me to ſeek a country where I might fearleſsly aſſert my every right, that project was now rejected from the very motive which firſt dictated it.—A myſtery my nature ever diſdained. Reſolved to comprehend all the motives on which Murray wiſhed me to act, I ordered every thing to be re⯑placed, and ſat down once more quietly at home; reſolved to brave the ſtorm, if indeed there was any gathering, rather than aſcertain my ſafety by a diſgraceful flight. I once more wrote to Sir David, acquainting him with my preſent con⯑duct, and its reaſons, inſiſting on being fully informed of thoſe which actuated him to offer me advice ſo ſingular and myſterious.—How inſinitely was my im⯑patience, curioſity, and diſdain, heighten⯑ed by his anſwer!—"I hear with ad⯑miration, madam, a determination which from a perfect knowledge of your cha⯑racter, I ought, perhaps, to have fore⯑ſeen; nevertheleſs, my ſentiments are not altered, nor leſs urged durſt I divulge the [266] reaſons on which they are grounded: but decorum and delicacy give way to your commands, and the occaſion. Never⯑theleſs, I find it impoſſible to commit them to paper.—Dare you give me ad⯑miſſion at midnight?—I ſhall be near your gate upon the chance, but be wary in the choice of my conductor, as per⯑haps my life, nay, even your own, de⯑pends upon its being ſuppoſed you never had any private correſpondence or com⯑munication with me."

How did my nature take fire at this incomprehenſible letter!—Me to ſtoop to ſecreſy!—to be expoſed to ſhame!—The unknown danger with which he repreſented me to be environed, appeared wholly indifferent; ſo exquiſitely ſenſible was my ſoul of the imputation of diſhonor.—At times I reſolved to ſhut out Murray, and leave the brooding miſ⯑chief to diſcloſe itſelf by its effects; but love for my daughter controling the ſtrong ſpirit of indignation inſeparable from innocence, I yielded to the ſuggeſ| [267] tions of prudence, and prepared to admit him.—Inured to every other ſpecies of ſuffering, I knew not how to bluſh before any human being.

My perplexed and agitated mind paſſed through the infinitude of poſſibilities without fixing upon one.—At times, I imagined all the caution of the royal Henry had been inſufficient, and that the King, by means of ſome loſt or ſe⯑creted letter, had been fully apprized of his ſon's attachment to us, and the hopes that were grounded upon it; though even then, I knew not why my life ſhould be in the queſtion; ſtill leſs could I ima⯑gine it endangered, had his diſcoveries reached farther, and traced out the long buried ſecret of my birth. Involved in buſy, vague, and alarming conjectures, I hardly knew how to wait with any patience for the ſingular hour appointed to aſcertain them.

Senſible, by the deep effect this took on my own mind, that it muſt dreadfully ſhock my daughter's, and ſtill flattering [268] myſelf that this indiſtinct danger might be the creation of a deſponding temper in Henry's favorite, I reſolved to wait the event of my midnight interview with him, ere I confided more to my Mary than ſhe muſt already have learnt from the change in my reſolution reſpecting quitting Eng⯑land.—But as to ſee her was to explain all, (for how could I hope to veil emo⯑tions which burnt indignantly on my cheek?) I ſent her word I was ſeized with a violent headach, which I would endea⯑vour to remedy by ſleep; and accompa⯑nied this meſſage with a new book ſhe had an eager deſire to ſee, and which I ſincerely prayed might wholly occupy her attention at this intereſting criſis.

Oh, world! how falſe, how erroneous are the feelings we imbibe from thee!—Nature ordained ſhame the companion of guilt, but overbearing cuſtom has broke that tye, and oftener bids her follow virtue. Scarce could I reſolve to know my imputed crime, or look with complacency on the amiable man who [269] had ventured to ſuggeſt the unſoreſeen dangers.—It was the utmoſt effort of my reaſon to govern this unworthy im⯑pulſe.

The eſtimable Murray was ſenſible of an equal conſtraint, and by the generous confuſion with which he appeared before me, reſtored my mind to its dignity and compoſure. His mourning, and the tears which followed the name of his loſt royal maſter, drew forth mine, and at once blended our feelings. Sir David, with infinite delicacy and addreſs, entered into the Prince of Wales's ſingular illneſs, as well as the various opinions his death had given riſe to:—but how did my ſoul freeze with horror to learn that there were many (and among them ſome of his Phyſicians) who believed him poi⯑ſoned! The killing grief ſuch a ſuſpi⯑cion muſt at a more tranquil moment have cauſed, vaniſhed, however, at once before the confuſed and rapid ſenſations his following diſcourſe occaſioned.—Oh, let me pauſe here a moment to adore the [270] indulgence of the Almighty, which alone could have enabled my intellects to ſupport ſo terrible a ſhock as the report that it was from my hands he received the deadly preſent!—I looked at Murray awhile in ſpeechleſs aſtoniſhment!—Grief, anger, ſhame, and horror, divided and tore me in pieces.—I ſcarce heard his prayers and adjurations, but puſhing him from my feet, ſhut up every indignant ſenſe in my ſwelling heart, and only hoped it might burſt with the deep convulſion.

A conſiderable time elapſed ere I was enough recovered to enquire into the origin of ſo black and malicious a ca⯑lumny. I then conjured him to inform me who was ſuppoſed to be its diaboli⯑cal author.—To this he anſwered, that when the equivocal deciſion of the fa⯑culty reſpecting the cauſe of the Prince's death firſt reached the Queen, the vehe⯑mence of her grief, as well as that of her temper, made her inſtantly join with thoſe who pronounced him poiſoned.—The doubt was no ſooner publiſhed than [271] it became general; every domeſtic of the Prince's houſhold had been by turns the object of ſuſpicion to his fellows, and ſome of them had been weak enough to aſcertain their ſafety by quitting the king⯑dom. The rumour was by this means corroborated and ſtrengthened; but as nothing tranſpired that could authorize a judicial enquiry, the King became ſa⯑tisfied the melancholy cataſtrophe of his youthful heir had been in the common courſe of nature; when all at once, by ſome incomprehenſible means, the vague ſuſpicions of the multitude, which were far from extinguiſhed, though wholly unfixed, revived with added force, and centred in me. That it was now ge⯑nerally believed, the Prince of Wales, in the laſt viſit he paid me, had taſted ſome dry preſerves (a little refreſhment of which he was extremely fond, though fortunately the diſtraction of my mind at that period had prevented me from offer⯑ing him any) which moſt likely were poiſoned, as his laſt illneſs rapidly in⯑creaſed immediately after.—It was ſoon [272] publiſhed that I had been the conſtant object of his delirious reveries; and every vague or myſterious expreſſion which had eſcaped him at thoſe intervals, had been remembered, traced, and applied, with diabolical ingenuity. The ſingu⯑lar precaution of his ſeeing his own pa⯑pers burnt, ſerved only to perſuade, the prejudiced multitude that the unfortu⯑nate Prince was unwilling to ſtigmatize her who had deſtroyed him. By ſuch plauſible and baſe ſuggeſtions the eyes of an inflamed and affected nation had been led towards the ſolitary dwelling, where, unconſcious of danger, I remained buried in a grief the moſt charitable imputed only to remorſe. There wanted but little to incite the people to anticipate the ſtroke of juſtice, by tearing me to pieces, when the King confirmed the general ſuſpicion by a renewed and more minute enquiry into the nature of his ſon's viſits to me, their continuance, and deſign: and no perſon being able to ſatisfy his curioſity, he dropt harſh and ambiguous expreſſi⯑ons; that ſeveral of his favorites had ſince [273] urged the propriety of bringing me to a public trial; a meaſure which had the whole weight of the Queen's intereſt. Alarmed and uncertain how to proceed, Sir David had learned at this very junc⯑ture my intention of retiring into Hol⯑land; and by ſuppoſing me pre-ac⯑quainted with the ſlanders of the pub⯑lick, had unwarily reduced himſelf to the painful neceſſity of repeating them.— He concluded with hinting the prudence of abiding by my former deſign of im⯑mediately quitting England, as in in⯑ſtances where the prejudices of a nati⯑on infected even thoſe individuals en⯑truſted with the execution of its laws, innocence itſelf was ſcarce a protection: byaſed judges might eaſily miſtake pre⯑ſumptions for proofs, nor have candour enough to vindicate the honor which had thus been queſtioned.

While Sir David yet ſpoke, a new world diſplayed itſelf before me.—Ah! how unlike the paradiſe pictured by my guiltleſs mind!—Thoſe countenances in [274] which I yeſterday ſaw only the living image of their Creator, now glared upon me like ſo many fiends.—A horrible gulph ſeemed to open beneath my feet, into which a thouſand hands ſought at once to precipitate me, and my timid ſoul retreated in vain from the danger.—To live undiſtinguiſhed—to die unknown, were mortifications ſufficiently grievous.— But the bare idea of being arraigned— dragged as a pre-judged criminal before a partial judge, had ſomething in it ſo tremendous, as made every other evil appear eaſe. My blood flowed impetu⯑ouſly through my frame, and my be⯑wildered judgment wanted ſtrength to govern the torrent.—A malice ſo bold, profound, and diabolical, could have only one author, but where to look for that one I knew not; nor could I re⯑collect a human being I had injured, or a villain I had provoked.—Like a wretch awakened by aſſaſſins in the darkneſs of midnight, I knew not but the hand raiſed to ward the blow, might bleed on the [275] preſented dagger. In this terrible con⯑juncture I had only virtue to befriend me: though, alas, virtue herſelf half⯑withers before the blighting breath of ca⯑lumny! While Sir David enforced the arguments he had already urged to in⯑duce me to quit the kingdom, my ſoul, by one of thoſe violent exertions great occaſions will ſometimes produce, reco⯑vered all her powers.—Indignation ſub⯑ſided at once into fortitude, and anger into heroiſm.—"You have hitherto only ſeen me, Sir David, ſaid I, —it is now alone you can know me;—ſhuddering with horror at the imputations you have ex⯑plained, I yet dare not retreat unleſs I can confute them—no, not even con⯑demnation could induce me to fly, and leave my honor behind me.—What! ſhall I blight the opening virtues of my child by expoſing her with myſelf to un⯑merited cenſure? The pride, the plea⯑ſure, of unſullied virtue, was all for⯑tune permitted me to retain of the wealth and honors which once glittered before [276] my youthful eyes—nor did I undervalue the moſt dear and facred of all poſſeſſions —alas, even that is now raviſhed from me, and one way alone can it be re⯑trieved.—Deſperate as the effort ſeems, it muſt be ventured—yes—I will ſee the King whatever it coſts me: ſurely, the ſainted ſpirit of the Royal Henry would appear to vindicate my innocence (hea⯑vens! that I ſhould live to know it queſ⯑tioned!) were every other means to prove inſuffcient.—I will trouble you no farther, reſpected Murray, unleſs you will deign to convey a letter to Lord Rocheſter, requeſting a private au⯑dience, of the King."

An idea ſo ſingular had transferred the aſtoniſhment Murray had at firſt excited in me to his own mind; that my intel⯑lects were touched then ſeemed to him very probable, but perceiving that I was miſtreſs both of my ſenſes and temper, he preſumed not to contend with a ſpi⯑rit injury had nerved; and ſtruck with the ſilent dignity I aſſumed, began to believe [277] I had indeed ſomething important to diſ⯑cloſe, though quite at a loſs reſpecting its nature. I wrote to Lord Rocheſter (now newly created Earl of Somerſet) according to the idea I had formed; and Murray having engaged that the letter ſhould be delivered early in the morn⯑ing, departed with the ſame caution with which he had entered, leaving me alone.—Alone did I ſay?—Ah, gracious hea⯑ven, never was I leſs ſo!—The ſhades of all I had ever loved ſeemed to ga⯑ther round me on this intereſting occa⯑ſion, and volumes of obſcure ideas ruſh⯑ed impetuouſly through my brain.—I had unexpectedly reached the very point of my ſate.—That important moment ſo often delayed, ſo eternally dreaded, was at length arrived, and the long trea⯑ſured ſecret on the verge of being pub⯑liſhed.—For myſelf I had long ceaſed to fear.—The fraternal acknowledgment of the King could now add nothing to my happineſs; ſince, alas, that incom⯑parable youth was gone for whoſe ſake [278] alone I deſired it: nor could his re⯑jection greatly embitter a fate which had left me ſo little to hope.—But, oh, when I remembered his ſingle breath might blight the tender bloſſom I had exhauſted my very being to rear—precipitate my youth⯑ful Mary, ere yet her virtues were known, into an obſcure and diſhonorable grave, where, where, could I gather ſtrength to cope with this idea?

I employed the remainder of the night in collecting and arranging ſuch plauſible reaſons as ſhould amuſe my daughter's mind till the event was known; thus ſparing her all the pangs of ſuſpenſe.— I gathered together likewiſe every paper, and proof, which could authenticate the rights I was compelled to avow, and on peruſing them once more, found ſuch reaſon to be aſſured, not only of ſafety, but diſtinction, that a ſacred calm ſuc⯑ceeded to all the tranſports of grief and indignation with which I had of late been agitated.

[279] By a feigned invitation from a neigh⯑bouring lady who permitted me to ren⯑der her houſe my convenience, I ſent my daughter abroad for the day; and ſcarce had done ſo ere an expreſs arrived, to acquaint me the Earl of Somerſet would wait on me in the afternoon.

What were my proud emotions when the upſtart Somerſet littered my court with a princely retinue!—Alas, the only Prince who had ever entered it, with a noble conſciouſneſs, deſpiſed ſuch idle parade. By oppreſſive offers of ſervice, the Earl made me ſenſible of his impor⯑tance, and ſought by unbounded adula⯑tion to gain upon my heart, and dive into its intentions: but it was not by ſuch a me⯑dium I ſought diſtinction. I politely avoid⯑ed referring either to the ſlander, or the purport of the requeſted audience, and only thanked him for having obtained me the ear of the King; half, bluſhing to have gained it by ſo contemptible an interceſſor. I perceived chagrin, curi⯑oſity, and diſappointment, ſtrongly ex⯑preſſed in his really fine features, but I [280] could not prevail on myſelf to confide aught to the man Prince Henry had deſpiſed. The Earl took his leave with the ſame profound deference, and aſſuran⯑ces of ſervice, with which he entered; having appointed the next morning for preſenting me to the King.

As the privacy of the promiſed au⯑dience enabled me to diſpenſe with form, I made no addition to my ſervants, nor any other alteration in the weeds I uſu⯑ally wore, than that of forming them to the model of my mother's dreſs; which ever rendered the likeneſs I bore her from my very birth ſtriking and obvious. A thouſand half-forgotten occurrences preſſed upon my agitated ſoul as I paſt through each well-known apartment, till all were loſt in the preſent, by my reach⯑ing the cloſet of the King. The aſſiduous Somerſet, dreſt as elegantly as though he had meant to charm me, advanced on my being announced, and politely offer⯑ed me his hand—a ſudden chill came over me;—I trembled, —lingered—drooped, —but [281] reſolved to conquer my⯑ſelf or periſh, I ſook off the ſcalding tear which hung upon my cheek, and accepted the favorite's introduction.—The ſuperior air with which I affected to enter was not neceſſary towards confuſing the King, who always awkward and per⯑plexed, ſeemed more than uſually ſo; and doubtful, whether he ſhould not fly the moment he ſaw me, or at leaſt call back Somerſet who had inſtantly retired.—Bending my knee in compliance with cuſtom, I inſtantly roſe, and retaining the hand he had preſented to me, fixed my eyes, ſtrongly animated by the occa⯑ſion, on his ever-varying countenance. "Your Majeſty, ſaid I, doubtleſs, ex⯑pects to find in me a weak ſuppliant, ſoliciting protection, or ſuing for your pity; but on terms like theſe I had never bent before you—I come to claim a dear and ſacred title hitherto unknown, but never annihilated. Does your heart, oh, Royal James! added I, melting into tears, recognize nothing congenial to it in theſe features? this voice? the ti⯑morous [282] hand which graſps yours for the firſt time, in fraternal alliance?—Oh, ſainted Mary! dear author of my be⯑ing, look down from heaven, and touch the heart of your ſon, in favor of the de⯑ſolate ſiſter who now ſtands before him." The King ſtarted, receded, gave ma⯑nifeſt tokens of doubt and diſpleaſure, and ſought to draw away the hand I ob⯑ſtinately retained.—I kiſſed, I bathed it with impaſſioned tears. "Shake me not off, reject me not unknown, re⯑ſumed I in the deep tone of ſtifled an⯑guiſh.—It is neither pride, vanity, or ambition, which induces me now to publiſh a ſecret ſo long buried in my bo⯑ſom. By the aſhes of our anointed mo⯑ther, I conjure you to hear—nay even to believe me.—Born in obſcurity—reared in ſolitude, the early victim of misfor⯑tune, long ſuffering had reconciled my weary ſoul to every evil but diſgrace: againſt that ſhe ſtill proudly revolts.— The ſame blood which flows through your veins, burns in tumults along [283] mine, at the very thought of aught unworthy—it urges me to aſſert my in⯑nocence by indubitable proofs—it will be acquitted, before men as well as an⯑gels;—nor does the claim thus avowed reſt on my declaration alone, your Ma⯑jeſty will ſee in theſe papers the ſolemn atteſtations, the unqueſtioned hand⯑writing of your royal mother; in theſe you will find the corroborating teſtimo⯑nies of many noble and unblemiſhed perſons.—Peruſe them cautiouſly, and oh, beware how you pre-judge me!" Un⯑able to utter another word, I almoſt ſunk at the feet of James, and gave way to the oppreſſive, the agonizing ſenſa⯑tions ſuch an aera in my life could not fail to awaken. The King ſtill regarded me with an irreſolute, uneaſy air, coldly adviſing me to compoſe myſelf by retiring into the antichamber, while he peruſed the papers on which he had hitherto only glanced his eye; though even that cur⯑ſory view had deeply tinged his cheek with ſilent conviction. I was met there [284] by the Earl of Somerſet, who, per⯑ceiving me near fainting, ordered water, and ſuch eſſences as are cuſtomary, remaining himſelf by my ſide, as if oſ⯑tentatiouſly to convince me he did not influence in the leaſt the determination of his royal maſter.—The bitterneſs of the conflict was, however, over the mo⯑ment the ſecret was avowed, and my ſpirits ſoon began to recover their wonted equanimity.

The obliging efforts of Somerſet to revive me did not paſs unnoticed, though my watchful ear followed the footſteps of the King, who ſtill continued to walk about with an unequal pace, ſtopping at intervals. He opened the cloſet door at length, and Somerſet retiring out of his ſight, made ſigns to me to re-enter it.—The King came forward to meet me with affability, and ſeizing my hand ſlightly ſaluted my cheek.—"Take courage, madam, ſaid he, for however you may have ſurprized us with this ſudden declaration, and wonderful dif⯑covery, [285] reverence for our deceaſed mo⯑ther's rights, and juſtice to thoſe you de⯑rive from her, oblige us to acknowledge you as her daughter."

And now I was indeed near fainting, I might rather ſay dying.—To be at once acknowledged as his ſiſter, as the daughter of Mary! Scarce in my hap⯑pieſt hours had I dared to flatter myſelf with the promiſe of what was now ſo incre⯑dibly realized. My ſuſceptible ſoul in⯑dulged the exquiſite tranſport, and one ſhort moment compenſated for ages, of anguiſh.—A thouſand impaſſioned, inco⯑herent exclamations, burſt from my lips; and giving way to the genuine impulſe of gratitude and affection, I threw my⯑ſelf for the firſt time into the arms of a brother, nor remembered they were thoſe of a King. Never did the moſt conſummate hypocrite counterfeit a joy ſo pure, ſo perfect; and though I could have brought no other proof of my birth, the ſacred throbs of nature might well have aſcertained it.

[286] The King ſat down by me, and turn⯑ing over the papers he ſtill held, queſti⯑oned me at intervals reſpecting thoſe that appeared myſterious or deficient. I entreated his patience while I briefly ran through the wonderful events of my life, and thus very naturally led his attention toward the ſole object of my cares, my hopes, my exiſtence.— "I have already heard much of your daugh⯑ter, ſaid James; they tell me ſhe is beauty itſelf—why have you thus ſtrangely concealed her?" As I could not declare my real reaſon, which was ſimply want of eſteem for his character, I pleaded various trifling ones, that indeed had never in⯑fluenced me. "Say no more, ſaid the King, interrupting me, I eaſily perceive, Ma⯑dam, you was not ſo reſerved to every one—I plainly diſcern who was your con⯑fidant; had I earlier been entruſted with your ſecret, it would have been happier for all, and I ſhould then have been able to account for"—He pauſed ere he came to the dear name of his ſon, and [287] ſighing, dropt the unfiniſhed ſentence. As to me, entranced alike with his unexpected candor, graciouſneſs, and generoſity, I ſeverely cenſured myſelf for relying on report, and not proving the character I ventured to decide upon. I had a long converſation with the King afterwards, every word of which heightened my con⯑fidence, eſteem, and affection. I gather⯑ed from many expreſſions, that he feared oppoſition on the part of the Queen, and his favorite; and was fearful this late declaration of his mother's marriage with the Duke of Norfolk would not fully ſatisfy the minds of the people, or eſtabliſh my rank ſufficiently. He pauſed upon the whole, with the air of one who is a party in what he meditates; and I thought the leaſt I could do, was to leave the regulation of the important acknow⯑ledgment in his choice.—To be vindi⯑cated in his opinion, I truly aſſured him, was the firſt object of my life, and I ſub⯑mitted my general vindication, in the public acknowledgment of my birth, en⯑tirely [288] to his better judgment. That I had been ſo many years a ſolitary being in the midſt of ſociety as not to have one friend to whoſe inclination I need yield my own. In fine, that time had gradu⯑ally robbed me of all intereſted in the important ſecret I had juſt confided to him, which, now reſted ſolely with him, my daughter, and myſelf. He replied that, "this inſtance of my prudence as well as regard, infinitely heightened the partiality he had already conceived for me; nor need I fear his delaying the acknowledgment longer than was abſo⯑lutely neceſſary, ſince he could not but look on ſuch relations as ineſtimable ac⯑quiſitions: nevertheleſs, as he had many points to conſider, and many perſons to reconcile, he recommended to me to continue the ſame circumſpection I had hitherto ſhewn; but that he could not reſtrain his impatience to behold the fair maid of whom he had heard ſo much, and would come to-morrow evening to a ſeat of my Lord Somerſet's, whither [289] he would ſend for myſelf and my daugh⯑ter, and hoped by that time he ſhould be able to aſcertain the day for publiſhing my birth, with a due regard for his mo⯑ther's honor; after which he could gra⯑tify himſelf by eſtabliſhing me in a ſitu⯑ation that ſhould make me forget all my misfortunes."—Thoſe misfortunes were already forgotten in the unhoped-for tran⯑ſition in my fate. I took my leave with the profoundeſt gratitude, burning with impatience to impart this bleſſed news to my Mary; and as the King did not offer to return the papers, I thought it better to leave them in his hands, than confirm the doubt my long ſilence could not but give riſe to in his mind, viz. that I wanted confidence in his ho⯑nor.

I haſtened to Richmond, and commu⯑nicated this ſurprizing, this happy event, to my darling girl.—A thouſand times I enſolded her to my delighted heart, and found every tranſport doubled in her participation. She tenderly entered into [290] all my feelings, and ſweetly ſmiled at the eagerneſs with which I ſought to adorn her for the next day's introduc⯑tion. Yet conſidering the King as the ſlave of exterior, it was a material point to heighten her beauty by every adven⯑titious advantage. To preſent her in abſolute black, was to recall the moſt melancholy impreſſions to the mind of James; I therefore reſolved to lighten her mourning with a fanciful elegance. I dreſt her in a veſt of black velvet thrown back at the boſom in the French ſaſhion, with a ſemicircle of rich lace points, which ſhewed at once her grace⯑ful waiſt and cheſt to the greateſt ad⯑vantage. Her petticoat was of white fattin, wrought in deep points round the bottom with black velvet, and richly ſringed with ſilver. A fuller coat and train of ſilver muſlin wrought with black, ſell over the ſattin one, and was looped up to the waiſt at regular diſtances by ſtrings of pearl, and dragged toward the bottom into points by the weight of [291] rich black bugle taſſels and roſes of di⯑amonds. Full ſleeves of the ſame ſilver muſlin were braced round her arms to the elbow by ſtrings of jet, and roſes of diamonds; and from thence they were bare, except for ſimilar bracelets circling each wriſt. The rich profuſion of her auburn hair, which fell in natural curls below her waiſt, required no ornament, but to avoid the affectation of ſhewing it, ſhe wore a hat of white ſattin with a narrow fringe of black bugles, and a waving plume of feathers. This ſplendid dreſs, on which the legacies of both her father and Anana were diſplayed, by ſome peculiar happineſs, either in its make or mixture, became my Mary be⯑yond any I had ever ſeen her wear. The fond mother's heart anticipated the impreſſion ſhe would infallibly make on her uncle, and drew from her heightened beauty the happieſt preſages.

Ah, who could have conjectured that this brilliance and parade were only deſ⯑tined to forerun one of the moſt diſmal [292] moments of my life!—That an inhuman tyrant had delighted to employ the trembling hand of misfortune in decking a gaudy pageant, for herſelf eternally to mourn over!

At the appointed hour, a cloſe carriage came for us with due attendants, and as the King had deſired me not to bring any of my own, I rigidly obeyed, nor even hinted whither I was going. They drove us a long way, while engroſſed by medita⯑tions on the approaching interview, as well as concerning the dear creature by me, I hardly knew how the time paſſed. My daughter at length obſerved it was farther than ſhe expected.—I looked out, but it was too dark for me to diſtinguiſh any object, and all I could diſcern was an increaſe of attendants. I called out aloud, and one drew near, who to my enquiries reſpectfully replied, that the King had been detained in London, whi⯑ther they were haſtening by his orders. This information quieted us again; and I ſtrove to recall my fluttered ſpirits [293] into their uſual channel, by turning the converſation on our future proſpects. Nevertheleſs, we went at ſo great a rate, that I thought it impoſſible we ſhould not be near London, when all at once I found we were driving through an un⯑known village. The ſurprize this oc⯑eaſioned, was doubled by my daugh⯑ter's throwing herſelf into my arms.—It was not immediately I could compre⯑hend her, when ſhe told me that a light which gleamed from the window of a cottage, had ſhewn her that we were en⯑vironed with armed ſoldiers. From this alarm we were not yet recovered, when by a ſudden riſe, and hollow ſound, we perceived we had paſſed over a draw⯑bridge; immediately after which we ſtopped. As we alighted, I caſt my eyes round a large and dreary court-yard, where a few ſtraggling centinels were planted, but neither lights, ſplendor, or attendants, indicated a royal gueſt, or a favorite's reſidence. The gloomy paſ⯑ſages through which we were uſhered, [294] ſeemed rather to lead to a priſon than a palace.—Arrived at an empty apartment, I gave way at once to the dire, the ob⯑vious truth; and arraigning in ſilence my own egregious credulity, felt, ſeverely felt, its every conſequence.

An officer, who had preceded us, now offered me a packet, which I received as the ſentence of my fate, but made no effort to open it.—Hope, fear, curio⯑ſity, every dear and powerful emotion were annihilated by inſtantaneous con⯑viction, and a ſtupor ſucceeded more dangerous and dreadful than the moſt violent operations of the paſſions.—My daughter, more terrified by this ſtill agony than even the cruel and unexpected event of the evening, threw herſelf at my feet.—"Oh, ſpeak to me, my mother! exclaimed the dear one; do not indulge the deſperation your countenance ex⯑preſſes! do not conſummate to your poor Mary the horrors of the moment!" I gazed at her with a vacant air, but na⯑ture reſumed her rights, and fondly plucking at my heart, the tears I re⯑fuſed [295] to my own fate, flowed laviſhly for hers.—So young, ſo fair, ſo innocent, ſo noble, —how could I but bewail her? Surely thoſe maternal tears alone pre⯑ſerved my ſenſes at a juncture when every thing conſpired to unſettle them. My Mary, by an expreſſive glance, requeſted leave to open the packet, and ſtarting at ſight of the paper it contained, put it eagerly into my hand; a glance inform⯑ed me it was that defamatory declaration the crafty Burleigh had deceived my ſiſ⯑ter into ſigning while a priſoner in St. Vincent's Abbey. The King, in ſending this, only added inſult to injury, ſince the teſtimonials I had delivered to him might have invalidated a thouſand ſuch vague and artificial falſhoods; yet had it a fortunate effect, for nothing leſs could have rouſed my ſpirits from the cold and ſullen torpor which every paſſ⯑ing moment ſeemed to increaſe—"Inſo⯑lent Barbarian! exclaimed I, not con⯑tent to impriſon the unhappy offspring of the Queen who had the misfortune of giving thee being, doſt thou delight in [296] villifying and debaſing even her aſhes!—Oh, paper! dictated and preſerved ſurely for my ruin; by what ſingular chance haſt thou ſurvived the very views thou wert invented to ſerve?—Treaſured, as it ap⯑pears, only to effect a ruin your execrable contriver could not foreſee.—Yet of what conſequence is this ſingle atteſtation to⯑wards annihilating claims all thoſe I deli⯑vered had not power to eſtabliſh in the judgment of a cruel, inſidious tyranty who voluntarily ſhut his heart alike to reaſon, virtue, and nature?—Devoted to ſelf-intereſt, vain of a petty talent at deceiving, contemptible in every rank, but infamous in the higheſt, he meanly watched the generous impulſes of my heart, and wrought out of them my ruin.—Yet why do I name myſelf?—Alas, of what importance is it to her who no longer wiſhes to live where hea⯑ven or its arbitrary delegate ſhall have ap⯑pointed her to die?—It is for thee, my daughter! for thee alone my ſoul thus overflows with inexpreſſible anguiſh.—Reſcued, in yet unconſcious childhood, [297] from ſlavery, neglect, and obſcurity, for⯑tune at one moment ſeemed willing to reſtore all the rights of your birth, when a weak, credulous, unfortunate, mother aſſiſted the cruel wretch who Was pre-de⯑termined to entomb you, and annihilate every trace, every memorial, of our dear and honored progenitors.—Nameleſs—diſhonored—your blooming youth muſt wither in an unknown priſon—blighted by the tears of a parent who can never pardon herſelf the extravagant error produced by over-fondneſs.—I knew the King to be mean, baſe, ſubtle, yet I madly deli⯑vered into his treacherous hands every thing on which our hopes, nay, even our vindication, muſt be grounded."— "Hear me, in turn, my dear, my ho⯑nored mother, cried my ſweet girl, bath⯑ing my hands with tears of veneration and fondneſs. Alas, the order of nature is inverted, and I am obliged to become the monitor.—Recollect the maxim you have ſo deeply impreſſed upon my mind—that the malice of man would in vain ſtrive to make us wretched, did not our [298] own ungovernable paſſions aid his artful machinations. Oh, let us reſpect even error when it has its ſource in virtue.—To have diſtruſted the King were to de⯑ſerve to be rejected—leave him then to the contemptible ſatisfaction of having wreſted from the widow and the orphan the laſt treaſure of their lives, and let us examine what he has been compelled to leave us. Have we not yet the power of looking down on his throne, and all its ſpecious advantages, even from that obſcure priſon where his authority con⯑fines us?—Have we not the pride of reviewing our own hearts without find⯑ing aught in either unworthy of our Crea⯑tor or ourſelves?—For the vain gran⯑deur of that name of which he has un⯑fairly deprived us, can it be worth re⯑gretting while he lives to diſhonor it?—Fortunately no favorite view depended on its attainment, conſequently no hope is blighted by the deprivation. Have I not often heard you ſay, a noble mind can become every thing to itſelf?—Let us then riſe ſuperior to our fortune; time [299] will ſoon calm our ſpirits—reaſon will reconcile us to the inconveniencies of our fate, and religion elevate us above them.—Mourn not then for me, my much-loved mother," concluded the dear one, ſweetly ſmiling through her tears, "ſince I ſhall never think that place a priſon which contains you, nor that fate a miſ⯑fortune I owe to your fondneſs."

Oh, virtue, how awful doſt thou ap⯑pear, ſublimed thus by generoſity! When I ſaw this half-blown human bloſſom ſupport the ſtorm without ſhrinking, I bluſhed to have bowed my head before it.—When I heard her with Spartan cou⯑rage apply to her own ſituation the no⯑ble tenets I had ſought, not vainly, to imbue her mind with, could I fail to profit by the principles I had taught?—From the admiration ſhe excited in my ſoul, ſprung that pure and elevated heroiſm which calms in one moment every human weakneſs, and turbulent paſſion; diſpoſing us to turn upon that fate it enables us to judge of.

[300] I now recollected that by a fond va⯑nity in decking my daughter in all her valuable diamonds, I had inadvertently provided ample means to buy the fide⯑lity of our keepers; nor were they aware of our treaſure, as the ſeverity of the weather had made me wrap her in a long cloak lined with fur. I haſtily ſtripped her coſtly dreſs of its richeſt embelliſh⯑ments, and ſecreted them. Ah, with what difficulty did I ſtifle the tears and anguiſh which ſtruggled at my heart when I remembered the different views with which I adorned her!

Scarce had we executed this prudent reſolve, ere the man I have mentioned preſented himſelf once more;—he was young—not unpleaſing—had an air of integrity, and profound reſpect, that a little prepoſſeſſed me in his favour, even under all the diſadvantages attending our meeting. Our countenances were now calmed, and our reſolutions taken.—He appeared ſurprized alike with this tranſi⯑tion, and the beauty of my daughter, [301] whoſe magnificent but diſordered dreſs had a ſhare of his attention.—He was flattered with our civility, and aſſured us "every accommodation conſiſtent with the ſtrict orders of the King, he ſhould take pleaſure in ſupplying us with; and would, with our permiſſion, make us acquainted with our new home." He then produced ſome keys which opened double doors at the farther end of the large room we were in, and conducted us into a chamber neat and commo⯑dious enough.—The keys, he informed us, were committed ſolely to his charge; and that whenever, inclination or con⯑venience induced us to change our apartment, we had only to touch a ſpring he pointed out, when he would attend, and unlock the intermediate doors.—The purport of this extreme caution was very obvious; it excluded every poſſibility of winning over a female ſervant, as all the domeſtic offices would now of courſe be performed in either room while we occu⯑pied the other; nor was he ſuffered to [302] ſupply us pen, ink, or paper. As the conveniences of theſe apartments, and the air of reſpect in our guard, ſhewed ſome attention had been paid to our wel⯑fare, as well as the moſt judicious pre⯑cautions taken to prevent our enlarge⯑ment, I neither imputed the one or the other to the King, but rather both to his cunning favorite. Our enquiries were in⯑terrupted by the entrance of two ſervants, who ſet out an elegant ſupper, of which neither my daughter or myſelf had ſpi⯑rits to partake. Reſolved however to gather all I could from my attendant, ere another ſhould be put in his place, or ſuſpicion make him dumb, I aſked the name of the Caſtle, and its owner; but to theſe queſtions he declared him⯑ſelf enjoined to refuſe replying; never⯑theleſs, I conjectured from his looks that I did not err in ſuppoſing Somerſet di⯑rected him. The refined artifice of of⯑fering to introduce me to the King, and even remaining by my ſide, while per⯑haps my ruin was effecting by his will, [303] ſeemed entirely conſiſtent with the cha⯑racter Prince Henry had given me of that worthleſs favorite; though I could find no crime in my own conduct could poſ⯑ſibly irritate him to bury us thus alive, unleſs indeed our attachment to that la⯑mented royal youth appeared a ſufficient one.

In the gallery leàding to our apart⯑ment, I obſerved a centinel planted, from whom we were ſhut by double doors ſafely locked: perceiving we were thus effectually excluded from every hope, and chance of freedom, I deſired to paſs at once into a chamber, where I did not flatter myſelf I ſhould find reſt.

My firſt employment on riſing was to examine the windows, as well as the view from them; they were ſo cloſely grated as to convince me however comfortable our reſidence, it was ſtill a priſon. The apartments we occupied, formed one ſide of a quadrangle of old buildings, moſt probably barracks, but now en⯑tirely deſerted. On making the ſignal, [304] Dunlop (for ſo was our guard called) rea⯑dily attended, and we paſſed into the other room where we found breakfaſt ready. Trunks containing all kinds of apparel had been placed there, and Dun⯑lop recommended to us to form our minds to paſſing the remainder of our days in confinement. I did not ſubmit to bear this without demanding the autho⯑rity by which he acted? He produced an order, ſigned by the King, ſtrictly en⯑joining him to keep us in ſafety, and be⯑ware we neither wrote or received a let⯑ler, or indeed held any kind of commu⯑nication with the world.—While he ſpoke I examined every lineament of his coun⯑tenance, but fidelity was written there in ſuch legible characters, that I dared not make any effort to bribe him, leſt if it failed he ſhould publiſh that I had the means, which might in a moment utterly impoveriſh me.

A few weariſome uniform days only had elapſed when every hope decayed, and my ſpirits flagged at once.—Alas, [305] my mind had no longer the vivifying ar⯑dor, the inexhauſtible reſources of un⯑broken youth—its bloom had paſſed away like a ſhadow, and all its fire eva⯑porated.—The woful realities of life had diſſipated the bright illuſions of imagina⯑tion.—Every human good was in my eſ⯑timation ſhrunk into ſo ſmall a compaſs, that freedom constituted a very eſſential part of my little Poſſeſſions.—I was no longer able to rely upon contingencies, and ſunk at once under all the ſdneſs of know⯑ledge.—Not denied the relief of books, I pored over them in vain; every idea was ſtill purſuing an abſent good, and my ſenſes would reject the ſublimeſt au⯑thor; to follow the careleſs ſteps of a weary centinel, or liſten to his whiſtling.

Whether my daughter had really more reſolution than myſelf, or only aſſumed the appearance of it to ſave me from deſpair, was a point I could not aſcer⯑tain; but the complacency of her mind and manners was invariable. By a thou⯑ſand little affectionate artifices ſhe en⯑gaged me to work while ſhe read, or [306] read while ſhe worked, nor would per⯑ceive thoſe melancholy reveries it was impoſſible to overlook. I was not, how⯑ever, thankleſs for the bleſſing left me. That my eyes opened on her every morn⯑ing, ſtill made me bleſs it; and in com⯑poſing myſelf to ſleep, I nightly praiſed the God who yet ſuffered her to reſt by me.

Two tedious months elapſed in unde⯑ciſive projects.—Dunlop ever preſent, vi⯑gilant, and reſpectful, precluded alike complaint and temptation; but as if to guard himſelf againſt the latter, I took notice he now never remained one moment alone with us.

The impoſſibility of forming any judg⯑ment of our centinels while divided from them by double doors, and the danger of a fruitleſs effort to ſeduce one, had at intervals engroſſed my attention; but the mind cannot dwell forever on a ſingle idea, or a remote and uncertain project. Wearied out with this, another ſuddenly came to my relief. Though yet early in the ſpring, the weather was uncom⯑monly [307] beautiful, and the lenity with which we were treated, left me not with⯑out hopes of being allowed, under rigid limitations, the liberty of walking in whatever gardens the caſtle-walls en⯑cloſed. By this means I could examine the countenances of our centinels, and if I ſaw one in whom humanity was not quite extinct, I thought I might find ſome means to ſhew him a jewel; thus proving I could largely recompenſe him ſhould he have the courage to aſſiſt us. Nor did my lameneſs wholly deprive me of the power of walking, though it pre⯑vented my enjoying the liberty.—After conſidering this plan in every poſſible light, I ſaw nothing to forbid the at⯑tempt, and ventured the requeſt.—A few anxious days elapſed ere I had the ſatisfaction of finding it was granted, on as good terms as I could hope. Dunlop acquainted me we muſt walk ſeparately, that the perſon confined might be a check upon her that was liberated; who ſhould not remain in the garden more than an [308] hour, nor quit his ſight one moment. Theſe reſtrictions were as moderate as I could expect, and I eagerly prepared to profit by the granted permiſſion, ere I ventured my daughter: certain I ſhould at leaſt diſcover the ſtrength, heighth, and ſituation, of the Caſtle.—Dunlop, followed by two other men, attended upon me. I caſt an eager eye on the centinel on the gallery, but ſaw in him no trace of ſenſe, feeling, or curio⯑ſity. I found the little garden in ſo an⯑tique a ſtile, and ruinous a condition, as plainly proved this diſmantled build⯑ing was now only a priſon, whatever its former diſtinction. The wall around it appeared decayed, and not very high—it looked down on a moat, apparently dry.—From one part of the terrace I caught the corner of a tower I fancied belonged to Windſor Caſtle, but dared not venture a word which might imply deſign, and returned without aſking a ſingle queſtion. My daughter now took her turn, and as we continued to claim [309] this relief whenever the weather favored, I fancied it improved her health as well as my own.

It chanced, at length, I one day found a centinel on guard whoſe eye expreſſed both pity and curioſity.—Mine addreſſed itſelf to him in a moſt pointed manner. Without altering the poſition of my hand (in which I always carried a dia⯑mond for that purpoſe) I opened it, and the ſoldier, as I wiſhed, ſurveyed the jewel.—I turned my head at the inſtant Dunlop was unlocking the door, and the centinel ſhook his emphatically. Yet only to have been underſtood revived at once my ſpirits, and my hopes; for to eſcape did not appear ſo impracticable to me, as to gain an aſſiſtant. I ſaw him no more for a week, but ſoon found that day was the periodical one for his at⯑tendance.—Involved in a thouſand plots, the want of pen and ink ſeemed to con⯑demn them all to inhabit only my brain, when at once I diſcovered a ſubſtitute for thoſe uſeful articles. From the middle [310] of a large book, which we had unmo⯑leſted poſſeſſion of, I took ſome of the printed leaves, and from the concluſion a blank one; out of the firſt I cut ſuch words as ſimply conveyed my meaning, and ſewed them on the laſt.—"Aſſiſt us to eſcape, and we will make your fortune," was the ſubſtance of this ſin⯑gular but important billet. To aſcer⯑tain my ability to realize this promiſe, I wrapt in it a diamond of ſome value, and carried both ever in my hand, ſtill hoping fortune would enable me for one moment to miſlead the attention of my guards: but, alas, Dunlop, far from re⯑laxing his vigilance, continually increaſ⯑ed it. The two men who followed him in the garden, now attended to my door; remaining as ſpies on me while Dunlop opened it.—Thus circumſtanced; I could not make the ſlighteſt overture without being liable to detection, and I dreaded awakening the moſt diſtant doubt, leſt it ſhould condemn us to a more rigorous confinement.—One favorable omen alone [311] occurred.—The ſoldier I had ſelected clearly underſtood me.—I ſaw his eye ever anxiouſly fixed on my hand, as if eager to transfer its contents to his own; nor had I ceaſed to flatter myſelf I ſhould yet do ſo, when an unforeſeen incident at once annihilated every hope and pro⯑ject, and plunged me in the deepeſt ſor⯑row.

I had always counted the moments of my daughter's abſence, and nothing but the conviction that the air and exerciſe were neceſſary towards her health, could have enabled me to ſupport it. What then became of me when one day I found her walk unuſually lengthened!—I endeavoured to perſuade myſelf that my fears foreran the danger.—But more than twice the uſual time had certainly elapſed; nor dared I venture an en⯑quiry, leſt I ſhould ſuggeſt a hint to my perſecutors which hitherto had eſcaped them. The hours thus paſſed on, but Mary returned not.—Ah, me! while my weak hand repeats this, I almoſt expire [312] under the recollection.—Every evil my untoward fate had yet teemed with, be⯑came peace, nay pleaſure, on a compa⯑riſon with this.—Though the turbulence of each ſucceeding ſtorm had ſwept away invaluable treaſures, ſomething yet re⯑mained my weary ſoul might cling to.—This ſingle gem, this ſolitary relique of all my fortunes, more dear, more precious from becoming ſo, a dreadful, a deceitful calm had at length ſwallowed up even while I was fearleſs of the dan⯑ger.—Heartſtruck—incapable at once either of diſtinguiſhing, or complaining, my reſpiration became perturbed, and deep.—A ſtill agony, more dreadful than the wildeſt tumults of the paſſions, numbed my very ſoul; every hair ſeemed to ſtart from, and pierce my too-ſenſible brain; while drops cold as thoſe of death chaſed one another down my ſcarcely throbbing temples.—When Dunlop preſented him⯑ſelf, I roſe not from the earth, I uttered not a ſyllable; but lifting an eye to him which would have melted a ſavage, he [313] turned away, unable to ſupport the ſhock, and offered me ſome order from the King bewailing at the ſame moment the pain⯑ful duty impoſed on him. This rouſed my torpid ſpirits—I tore it indignantly into a thouſand atoms;—reſentment re⯑ſtored my ſpeech.—I called for my Mary in the moſt piercing accents—nothing could ſuſpend, or mitigate my anguiſh. I bitterly reproached Dunlop with tearing the beauteous innocent from her mother's boſom, only to deliver her up to aſſaſ⯑ſins.—In vain he declared himſelf inca⯑pable of ſuch villainy, and acting under the orders, of the King—in vain he aſ⯑ſured me ſhe was only removed to ano⯑ther apartment, ſafe, and unhurt.—My ſoul rejected all his aſſertions.—Mary— Mary—Mary!—was all my convulſed lips could utter, or my diſconſolate ſoul dictate.

Ah, God! the ſolitude that ſucceeded. Food, light, air, nay even life itſelf, be⯑came nauſeous and inſupportable.—Stretched on the cold ground—drenched in my own tears, I gave way to the deep [314] miſery, the tremendous void this barba⯑rous ſeparation could not but plunge me in.—How long was it ſince ſhe had been the very eſſence of my exiſtence! From the ſorrowful moment which gave her into my arms, to that which tore her from them, ſhe, ſhe alone, had occupied my every ſenſe, and enabled me to ſup⯑port every affliction.—Never, though I had led her myſelf through an admiring nation to the altar, and joined her hand with that of the incomparable Henry, never could even that advantage have compenſated to my yearning heart for the loſs of her ſociety. What then muſt it ſuffer to recollect a ſavage had wreſted her, for unknown purpoſes, from my arms!—Nor could I, amid all the hor⯑rors this idea teemed with, fix on any diſtinct one.

Oh, that melodious voice!—Still it ſeemed to vibrate on my ear, but no longer could I hear it.—That unmatched form gliſtered through every tear, but evaporated with it. The moſt deadly glooms came over me—a thouſand times [315] I raiſed my raſh hand to precipitate—the unfortunate Roſe Cecil alone withheld me.—I often thought I heard her aerial voice, and deſpair ſlowly ſubſided into re⯑ſignation.

I now exerted every effort to gain upon Dunlop; but, too faithful to his execra⯑ble employers, I never won more from him than that my daughter was ſtill in the Caſtle, not only unhurt, but treated with diſtinction and indulgence.—Yet, how could I credit ſuch improbable aſ⯑ſurances? or even if they were true; ought not an indulgence ſo partial to alarm more ſtrongly a mother's feelings? To every ſolicitation once more to be⯑hold her, I received a poſitive denial; nor was even the liberty of walking now allowed me. I often enquired why I was thus reſtrained, if no injury was meditated to my unfortunate child? To queſtions of this kind he never anſwered, but left me to my own fluctuating conjectures: They were ſo numerous and frightful that conviction could hardly aggravate the evil. Nevertheleſs, as Dunlop ſeemed [316] ever anxious to compoſe my mind by re⯑iterated aſſurances of my poor girl's ſafety, and as there was an air of candor in all he uttered, I began at length to conclude that the contemptible Somerſet had aſpired to the niece of his maſter, but from being already married to the divorced Counteſs of Eſſex, had not dared to avow his paſſion. I recollected too late the ſingularity of his being with Prince Henry when firſt we beheld that amiable youth;—the aſſiduous reſpect he had ſhewn in waiting on me at Richmond;—the affected offer of his intereſt with a tyrant whoſe will he ſo well knew how to make ſubſervient to his own;—the com⯑bination of refined arts by which we had been led to throw ourſelves into the pri⯑ſon ſelected for us;—and, finally, that the priſon was probably a houſe of his own.—Through the whole of this, as well as the manner we were guarded, there was a policy too minute for a King to plan, and too watchful to be the work of an indifferent perſon.—When by a juſt turn of thought we inſenſibly [317] unravel any hitherto inexplicable event, how does the mind diſdain its former blindneſs? I now conſidered with won⯑der my long want of perſpicacity, and found ſomething every moment to cor⯑roborate, and ſtrengthen the idea I had adopted.

To fix on any thing certain appears to the exhauſted ſoul a degree of relief; and though at ſome moments I dreaded art and violence might be employed, if gentle methods failed to undermine the virtue of my ſweet girl, yet I much of⯑tener flattered myſelf ſhe could not in⯑ſpire a paſſion ſo groſs and unworthy; and knew her ſoul ſuperior to every other ſeduction. From the inſtant I ventured once more to hope, all my plans for eſcap⯑ing revived; I had no longer, it is true, the privilege of paſſing beyond my apart⯑ment, but miſery is ever ingenious, and I was pre-informed of the days when the compaſſionate centinel guarded the door; nay, I fancied I often heard him draw near, attracted by my ſighs and groans.—The note I had formerly prepared was [318] yet in being; I ſewed it to a long thin ſlip of whalebone, and on the day when he uſed to be attending, worked it gently under both doors, at a time when I judg⯑ed no other perſon near, and ſoftly rapped at the inner one. A ſweet hope rekindled in my heart as I felt it drawn out of my hand. I watched in vain the whole te⯑dious day for a reply, and often fancied my effort had been betrayed to Dunlop; but as I did not perceive any alteration in his countenance, I became reaſſured; and concluded that the ſoldier could not write, nor perhaps even read; and if ſo, a whole week muſt neceſſarily elapſe ere I could learn his reſolutions. The ex⯑piration of that time verified my laſt con⯑jecture. With unſpeakable ſatisfaction I at laſt ſaw a billet introduced into my ſo⯑litude, by the ſame means I had ſuc⯑ceſsfully ventured. I was a long time decy⯑phering the almoſt unintelligible ſcrawl: "I pity you, lady, from my heart, but I know not how to help you; it is true, you are rich, and I am very poor, but then it is impoſſible to get at you; if [319] you can think of any way, I am ready to aſſiſt." Ah, God! how did I lift up my eyes to thee, who hadſt thus ſtrangely opened once more to me a communica⯑tion with that ſociety from which I had been ſo unfairly wreſted! In moments like this every thing appears poſſible; al⯑ready I ſeemed to ſee my priſon gates open, my daughter in my arms, and our honeſt aſſiſtant rich at once in our wealth and our bleſſings. Having had the fore⯑ſight to prepare another billet, I convey⯑ed it in the ſame manner. "Worthy ſoldier, is my daughter ſafe, and yet in this Caſtle? if ſo, tear away all but the word, yes, and my ſoul ſhall for ever bleſs you." How pure was the joy with which I received the precious monoſyl⯑lable!

To prepare another billet, comprehend⯑ing my plan, was a work of time;—with what perturbation did I undertake it! To condenſe my meaning to a few words, and yet leave it obvious to a common capacity, was not an eaſy taſk.—I thus [320] at laſt effected it: "generous friend, win over him who guards my daughter's door, while you are at mine, and I will ſhare with both of you the rich jewels I poſſeſs, of which you ſaw only the ſmalleſt. Ob⯑serve the form of the keys Dunlop brings—buy many as near them as poſſible, and ſo various that ſome may certainly fit.—Procure likewiſe two regimental ſuits, that we may paſs the gate un⯑queſtioned; if you can raiſe the little money neceſſary for this, fear not to ſpend it; I will make your fortune in the mo⯑ment our doors are opened.—Reſtore me to my daughter—conduct us to the gate, and we will both beſeech the Almighty to bleſs the riches we will joyfully leave in your hands."

Having diſpatched this, I waited the deciding hour with the moſt anxious im⯑patience; and ſcarce dared to raiſe my eyes from the ground, leſt Dunlop ſhould read in them aught that might alarm his ſuſpicions.

[321] How to diſpoſe of myſelf, and daugh⯑ter, when out of the Caſtle, was a queſ⯑tion I could not decide upon; but I flat⯑tered myſelf that as we ſhould have ſome hours ſtart of our perſecutors, we might reach London; where it would not be eaſy to apprehend perſons who had been impriſoned without any judicial enquiry or ſentence:—A greater fear however than that occurred.—How if theſe ſol⯑diers ſhould not be honeſt—the reward we muſt beſtow would prove what we poſ⯑ſeſſed, and our lives might be the forfeit. Yet ſuch was my deſperate ſtate, that even this reaſonable apprehenſion did not in⯑duce me one moment to heſitate.

The appointed time revolved, and I re⯑ceived another billet. "Be ready when all is quiet—every thing is prepared if any of the keys fit. My comrade and ſelf muſt go with you to ſecure our own ſafety, but it will likewiſe ſecure yours." Oh, how did my heart bound at this happy intelli⯑gence;—my languor, my lameneſs, all was forgotten. Maternal love, and ha⯑bitual [322] fear, ſeemed to wing me with ſu⯑pernatural powers.

As the important moment approached, I knelt and devoutly invoked the aſſiſt⯑ance of heaven. Ah! not in vain; for the firſt effort of the ſoldiers was ſucceſsful. I reached out a rich and ready hand to each.—They received the contents with extreme ſatisfaction, and conjuring me to preſerve the moſt, profound ſilence, lock⯑ed the doors, and led me to the further ſide of the Caſtle. At the threſhold of my daughter's apartment they gave into my hand the diſguiſes I had deſired, and a⯑greed to wait till we were ready. The tender meltings Mothers only know thrill⯑ed thro' my heart, and ſweetened every ap⯑prehenſion, as I gently made my way thro' a dark room towards one where I ſaw lights ſtill burning: but fearful of alarming my ſweet girl, I heſitated at the door. What was my aſtoniſhment to per⯑ceive that the apartment was gay, magni⯑ficient, and illuminated!—I thought at firſt that anxiety had bewildered my faculties, [323] but their truth became evident when they centred at once on my daughter; who, elegantly habited, had ſunk on a couch aſleep. A writing table covered with due implements ſtood before her, on which lay a letter, it appeared to me ſhe had been anſwering. The deadly cold⯑neſs, the nameleſs ſenſations this extraor⯑dinary ſcene could not but occaſion, at once ſuſpended even the moſt powerful emotions of nature. A repulſion ſo terri⯑ble obliged me to reſt my head againſt the pillar of the door, and ſtruggle ſome time with the ſickneſs and confuſion of my ſoul, ere I could gather ſtrength to penetrate into the fact. She ſtill continu⯑ed to enjoy a repoſe, it ſeemed to me I never ſhould know again, and I had now loſt the wiſh of awakening her; of eſcap⯑ing—alas, even of exiſting! Slowly at length I tottered toward the table, and catching at the two letters I mentioned, appeared to graſp in them my very fate. The ſignature of the firſt made its contents [324] almoſt needleſs. "A few days, a very few days more, moſt charming of women, and I ſhall be able to indulge your every wiſh—every thing is now in train:—pain me not therefore in thus preſſing an impoſſi⯑bility. The heart of your Mother is inexor⯑able to me—it has ever been ſo, and I nei⯑ther dare truſt her with the truth, or you with one ſo prejudiced, till the law ſhall have annulled my deteſted marriage, and the King agree to my union with yourſelf—I live but in that hope; it ſupports me under all theſe long and tedious abſences. Why will you call the ſafe home in which you are encloſed, a priſon?—The whole world appears ſo to him who beholds with pleaſure only that ſpot where you dwell. To-morrow I ſhall ſteal an hour to paſs with you—ſmile for that hour, my belov⯑ed, and bleſs wiih a welcome, your de⯑voted Somerſet."

Of what various, what manifold miſe⯑ries is the human heart ſuſceptible? none of all the exquiſite variety I had hitherto known, ever ſurpaſſed this new [325] one. My diſdainful ſoul recoiled from even the dear object of its affections—hypocriſy, that eſſence of all vices, had ſtolen into her heart under the name of love, and blighted the virtues yet bloſſom⯑ing—fearfully I peruſed her letter, to end every doubt.

"What ages of ſolitude, of ſuffering does your love, my lord, impoſe on me! In vain you would fill up that place in my heart, a parent ſo juſtly revered muſt ever hold. But you ſtill talk of to-mor⯑row, and to-morrow—alas, it is a day that may perhaps never come—you think me vapouriſh, but you know not how ſtrangely my illneſs increaſes—it is acute and violent—Oh that I could lay my burning head one moment on my mother's boſom!—Catherine gave me ſome whey yeſterday; I don't know, —perhaps I wrong her, but I have not been myſelf ſince. A thouſand gloomy images have taken poſſeſſion of my mind; my eager ear is filled with imaginary knells; I could fan⯑cy myſelf dying: you will laugh perhaps [326] at this weakneſs, but I cannot conquer it—if I ſhould indeed judge right, re⯑leaſe my mother, I conjure you, and con⯑ceal forever from her—"

Ah, what? exclaimed I in the moſt terrible agony, for at this unfiniſhed ſentence the letter broke off.—Diſdain, ſuſpenſe, anguiſh, contended within me, and ſhook my frame like the laſt ſtruggle of nature.—Of all the horrors that be⯑wildered my mind, one, one alone, could my ſenſes aſcertain.—My hapleſs girl was indeed dying—wan and ſunken were thoſe cheeks late ſo florid—the icy fin⯑gers of death were impreſſed upon her temples, and the eyes ſhe heavily open⯑ed, as her woe-ſtruck mother dropt upon earth, had no longer either life, beauty, or luſtre.—Oh, that my ſoul had eſcaped in the groan which followed this horrible conviction!—She faintly ſhrieked, and re⯑mained in a kind of ſtupor; tenderneſs, however, ſoon predominated over every other ſenſation.—I threw my arms round her in ſilence, and the tears which de⯑luged her cheeks, alone declared what [327] paſſed in my ſoul.—Still ſhe uttered not a word, but griped my hands as though the pangs of death were indeed upon her. I in vain conjured, intreated her to ſpeak; it was long ere ſhe had courage to enter into a detail which ſhe had neither breath or voice to go through. "Condemn me not wholly, my mother, at length cried the dear one, however appearances may incenſe you. I aſk for only life enough to acquit myſelf, and will to my laſt moment thank the God who reſtores me to your arms, though only to bluſh away my being in them. Yet have I no other crime to avow than that re⯑ſerve unconquerably interwoven in my nature.—Alas, yeſterday I thought it a virtue.—Heaven will, perhaps, give me ſtrength to go through the ſtory, at leaſt, I ought to make the effort.—Oh, deign to pardon my compelled abruptneſs, and hear me with patience!

"At the moment which, firſt preſented Prince Henry to our knowledge, he was accompanied by the Earl of Somerſet.—How my eyes conceived the partiality my [328] reaſon could never eraſe I know not, but they decided at once in his favor.—Whether the Earl perceived the involun⯑tary diſtinction, or was led by an equal one on his own part, is alike unknown to me; but I underſtood the reluctance with which he gave way to the Prince, whom he left with us—the contempt with which you mentioned Lord Somer⯑ſet, ſtrangely ſhocked and alarmed me; yet (may I own it) I ſecretly accuſed the moſt upright heart exiſting of pride and prejudice; and found a thouſand reaſons for ſuddenly diſputing a judgment which had hitherto been the rule of my own.— During the frequent viſits Prince Henry paid you, when prudence induced you to ſend me abroad; alas, to what a temptation did you unconſciouſly expoſe me! Somerſet availed himſelf of thoſe opportunities, and by diſtant homage confirmed the prepoſſeſſion I had already conceived.—What ſhame, what ſorrow, what humiliation, has it coſt me!—Can you ever know a more exquiſite miſery than to beſtow your heart unworthily? [329] to be humbled without guilt—com⯑pelled to bluſh hourly for errors not your own—and reduced to a perpetual con⯑flict with thoſe powerful and natural emotions which form under more for⯑tunate circumſtances the felicity of youth! Senſible by the curious attention of others, how injurious that of the Earl might in time become, I requeſted leave to remain at home; and awed, in ſpite of myſelf, by your ſentiments, boldly reſolved to ſacrifice the erroneous incli⯑nation of my heart, and received the vows of Prince Henry. To ſee you happy, to flatter him with the hope of being ſo, for a time elevated and amuſed my mind; but ſolitude ſoon reſtored it to its favorite object: Somerſet ſtill preſented himſelf, and I took pleaſure in the tears in which I drowned his admired image. By ſome means or other I found letters from him frequently in my chamber.—I dared not enquire how, leſt I ſhould awaken your ſuſpicions; alas, perhaps that was one of the fine-ſpun webs with which love [330] ever veils its errors! I found him regu⯑larly informed of all our deſigns;—I knew it was in his power to croſs them by a word; and I began to eſteem him for daring to be ſilent. During the laſt progreſs of the King, Somerſet reſolved to profit by the abſence of Henry, and, apprized of the interviews we granted the Prince in the pavilion in the garden, as well as of my habit of ſitting there, determined to take the chance of plead⯑ing his cauſe. My ſtay was by the riſing of the moon unuſually prolonged on the evening he had ſelected to preſent himſelf before me. The pale light ſerved only to ſhadow out his form—any human one muſt at ſuch a moment have appalled me.—I ſhrieked, and was half-fainting when the found of his voice diſſipated my terror. Surprize, perhaps joy, that inſtantaneous confidence we ever repoſe in the object beloved, doubtleſs reaſſured him. I was ſcarce conſcious I had granted the au⯑dience he demanded, till he fell at my feet to thank me. The manner in which [331] he avowed his paſſion, made me ſen⯑ſible too late that I had ill-diſguiſed my own; I know not whether I ſhould have had reſolution to attempt doing ſo much longer, had not our converſation been ſuddenly interrupted by Henry. The Prince, to my inexpreſſible diſmay, en⯑tered the pavillion.—My voice had drawn him thither, but the ſound of Somerſet's made him retreat in contemptuous ſilence. The Earl would have followed, but I caught his arm and obſtinately withheld him:—then conjuring him to haſten to his boat, I flew after the Prince. Henry had thrown himſelf on the ſeat near the terrace; but ſenſible of the neceſſity of ſeparating him and the Earl at ſuch a criſis, I intreated the Prince to accom⯑pany me to the houſe. The light of the moon enabled me judge from his bewil⯑dered air of the diſtraction of his mind. I had not courage to break a ſilence he voluntarily maintained: yet to part un⯑der appearances ſo equivocal was impoſſi⯑ble. I heſitated at length a faint expla⯑nation, [332] nation. "Could you contradict the evi⯑dence of my ſenſes, madam, ſighed the Prince in a low and tender tone, I might wiſh to hear you: as it is, ſpare me, I conjure you, on a ſubject ſo hateful. I have nothing to reproach you with but a reſerve which led me to deceive my⯑ſelf.—Adieu, I promiſe you inviolable ſilence.—He who once hoped to conſti⯑tute your felicity, diſdains to interfere with it. Yet one truth I ought perhaps to apprize you of: your happy, your fa⯑vored lover, is married; think not I wiſh to reap any advantage from this in⯑formation—never more ſhall I breathe a vow at your feet.—Oh, Mary! you have undone me!" He wrung my hands in an agony of paſſion, and ruſhed through the garden to conceal the ſobs which continued to pierce my heart through my ear. What a night did I paſs!—ſad pre⯑lude to ſo many miſerable ones. I readily abſented myſelf the next day at the Prince's uſual hour of viſiting us. I never ſaw him afterwards without pain, humiliation, [333] and conſtraint; though he omitted no⯑thing likely to reconcile me to himſelf. During the fatal illneſs into which he fell, how continually did my heart reproach me with increaſing, if not cauſing it? and how deeply was my injuſtice to his merit puniſhed, in the mortifying con⯑viction that Somerſet had dared to de⯑ceive me? —What prayers did I offer up for Henry's recovery —What vows to atone for my error, by a life devoted to him! Alas, I was not worthy a lover ſo noble; and heaven recalled his purer eſſence, while yet unſullied. The ſenſe of a hopeleſs and unworthy paſſion ming⯑led with the deep grief I could not but feel for his loſs. A ſicklineſs and diſguſt ſucceeded—rank, royalty, diſtinction, every worldly advantage combined, could not have diſſipated the gloom of my mind, or reconciled me for a moment to ſociety. I took no pleaſure in the hopes, you, my dear, my generous mo⯑ther, cheriſhed for me; but I would not be ungrateful, and therefore concealed [334] my ideas. Thus impreſſed, what merit was there in that philoſophy which en⯑abled me to become your comforter under a reverſe I ſcarcely felt? —Oh, that my errors, my misfortunes, had ended here—that I had breathed my laſt on your revered boſom while yet un⯑conſcious of wounding it! When the vain hope of freedom made you ſolicit for a limited portion of air and exerciſe, how could you foreſee the fatal conſe⯑quences of that periodical indulgence! In the firſt of theſe ſolitary walks, So⯑merſet preſented himſelf before me; not the creſted, aſpiring favorite; but the ſelf-accuſing, the pale, the humble lo⯑ver.—My eyes reſiſted the impulſe of my heart, and turned haughtily from him; but he hung on my robe, he intreated he conjured, —he would be heard.—I feel I ſhall not have time to enter into the long explanation of his conduct which won from me an unwilling pardon: ſuffice it to ſay, that he knew every, the moſt ſecret, tranſaction in our houſe, nor ventured to marry till convinced I was [335] betrothed to Prince Henry. But, oh! the wretch he eſpouſed!—Never may you know the crimes of which ſhe has too probably been guilty! It was to Somerſet's interpoſition we owed the pro⯑longation of thoſe lives, the pride and rage of the King had devoted from the moment he read the papers he took a malicious pleaſure in deſtroying.—Still anxious for me, the Earl owned he had perſuaded James to impriſon us in this Caſtle, as well to ſecure our ſafety, as to provide us thoſe comforts and conveni⯑encies our royal relation would have de⯑prived us of.

I could not be inſenſible to ſervices like theſe; and finding my wrath began to abate, he awakened my pity, by de⯑ſcribing the domeſtic miſeries an un⯑happy marriage had impoſed on him. The tears with which my wounded ſoul blotted this picture, induced him ſtill farther to explain himſelf. His hopes of a divorce ſeemed rationally grounded, and I could not but enter into his views [336] on that head.—I was not however able to perſuade him you would ever think as I did, and weakly promiſed a ſecreſy I ought to have ſeen the danger of.—Yet, the pre⯑judice which induced you to impute even our impriſonment to him, ſeemed ſo fixed, ſo unalterable, that though a thouſand times the integrity of my nature tempted me to unfold to you the only ſecret my boſom ever teemed with, I ſhrunk be⯑fore a mind ſo diſguſted, nor dared to utter one ſyllable might pain you. The delays of Somerſet, however neceſſary, alarmed and diſtreſſed me.—I became cold and melancholy; and too delicate to confide to him the true cauſes of this alteration, he ſoon aſſigned a falſe one. Peeviſhneſs and altercation now robbed our interviews of all their ſweetneſs.—He often reproached me with having opened my heart to you, who alone could thus ſhut it againſt him.—Diſdain urged me one day to aſſure him I would do ſo, the firſt moment I again beheld you.—He left me in a tranſport of rage. Alas, my heart [337] became ſenſible of one every way equal to it, when I found I was not permitted to return to your priſon.—I refuſed to admit him to that allotted for me, and gave vent to every extravagance ſo un⯑foreſeen an injury muſt excite.—His an⯑ſwer convinced me that this ſtep had long been meditated. He aſſured me "he would ſooner die than reſtore me to a mother who had ever hated, deteſted, and deſpiſed him without any reaſon, till his claim took place of hers, and he could call me his wife." The cruel remembrance of what you muſt ſuffer, ſoon reduced me to intreaties, and ſolemn promiſes of continued ſecreſy. "They were now, he replied, too late;—that he could not ſuppoſe it poſſible I ſhould be able to conceal from you the cauſe of my abſence; and this, juſtly ſtrengthening the unreaſonable diſguſt and hatred you al⯑ready felt towards him, would make you go any lengths to prevent a union you muſt naturally abhor."—To this he added all he thought likely to ſoothe my [338] embittered ſpirit, and ſolemnly aſſured me your mind was relieved, by a conviction that this ſeparation was only in conſe⯑quence of a new order from court.— Although I ſaw in this mode of conduct a chicanery and little art, my nature diſ⯑dained, I was yet glad to imagine it lightened to you the heavy affliction our ſeparation could not but cauſe. I felt too late the error of mental reſervation, and had ſufficient reaſon to think every evil might branch out from that little root. Having in vain contended with the man, no leſs maſter of my life than fate, I at length was wearied into for⯑giving him. The divorce was now in great forwardneſs, and the manifold iniquities of the fiend in human ſhape he had marri⯑ed, ſuch as could not but ſhock, and in⯑tereſt, a heart diſpoſed to love him. A thouſand buſy projects paſſed daily from his brain to mine, and often intervened between myſelf and a mother ſo revered. Every hour that went over my head made it more impoſſible for me to appear before [339] you but as his wife, and I became as eager as himſelf for a day which heaven had pre-ordained I ſhould never ſee. One who purſued her point more effectually, has ſeverely puniſhed all my youthful er⯑rors—Oh may my premature death be re⯑ceived by him who made me, as an ex⯑piation!—How ſhall I tell you—and yet I muſt—I have often thought my food tinctured with poiſon—yeſterday—Alas, my mother, where is now your fortitude? —where is that ſublime reſignation I have ſeen you exert?—forget the vain hopes you once formed for me—forget that I am your daughter; oh think the erring wretch this awful moment recalls, was born to embitter the days that yet remain to you, and adore, even in this painful moment, the mercy of the Al⯑mighty.—If have not ſinned beyond for⯑giveneſs, graciouſly extend yours to me while yet I am ſenſible of the bleſſing."

As ſhe threw herſelf into my arms, every feature ſeemed ſhrunk, and moulded by the fingers of death—Alas! what became [340] of me at this criſis! her paroxyſms were ſcarce more dreadful than thoſe that ſeized upon my ſoul—every emotion of love, friendſhip, and kindred, appeared tranquillity, when compared with the wild, uncontroulable anguiſh of the robbed, the ruined mother. Perpetually ready to give vent to the tumultuous execrations my heart pronounced againſt the artful, inſidious traitor, who had alienated her af⯑fections, and warped the rectitude of her mind, an intuitive conviction that ſuch a tranſport would vainly embitter the little time remaining to her, obliged me to confine to ſighs and groans all the miſeries of the moment. I drew her fondly to my boſom, and poured over her pale con⯑vulſed cheeks, a heart-broken, mother's ſolemn abſolution.

One horror only could be added to a ſcene like this, nor was it wanting. The centinels, weary of waiting, and ſtartled by our groans, now abruptly entered the chamber.—Scared at the ſight of my daughter expiring in my arms, the ſenſe [341] of their own danger ſoon over-ruled every other; they urged, they conjured me to leave my Mary, now apparently lifeleſs; but they urged, they conjured in vain.—On her, I was ſo ſoon to reſign to her Creator, my whole ſoul was now fixed.—The dear one faintly revived, but ſtruck with inconceivable horror at ſight of the ſoldiers, ſhe relapſed into con⯑vulſions, griping me ſtill cloſer. Ah, God, the cold chill that followed! when I found her hold relax at once—the world vaniſhed from before my eyes—they beheld only the fair form, which ſought a grave on the boſom where it firſt found a being.—Inſpired with the fierceneſs of a ſavage, I graſped her yet cloſer, ſhrieking tremendouſly, and with a ſtrength ſurely ſupernatural. The con⯑fuſed and incenſed ſoldiers having uſed every perſuaſion in vain, made the moſt violent efforts to ſever me from the laſt, the deareſt, the only object of my love. Threats, intreaties, art, and force, how⯑ever, were alike vain—nothing could [342] could tear her from me. They preſented at length their bayonets to my boſom, and beheld me with ſurprize dare the blow.—Perhaps they had really pierced it, but that ſome women, attendant on my daughter, now ruſhed into the room. Fears for their own ſafety obliged the ſoldiers to forbear urging or enforcing me further. They ſeized the intruders, leſt any of them ſhould eſcape, and hav⯑ing bound them, ſought ſafety in flight. A terrible calm ſucceeded my intenſe deſperation—the blood which had tu⯑multuouſly burnt along every vein, now returned in torrents, to choak up, and drown my heart.—The black fumes mounted thence to my brain.—With a grief-glazed eye, I contemplated the pale and precious cheek from whoſe rich color⯑ing I of late drew life, till ignorant that I either ſuffered, or exiſted.

[343] Seldom enough myſelf to diſtinguiſh the ſhadowy forms that flitted round my bed, and always too indifferent to utter a ſingle queſtion, I opened not the cur⯑tain, nor cared who was beyond it.— Vague and ſtifled exclamations alone in⯑formed me of the danger of that fatal fire which raged within my veins:—danger did I ſay?—I ought rather to have called it relief. During the ſhort inter⯑vals of my delirium, I voluntarily ſunk in ſilence under the gloom and debi⯑lity it left. Suddenly I was ſeized with ſuch flutters, and gaſpings, as ſeemed to indicate an immediate termination of every human infliction.—My weary ſoul hovered at the gate of its priſon, and I felt as if a ſingle word would releaſe it, but I had neither ability or inclination to pronounce that word; and though I per⯑ceived every curtain was undrawn to give me air, I raiſed not my quivering eye⯑lids to diſtinguiſh the two perſons who anxiouſly held each hand, as watching for [344] the laſt beat of the faint and hurried pulſe.

While thus in the very ſtruggle and fluctuation incident to parting nature, a voice ſuddenly reached my receding ſenſes—a voice ſo mellow, calm, and holy, that life yet lingered on it. I diſ⯑tinguiſhed theſe words: "oh, Almighty God! with whom do live the ſpirits of the juſt made perfect, when they are de⯑livered from their earthly priſons; we humbly commend the ſoul of this thy ſervant, our dear ſiſter, into thy hands, as into thoſe of a faithful Creator, and moſt merciful Saviour!" A faint effort I made to releaſe my hands, with the deſign of raiſing them towards heaven, cauſed the prayer to ceaſe. An emotion I could not reſiſt, made me lift my dim eyes to behold, if not abſolutely an angel, the human being that moſt reſembled one. At a table near my bed knelt a Clergyman, whoſe reverend locks time had entirely bleached, but it had taken nothing from his fine eyes, which ſeemed [345] to reflect the divinity he ſerved—care and experience had worn traces in every perfect feature; and the pale purity of virtue, chaſtened alike by ſorrow and reſignation, had ſucceeded to the vivid hues of youth, hope, and health. I ut⯑tered a ſigh, and faint exclamation.—A ſweet, yet ſad, pleaſure, wandered through my exhauſted frame, thus to be aſſured I had reached the very point of my being. Some women decently ar⯑rayed in black having aſſiſted my infirm and venerable comforter to riſe, con⯑ducted him to the ſide of my bed, and retired. With a graciouſneſs peculiar to himſelf, he adjured me, ſince the mercy of the Almighty had unexpectedly re⯑ſtored my intellects, to proſit by the indulgence in preparing my ſoul to ap⯑pear before him. An impulſe of grati⯑tude made me raiſe my hand to take his, that ſympathetically trembled over me, but even this trifling motion made me ſenſible I had on many bliſters, which wrung my feeble ſenſe even to fainting. [346] The women, as is uſual in deſperate ca⯑ſes, gave me ſome vivifying cordials, and again retired. The reverend ſtranger once more addreſſed me, praiſing the Al⯑mighty for the reſtoration of my intel⯑lects—they were indeed reſtored, for, oh! the recollection of that diſmal event which rendered their loſs a bleſſing, return⯑ed upon my mind, and made me loath the ſuccors I could owe only to the de⯑teſted hand that had conſummated my woes! "Oh, you, cried I, in a broken voice, who thus ſeek to comfort the mi⯑ſerable, inform me firſt to whom I owe the benefit?" He pauſed a moment—his gracious eyes glanced upward, and having thus conſulted with his Creator, he anſwered me with firmneſs; "that his name was De Vere; the houſhold Chaplain of the Earl of Somerſet."—At that abhorred title I ſhut my eyes as though I could have ſhut out retroſpecti⯑on, and waved to him to leave me.—"Raſh, unfortunate woman, returned he in a ſolemn and yet tender tone, religion [347] does not permit me to obey you—would you bear into a better world, the pride, the paſſions, the prejudices, which have certainly embittered, perhaps, ſhortened your days, in this?—Dare you preſent to the pure ſource of good, your great, your glorious Creator, a ſoul yet ſullied with voluntary frailties and human imperfecti⯑on? —Are you not on the point of ceaſing to fuffer, wherefore then ſhould you not ceaſe to reſent? Religion enjoins you to forget the faults of others, and contem⯑plate only your own.—Attend to truth, and I will impart it to you—reſolve to be patient, and I will pour balm into the deep wounds of human calamity—con⯑troul your paſſions, and I will elevate them, even under the ſtruggles of part⯑ing nature, by hopes which ſhall ſurely be realized, becauſe they centre in im⯑mortality."—The author of univerſal be⯑ing ſeemed to ſpeak to me through his Miniſter—the gathering tumult ſtood ſuſ⯑pended. "You addreſs not an ingrate, returned I feebly; I have walked in peace [348] life with my God, and fain would I die ſo: though ſurely to remember the wretch, who precipitates me into eternity by a grief too pungent for endurance, with charity, or compoſure, exceeds my abi⯑lity. If you have aught to reveal that may allay this irritation, be truly gene⯑rous in unfolding it—if otherwiſe, pre⯑ſent ſuch images only to my mind as may drive from it that of a villain, whoſe offences you cannot extenuate; nor dou⯑ble the agonies even you cannot relieve." "It is my only intention, madam, re⯑plied he.—Alas, I would not probe your wounds even to heal them!—If it is ne⯑ceſſary to ſuffer ere we can feel, believe me, I want not even that power of ſym⯑pathizing with you; yet, muſt I recon⯑cile my divine and human character, by vindicating the innocent, while I ſoothe the unfortunate; though even the wealth of nations could not tempt me for one moment to palliate guilt. Have you courage to hear a letter, given me in hopes of the preſent opportunity?" I [349] controuled myſelf, and ſigned to him to read.

"In what words, moſt injured, moſt unfortunate of women, ſhall the wretch who has unconſciouſly deſtroyed your peace, and his own, deprecate the wrath his very idea muſt occaſion?—Alas, overwhelmed with grief, horror, deſpair, every killing ſenſation, (guilt alone ex⯑cepted) his puniſhmeent is as acute as even malice could wiſh it.

"To fill up the meaſure of my afflicti⯑ons, I am informed that the blow which has robbed my ſoul of its deareſt hope, ſtruck at your life—that even in the wildneſs of delirium your curſes purſue me, and you are ready to ſink into the grave with unabated hatred.—If return⯑ing recollection ſhould ever enable you to read, or hear, theſe genuine dictates of a breaking heart, do it, madam, I con⯑jure you, the late juſtice of an acquittal. By the ſpotleſs ſpirit of the dear loſt an⯑gel my fatal love deprived you of, hear, pity—if poſſible, forgive me.—Can you [350] for a moment believe I would have touch⯑ed a life, dear, precious, to me, even as to yourſelf?

The abandoned woman, to whom hea⯑ven as a puniſhment for all my ſins united me, diſcovered by ſome unknown means thoſe views I thought impenetrable; and foreſeeing in their completion her own diſgrace, and ruin, ſhe took a deadly means to ſave herſelf from both.—Alrea⯑dy but too familiar with poiſon, and with death, ſhe found among the maids at⯑tending on my dear loſt love, one baſe enough to aid her in tranſlating an angel too early to the ſkies. To ſay, that I hate, deteſt, and ſhun the execrable mon⯑ſter, is ſurely needleſs—I even reſign her to your juſtice, nor do I wiſh to ſhelter myſelf from it, if you ſtill think me guilty.

"The laſt words of an expiring ſaint are not more ardent, more ſincere than thoſe I now utter.—Oh, ſtrive then to live, madam, nor let my agonized ſoul have the additional misfortune of ſhort⯑ening [351] ening your days, and lingering under your curſe!"

Alas, of what importance are theſe late convictions?—When a ball has gone through the heart, we are incapable of heeding the quarter it comes from.—

I could not however refuſe credence to this letter, and accuſing myſelf of having hitherto perhaps wanted candor towards the author, I acquitted myſelf to him, by affording him my forgiveneſs.

Nature, ever ſhrinking from diſſoluti⯑on, is eaſily recalled to a lingering ſuf⯑ferance; but the exhauſted ſoul no more can recover its powers. The activity which once ſupported me was gone for⯑ever.—

The venerable divine I have mentioned ſtill watched over me, and by the holieſt conſolations contended with the apathy into which I was ſinking.—But who could heal a heart broken by ſo many ſorrows? —That it was broken alone could conſole me. Deſtined to turn my dim eyes around this vaſt, globe without [352] findidg one object on which they could reſt, De Vere led them towards heaven; he bade me remember that my treaſure was only removed, not taken wholly from me; and that every paſſing day brought me nearer to recovering it.

For the execrable woman who had, to the ruin of her own ſoul, murdered the only hope of mine, I ventured not to imagine a puniſhment.—I dared not truſt myſelf with ſo dangerous a wiſh.— No, I conſigned her to the God ſhe had offended, and he has, even in this world, fearfully avenged me.

The pious De Vere ſhewed, by pre⯑ſerving and reſtoring my jewels, the equi⯑ty of his nature, and I made him ſuch acknowledgments as muſt flatter his heart, and eſtabliſh his fortune. As ſoon as I thought myſelf equal to the journey, I reſolved to retire, to France, that I might at leaſt expire in peace, and be⯑ſought him to accompany me.—Not able without ingratitude immediately to quit his patron, he comforted me with the [353] hopes of ſoon partaking my voluntary exile.

How unworthy the man who won the innocent heart of my tranſlated angel ever was of it, I had ſoon another con⯑vincing proof.—Becauſe I reſiſted the impulſes of deſpair—becauſe I, liſtened to the dictates of virtue and religion, and deigned to live out the days ap⯑pointed by the Almighty, his narrow ſoul began to believe mine ſuſceptible of human conſolation: he dared to intrude upon me in the name of the King, late offers of acknowledgment, diſtinction, fortune.—Heavens! how could either imagine I would owe aught to thoſe I muſt alike look down upon?—The very idea had well nigh diſarranged my feeble faculties, and deſtroyed the religious com⯑poſure of my grief. It however con⯑vinced me that no oppoſition would be made to my quitting that priſon in which I left, alas, all worth encloſing.—I launched once more into the immenſe world, unknown—unindeared, and wil⯑ling to be ſo.

[354] My fever returned on my landing in France with the moſt mortal ſymptoms.—Ah! can I fail here to commemorate the ſecond angel heaven ſent to my aſ⯑ſiſtance? The arrival of the Embaſſa⯑dor in his way toward England, though at firſt an inconvenience, in ſo narrow an aſylum as an inn, eventually prolonged my days. His dear and lovely daugh⯑ter was informed of my ſtate—ſhe in⯑dulged the ſublime impulſe of humanity, which led her towards the bed, where lay a forlorn wretch who appeared ready to draw her laſt breath in ſilent affliction. She ſummoned her noble father's phyſi⯑cian, whoſe ſkill relieved one it could not ſave.—She even deigned to outſtay the Embaſſador; and, by a glorious principle known only to ſuperior natures, began to love the wretch ſhe ſuccored. A virtue ſo exemplary almoſt reconciled me to the world I am ſhortly to quit.— Sweet Adelaide, when in this faint por⯑trait you ſurvey yourſelf, ſigh for thoſe decaying powers which cannot render it more ſtriking.

[355] That my decline has been prolonged till this narrative is concluded, I do not regret; and by compliance, I have evinc⯑ed my ſenſe of your friendſhip:—I have now only to die.—Yet, alas, it is with regret I preſent to your youthful eyes ſo melancholy a chart of my yoyage through life.—Suffer it not to damp your hopes, but rather let it blunt your ſenſe of misfortune: for have I not ſaid al⯑ready, that conſummate miſery has a moral uſe, in teaching the repiner at little evils to be juſter to his God and himſelf?—Glorious though inſcrutable are all his ways, and ſhort as my time now is, he has ſuffered me to ſee his righteous retribution. Condemnation, infamy, and ſolitude, are henceforth the portion of Somerſet, and his execrable Counteſs.—A ſimilar crime, long buried in oblivion, has been proved upon them, without my having once diſturbed the ſa⯑cred aſhes of my Mary. An act ſo atrocious has broke the tye which bound De Vere to the Earl, and I every day expect him. I ſtruggle to retain my laſt breath till I can give it up in his preſence, aſſured [356] that his ſuperior ſoul will prepare my frail one for along hereafter, and decently diſpoſe of the mortal frame I ſoon muſt leave behind me.

Dear and lovely friend, you are now in England.—Already perhaps your feet have trod lightly over thoſe ſpots where my happineſs withered.—Ah! if ſenſi⯑bility ſhould lead you more thought⯑fully to retrace them, check every pain⯑ful emotion, by recollecting I ſhall then be paſt the power of ſuffering.—Yet, when your noble father reconducts you to the home you was born to embelliſh, grant a little to the weakneſs of mortality, and linger once more on the ſpot where we met: the pious De Vere will there attend your coming.—Accept from his hand the caſket I bequeath, and ſuffer him to lead you to the nameleſs grave where he ſhall have interred my aſhes: drop on it a few of thoſe holy tears with which virtue conſecrates miſ⯑fortune; then raiſe your eyes with thoſe of your venerable conductor, and in a better world look for MATILDA.