ITALIAN LETTERS

Or

The History of the Count de St. Julian

By

WILLIAM GODWIN

Edited and with an Introduction by BURTON R. POLLIN [Blank Page]_Italian Letters_

_Volume I_

Letter I

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara_

_Palermo_

My dear lord, It is not in conformity to those modes which fashion prescribes, that Iam desirous to express to you my most sincere condolence upon the deathof your worthy father. I know too well the temper of my Rinaldo toimagine, that his accession to a splendid fortune and a venerable titlecan fill his heart with levity, or make him forget the obligations heowed to so generous and indulgent a parent. It is not the form of sorrowthat clouds his countenance. I see the honest tear of unaffected griefstarting from his eye. It is not the voice of flattery, that can renderhim callous to the most virtuous and respectable feelings that caninform the human breast. 

I remember, my lord, with the most unmingled pleasure, how fondlyyou used to dwell upon those instances of paternal kindness that youexperienced almost before you knew yourself. I have heard you describewith how benevolent an anxiety the instructions of a father were alwayscommunicated, and with what rapture he dwelt upon the early discoveriesof that elevated and generous character, by which my friend is soeminently distinguished. Never did the noble marquis refuse a singlerequest of this son, or frustrate one of the wishes of his heart. Hislast prayers were offered for your prosperity, and the only thing thatmade him regret the stroke of death, was the anguish he felt at partingwith a beloved child, upon whom all his hopes were built, and in whomall his wishes centred. 

Forgive me, my friend, that I employ the liberty of that intimacy withwhich you have honoured me, in reminding you of circumstances, which Iam not less sure that you revolve with a melancholy pleasure, than I amdesirous that they should live for ever in your remembrance. Thatsweet susceptibility of soul which is cultivated by these affectionaterecollections, is the very soil in which virtue delights to spring. Forgive me, if I sometimes assume the character of a Mentor. I would notbe so grave, if the love I bear you could dispense with less. 

The breast of my Rinaldo swells with a thousand virtuous sentiments. Iam conscious of this, and I will not disgrace the confidence I ought toplace in you. But your friend cannot but be also sensible, that you arefull of the ardour of youth, that you are generous and unsuspecting, andthat the happy gaiety of your disposition sometimes engages you withassociates, that would abuse your confidence and betray your honour. 

Remember, my dear lord, that you have the reputation of a long list ofancestors to sustain. Your house has been the support of the throne, and the boast of Italy. You are not placed in an obscure station, where little would be expected from you, and little would be thedisappointment, though you should act in an imprudent or a viciousmanner. The antiquity of your house fixes the eyes of your countrymenupon you. Your accession at so early a period to its honours and itsemoluments, renders your situation particularly critical. 

But if your situation be critical, you have also many advantages, tobalance the temptations you may be called to encounter. Heaven hasblessed you with an understanding solid, judicious, and penetrating. Youcannot long be made the dupe of artifice, you are not to be misled bythe sophistry of vice. But you have received from the hands of themunificent creator a much more valuable gift than even this, a manly anda generous mind. I have been witness to many such benevolent acts of myRinaldo as have made my fond heart overflow with rapture. I have tracedhis goodness to its hiding place. I have discovered instances of histenderness and charity, that were intended to be invisible to everyhuman eye. 

I am fully satisfied that the marquis of Pescara can never rank amongthe votaries of vice and folly. It is not against the greater instancesof criminality that I wish to guard you. I am not apprehensive of asudden and a total degeneracy. But remember, my lord, you will, fromyour situation, be inevitably surrounded with flatterers. You arenaturally fond of commendation. Do not let this generous instinct be themeans of disgracing you. You will have many servile parasites, who willendeavour, by inuring you to scenes of luxury and dissipation, to divertyour charity from its noblest and its truest ends, into the means ofsupporting them in their fawning dependence. Naples is not destitute ofa set of young noblemen, the disgrace of the titles they wear, who wouldbe too happy to seduce the representative of the marquisses of Pescarainto an imitation of their vices, and to screen their follies under sobrilliant and conspicuous an example. 

My lord, there is no misfortune that I more sincerely regret than theloss of your society. I know not how it is, and I would willinglyattribute it to the improper fastidiousness of my disposition, thatI can find few characters in the university of Palermo, capable ofinteresting my heart. With my Rinaldo I was early, and have been longunited; and I trust, that no force, but that of death, will be able todissolve the ties that bind us. Wherever you are, the heart of your St. Julian is with you. Wherever you go, his best wishes accompany you. Ifin this letter, I have assumed an unbecoming austerity, your lordshipwill believe that it is the genuine effusion of anxiety and friendship, and will pardon me. It is not that I am more exempt from youthful follythan others. Born with a heart too susceptible for my peace, I amcontinually guilty of irregularities, that I immediately wish, but amunable to retract. But friendship, in however frail a bosom she resides, cannot permit her own follies to dispense her from guarding those sheloves against committing their characters. 

Letter II

_The Answer_

_Naples_

It is not necessary for me to assure my St. Julian, that I really feltthose sentiments of filial sorrow which he ascribes to me. Never did anyson sustain the loss of so indulgent a father. I have nothing by whichto remember him, but acts of goodness and favour; not one hour ofpeevishness, not one instance of severity. Over all my youthful follieshe cast the veil of kindness. All my imaginary wants received a promptsupply. Every promise of spirit and sensibility I was supposed todiscover, was cherished with an anxious and unremitting care. 

But such as he was to me, he was, in a less degree, to all hisdomestics, and all his dependents. You can scarcely imagine what amoving picture my palace--and must I call it mine? presented, upon myfirst arrival. The old steward, and the grey-headed lacqueys endeavouredto assume a look of complacency, but their recent grief appeared throughtheir unpractised hypocrisy. "Health to our young master! Long life, "cried they, with a broken and tremulous accent, "to the marquis ofPescara!" You will readily believe, that I made haste to free them fromtheir restraint, and to assure them that the more they lamented my everhonoured father, the more they would endear themselves to me. Theirlooks thanked me, they clasped their hands with delight, and weresilent. 

The next morning as soon as I appeared, I perceived, as I passed along, a whole crowd of people plainly, but decently habited, in the hall. "Who are they?" said I. "I endeavoured to keep them off, " said the oldsteward, "but they would not be hindered. They said they were sure thatthe young marquis would not bely the bounty of their old master, uponwhich they had so long depended for the conveniences and comfort oflife. " "And they shall not be kept off, " said I; and advancing towardsthem, I endeavoured to convince them, that, however unworthy of hissuccession, I would endeavour to keep alive the spirit of theirbenefactor, and would leave them as little reason as possible to regrethis loss. Oh! my St. Julian, who but must mourn so excellent a parent, so amiable, so incomparable a man!

But you talked to me of the flattering change in my situation. And shallI confess to you the truth? I find nothing in it that flatters, nothingthat pleases me. I am told my revenues are more extensive. But what isthat to me? They were before sufficiently ample, and I had but to wishat any time, in order to have them increased. But I am removed to themetropolis of the kingdom, to the city in which the court of my masterresides, to the seat of elegance and pleasure. And yet, amidst all thatit offers, I sigh for the rural haunts of Palermo, its pleasant hills, its fruitful vales, its simplicity and innocence. I sit down to a moresumptuous table, I am surrounded with a more numerous train of servantsand dependents. But this comes not home to the heart of your Rinaldo. I look in vain through all the circle for an equal and a friend. It istrue, when I repair to the levee of my prince, I behold many equals; butthey are strangers to me, their faces are dressed in studied smiles, they appear all suppleness, complaisance and courtliness. A countenance, fraught with art, and that carries nothing of the soul in it, isuninteresting, and even forbidding in my eye. 

Oh! how long shall I be separated from my St. Julian? I am almost angrywith you for apologizing for your kind monitions and generous advice. Ifmy breast glows with any noble sentiments, it is to your friendship Iascribe them. If I have avoided any of the rocks upon which heedlessyouth is apt to split, yours is all the honour, though mine be theadvantage. More than one instance do I recollect with unfeignedgratitude, in which I had passed the threshold of error, in which I hadalready set my foot upon the edge of the precipice, and was reclaimed byyour care. But what temptations could the simple Palermo offer, comparedwith the rich, the luxurious, and dissipated court of Naples?

And upon this scene I am cast without a friend. My honoured fatherindeed could not have been my companion, but his advice might have beenuseful to me in a thousand instances. My St. Julian is at a distancethat my heart yearns to think of. Volcanos burn, and cataracts roarbetween us. With caution then will I endeavour to tread the giddycircle. Since I must, however unprepared, be my own master, I willendeavour to be collected, sober, and determined. 

One expedient I have thought of, which I hope will be of service to mein the new scene upon which I am to enter. I will think how my friendwould have acted, I will think that his eye is upon me, and I will makeit a law to myself to confess all my faults and follies to you. As youhave indulged me with your correspondence, you will allow me, I doubtnot, in this liberty, and will favour me from time to time with thosehonest and unbiassed remarks upon my conduct, which it is consonant withyour character to make. 

Letter III

_The Same to the Same_

_Naples_

Since I wrote last to my dear count, I have been somewhat more inpublic, and have engaged a little in the societies of this city. You canscarcely imagine, my friend, how different the young gentlemen of Naplesare from my former associates in the university. You would hardlysuppose them of the same species. In Palermo, almost every man was cold, uncivil and inattentive; and seemed to have no other purpose in viewthan his own pleasure and accommodation. At Naples they are all goodnature and friendship. Your wishes, before you have time to expressthem, are forestalled by the politeness of your companions, and eachseems to prefer the convenience and happiness of another to his own. 

With one young nobleman I am particularly pleased, and have chosen himfrom the rest as my most intimate associate. It is the marquis of SanSeverino. I shall endeavour by his friendship, as well as I can, tomake up to myself the loss of my St. Julian, of whose society I amirremediably deprived. He does not indeed possess your abilities, hehas not the same masculine understanding, and the same delightfulimagination. But he supplies the place of these by an uninterrupted flowof good humour. All his passions seem to be disinterested, and it woulddo violence to every sentiment of his heart to be the author of amoment's pain to another. 

Do not however imagine, my dear count, that my partiality to thisamiable young nobleman renders me insensible to the defects of hischaracter. Though his temper be all sweetness and gentleness, his viewsare not the most extensive. He considers much more the present ease ofthose about him, than their future happiness. He has not harshness, hehas not firmness enough in his character, shall I call it? to refusealmost any request, however injudicious. He is therefore often led intoimproper situations, and his reputation frequently suffers in a mannerthat I am persuaded his heart does not deserve. 

The person of San Severino is tall, elegant and graceful. His mannersare singularly polite, and uniformly unembarassed. His voice ismelodious, and he is eminently endowed by nature with the gift ofeloquence. A person of your penetration will therefore readily imagine, that his society is courted by the fair. His propensity to the tenderpassion appears to have been very great, and he of consequence layshimself out in a gallantry that I can by no means approve. 

Such, my dear count, appears to me to be the genuine and impartialcharacter of my new friend. His good nature, his benevolence, and thepliableness of his disposition may surely be allowed to compensate formany defects. He can indeed by no means supply the place of my St. Julian. I cannot look up to him as a guide, and I believe I shall neverbe weak enough to ask his advice in the conduct of my life. 

But do not imagine, my dear lord, that I shall be in much danger ofbeing misled by him into criminal irregularities. I feel a firmness ofresolution, and an ardour in the cause of virtue, that will, I trust, be abundantly sufficient to set these poor temptations at defiance. The world, before I entered it, appeared to me more formidable than itreally is. I had filled it with the bugbears of a wild imagination. I had supposed that mankind made it their business to prey upon eachother. Pardon me, my amiable friend, if I take the liberty to say, thatmy St. Julian was more suspicious than he needed to have been, when hesupposed that Naples could deprive me of the simplicity and innocencethat grew up in my breast under his fostering hand at Palermo. 

Letter IV

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara_

_Palermo_

I rejoice with you sincerely upon the pleasures you begin to find in thecity of Naples. May all the days of my Rinaldo be happy, and all hispaths be strewed with flowers! It would have been truly to be lamented, that melancholy should have preyed upon a person so young and sodistinguished by fortune, or that you should have sighed amidst all themagnificence of Naples for the uncultivated plainness of Palermo. Solong as I reside here, your absence will constantly make me feel anuneasy void, but it is my earnest wish that not a particle of thatuneasiness may reach my friend. 

Surely, my dear marquis, there are few correspondents so young asmyself, and who address a personage so distinguished as you, that dealwith so much honest simplicity, and devote so large a share of theircommunications to the forbidding seriousness of advice. But you haveaccepted the first effort of my friendship with generosity and candour, and you will, I doubt not, continue to behold my sincerity with afavourable eye. 

Shall I venture to say that I am sorry you have commenced so intimate aconnexion with the marquis of San Severino? Even the character of himwith which you have favoured me, represents him to my wary sight as tooagreeable not to be dangerous. But I have heard of him from others, amuch more unpleasing account. 

Alas, my friend, under how fair an outside are the most perniciousprinciples often concealed! Your honest heart would not suspect, that anappearance of politeness frequently covers the most rooted selfishness. The man who is all gentleness and compliance abroad, is often a tyrantamong his domestics. The attendants upon a court put on their facesas they put on their clothes. And it is only after a very longacquaintance, after having observed them in their most unguarded hours, that you can make the smallest discovery of their real characters. Remember, my dear Rinaldo, the maxim of the incomparable philosopher ofGeneva: "Man is not naturally amiable. " If the human character shewsless pleasing and attractive in the obscurity of retreat, and among theunfinished personages of a college, believe me, the natives of a courtare not a whit more disinterested, or have more of the reality offriendship. The true difference is, that the one wears a disguise, andthe other appear as they are. 

I do not mean however to impute all the faults I have mentioned to themarquis of San Severino. He is probably in the vulgar sense of the wordgood-natured. As you have already expressed it, he knows not how torefuse the requests, or contradict the present inclinations of thosewith whom he is connected. You say rightly that his gallantries are suchas you can by no means approve. He is, if I am not greatly misinformed, in the utmost degree loose and debauched in his principles. The greaterpart of his time is spent in the haunts of intemperance, and under theroofs of the courtezan. I am afraid indeed he has gone farther thanthis, and that he has not scrupled to ruin innocence, and practise allthe arts of seduction. 

There is, my dear Rinaldo, a species of careless and youthful vice, thatassumes the appearance of gentleness, and wears the garb of generosity. It even pretends to the name of virtue. But it casts down all the sacredbarriers of religion. It laughs to scorn that suspicious vigilance, thattrembling sensibility, that is the very characteristic of virtue. Itrepresents those faults of which a man may be guilty withoutmalignity, as innocent. And it endeavours to appropriate to itselfall comprehensiveness of view, all true fortitude, and all liberalgenerosity. 

Believe me, my friend, this is the enemy from which you have most tofear. It is not barefaced degeneracy that can seduce you. She mustbe introduced under a specious name, she must disguise herself likesomething that nature taught us to approve, and she must steal away theheart at unawares. 

Letter V

_The Answer_

_Naples_

I can never sufficiently acknowledge the friendship that appears inevery line of your obliging epistles. Even where your attachment isrouzed without a sufficient cause, it is only upon that account the moreconspicuous. 

I took the liberty, my dear count, immediately after receiving yourlast, to come to an explanation with San Severino. I mentioned to himthe circumstances in your letter, as affairs that had been casuallyhinted to me. I told him, that I was persuaded he would excuse myfreedom, as I was certain there was some misinformation, and I could notomit the opportunity of putting it in his power to justify himself. Themarquis expressed the utmost astonishment, and vowed by all that wassacred, that he was innocent of the most important part of the charge. He told me, that it was his ill fortune, and he supposed he was notsingular, to have enemies, that made it their business to misrepresentevery circumstance of his conduct. He had been calumniated, cruellycalumniated, and could he discover the author of the aspersion, he wouldvindicate his honour with his sword. In fine, he explained the wholebusiness in such a manner, as, though I could not entirely approve, yetevinced it to be by no means subversive of the general amiableness ofhis character. How deplorable is the situation in which we are placed, when even the generous and candid temper of my St. Julian, can beinduced to think of a young nobleman in a light he does not deserve, andto impute to him basenesses from which his heart is free!

Soon after this interview I was introduced by my new friend into asociety of a more mixed and equivocal kind than I had yet seen. Do nothowever impute to the marquis a surprize of which he was not guilty. Hefairly stated to me of what persons the company was to be composed; andidle curiosity, and perhaps a particular gaiety of humour, under theinfluence of which I then was, induced me to accept of his invitation. If I did wrong, my dear count, blame me, and blame me without reserve. But if I may judge from the disposition in which I left this house, Ionly derived a new reinforcement to those resolutions, with which yourconversation and example first inspired me. 

It was in the evening, after the opera. The company was composed ofseveral of our young nobility, and an equal number of female performersand other ladies of the same reputation. They almost immediately brokeinto _tête-à-têtes_, and of consequence one of the ladies addressedherself particularly to me. The vulgar familiarity of her manners, and the undisguised libidinousness of her conversation, I must own, disgusted me. Though I do not pretend to be devoid of the passionsincident to my age, I was not at all pleased with the addresses of thisfemale. As my companions were more active in the choice of an associate, it may perhaps be only candid to own, that she was not the most pleasingin the circle. The consciousness of the eyes of the whole partyembarrassed me. And the aukward attempts I made to detach myself frommy enamorata, as they proved unsuccessful, so they served to excite ageneral smile. San Severino however presently perceived my situation, and observing that I was by no means satisfied with my fortune, he withthe utmost politeness broke away from the company, and attended me home. 

How is it my dear friend that vice, whose property it should seem tobe, to hesitate and to tremble, should be able to assume this air ofconfidence and composure? How is it that innocence, that surely shouldalways triumph, is thus liable to all the confusion and perplexity ofguilt? Why is virtue chosen, but because she is the parent of honour, because she enables a man to look in the face the aspersions of calumny, and to remain firm and undejected, amidst whatever fortune has ofadverse and capricious? And are these advantages merely imaginary? Arecomposure and self-approbation common to the upright and the wicked? Ordo those who are most hardened, really possess the superiority; and canconscious guilt bid defiance to shame, while rectitude is continuallyliable to hide her head in confusion?

Letter VI

_The Same to the Same_

_Naples_

You will recollect, my St. Julian, that I promised to confess to you myfaults and my follies, and to take you for the umpire and director ofmy conduct. Perhaps I have done wrong. Perhaps, though unconscious oferror, I am some how or other misled, and need your faithful hand tolead me back again to the road of integrity. 

Why is it that I feel a reluctance to state to you the whole of myconduct? It is a sensation to which I have hitherto been a stranger, andin spite of me, it obliges me to mistrust myself. But I have discoveredthe reason. It is, that educated in solitude, and immured in the wallsof a college, we had not learned to make allowances for the situationsand the passions of mankind. You and I, my dear count, have long agreed, that the morality of priests is to be distrusted: that it is too oftenfounded upon sinister views and private interest: that it has noneof that comprehension of thought, that manly enthusiasm, which ischaracteristic of the genuine moral philosopher. What have penances andpilgrimages, what have beads and crosses, vows made in opposition toevery instinct of nature, and an obedience subversive of the originalindependency of the human mind, to do with virtue?

Thus far, my amiable friend, you advanced, but yet I am afraid you havenot advanced far enough. I am told there is an honesty and an honour, that preserves a man's character free from impeachment, which isperfectly separate from that sublime goodness that you and I have alwaysadmired. But to this sentiment I am by no means reconciled. To speakmore immediately to the subject I intended. 

What can be more justifiable, or reasonable, than a conformity to theoriginal propensities of our nature? It is true, these propensities mayby an undue cultivation be so much increased, as to be productive ofthe most extensive mischief. The man who, for the sake of indulginghis corporeal appetites, neglects every valuable pursuit, and everyimportant avocation, cannot be too warmly censured. But it is no lesstrue, that the passion of the sexes for each other, exists in the mostinnocent and uncorrupted heart. Can it then be reasonable to condemnsuch a moderate indulgence of this passion, as interrupts no employment, and impedes no pursuit? This indulgence, in the present civilizedstate of society, requires no infringement of order, no depravation ofcharacter. The legislators of every country, whose wisdom may surelybe considered as somewhat greater than that of its priests, havejudiciously overlooked this imagined irregularity, and amongst all thepenalties which they have ambitiously, and too often without eithersentiment or humanity, heaped together against the offences of society, have suffered this to pass unnoticed. Why should we be more harsh andrigorous than they? It is inconsistent with all logic and all candour, to argue against the use of any thing from its abuse. Of what mischiefcan the moderate gratification of this appetite be the source? It doesnot indeed romantically seek to reclaim a class of women, whom everysober man acknowledges to be irreclaimable. But with that benevolencethat is congenial to a comprehensive mind, it pities them with all theirerrors, and it contributes to preserve them from misery, distress, andfamine. 

From what I have now said, I believe you will have already suspected ofwhat nature are those particulars in my conduct, which I set out withan intention of confessing. Whatever may be my merit or demerit in thisinstance, I will not hide from you that the marquis of San Severino wasthe original cause of what I have done. You are already sufficientlyacquainted with the freedom of his sentiments upon this subject. He is aprofessed devotee of the sex, and he suffers this passion to engross amuch larger share of his time than I can by any means approve. Incitedby his exhortations, I have in some measure imitated his conduct, at thesame time that I have endeavoured not to fall into the same excesses. 

But I believe that I shall treat you more regularly in the manner of aconfessor, and render you more master of the subject, by relating to youthe steps by which I have been led to act and to justify, that which Iformerly used to condemn. I have already told you, how aukward I felt mysituation in the first society of the gayer kind, into which my friendintroduced me. Though he politely freed me from my present embarassment, he could not help rallying me upon the rustic appearance I made. Heapologized for the ill fortune I had experienced, and promised tointroduce me to a mistress beautiful as the day, and sprightly andingenious as Sappho herself. 

What could I do? I was unwilling to break with the most amiablecompanion I had found in the city of Naples. I was staggered with hisreasonings and his eloquence. Shall I acknowledge the truth? I wasmortified at the singular and uncouth figure I had made. I felt myselfactuated with a social sympathy, that made me wish to resemble those ofmy own rank and age, in any thing that was not seriously criminal. I wasinvoluntarily incited by the warm description San Severino gave me ofthe beauty and attractions of the lady he recommended. Must we notconfess, my St. Julian, setting the nature of the business quite outof the question, that there was something highly disinterested in thebehaviour of the marquis upon this occasion? He left his companions andhis pleasures, to accommodate himself to my weakness. He managed his owncharacter so little, as to undertake to recommend to me a female friend. And he seems to have neglected the interest of his own pleasuresentirely, in order to introduce me to a woman, inferior inaccomplishments to none of her sex. 

Letter VII

_The Same to the Same_

_Naples_

Could I ever have imagined, my dear count, that in so short a time thecorrespondence between us would have been so much neglected? I haveyet received no answer to my last letter, upon a subject particularlyinteresting, and in which I had some reason to fear your disapprobation. My St. Julian lives in the obscurity of retreat, and in the solitudemost favourable to literary pursuits. What avocations can have calledoff his attention from the interests of his friend? May I be permittedhowever to draw one conclusion from your silence, that you do notconsider my situation as critical and alarming? That although you jointhe prudent severity of a monitor with the candid partiality of afriend, you yet view my faults in a venial light, and are disposed todraw over them the veil of indulgence?

I might perhaps deduce a fairer apology for the silence on my part frommy new situation, the avocations incident to my rank and fortune, andthe pleasures that abound in a city and a court so celebrated as thatof Naples. But I will not attempt an apology. The novelty of thesecircumstances have diverted my attention more than they ought from thecompanion of my studies and the friend of my youth, but I trust I shallnever forget him. I have met with companions more gay, and consorts moreobsequious, but I have never found a character so worthy, and a friendso sincere. 

Since I last addressed my St. Julian, I have been engaged in variousscenes both of a pleasurable and a serious kind. I think I am guilty ofno undue partiality to my own conduct when I assure you, that I haveembarked in the lighter pursuits of associates of my own age withouthaving at any time forgotten what was due to the lustre of my ancestry, and the favour of my sovereign. I have not injured my reputation. Ihave mingled business and pleasure, so as not to sacrifice that whichoccupies the first place, to that which holds only the second. 

I trust that my St. Julian knows me too well, to suppose that I wouldseparate philosophy and practice, reason and action from each other. Itwas by the instructions of my friend, that I learned to rise superiorto the power of prejudice, to reject no truth because it was novel, torefuse my ear to no arguments because they were not backed by pompousand venerable names. In pursuance of this system, I have ventured inmy last to suggest some reasons in favour of a moderate indulgence ofyouthful pleasures. Perhaps however my dear count will think, that I amgoing beyond what even these reasons would authorize in the instance Iam about to relate. 

You are not probably to be informed that there are a certain kind ofnecessary people, dependents upon such young noblemen as San Severinoand his friends, upon whom the world has bestowed the denominationof pimps. One of these gentlemen seemed of late to feel a particularpartiality to myself. He endeavoured by several little instances ofofficiousness to become useful to me. At length he told me of a youngperson extremely beautiful and innocent, whose first favours he believedhe could engage to procure in my behalf. 

At that idea I started. "And do you think, my good friend, " said I, "because you are acquainted with my having indulged to some of thosepleasures inseparable from my age, that I would presume to ruininnocence, and be the means of bringing upon a young person so muchremorse and such an unhappy way of life, as must be the inevitableconsequence of a step of this kind?" "My lord, " replied the parasite, "Ido not pretend to be any great casuist in these matters. His honour ofSan Severino does I know seldom give way to scruples of this kind. Butin the instance I have mentioned there are several things to be said. The mother of the lady, who formerly moved in a higher sphere than shedoes at present, never maintained a very formidable character. Thisdaughter is the fruit of her indiscriminate amours, and though I amperfectly satisfied she has not yet been blown upon by the breath ofa mortal, her education has been such as to prepare her to follow thevenerable example of her mother. Your lordship therefore sees that inthis case, you will wrong no parent, and seduce no child, that you willmerely gather an harvest already ripe, and which will be infalliblyreaped by the first comer. "

Though the reasons of my convenient gentleman made me hesitate, theyby no means determined me to the execution of the plan he proposed. Heimmediately perceived the situation of my mind, and hinted that hemight at least have the honour of placing me in a certain church, thatafternoon at vespers, where I might have an opportunity of seeing, andperhaps conversing a little with the lady. To this scheme I assented. 

She appeared not more than sixteen years of age. Her person was small, but her form was delicate. Her auburn tresses hung about her neckin great profusion. Her eyes sparkled with vivacity, and even withintelligence. Her dress was elegant and graceful, but not gaudy. Itwas impossible that such a figure should not have had some tendency tocaptivate me. Having contemplated her sufficiently at a distance, Iapproached nearer. 

The little gipsey turned up her eyes askance, and endeavoured to take asly survey of me as I advanced. I accosted her. Her behaviour was fullof that charming hesitation which is uniformly the offspring of youthand inexperience. She received me with a pretty complaisance, but atthe same time blushed and appeared fluttered she knew not why. Iinvoluntarily advanced my hand towards her, and she gave me hers with akind of unreflecting frankness. There was a good sense and a simplicityunited in her appearance, and the few words she uttered, that pleasedand even affected me. 

Such, my dear friend, is the present state of my amour. I confess I havefrequently considered seduction in an odious light. But here I think fewor none of the objections against it have place. The mellow fruit isready to drop from the tree, and seems to solicit some friendly hand togather it. 

Letter VIII

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara_

_Palermo_

My dear lord, Avocations of no agreeable kind, and with which it probably will notbe long before you are sufficiently acquainted, have of late entirelyengrossed me. You will readily believe, that they were concerns of nosmall importance, that hindered me from a proper acknowledgment andattention to the communications of my friend. But I will dismiss my ownaffairs for the present, and make a few of the observations to which youinvite me upon the contents of your letters. 

Alas! my Rinaldo is so entirely changed since we used to wander togetheramong the groves and vallies, and along the banks of that stream which Inow see from my window, that I scarcely know him for the same. Whereis that simplicity, where that undisguised attachment to virtue andintegrity, where that unaccommodating system of moral truth, that usedto live in the bosom of my friend? All the lines of his character seemto suffer an incessant decay. Shall I fear that the time is hasteningwhen that sublime and generous spirit shall no longer be distinguishedfrom the San Severinos, the men of gaiety and pleasure of the age? Andcan I look back upon this alteration, and apprehensions thus excited, and say, "all this has taken place in six poor months?"

Do not imagine, my dear lord, that I am that severe monitor, that rigidcensor, that would give up his friend for every fault, that knows nothow to make any allowance for the heedless levity of youth. I canreadily suppose a man with the purest heart and most untaintedprinciples, drawn aside into temporary error. Occasion, opportunity, example, an accidental dissipation of mind are inlets to vice, againstwhich perhaps it is not in humanity to be always guarded. 

Confidence, my dear friend, unsuspicious confidence, is the first sourceof error. In favour of the presumptuous man, who wantonly incurs dangerand braves temptation, heaven will not interest itself. There can beno mistake more destitute of foundation, than that which supposes manexempt from frailty. 

Had not my Rinaldo, trusting too much to his own strength, laid himselfopen to dangerous associates, he would now have contemplated thoseactions he has been taught to excuse, with disgust and horror. His ownheart would never have taught him that commodious morality he has beeninduced to patronize. But he feared them not. He felt, as he assured me, that firmness of resolution, and ardour of virtue, that might setthese temptations at defiance. Be ingenuous, my friend. Look back, andacknowledge your mistake. Look back, and acknowledge, that to the purestand most blameless mind indiscriminate communications are dangerous. 

I had much rather my dear marquis had once deviated from that line ofconduct he had marked out to himself, than that he had undertaken todefend the deviation, and exerted himself to unlearn principles that didhim honour. You profess to believe that indulgences of this sort areunavoidable, and the temptations to them irresistible. And is man thenreduced to a par with the brutes? Is there a single passion of the soul, that does not then cease to be blameless, when it is no longer directedand restrained by the dictates of reason? A thousand considerations ofhealth, of interest, of character, respecting ourselves; and of benefitand inconvenience to society, will be taken into the estimate by thewise and the good man. 

But these considerations are superseded by that which cannot becounteracted. And does not the reciprocal power of motives depend uponthe strength and vivacity with which they are exhibited to the mind? Thepresence of a superior would at any time restrain us from an unbecomingaction. The sense of a decided interest, the apprehension of a certain, and very considerable detriment, would deprive the most flatteringtemptation of all its blandishments. And are not this sense and thisapprehension in a great degree in the power of every man?

Tell me, my friend; Shall that action which in a woman is the utterextinction of all honour, be in a man entirely faultless and innocent?But the world is not quite so unjust. Such a conduct even in our sextends to the diminution of character, is considered in the circle of thevenerable and the virtuous as a subject of shame and concealment, andif persisted in, causes a person universally to be considered, as alikeunfit for every arduous pursuit, and every sublime undertaking. 

Is it possible indeed, that the society of persons in the lowest stateof profligacy, can be desirable for a man of family, for one whopretends to honour and integrity? Is it possible that they should nothave some tendency to pollute his ideas, to debase his sentiments, andto reduce him to the same rank with themselves? If the women you havedescribed irreclaimable, let it at least be remembered that yourconduct tends to shut up against them the door of reformation andreturn, and forces upon them a mode of subsistence which they might notvoluntarily have chosen. 

Thus much for your first letter. Your second calls me to a subjectof greater seriousness and magnitude. My Rinaldo makes hasty stridesindeed! Scarcely embarked in licentious and libertine principles, he seems to look forward to the last consummation of the debauchee. Seduction, my dear lord, is an action that will yield in horror to nocrime that ever sprang up in the degenerate breast. 

But it seems, the action you propose to yourself is divested of someof the aggravations of seduction. I will acknowledge it. Had my friendreceived this crime into his bosom in all its deformity, dear as he isto me, I would have thrown him from my heart with detestation. Yes, I amfirmly persuaded, that the man who perpetrates it, however specious hemay appear, was never conscious to one generous sentiment, never knewthe meaning of rectitude and integrity, but was at all times wrapped upin that narrow selfishness, that torpid insensibility, that would notdisgrace a fiend. 

He undermines innocence surrounded with all her guard of ingenuousfeelings and virtuous principles. He forces from her station adefenceless woman, who, without his malignant interposition, might havefilled it with honour and happiness. He heaps up disgrace and miseryupon a family that never gave him provocation, and perhaps brings downthe grey hairs of the heads of it to the grave with calamity. 

Of all hypocrites this man is the most consummate and the most odious. He dresses his countenance in smiles, while his invention teems withhavoc and ruin. He pretends the sincerest good will without feeling onesentiment of disinterested and honest affection. He feigns the warmestattachment that he may the more securely destroy. 

This, my friend, is not the crime of an instant, an action into whichhe is hurried by unexpected temptation, and the momentary violence ofpassion. He goes about it with deliberation. He lays his plans with allthe subtlety of a Machiavel, and all the flagitiousness of a Borgia. He executes them gradually from day to day, and from week to week. Andduring all this time he dwells upon the luxurious idea, he riots in themisery he hopes to create. He will tell you he loves. Yes, he loves, asthe hawk loves the harmless dove, as the tyger loves the trembling kid. And is this the man in whose favour I should ever have been weak enoughto entertain a partiality? I would tear him from my bosom like an adder. I would crush him like a serpent. 

But your case has not the same aggravations. Here is no father whoprizes the honour of his family more than life, and whose heart is boundup in the virtue of his only child. Here is no mother a stranger todisgrace, and who with unremitted vigilance had fought to guard everyavenue to the destruction of her daughter. Even the victim herself hasnever learned the beauty of virgin purity, and does not know the valueof that she is about to lose. 

And yet, my Rinaldo, after all these deductions, there is something inthe story of this uninstructed little innocent, even as stated by himwho is ready to destroy her, that greatly interests my wishes in herfavour. She does not know it seems all the calamity of the fate that isimpending over her. She is blindfolded for destruction. She plays withher ruin, and views with a thoughtless and a partial eye the murderer ofher virtue and her happiness. 

 _And, oh, poor helpless nightingale, thought I, How sweet thou sing'st, how near the deadly snare!_

But if you do not accept the proposal that is made you, it is but tooprobable what her fate will be, and how soon the event will takeplace. And is this an excuse for my friend to offer? Thousands are theiniquities that are now upon the verge of action. An imagination themost fertile in horror can scarcely conceive the crimes that willprobably be committed. And shall I therefore with malignant industryforestal the villain in all his black designs? You do not mean it. 

Permit me yet to suggest one motive more. A connection like that youhave proposed to yourself, might probably make you a father. Of allthe charities incident to the human character, those of a parent areabundantly the most exquisite and venerable. And can a man of thesmallest sensibility think with calmness, of bringing children into theworld to be the heirs of shame? When he gives them life he entails uponthem dishonour. The father that should look upon them with joy, as abenefit conferred upon society, and the support of his declining age, regards them with coldness and alienation. The mother who shouldconsider them as her boast and her honour, cannot behold them withoutopening anew all the sluices of remorse, cannot own them without ablush. 

This, my Rinaldo, is what you might do, and in doing it you wouldperpetrate an action that would occasion to an ingenuous mind an eternalregret. But there is another thing also that you might do, and that amind, indefatigable in the pursuit of rectitude, as was once that of myfriend, would not need to have suggested to it by another. Insteadof treasuring up remorse, instead of preparing for an innocent andunsuspecting victim a life of misery and shame, you might redeem herfrom impending destruction. You might obtain for her an honest andindustrious partner, and enable her to acquire the character of avirtuous matron, and a respectable mother of a family. 

Reflect for a moment, my dear marquis, on this proposal, which I hopeis yet in your power. Think you, that conscious rectitude, that theexultation of your heart when you recollect the temptation you haveescaped, and the noble turn you have given it, will not infinitelyoverbalance the sordid and fleeting pleasure you are able to attain?Imagine to yourself that you see her offspring growing up under the careof a blameless mother, and coming forward to thank you for the benefityou bestowed upon them before they had a being. Is not this an objectover which a heart susceptible to one manly feeling may reasonablytriumph?

Letter IX

_The Count de St. Julian to Signor Hippolito Borelli_

_Messina_

You, my dear Hippolito, were the only one of my fellow-collegians, towhom I communicated all the circumstances of that unfortunate situationwhich obliged me to take a final leave of the university. The death ofa father, though not endeared by the highest reciprocations of mutualkindness, must always make some impressions upon a susceptible mind. Thewound was scarcely healed that had been made by the loss of a mother, afond mother, who by her assiduous attentions had supplied every want, and filled up every neglect, to which I might otherwise have beenexposed. 

When I quitted Palermo, I resolved before I determined upon any thing, to proceed to the residence of my family at Leontini. My receptionwas, as I expected, cold and formal. My brother related to me thecircumstances of the death of my father, over which he affected to shedtears. He then produced his testament for my inspection, pretended toblame me that though I were the elder, I had so little ingratiatedmyself in his favour, and added, that he could not think of being guiltyof so undutiful a conduct, as to contravene the last dispositions of hisfather. If however he could be of any use to me in my future plans oflife, he would exert himself to serve me. 

The next morning I quitted Leontini. My reflexions upon the presentposture of my affairs, could not but be melancholy. I was become as itwere a native of the world, discarded from every family, cut off fromevery country. Born to a respectable rank and a splendid fortune, Iwas precluded in a moment from expectations so reasonable, and aninheritance which I might have hoped at this time to reap. Many thereare, I doubt not, who have no faculties by which to comprehend theextent of this misfortune. The loss of possessions sufficiently ample, and of the power and dignity annexed to his character, who is thesupporter of an ancient name, they would confess was to be regretted. But I had many resources left. My brother would probably have receivedme into his family, and I might have been preserved from the sensationsof exigency and want. And could I think of being obliged for this toa brother, who had always beheld me with aversion, who was not ofa character to render the benefits he conferred insensible to thereceiver, and who, it was scarcely to be supposed, had not made use ofsinister and ungenerous arts to deprive me of my inheritance? But thehouses of the great were still open. My character was untainted, myeducation had been such as to enable me to be useful in a thousandways. Ah, my Hippolito, the great are not always possessed of the mostcapacious minds. There are innumerable little slights and offences thatshrink from description, but which are sufficient to keep alive the mostmortifying sense of dependency, and to make a man of sensibility, andproud honour constantly unhappy. And must I, who had hoped to bethe ornament and boast of my country, thus become a burden to myacquaintance, and a burden to myself?

Such were the melancholy reflexions in which I was engaged. I had leftLeontini urged by the sentiments of miscarriage and resentment. I fledfrom the formality of condolence, and the useless parade of friendship. I would willingly have hid myself from every face I had hitherto known. I would willingly have retired to a desart. My thoughts were all inarms. I revolved a thousand vigorous resolutions without fixing uponone. 

I had now proceeded somewhat more than two leagues upon my journey, and had gained the centre of that vast and intricate forest which youremember to be situated at no great distance from Leontini. In thisplace there advanced upon me in a moment four of those bravoes, forwhich this place is particularly infamous, and who are noted for theirdaring and hazardous atchievements. Myself and my servant defendedourselves against them for some time. One of them was wounded in thebeginning of the encounter. But it was impossible that we could haveresisted long. My servant was hurt in several places, and I had receiveda wound in my arm. In this critical moment a cavalier, accompanied byseveral attendants, and who appeared to be armed, advanced at no greatdistance. The villains immediately took up their disabled companion, and retired with precipitation into the thickest part of the wood. Mydeliverer now ordered some of his attendants to pursue them, whilehimself with one servant remained to assist us. 

Imagine, my dear friend, what were my emotions, when I discovered in mypreserver, the marquis of Pescara! I recollected in a moment all ourformer intimacy, and in what manner it had so lately been broken off. Little did I think that I should almost ever have seen him again. Muchless did I think that I should ever have owed him the most importantobligations. 

The expression of the countenance of both of us upon this suddenrecognition was complicated. Amidst all the surprize and gratitude, thatit was impossible not to testify, my eyes I am convinced had somethingin them of the reproach of violated friendship. I thought I could trace, and by what followed I could not be mistaken, in the air of my Rinaldo, a confession of wrong, united with a kind of triumph, that he had beenenabled so unexpectedly and completely to regain that moral equilibriumwhich he had before lost. 

It was not long before his servants returned from an unsuccessfulpursuit, and we set forward for a village about a quarter of a leaguefurther upon the road from Leontini. It was there that I learned from myfriend the occasion and subject of his journey. He had heard at Naples aconfused report of the death of my father, and the unexpected successionof my brother. The idea of this misfortune involuntarily afflicted him. At the thought of my distress all his tenderness revived. "And was it, "it was thus that he described the progress of his reflections, "inthe moment of so unexpected a blow, that my St. Julian neglected thecircumstances of his own situation, to write to me that letter, the freedom of whose remonstrances, and the earnestness of whoseexhortations so greatly offended me? How much does this considerationenhance the purity and disinterestedness of his friendship? And is itpossible that I should have taken umbrage at that which was promptedonly by tenderness and attachment? And did I ever speak of hisinterference in those harsh and reproachful terms which I so wellknew would be conveyed to him again? Could I have been so blinded bygroundless resentment, as to have painted him in all the colours of aninflexible dictator, and a presumptuous censor? Could I have imputed hisconduct to motives of pride, affectation, and arrogance? How happy had Ibeen, had his advice arrived sooner, and been more regarded?"

But it was not with self-blame and reproach only, that the recoveryof my Rinaldo was contented. The idea of the situation of his friendincessantly haunted him. No pursuit, no avocation, could withdraw hisattention, or banish the recollection from his mind. He determined toquit Naples in search of me. He left all those engagements, and allthose pleasures of which he had of late been so much enamoured, andcrossing the sea he came into Sicily. Learning that I had quittedPalermo, he resolved to pursue his search of me to Leontini. He hadfixed his determination not to quit the generous business upon which hehad entered, without discovering me in my remotest retreat, atoning forthe groundless resentment he had harboured, and contributing every thingin his power to repair the injustice I had suffered from those of myown family. And in pursuance of these ideas he has made me the mostdisinterested and liberal proposals of friendship and assistance. 

How is it, my Hippolito, that the same man shall be alternately governedby the meanest and most exalted motives: that he shall now appear anessence celestial and divine, and now debase himself by a conduct themost indefensible and unworthy? But such I am afraid is man. Mixedin all his qualities, and inconsistent in all his purposes. The mostvirtuous and most venerable of us all are too often guilty of thingsweak, sordid, and disgraceful. And it is to be hoped on the other hand, that there are few so base and degenerate, as not sometimes to performactions of the most undoubted utility, and to feel sentiments dignifiedand benevolent. It is in vain that the philosopher fits in his airyeminence, and seeks to reduce the shapeless mass into form, andendeavours to lay down rules for so variable and inconstant a system. Nature mocks his efforts, and the pertinacity of events belies hisimaginary hypotheses. 

But I am guilty of injustice to my friend. An action which he has sosincerely regretted, and so greatly atoned, ought not to be consideredwith so much severity. I trust I am not misled by the personalinterest I may appear to have in his present conduct. I think I shouldcontemplate it with the same admiration, and allow it the same weight, if its benevolence entirely regarded another. Indeed I am still in thegreatest uncertainty how to determine. I am still inclined to prefer myformer plan, of entering resolutely upon new scenes and new pursuits, to that of taking up any durable residence in the palace of my friend. There is something misbecoming a man in the bloom of youth, andlabouring under no natural disadvantages and infirmities, in thesubsisting in any manner upon the bounty of another. The pride of myheart, a pride that I do not seek to extinguish, leads me to prefer anhonest independence, in however mean a station, to the most splendid, and the most silken bondage. 

Why should not he that is born a nobleman be also born a man? A man is acharacter superior to all those that civilization has invented. To be aman is the profession of a citizen of the world. A man of rank is a poorshivering, exotic plant, that cannot subsist out of his native soil. Ifthe imaginary barriers of society were thrown down, if we were reducedback again to a state of nature, the nobleman would appear a shiftlessand a helpless being; he only who knew how to be a man would show likethe creature of God, a being sent into the world with the capacities ofsubsistence and enjoyment. The nobleman, an artificial and fantasticcreation, would then lose all that homage in which he plumed himself, hewould be seen without disguise, and be despised by all. 

Oh, my Hippolito, in spite of all this parade of firmness andresolution, I cannot quit my native country but with the sincerestregret. I had one tie, why do I mention it? Never did I commit thisconfidence to any mortal. It was the dream of a poetical imagination. Itwas a vision drawn in the fantastic and airy colours that flow from thepencil of youth. Fondly I once entertained a hope. I lived upon it. Butit is vanished for ever. 

I shall go from hence with the marquis of Pescara to Naples. I shallthere probably make a residence of several weeks. In that time Ishall have fixed my plans, and immediately after shall enter upon theexecution of them. 

Letter X

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara_

_Cosenza_

My dear lord, Every thing that has happened to me for some time past, appears sofortunate and extraordinary that I can scarcely persuade myself thatit is not a dream. Is it possible that I should not have been born touninterrupted misfortune? The outcast of my father almost as soon as Ihad a being, I was never sensible to the solace of paternal kindness, Icould never open my heart, and pour forth all my thoughts into the bosomof him to whom I owed my existence. Why was I created with a mind sodelicate as to be susceptible of a thousand feelings, and ruffled by athousand crosses, that glide unheeded over the breasts of the majorityof mankind? What filial duty did I neglect, what instance of obediencedid I ever refuse, that should have made me be considered with a regardso rigorous and austere? And was it not punishment enough to be debarredof all the solace I might have hoped to derive from the cares of aguardian and a protector? How did I deserve to be deprived of thatpatrimony which was my natural claim, to be sent forth, after havingformed so reasonable expectancies, after having received an educationsuitable to my rank, unassisted and unprovided, upon the theatre of theworld?

I had pictured that world to myself as cold, selfish, and unfeeling. I expected to find the countenances of my fellow-creatures around mesmiling and unconcerned, whatever were my struggles, and whatever weremy disappointments. Philosophy had deprived me of those gay and romanticprospects, which often fill the bosom of youth. A temper too sensibleand fastidious had taught me not to look for any great degree ofsympathy and disinterested ardour among the bulk of my fellow-creatures. 

I have now found that avoiding one extreme I encountered the other. Asmost men, induced by their self-importance, expect that their feelingsshould interest, and their situations arrest the attention of thosethat surround them; so I having detected their error counted upon lessbenevolence and looked for less friendship than I have found. My Rinaldodemanded to be pardoned for having neglected my advice, and misconstruedthe motives of it. I had not less reason to intreat his forgiveness inmy turn, for having weighed his character with so little detail, and sohastily decided to his disadvantage. 

My friend will not suspect me of interested flattery, when I say, that Isincerely rejoice in a conduct so honourable to human nature as his hasbeen respecting me. He had no motive of vanity, for who was there thatinterested himself in the fate of so obscure an individual; who in allthe polite circles and _conversazioni_ of Naples, would give him creditfor his friendship, to a person so unlike themselves? He supersededall the feelings of resentment, he counted no distance, he passed overmountains and seas in pursuit of his exalted design. 

But my Rinaldo, generous as he is, is not the only protector thatfortune has raised to the forlorn and deserted St. Julian. You areacquainted with the liberal and friendly invitation I received from theduke of Benevento at Messina. His reception was still more cordial andsoothing. He embraced me with warmth, and even wept over me. He couldnot refrain from imprecations upon the memory of my father, and hedeclared with energy, that the son of Leonora della Colonna should neversuffer from the arbitrary and capricious tyranny of a Sicilian count. He assured me in the strongest terms that his whole fortune was atmy disposal. Then telling me that his dear and only child had beenimpatient for my arrival, he took me by the hand, and led me to theamiable Matilda. 

A change like this could not but be in the highest degree consolatoryand grateful to my wounded heart. The balm of friendship and affectionis at all times sweet and refreshing. To be freed at once from theprospect of banishment, and the dread of dependence, to be received withunbounded friendship and overflowing generosity by a relation of mymother, and one who places the pride of his family in supporting anddistinguishing me, was an alteration in my circumstances which I couldnot have hoped. I am not insensible to kindness. My heart is not shutagainst sensations of pleasure. My spirits were exhilarated; my hourspassed in those little gratifications and compliances, by which I mightbest manifest my attachment to my benefactor; and I had free recourseto the society of his lovely daughter, whose conversation animated withguileless sallies of wit, and graced with the most engaging modesty, afforded me an entertainment, sweet to my breast, and congenial to mytemper. 

But alas, my dear marquis, it is still true what I have often observed, that I was not born for happiness. In the midst of a scene from whichit might best be suspected to spring, I am uneasy. My heart is corrodedwith anguish, and I have a secret grief, that palls and discolours everyenjoyment, and that, by being carefully shut up in my own bosom, is somuch the more afflicting and irksome. Yes, my Rinaldo, this it was thatgave a sting to the thought of removing to a foreign country. Thiswas that source of disquiet, which has constantly given me an air ofpensiveness and melancholy. In no intercourse of familiarity, in no hourof unrestricted friendship, was it ever disclosed. It is not, my friend, the dream of speculative philosophy, it has been verified in innumerablefacts, it is the subject of the sober experience of every man, thatcommunication and confidence alleviate every uneasiness. But ah, if itwere before disquiet and melancholy, now it burns, it rages, I am nolonger master of myself. 

You remember, my dear Rinaldo, that once in the course of my residenceat the university, I paid a visit to the duke of Benevento at Cosenza. It was then that I first saw the amiable Matilda. She appeared to me themost charming of her sex. Her cheeks had the freshness of the peach, andher lips were roses. Her neck was alabaster, and her eyes sparkled withanimation, chastened with the most unrivalled gentleness and delicacy. Her stature, her forehead, her mouth--but ah, impious wretch, how canstthou pretend to trace her from charm to charm! Who can dissect unboundedexcellence? Who can coolly and deliberately gaze upon the brightnessof the meridian sun? I will say in one word, that her whole figure wasenchanting, that all her gestures were dignity, and every motion wasgrace. 

Young and unexperienced I drank without suspicion of the poison of love. I gazed upon her with extacy. I hung upon every accent of her voice. Inher society I appeared mute and absent. But it was not the silence of anuninterested person: it was not the distraction of philosophic thought. I was entirely engaged, my mind was full of the contemplations of herexcellence even to bursting. I felt no vacancy, I was conscious to nowant, I was full of contentment and happiness. 

As soon however as she withdrew, I felt myself melancholy and dejected. I fled from company. I sought the most impervious solitude. I wasted thelive-long morn in the depth of umbrageous woods, amidst hills and meads, where I could perceive no trace of a human footstep. I longed to bealone with the object of my admiration. I thought I had much to say toher, but I knew not what. I had no plan, my very wishes were not reducedinto a system. It was only, that full of a new and unexperiencedpassion, it sought incessantly to break forth. It urged me to disburdenmy labouring heart. 

Once I remember I obtained the opportunity I had so long wished. It cameupon me unexpectedly, and I was overwhelmed by it. My limbs trembled, my eyes lost their wonted faculty. The objects before them swam alongindistinctly. I essayed to speak, my very tongue refused its office. Ifelt that I perspired at every pore. I rose to retire, I sat down againirresolute and confounded. 

Matilda perceived my disorder and coming towards me, enquired with atender and anxious voice, whether I felt myself ill. The plaintive andinteresting tone in which she delivered herself completed my confusion. She rang the bell for assistance, and the scene was concluded. When Ireturned to Palermo, I imagined that by being removed from the cause ofmy passion, I should insensibly lose the passion itself. Rinaldo, youknow that I am not of that weak and effeminate temper to throw the reinsupon the neck of desire, to permit her a clear and undisputed reign. Isummoned all my reason and all my firmness to my aid. I considered thesuperiority of her to whom my affections were attached, in rank, inexpectations, in fortune. I felt that my passion could not naturally becrowned with success. "And shall I be the poor and feeble slave of love?Animated as I am with ambition, aspiring to the greatest heights ofknowledge and distinction, shall I degenerate into an amorous andlanguishing boy; shall I wilfully prepare for myself a long vista ofdisappointment? Shall I by one froward and unreasonable desire, stainall my future prospects, and discolour all those sources of enjoyment, that fate may have reserved for me?" Alas, little did I then apprehendthat loss of fortune that was about to place me still more below theobject of my wishes!

But my efforts were vain. I turned my attention indeed to a variety ofpursuits. I imagined that the flame which had sprung up at Cosenza wasentirely extinguished. I seemed to retain from it nothing but a kind ofsoft melancholy and a sober cast of thought, that made me neither lesscontented with myself, nor less agreeable to those whose partiality Iwas desirous to engage. 

But I no sooner learned that reverse of fortune which disclosed itselfupon the death of my father, than I felt how much I had been deceived. Ihad only drawn a slight cover over the embers of passion, and the firenow broke out with twice its former violence. I had nourished itunknown to myself with the distant ray of hope, I had still cheated myimagination with an uncertain prospect of success. When every prospectvanished, when all hopes were at an end, it burst every barrier, itwould no longer be concealed. My temper was in the utmost degreeunsuitable to a state of dependence, but it was this thought that madeit additionally harsh and dreadful to my mind. I loved my country withthe sincerest affection, but it was this that made banishment worse thanten thousand deaths. The world appeared to me a frightful solitude, withnot one object that could interest all my attention, and fill up all thewishes of my heart. 

From these apprehensions, and this dejection, I have been unexpectedlydelivered. But, oh, my dear marquis, what is the exchange I have made? Ireside under the same roof with the adorable Matilda. I see every day, I converse without restraint with her, whom I can never hope to callmy own. Can I thus go on to cherish a passion, that can make me nopromises, that can suggest to me no hopes? Can I expect always toconceal this passion from the most penetrating eyes? How do I know thatI am not at this moment discovered, that the next will not lay my heartnaked in the sight of the most amiable of women?

Cosenza! thou shalt not long be my abode. I will not live for ever inunavailing struggles. Concealment shall not always be the business ofthe simplest and most undisguised of all dispositions. I will notwatch with momentary anxiety, I will not tremble with distractingapprehensions. Matilda, thy honest and unsuspecting heart by me shallnever be led astray. If the fond wishes of a father are reserved forcruel disappointment, I will not be the instrument. My secret shall liefor ever buried in this faithful breast. It shall die with me. I willfly to some distant land. I will retire to some country desolated byever burning suns, or buried beneath eternal snows. There I can loveat liberty. There I can breathe my sighs without one tell-tale wind tocarry them to the ears, with them to disturb the peace of those whombeyond all mankind I venerate and adore. I may be miserable, I may begiven up to ever-during despair. But my patron and his spotless daughtershall be happy. 

Alas, this is but the paroxysm of a lover's rage. I have no resolution, I am lost in perplexity. I have essayed in vain, I cannot summontogether my scattered thoughts. Oh, my friend, never did I stand so muchin need of a friend as now. Advise me, instruct me. To the honesty ofyour advice, and the sincerity of your friendship I can confide. Tell mebut what to do, and though you send me to the most distant parts of theglobe, I will not hesitate. 

Letter XI

_The Same to the Same_

_Cosenza_

My most dear lord, Expect me in ten days from the date of this at your palace at Naples. Mymind is now become more quiet and serene than when I last wrote to you. I have considered of the whole subject of that letter with perfectdeliberation. And I have now come to an unchangeable resolution. 

It is this which has restored a comparative tranquility to my thoughts. Yes, my friend, there is a triumph in fortitude, an exultation inheroical resolve, which for a moment at least, sets a man above the mostabject and distressing circumstances. Since I have felt my own dignityand strength, the tumultuous hurry of my mind is stilled. I look uponthe objects around me with a calm and manly despair. I have not yetdisclosed my intentions to the duke, and I may perhaps find somedifficulty in inducing him to acquiesce in them. But I will never changethem. 

You will perceive from what I have said, that my design in coming toNaples is to prepare for a voyage. I do not doubt of the friendship andgenerous assistance of the duke of Benevento. I shall therefore enterupon my new scheme of life with a more digested plan, and betterprospects. --But why do I talk of prospects!

I have attempted, and with a degree of success, to dissipate my mindwithin a few days past, by superintending the alterations about whichyou spoke to me, in your gardens at this place. You will readilyperceive how unavoidably I am called off from an employment, whichderives a new pleasure from the sentiments of friendship it iscalculated to awaken, by the perverse and unfortunate events of my life. 

Letter XII

_The Same to the Same_

_Cosenza_

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

The day after I dispatched my last letter the duke of Benevento, whoseage is so much advanced, was seized with a slight paralytic stroke. He was for a short time deprived of all sensation. The trouble of hisfamily, every individual of which regards him with the profoundestveneration, was inexpressible. Matilda, the virtuous Matilda, could notbe separated from the couch of her father. She hung over him with themost anxious affection. She watched every symptom of his disorder, andevery variation of his countenance. 

I am convinced, my dear Rinaldo, that there is no object so beautifuland engaging as this. A woman in all the pride of grace, and fulness ofher charms, tending with unwearied care a feeble and decrepid parent;all her features informed with melting anxiety and filial tenderness, yet suppressing the emotions of her heart and the wilder expressions ofsorrow; subduing even the stronger sentiments of nature, that she maynot by an useless and inconsiderate grief supersede the kind care, andwatchful attention, that it is her first ambition to yield. It is atrite observation, that beauty never appears so attractive as whenunconscious of itself; and I am sure, that no self-forgetfulness can beso amiable, as that which is founded in the emotions of a tender andgentle heart. The disorder of the duke however was neither violent norlasting. In somewhat less than an hour, the favourable symptoms began toappear, and he gradually recovered. In the mean time a certain lassitudeand feebleness remained from the shock he received, which has not yetsubsided. 

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

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

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

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

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

"Believe me, my St. Julian, I have had much experience. In successivecampaigns, I have encountered hardships and danger. I have frequentedcourts, and know their arts. Do not imagine then, young and unsuspectingas you are, that you have been able to hide from me one wish of yourheart. I know that you love my daughter. I have beheld your growingattachment with complacency. My Matilda, if I read her sentimentsaright, sees you with a favourable eye. Pursue her, my son, and win her. If you can gain her approbation, doubt not that I will give my warmestbenedictions to the auspicious union. "

You will readily believe, that my first care was to return my mostardent thanks to my protector and father. Immediately however I cast ananxious and enquiring eye upon the mistress of my heart. Her face wascovered with blushes. I beheld in her a timidity and confusion that mademe tremble. But my suspence was not long. I have since drawn from herthe most favourable and transporting confession. Oh, my friend, sheacknowledges that from the first moment she saw me, she contemplated mewith partiality. She confesses, that her father by the declaration hehas made, so far from thwarting her ambition and disappointing herwishes, has conferred upon her the highest obligation. How much, my dearRinaldo, is the colour of my fortune changed. It was upon this day, at this very hour, I had determined to leave Cosenza for ever. I hadconsigned myself over to despair. I was about to enter upon a worldwhere every face I beheld would have been a stranger to me. The scenewould have been uniform and desolate. I should have left all theattachments of my youth, I should have left the very centre of myexistence behind me. I should have ceased to live. I should only havedrawn along a miserable train of perceptions from year to year, withoutone bright day, without one gay prospect, to illuminate the gloomyscene, and tell me that I was. 

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

Letter XIII

_The Same to the Same_

_Cosenza_

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

I mentioned in my last, that the disorder of the duke of Benevento wassucceeded by a feebleness and languor that did not at first greatlyalarm us. It however increased daily, and was attended with a kind oflistlessness and insensibility that his physicians regarded as a verydangerous symptom. Almost the only marks he discovered of perception andpleasure, were in the attendance of the adorable Matilda. Repeatedlyat intervals he seized her trembling hand, and pressed it to his dyinglips. 

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

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

Thus terminated a life which had been in the highest degree exemplaryand virtuous. In the former part of it, this excellent man distinguishedhimself much in the service of his country, and engaged the affectionand attachment of his prince. He was respected by his equals, and adoredby the soldiery. His humanity was equally conspicuous with his courage. When he left the public service for his retirement at this place, he didnot forget his former engagements, and his connexion with the army. It is not perhaps easy for a government to make a complete and ampleprovision for those poor men whose most vigorous years were spent indefending their standard. Certain it is that few governments attend tothis duty in the degree in which they ought, and a wide field is leftfor the benevolence of individuals. This benevolence was never morelargely and assiduously exhibited than by the duke of Benevento. Heprovided for many of those persons of whose fidelity and bravery he hadbeen an eyewitness, in the most respectable offices in his family, andamong his retinue. Those for whom he could not find room in theseways he gratified with pensions. He afforded such as were not yetincapacitated for labour, the best spur to an honest industry, thebest solace under fatigue and toil, that of being assured that theirdecrepitude should never stand in need of the simple means of comfortand subsistence. 

It may naturally be supposed that the close of a life crowded with deedsof beneficence, the exit of a man whose humanity was his principalfeature, was succeeded by a very general sorrow. Among his domesticsthere appeared an universal gloom and dejection. His peasants and hislabourers lamented him as the best of masters, and the kindest ofbenefactors. His pensionaries wept aloud, and were inconsolable for theloss of him, in whom they seemed to place all their hopes of comfort andcontent. 

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

There is no virtue that adds so noble a charm to the finest traits ofbeauty, as that which exerts itself in watching over the tranquility ofan aged parent. There are no tears that give so noble a lustre to thecheek of innocence, as the tears of filial sorrow. Oh, my Rinaldo! Iwould not exchange them for all the pearls of Arabia, I would not barterthem for the mines of Golconda. No, amiable Matilda, I will not checkthy chaste and tender grief. I prize it as the pledge of my futurehappiness. I esteem it as that which raises thee to a level with angelicgoodness. Hence, thou gross and vulgar passion! that wouldst tempt meto kiss away the tears from her glowing cheeks. I will not soil theirspotless purity. I will not seek to mix a thought of me with a sentimentnot unworthy of incorporeal essences. 

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

Letter XIV

_The Count de St. Julian to Matilda della Colonna_

_Naples_

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

How happy am I in a passion which received the sanction of him, whoalone could claim a voice in the disposal of you! There are innumerablelovers, filled with the most ardent passion, aiming at the purestgratifications, whose happiness is traversed by the cold dictates ofartificial prudence, by the impotent distinctions of rank and family. Unfeeling parents rise to thwart their wishes. The despotic handof authority tears asunder hearts united by the softest ties, andsacrifices the prospect of felicity to ridiculous and unmeaningprejudices. Let us, my Matilda, pity those whose fate is thusunpropitious, but let us not voluntarily subject ourselves to theirmisfortune. No voice is raised to forbid our union. Heaven and earthcommand us to be happy. 

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

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

Fatigued with the crowded assembly and the fluttering parterre, I soughtrelief in solitude. Never was solitude so grateful to me. I indulgedin a thousand reveries. Gay hope exhibited all her airy visions tomy fancy. I formed innumerable prospects of felicity, and each moreravishing than the last. The joys painted by my imagination were surelytoo pure, too tranquil to last for ever. Oh how sweet is an untastedhappiness! But ours, Matilda, shall be great, beyond what expectationcan suggest. Ours shall teem with ever fresh delights, refined bysentiment, sanctified by virtue. Nothing but inevitable fate shallchange it. May that fate be distant as I wish it!

But alas, capricious and unbounded fancy has sometimes exhibited adifferent scene. A heart, enamoured, rivetted to its object like mine, cannot but have intervals of solicitude and anxiety. If it have no realsubject of uncertainty and fear, it will create to itself imaginaryones. But I have no need of these. I am placed at a distance from themistress of my heart, which may seem little to a cold and speculativeapprehension, but which my soul yearns to think of. My fate has not yetreceived that public sanction which can alone put the finishing stroketo my felicity. I cannot suspect, even in my most lawless flights, the most innocent and artless of her sex of inconstancy. But howmany unexpected accidents may come between me and my happiness? Howcomfortless is the thought that I can at no time say, "Now the amiableMatilda is in health; now she dwells in peace and safety?" I receive anaccount of her health, a paquet reaches me from Cosenza. Alas, it is twotedious days from the date of the information. Into two tedious days howmany frightful events may be crowded by tyrant fancy!

Letter XV

_The Same to the Same_

_Naples_

I have waited, charming Matilda, with the most longing impatience inhopes of receiving a letter from your own hand. Every post has agitatedme with suspense. My expectation has been continually raised, and asoften defeated. Many a cold and unanimated epistle has intrudeditself into my hands, when I thought to have found some token full ofgentleness and tenderness, which might have taught my heart to overflowwith rapture. If you knew, fair excellence, how much pain and uneasinessyour silence has given me, you could not surely have been so cruel. Themost rigid decorum could not have been offended by one scanty billetthat might just have informed me, I still retained a tender place inyour recollection. One solitary line would have raised me to a state ofhappiness that princes might envy. 

A jealous and contracted mind placed in my situation, might fear toundergo the imputation of selfishness and interest. He would representto himself, how brilliant was your station, how exalted your rank, howsplendid your revenues, and what a poor, deserted, and contemptiblefigure I made in the eyes of the world, when your father first honouredme with his attention. My Matilda were a match for princes. Her externalsituation in the highest degree magnificent. Her person lovely andengaging beyond all the beauty that Italy has to boast. Her mindinformed with the most refined judgment, the most elegant taste, themost generous sentiments. When the dictates of prudence and virtue flowfrom her beauteous lips, philosophers might listen with rapture, sagesmight learn wisdom. And is it possible that this all-accomplishedwoman can stoop from the dignity of her rank and the greatness of herpretensions, to a person so obscure, so slenderly qualified as I am?

But no, my Matilda, I am a stranger to these fears, my breast isunvisited by the demon of suspicion. I employ no precaution. I do notseek to constrain my passion. I lay my heart naked before you. I shallever maintain the most grateful sense of the benevolent friendshipof your venerable father, of your own unexampled and ravishingcondescension. But love, my amiable Matilda, knows no distinction ofrank. We cannot love without building our ardour upon the sense of akind of equality. All obligations must here in a manner cease but thosewhich are mutual. Those hearts that are sensible to the distance ofbenefactor and client, are strangers to the sweetest emotions of thisamiable passion. 

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

Letter XVI

_Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian_

_Cosenza_

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

There is no test of gentleness and integrity of heart more obvious, than the discharge of the filial duties. A truly mild and susceptibledisposition will sympathize in the concerns of a parent with the mostardent affection, will be melted by his sufferings into the tenderestsorrow. The child whose heart feels not with peculiar anguish thedistresses of him, from whom he derived his existence, to whom he owesthe most important obligations, and with whom he has been in habitsof unbounded confidence from earliest infancy, must be of a characterharsh, savage, and detestable. How can he be expected to melt over thetale of a stranger? How can his hand be open to relief and munificence?How can he discharge aright the offices of a family, and the duties of acitizen?

Recollect, my friend, never had any child a parent more gentle andaffectionate than mine. I was all his care and all his pride. He knew nohappiness but that of gratifying my desires, and outrunning my wishes. He was my all. I have for several years, and even before I was ableproperly to understand her value, lost a tender mother. In my survivingparent then all my attachments centered. He was my protector and myguide, he was my friend and my companion. All other connexions weremomentary and superficial. And till I knew my St. Julian, my warmestaffections never strayed from my father's roof. 

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

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

Previous to my closing this letter, I sent to enquire of the _maîtred'hôtel_ of the villa of the marquis, in what forwardness were hispreparations for the intended visit of his master. He informs me thatthey will be finished in two days at farthest. I suppose it will not belong from that time, before his lordship will set out from Naples. Youof course are inseparable from him. 

END OF VOLUME I _Italian Letters_

VOLUME II

Letter I

_The Marquis of Pescara to the Marquis of San Severino_

_Cosenza_

My dear lord, I need not tell you that this place is celebrated for one of the mostbeautiful spots of the habitable globe. Every thing now flourishes. Nature puts on her gayest colours, and displays all her charms. Thewalks among the more cultivated scenes of my own grounds, and amidst thewilder objects of this favoured region are inexpressibly agreeable. Thesociety of my pensive and sentimental friend is particularly congenialwith the scenery around me. Do not imagine that I am so devoid of tasteas not to derive exquisite pleasure from these sources. Yet believe me, there are times in which I regret the vivacity of your conversation, andthe amusements of Naples. 

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

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

I have not yet seen this rich and celebrated heiress of whom you told meso much. It is several years since I remember to have been in companywhere she was, and it is more than probable that I should not even knowher. If however I were to give full credit to the rhapsodies of my goodfriend the count, whose description of her, by the way, has somethingin it of romantic and dignified, which pleases me better than yours, asluscious as it is, I should imagine her a perfect angel, beautifulas Venus, chaste as Diana, majestic as the mother of the gods, andenchanting as the graces. I know not why, but since I have studied thepersons of the fair under your tuition, I have felt the most impatientdesire to be acquainted with this _nonpareil_. 

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

Yes, my dear marquis, you may talk as you please of the wildness andimpracticability of the sentiments of my amiable solitaire, they are atleast in the highest degree amusing and beautiful. There is a voicein every breast, whose feelings have not yet been entirely warped byselfishness, responsive to them. It is in vain that the man of gaietyand pleasure pronounces them impracticable, the generous heart gives thelie to his assertions. He must be under the power of the poorest andmost despicable prejudices, who would reduce all human characters to alevel, who would deny the reality of all those virtues that the worldhas idolized through revolving ages. Nothing can be disputed withless plausibility, than that there are in the world certain noble andelevated spirits, that rise above the vulgar notions and the narrowconduct of the bulk of mankind, that soar to the sublimest heights ofrectitude, and from time to time realize those virtues, of which theinterested and illiberal deny the possibility. 

I can no more doubt, than I do of the truth of these apothegms, that thecount de St. Julian is one of these honourable characters. He treadswithout the airy circle of dissipation. He is invulnerable to thetemptations of folly; he is unshaken by the examples of profligacy. They are such characters as his that were formed to rescue mankind fromslavery, to prop the pillars of a declining state, and to arrest Astraeain her re-ascent to heaven. They are such characters whose virtuessurprize astonished mortals, and avert the vengeance of offended heaven. 

Matilda della Colonna is, at least in the apprehension of her admirer, acharacter quite as singular in her own sex as his can possibly appear tome. They were made for each other. She is the only adequate reward thatcan be bestowed upon his exalted virtues. Oh, my Ferdinand, there mustbe a happiness reserved for such as these, which must make all otherfelicity comparatively weak and despicable. It is the accord of thepurest sentiments. It is the union of guiltless souls. Its nature istotally different from that of the casual encounter of the sexes, orthe prudent conjunctions in which the heart has no share. In theconsiderations upon which it is founded, corporeal fitnesses occupy buta narrow and subordinate rank, personal advantages and interest areadmitted for no share. It is the sympathy of hearts, it is the mostexalted species of social intercourse. 

Letter II

_The Count de St. Julian to Signor Hippolito Borelli_

_Cosenza_

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

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

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

You know, my dear Hippolito, the unspeakable obligations I have receivedfrom my amiable friend, the marquis of Pescara. Though these obligationscan never be fully discharged, yet I am happy to have met with anopportunity of demonstrating the gratitude that will ever burn in myheart. My Rinaldo even rates the service I have undertaken to performfor him beyond its true value. Would it were in my power to serve him asgreatly, as essentially as I wish!

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

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

In spite however of all these considerations, with which I endeavour toconsole myself in the chagrin that preys upon my mind, the approachingseparation cannot but be in the utmost degree painful to me. In spite ofthe momentary fortitude, that tells me that any distance is better thanthe being placed within the reach of the mistress of my soul withoutbeing once permitted to see her, I cannot help revolving with the mostpoignant melancholy, the various and infinitely diversified objects thatshall shortly divide us. Repeatedly have I surveyed with the extremestanguish the chart of those seas that I am destined to pass. I havemeasured for the twentieth time the course that is usually held in thisvoyage. Every additional league appears to me a new barrier between meand my wishes, that I fear to be able to surmount a second time. 

And is it possible that I can leave my Matilda without a guardian toprotect her from unforeseen distress, without a monitor to whisperto her in every future scene the constancy of her St. Julian? No, myHippolito, the objection would be insuperable. But thanks, eternalthanks to propitious heaven! I have a friend in whom I can confide as myown soul, whose happiness is dearer to me than my own. Yes, my Rinaldo, whatever may be my destiny, in whatever scenes I may be hereafterplaced, I will recollect that my Matilda is under thy protection, and besatisfied. I will recollect the obligations you have already conferredupon me, and I will not hesitate to add to them that, which is greaterthan them all. 

Letter III

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara_

_Naples_

Best of friends, Every thing is now prepared for my voyage. The ship will weigh anchor intwo days at farthest. This will be the last letter you will receive fromme before I bid adieu to Italy. 

I have not yet shaken off the melancholy with which the affecting leaveI took of the amiable Matilda impressed me. Never will the recollectionbe effaced from my memory. It was then, my Rinaldo, that she laid asidethat delicate reserve, that lovely timidity, which she had hithertoexhibited. It was then that she poured forth, without restraint, all theravishing tenderness of her nature. How affecting were those tears? Howheart-rending the sighs that heaved her throbbing bosom? When will thosetender exclamations cease to vibrate in my ear? When will those piercingcries give over their task, the torturing this constant breast? You, myfriend, were witness to the scene, and though a mere spectator, I ammistaken if it did not greatly affect you. 

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

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

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

Letter IV

_Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian_

_Cosenza_

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

I have satisfied all the claims of decorum. I have fulfilled with rigidexactness the laws of decency. One advantage you at least gain by thedistance you are so desirous to place between us. My sentiments are lessguarded. Reputation and modesty have fewer claims upon a woman, who canhave no intercourse with her lover but by letter. My feelings are lessrestrained. For the anxiety, which distance inspires, awakens all thetenderness of my nature, and raises a tempest in my soul that will notbe controled. 

Oh, my St. Julian, till this late and lasting separation, I did not knowall the affection I bore you. Ever since you were parted from my achingeyes, I have not known the serenity of a moment. The image of my friendhas been the constant companion of my waking hours, and has visited meagain in my dreams. The unknown dangers of the ocean swell in my eyes toten times their natural magnitude. Fickle and inconstant enemy, howmuch I dread thee! Oh wast the lord of all my wishes in safety to thedestined harbour! May all the winds be still! May the tempests forgettheir wonted rage! May every guardian power protect his voyage! Opennot, oh ocean, thy relentless bosom to yield him a watery grave! Foronce be gentle and auspicious! Listen and grant a lover's prayer!Restore him to my presence! May the dear sight of him once more refreshthese longing eyes! You will find this letter accompanied with a smallparcel, in which I have inclosed the miniature of myself, which Ihave often heard you praise as a much better likeness than the largerpictures. It will probably afford you some gratification during thatabsence of which you so feelingly complain. It will suggest to you thosethoughts upon the subject of our love that have most in them of the calmand soothing. It will be no unpleasant companion of your reveries, andmay sometimes amuse and cheat your deluded fancy. 

Letter V

_The Answer_

_Alicant_

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

In the midst of danger however my thoughts were full of Matilda. Had theocean buried me in its capacious bosom, my last words would have been ofyou, my last vows would have been made for your happiness. Had we beentaken by the enemy and carried into slavery, slavery would have had noterrors, but those which consisted in the additional bars it would havecreated between me and the mistress of my heart. It would have been oflittle importance whether I had fallen to the lot of a despot, gentle orsevere. It would have separated us for years, perhaps for ever. Could I, who have been so much afflicted by the separation of a few months, haveendured a punishment like this? That soft intercourse, that wafts thethoughts of lovers to so vast a distance, that mimics so well an actualconverse, that cheats the weary heart of all its cares, would have beendissolved for ever. Little then would have been the moment of a fewpetty personal considerations; I should not long have survived. 

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

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

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

Letter VI

_Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian_

_Cosenza_

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

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

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

 * * * * *

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

One thing however it is necessary I should correct. I do not mean toaccuse you for the voyage you have undertaken, however it may distressme. In my calmer moments I feel for the motives of it the warmestapprobation. It was the act of disinterested friendship. Every prejudiceof the heart pleaded against it. Love, that passion which reigns withouta rival in your breast, forbad the compliance. It was a virtue worthyof you. There needed but this to convince me that you were infinitelysuperior to the whole race of your fellow mortals. 

Letter VII

_The Answer_

_Buen Retiro_

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

I had upon the whole a most agreeable journey from Alicant to Madrid. Itwould be superfluous to describe to a mind so well informed as yours, the state of the country. You know how thin is its population, and howindolent is the character of its inhabitants. Satisfied with possessingthe inexhaustible mines of Mexico and Peru, they imagine that the worldwas made for them, that the rest of mankind were destined to labour thatthey might be maintained in supineness and idleness. The experience ofmore than two centuries has not been able to convince them of theirerror, and amidst all their poverty, they still retain as much prideas ever. The country however is naturally luxuriant and delicious; andthere are a considerable number of prospects in the provinces throughwhich I have passed that will scarcely yield to any that Italy has toboast. As soon as I arrived at the metropolis I took up my residence atthis place, which is inexpressibly crowded with the residences of thenobility and grandees. It is indeed one of the most beautiful spots innature, as it concentres at once the simplest rusticity with the utmostelegance of refinement and society. My reception has been in the highestdegree flattering, and I please myself with the idea that I have alreadymade some progress in the business of the marquis of Pescara. 

You are not insensible that my character, at least in some of itstraits, is not uncongenial to that of a Spaniard. Whether it be owing tothis or any other cause I know not, but I believe never was any man, soobscure as myself, distinguished in so obliging a manner by the firstpersonages in the kingdom. In return I derive from their society theutmost satisfaction. Their lofty notions of honour, their gravity, theirpoliteness, and their sentimental way of thinking, have something inthem that affords me infinite entertainment and pleasure. Oh, Matilda, how much more amiable is that character, that carries the principlesof honour and magnanimity to a dangerous extreme, than that whichendeavours to level all distinctions of mankind, and would remove andconfound the eternal barriers of virtue and vice!

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

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

Letter VIII

_The Same to the Same_

_Buen Retiro_

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

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

It is now four eternal months, and not one line from the hand of Matildahas blessed these longing eyes, or cooled my burning brain. Opportunityafter opportunity has slipped away, one moment swelled with hope hassucceeded another, but to no purpose. The mail has not been moreconstant to its place of destination than myself. But it was alldisappointment. It was in vain that I raged with unmeaning fury, anddemanded that with imprecation which was not to be found. Every calm wasmisery to me. Every tempest tore my tortured heart a thousand ways. Forsome time every favourable wind was balm to my soul, and nectar to myburning frame. But it is over now--. How, how is it that I am to accountfor this astonishing silence? Has nature changed her eternal laws, andis Matilda false? Has she forgotten the poor St. Julian, upon whom sheonce bestowed her tenderness with unstinted prodigality? Can that angelform hide the foulest thoughts? Have those untasted lips abjured theirvirgin vows? And has that hand been given to another? Hence green-eyedjealousy, accursed fiend, with all thy train of black suspicions! No, thou shall not find a moment's harbour in my breast. I will none ofthee. It were treason to the chastest of hearts, it were sacrilege tothe divinest form that ever visited this lower world, but to admit thepossibility of Matilda's infidelity. 

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

Cruel and inflexible Matilda! thou once wert bounteous as the hand ofheaven, wert tender as the new born babe. What is it that has changedthy disposition to the hard, the wanton, the obdurate? Behold a lover'stears! Behold how low thou hast sunk him, whom thou once didst dignifyby the sweet and soothing name of _thy friend_! If ever the voiceof anguish found a passage to your heart, if those cheeks were evermoistened with the drops of sacred pity, oh, hear me now! But I willaddress myself to the rocks. I will invoke the knotted oaks and thesavage wolves of the forest. They will not refuse my cry, but Matilda isdeaf as the winds, inexorable as the gaping wave. 

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

Letter IX

_The Marquis of Pescara to the Count de St. Julian_

_Cosenza_

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

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

Letter X

_The Answer_

_Zamora_

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

The employment which I find at this place, serves in some degree todissipate the anguish of my mind. It is an employment embellishedby innocence, and consecrated by friendship. It is therefore of allpursuits that which has the greatest tendency to lull the sense ofmisery. 

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

It is now six tedious months since a single line has reached me from herhand. I have expostulated with the voice of apprehension, with the voiceof agony, but to no purpose. Had it not been for the tenfold obligationin which I am bound to the best of friends, I had long, very long erethis, deserted the kingdom of Spain for ever. The concerns of no manupon earth, but those of my Rinaldo, could have detained me. Had theyrelated to myself alone, I had not wasted a thought on them. And yethere I am at a greater distance from the centre of my solicitude thanever. 

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

Oh, my Rinaldo, it was a most ill-judged and mistaken indulgence, thatled you to suppress the story of my disaster. Give me to know it. It maybe distressful, it may be tremendous. But be it as it will, there isnot a misfortune in the whole catalogue of human woes, the knowledge ofwhich would not be elysium to what I suffer. To be told the whole isto know the worst. Time is the medicine of every anguish. There is nomalady incident to a conscious being, which if it does not annihilatehis existence, does not, after having attained a crisis, insensibly fallaway and dissolve. But apprehension, apprehension is hell itself. Itis infinite as the range of possibility. It is immortal as the mindin which it takes up its residence. It gains ground every moment. Compounded as it is of hope and fear, there is not a moment in whichit does not plume the wings of expectation. It prepares for itselfincessant, eternal disappointment. It grows for ever. At first it maybe trifling and insignificant, but anon it swells its giant limbs, andhides its head among the clouds. 

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

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

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

Letter XI

_Signor Hippolito Borelli to the Count de St. Julian_

_Palermo_

My dear lord, I have often heard it repeated as an observation of sagacity andexperience, that when one friend has a piece of disagreeableintelligence to disclose to another, it is better to describe itdirectly, and in simple terms, than to introduce it with that kind ofperiphrasis and circumlocution, which oftener tends to excite a vagueand impatient horror in the reader, than to prepare him to bear hismisfortune with decency and fortitude. There are however no rules ofthis kind that do not admit of exceptions, and I am too apprehensivethat the subject of my present letter may be classed among thoseexceptions. St. Julian, I have a tale of horror to unfold! Lay down thefatal scrowl at this place, and collect all the dignity and resolutionof your mind. You will stand in need of it. Fertile and ingenious asyour imagination often is in tormenting itself, I will defy you toconceive an event more big with horror, more baleful and tremendous inall its consequences. 

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

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

I remember in how pathetic a manner you complained, in the last letterI received from you before you quitted Italy, of the horrors ofbanishment. Little did my friend then know the additional horrors thatfate had in store for him. Two persons there were whom you loved aboveall the world, in whom you placed the most unbounded confidence. My poorfriend would never have left Italy but to oblige his Rinaldo, wouldnever have quitted the daughter of the duke of Benevento, if he couldnot have intrusted her to the custody of his Rinaldo. What then will behis astonishment when he learns that two months have now elapsed sincethe heiress of this illustrious house has assumed the title of themarchioness of Pescara?

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

But might I be permitted to advise you, you ought to cast these base anddishonourable characters from your heart for ever. The marquis is surelyunworthy of your sword. He ought not to die, but in a manner deeplystamped with the infamy in which he has lived. I will not pretend toalledge to a person so thoroughly master of every question of thiskind, how poor and inadequate is such a revenge: what a barbarous andunmeaning custom it is, that thus puts the life of the innocent andinjured in the scale with that of the destroyer, and leaves the decisionof immutable differences to skill, to fortune, and a thousand trivialand contemptible circumstances. You are not to be told how much morethere is of true heroism in refusing than in giving a challenge, inbearing an injury with superiority and virtuous fortitude, than inengaging in a Gothic and savage revenge. 

It is not easy perhaps to find a woman, deserving enough to be unitedfor life to the fate of my friend. Certain I am, if I may be permittedto deliver my sentiments, there is a levity and folly conspicuous in thetemper of her you have lost, that renders her unworthy of being lamentedby a man of discernment and sobriety. What to desert without managementand without regret, one to whom she had vowed eternal constancy, a man, of whose amiable character, and glorious qualities she had so manyopportunities of being convinced? Oh, shame where is thy blush? Ifiniquity like this, walks the world with impunity, where is the vicethat shall be branded with infamy, to deter the most daring andprofligate offender? Let us state the transaction in a light the mostfavourable to the fair inconstant. What thin veil, what paltry artswere employed by this mighty politician to confound and mislead anunderstanding, clear and penetrating upon all other subjects, blind andfeeble only upon that in which the happiness of her life was involved?

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

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

Letter XII [A]

_Matilda della Colonna to the Count de St. Julian_

_Cosenza_

I rise from a bed, which you have surrounded with the severestmisfortunes, to address myself to you in this billet. It is in vain, that in conformity to the dull round of custom, I seek the couch ofrepose, sleep is for ever fled from my eyes. I seek it on every side, but on swift wings it flits far, very far, from me. It is now thedead of night. All eyes are closed but mine. The senses of all othercreatures through the universe of God, are steeped in forgetfulness. Oh, sweet, oblivious power, when wilt thou come to my assistance, when wiltthou shed thy poppies upon this distracted head!

There was a time, when no human creature was so happy as the now forlornMatilda. My days were full of gaiety and innocence. My thoughts werevoid of guile, and I imagined all around me artless as myself. I was bynature indeed weak and timid, trembling at every leaf, shuddering withapprehension of the lightest danger. But I had a protector generousand brave, that spread his arms over me, like the wide branches of avenerable oak, and round whom I clung, like ivy on the trunk. Why didstthou come, like a cold and murderous blight, to blast all my hopes ofhappiness, and to shatter my mellow hangings?

I have often told you that my heart was not tough and inflexible, tobe played upon with a thousand experiments, and encounter a thousandtrials. But you would not believe me. You could not think my framewas so brittle and tender, and my heart so easily broken. Inexorable, incredulous man! you shall not be long in doubt. You shall soon perceivethat I may not endure much more. 

[Footnote A: This letter was written several months earlier than thepreceding, but was intercepted by the marquis of Pescara. ]

How could you deceive me so entirely? I loved you with the sincerestaffection. I thought you artless as truth, as free from vice and follyas etherial spirits. When your hypocrisy was the most consummate, yourcountenance had then in my eye, most the air of innocence. Your visagewas clear and open as the day. But it was a cloak for the blackestthoughts and the most complicated designs. You stole upon me unprepared, you found all the avenues to my heart, and you made yourself the arbiterof my happiness before I was aware. 

You hear me, thou arch impostor! There are punishments reserved forthose, who undermine the peace of virtue, and steal away the tranquilityof innocence. This is thy day. Now thou laughest at all my calamity, thou mockest all my anguish. But do not think that thy triumph shall befor ever. That thought would be fond and false as mine have been. Theempire of rectitude shall one day be vindicated. Matilda shall one dayrise above thee. 

But perhaps, St. Julian, it is not yet too late. The door is yet open tothy return. My claim upon thy heart is prior, better every way thanthat of donna Isabella. Leave her as you left me. It will cost you arepentance less severe. The wounds you have inflicted may yet be healed. The mischiefs you have caused are not yet irreparable. These fond armsare open to receive you. To this unresentful bosom you may return insafety. But remember, I intreat you, the opportunity will be of no longduration. Every moment is winged with fate. A little more hesitation, and the irrevocable knot is tied, and Spain will claim you for her own. A little more delay, and this fond credulous heart, that yet exertsitself in a few vain struggles, will rest in peace, will crumble intodust, and no longer be sensible to the misery that devours it. Dear, long expected moment, speed thy flight! To how many more calamitous daysmust these eyes be witness? In how many more nights must they wanderthrough a material darkness, that is indeed meridian splendour, whencompared with the gloom in which my mind is involved?

Do not imagine that I have been easily persuaded of the truth of yourinfidelity. I have not indulged to levity and credulity. I have heapedevidence upon evidence. I have resisted the proofs that offered onevery side, till I have become liable to the character of stupid andinsensible. Would it were possible for me to be deceived! But no, thedelusion is vanished. I doubt, I hesitate, no longer. All without iscertainty, and all within is unmingled wretchedness. 

 * * * * *

St. Julian, I once again resume my pen. I was willing you should beacquainted with all the distress and softness of my heart. I was willingto furnish you with every motive to redeem the character of a man, before it were too late. Do not however think me incapable of a spiritedand a steady resolution. It were easy for me to address a letter to thefamily of Aranda, I might describe to them all my wrong, and preventthat dreaded union, the thought of which distresses me. My letter mightprobably arrive before the mischief were irretrievable. It is notlikely that so illustrious a house, however they may have previouslycondescended to the speciousness of your qualities, would persist intheir design in the face of so cogent objections. But I am not capableof so weak and poor spirited a revenge. 

Return, my lord, yet return to her you have deserted. Let your return bevoluntary, and it shall be welcome as the light of day to these sad andweeping eyes, and it shall be dear and precious to my soul, as the ruddydrops that warm my heart. But I will not force an unwilling victim. Sucha prize would be unworthy of the artless and constant spirit of Matilda. Such a husband would be the bane of my peace, and the curse of myhapless days. That he were the once loved St. Julian, would butaggravate the distress, and rankle the arrow. It would continuallyremind me of the dear prospects, and the fond expectations I had onceformed, without having the smallest tendency to gratify them. 

Letter XIII

_The Marquis of Pescara to the Marquis of San Severino_

_Cosenza_

My dear lord, Why is it that a heart feeble and unheroic as mine, should be destinedto encounter so many temptations? I might have passed through theworld honourable and immaculate, had circumstances been a little morepropitious. As it is, I shall probably descend to the grave with acharacter, at least among the scrupulous and the honest, reproachful andscandalous. Now this I can never account for. My heart is a stranger toall the dark and malignant passions. I am not cursed with an unboundedambition. I am a stranger to inexorable hate and fell revenge. I aim athappiness and gratification. But if it were in my power I would have allmy fellow-creatures happy as myself. 

Why is the fair Matilda so incomparably beautiful and so inexpressiblyattractive? Had her temper been less sweet and undesigning, had herunderstanding been less delicate and refined, had not the graces dweltupon those pouting lips, my heart had been sound and unhurt to thisvery hour. But to see her every day, to converse with her at allopportunities, to be regarded by her as her only friend and chosenprotector, tell me, ye gods, what heart, that was not perfectlyinvulnerable, that was not totally impregnated with the waters of theStyx, could have come off victorious from trials like these?

And yet, my dear Ferdinand, to see the distress of the lovely Matilda, to see her bosom heave with anguish, and her eyes suffused with tears, to hear the heart-rending sighs continually bursting from her, in spiteof the fancied resolution, and the sweet pride that fill her soul, howcallous, how void of feeling and sympathy ought the man to be, in whomobjects like these can call up no relentings? Ah, my lord, when Iobserve how her tender frame is shaken with misfortune, I am sometimesready to apprehend that it totters to its fall, that it is impossibleshe should survive the struggling, tumultuous passions that rage withinher. What a glorious prize would then be lost? What would then becomeof all the deep contrivances, the mighty politics, that your friendshipsuggested?

And yet, so wayward is my fate, those very objects which might beexpected to awaken the sincerest penitence and regret, now only serve togive new strength to the passion that devours me, and to make my flamesurmount every obstacle that can oppose its progress. Yes, Matilda, thou must be mine. Heaven and earth cannot now overturn the irrevocabledecree. It has been the incessant object of my attention to throw inthose artful baits which might best divert the current of her soul. Ihave assiduously inflamed her resentment to the highest pitch, and Iflatter myself that I have made some progress towards the concludingstroke. 

There is no situation in which we stand in greater need of sympathy andconsolation, than in those moments of forlornness and desertion to whichthe poor Matilda imagines herself reduced. At these times my friendshiphas been most unwearied in its exertions. I have answered sigh withsigh, and mingled my tears with those of the lovely mourner. Believe me, Ferdinand, this has not been entirely affectation and hypocrisy. Thereis a vein of sensibility in the human heart, that will not permit us tobehold an artless and an innocent distress, at least when surroundedwith all the charms of beauty, without feeling our souls involuntarilydilated, and our eyes unexpectedly swimming in tears. 

But I have another source of disquietude which is unaccompanied with anyalleviating circumstances. A letter from the count de St. Julian to hisMatilda has just been conveyed to my hands. It is filled with the mostaffecting and tender complaints of her silence that can possibly beimagined. He has too exalted a notion of the fair charmer to attributethis to lightness and inconstancy. His inventive fancy conjures up athousand horrid phantoms, and surrounds the mistress of his soul withI know not what imaginary calamities. But that passage of the wholeepistle that overwhelms me most, is one, in which, in spite of all theanguish of his mind, in spite of appearances, he expresses the mostunsuspecting confidence in his false and treacherous friend. He stillrecommends me to his Matilda as her best protector and surest guardian. Ah, my St. Julian, how didst thou deserve to be cursed with anassociate, hollow and deceitful as Rinaldo?

Yes, marquis, in spite of all the arguments you have alledged to me uponthe subject, I still regard my first and youthful friend, as the mostexalted and the foremost of human beings. You may talk of pride, vanity, and stoicism, the heart that listens to the imputation feels itssophistry. It is not vanity, for his virtuous actions are ratherstudiously hid from observation, than ostentatiously displayed. Is itpride? It is a pride that constitutes the truest dignity. It is a prideworthy of heroes and of gods. What analogy does it bear with the prideof avarice, and the pride of rank; how is it similar to the haughtymeanness of patronage, and the insatiable cravings of ambition?

But I must not indulge to reflexions like these. It is to no purpose forthe disinterested tenderness, the unstoical affection of my St. Julianto start up in array before me. Hence remorse, and all her kindredpassions! I am cruel, obdurate, and unrelenting. Yes, most amiable ofmen, you might as well address your cries to the senseless rocks. Youmight as well hope with your eloquent and soft complainings to persuadethe crocodile that was ready to devour you. I have passed the Rubicon. I have taken the irrevocable step. It is too late, ah, much too late toretreat!

Letter XIV

_The Marquis of San Severino to the Marquis of Pescara_

_Naples_

Joy, uninterrupted, immortal joy to my dear Rinaldo. May all your daysbe winged with triumph, and all your nights be rapture. Believe me, Ifeel the sincerest congratulation upon the desired event of your longexpected marriage. My lord, you have completed an action that deservesto be recorded in eternal brass. Why should politics be confined to thenegotiations of ambassadors, and the cabinets of princes? I have oftenrevolved the question, and by all that is sacred I can see no reason forit. Is it natural that the unanimating and phlegmatic transactions ofa court should engage a more unwearied attention, awaken a brighterinvention, or incite a more arduous pursuit than those of love? Whenbeauty solicits the appetite, when the most ravishing tenderness andsusceptibility attract the affections, it is then that the heart is mostdistracted and regardless, and the head least fertile in artifice andstratagem. 

My joy is the more sincere, as I was compelled repeatedly to doubt ofyour perseverance. What sense was there in that boyish remorse, andthose idle self-reproaches, in which you frequently employed yourself?No, Rinaldo, a man ought never to enter upon an heroical and arduousundertaking without being perfectly composed, and absolutely sure ofhimself. What a pitiful figure would my friend have made, had he stoppedin the midway, and let go the angelic prize when it was already withinhis grasp? If it had not been for my repeated exhortations, if I hadnot watched over you like your guardian genius, would you have been nowflushed with success, and crowned with unfading laurel?

Letter XV

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marquis of Pescara_

_Livorno_

My lord, I hoped before this time to have presented before you the form ofthat injured friend, which, if your heart is not yet callous to everyimpression, must be more blasting to your sight, than all the chimerasthat can be conjured up by a terrified imagination, or a guiltyconscience. I no sooner received the accursed intelligence at Zamora, than I flew with the speed of lightning. I permitted no considerationupon earth to delay me till I arrived at Alicant. But the sea was lessfavourable to the impatience of my spirit. I set sail in a boisterousand unpromising season. I have been long tossed about at the mercy ofthe ocean. I thank God, after having a thousand times despaired of it, that I have at length set foot in a port of Italy. It is distantindeed, but the ardour of my purpose were sufficient to cut short allintermission. 

My lord, I trusted you as my own soul. No consideration could have movedme to entertain a moment's suspicion of your fidelity. I placed in yourhand the most important pledge it ever was my fortune to possess. Iemployed no guard. I opened to you an unsuspecting bosom, and you havestung me to the heart. I gave you the widest opportunity, and it isthrough my weak and groundless confidence that you have reached me. Youhave employed without scruple all those advantages it put into yourhands. You have undermined me at your ease. I left you to protect mylife's blood, my heart of heart, from every attack, to preserve thesingleness of her affections, and the constancy of her attachment. Itwas yours to have breathed into her ear the sighs of St. Julian. It wasyours ambitiously to expatiate upon his amiable qualities. You wereevery day to have added fuel to the flame. You were to have presentedMatilda to my arms, more beautiful, more tender, more kind, than she hadever appeared. From this moment then, let the name of trust be a by-wordfor the profligate to scoff at! Let the epithet of friend be a mildew tothe chaste and uncorrupted ear! Let mutual confidence be banished fromthe earth, and men, more savage than the brute, devour each other!

Was it possible, my lord, that you should dream, that the benefits youhad formerly conferred upon me, could deprive my resentment of all itssting under the present provocation! If you did, believe me, you weremost egregiously mistaken. It is true I owed you much, and heavenhas not cursed me with a heart of steel. What bounds did I set to mygratitude? I left my natal shore, I braved all the dangers of the ocean, I fought in foreign climes the power of requital. I fondly imagined thatI could never discharge so vast obligations. But the invention of yourlordship is more fertile than mine. You have found the means to blotthem in a moment. Yes, my lord, from henceforth all contract betweenus is canceled. You have set us right upon our first foundations. Friendship, affection, pity, I give you to the winds! Come to my bosom, unmixed malignity, black-boiling revenge! You are now the only inmateswelcome to my heart. 

Oh, Rinaldo, that character once so dear to me, that youth over whoseopening inclinations I watched with so unremitting care, is it you thatare the author of so severe a misfortune? I held you to my breast. Ipoured upon your head all that magazine of affection and tenderness, with which heaven had dowered me. Never did one man so ardently loveanother. Never did one man interest himself so much in another's truthand virtue, in another's peace and happiness. I formed you for heroism. I cultivated those features in your character which might have madeyou an ornament to your country and mankind. I strewed your path withflowers, I made the couch beneath you violets and roses. Hear me, yethear me! Learn to perceive all the magnitude of your crime. You havemurdered your friend. You have wounded him in the tenderest part. Youhave seduced the purest innocence and the most unexampled truth. Foris it possible that Matilda, erewhile the pattern of every spotlessexcellence, could have been a party in the black design?

But it is no longer time for the mildness of censure and the sobriety ofreproach. I would utter myself in the fierce and unqualified language ofinvective. You have sinned beyond redemption. I would speak daggers. I would wring blood from your heart at every word. But no; I will notwaste myself in angry words. I will not indulge to the bitterness ofopprobrium. Nothing but the anguish of my soul should have wrung fromme these solitary lines. Nothing but the fear of not surviving to myrevenge, should have prevented me from forestalling them in person. --Iwill meet thee at Cerenzo. 

Letter XVI

_The Marquis of San Severino to the Marchioness of Pescara_

_Cerenzo_

Madam, I am truly sorry that it falls to my lot to communicate to you thedistressing tidings with which it is perfectly necessary you should beacquainted. The marquis, your husband, and my most dear friend, hasthis morning fallen in a duel at this place. I am afraid it will be noalleviation of the unfortunate intelligence, if I add, that the hand bywhich he fell, was that of the count de St. Julian. 

His lordship left Cosenza, I understand, with the declared intention ofhonouring me with a visit at Naples. He accordingly arrived at my palacein the evening of the second day after he left you. He there laid beforeme a letter he had received from the count, from which it appeared thatthe misunderstanding was owing to a rivalship of no recent date in theaffections of your ladyship. It is not my business to enter into themerits of the dispute. You, madam, are doubtless too well acquaintedwith the laws of modern honour, pernicious in many instances, and whichhave proved so fatal to the valuable life of the marquis, not to knowthat the intended rencounter, circumstanced as it was, could notpossibly have been prevented. 

As we were informed that the count de St. Julian was detained bysickness at Livorno, we continued two days longer at Naples before weset out for our place of destination at Cerenzo. We arrived there on theevening of the twenty-third, and the count de St. Julian the next dayat noon. We were soon after waited upon in form by signor HippolitoBorelli, who had been a fellow student with each of these young noblemenat the university of Palermo. He requested an interview with me, andinforming me that he attended the count in quality of second, we beganto adjust those minutiae, which are usually referred to the decision ofthose who exercise that character. 

The count and the marquis had fixed their quarters at the two principalhotels of this place. Of consequence there was no sort of intercoursebetween them during the remainder of the day. In the evening we wereattended by the baron of St. Angelo, who had heard by chance of ourarrival. We spent the remainder of the day in much gaiety, and Inever saw the marquis of Pescara exert himself more, or display morecollectedness and humour, than upon this occasion. After we separated, however, he appeared melancholy and exhausted. He was fatigued with therepeated journies he had performed, and after having walked up and downthe room, for some time, in profound thought, he retired pretty early tohis chamber. 

The next day at six in the morning we repaired according to appointmentto the ramparts. We found the count de St. Julian and his friend arrivedbefore us. As we approached, the marquis made a slight congee to thecount, which was not returned by the other. "My lord, " cried themarquis, --"Stop, " replied his antagonist, in a severe and impatienttone. "This is no time for discussions. It was not that purpose thatbrought me hither. " My lord of Pescara appeared somewhat hurt at soperemptory and unceremonious a rejoinder, but presently recoveredhimself. Each party then took his ground, and they fired their pistolswithout any other effect, than the shoulder of the count being somewhatgrazed by one of the balls. 

Signor Borelli and myself now interposed, and endeavoured to compromisethe affair. Our attempt however presently appeared perfectly fruitless. Both parties were determined to proceed to further action. The marquis, who at first had been perfectly calm, was now too impatient and eager toadmit of a moment's delay. The count, who had then appeared agitated anddisturbed, now assumed a collected air, a ferociousness and intrepidity, which, though it seemed to wait an opportunity of displaying itself, wasdeaf as the winds, and immoveable as the roots of Vesuvius. 

They now drew their swords. The passes of both were for some timerendered ineffectual. But at length the marquis, from the ardour of histemper seemed to lay aside his guard, and the count de St. Julian, bya sudden thrust, run his antagonist through the body. The marquisimmediately fell, and having uttered one groan, he expired. The swordentered at the left breast, and proceeded immediately to the heart. 

The count, instead of appearing at all disturbed at this event, orattempting to embrace the opportunity of flight, advanced immediatelytowards the body, and bending over it, seemed to survey its traits withthe profoundest attention. The surgeon who had attended, came up atthis instant, but presently perceived that his art was become totallyuseless. During however this short examination, the count de St. Julianrecovered from his reverie, and addressing himself to me, "My lord, "said he, "I shall not attempt to fly from the laws of my country. I amindeed the challenger, but I have done nothing, but upon the matures!deliberation, and I shall at all times be ready to answer my conduct. "Though I considered this mode of proceeding as extremely singular I didnot however think it became me, as the friend of the marquis of Pescara, to oppose his resolution. He has accordingly entered into a recognizancebefore the gonfaloniere, to appear at a proper time to take his trial atthe city of Naples. 

Madam, I thought it my duty to be thus minute in relating theparticulars of this unfortunate affair. I shall not descend to anyanimadversions upon the conduct and language of the count de St. Julian. They will come to be examined and decided upon in a proper place. In themean time permit me to offer my sincerest condolences upon the loss youhave sustained in the death of my amiable friend. If it be in my powerto be of service to your ladyship, with respect to the funeral, or anyother incidental affairs, you may believe that I shall account it mygreatest honour to alleviate in any degree the misfortune you havesuffered. With the sincerest wishes for the welfare of yourself and youramiable son, I have the honour to be, Madam, Your most obedient and very faithful servant, The marquis of San Severino. 

Letter XVII

_The Answer_

_Cosenza_

My lord, You were not mistaken when you supposed that the subject of yourletter would both afflict and surprize me in the extremest degree. Theunfortunate event to which it principally relates, is such as cannot butaffect me nearly. And separate from this, there is a veil of mysterythat hangs over the horrid tale, behind which I dare not pry, but withthe most trembling anxiety, but which will probably in a very short timebe totally removed. 

Your lordship, I am afraid, is but too well acquainted with the historyof the correspondence between myself and my deceased lord. I was givento understand that the count de St. Julian was married to the daughterof the duke of Aranda. I thought I had but too decisive evidence of theveracity of the story. And you, my lord, I remember, were one of thewitnesses by which it was confirmed. Yet how is this to be reconciledwith the present catastrophe? Can I suppose that the count, after beingsettled in Spain, should have deserted these connexions, in orderto come over again to that country in which he had forfeited allpretensions to character and reputation, and to commence a quarrel sounjust and absurd, with the man to whom he was bound by so numerousobligations?

My lord, I have revolved all the circumstances that are communicatedto me in your alarming letter. The oftener I peruse it, and the morematurely I consider them, the more does it appear that the count de St. Julian has all the manners of conscious innocence and injured truth. Itis impossible for an impostor to have acted throughout with an air sointrepid and superior. Your lordship's account, so far as it relates tothe marquis, is probably the account of a friend, but it is impossiblenot to perceive, that his behaviour derives no advantage from beingcontrasted with that of his antagonist. 

You will readily believe, that it has cost me many efforts to assembleall these thoughts, and to deliver these reasonings in so connected amanner. At first my prejudices against the poor and unprotected strangerwere so deeply rooted, that I had no suspicion of their injustice. Iregarded the whole as a dream; I considered every circumstance as beyondthe cognizance of reason, and founded entirely in madness and frenzy. I painted to myself the count de St. Julian, whom I had known for acharacter so tender and sincere, as urged along with all the stings ofguilt, and agitated with all the furies of remorse. I at once pitied hissufferings, and lamented their mortal and destructive consequences. Iregarded yourself and every person concerned in the melancholy affair, as actuated by the same irrational spirit, and united to overwhelm onepoor, trembling, and defenceless woman. 

But the delusion was of no long continuance. I soon perceived that itwas impossible for a maniac to be suffered to proceed to so horridextremities. I perceived in every thing that related to the count, a spirit very different from that of frenzy. It is thus that I haveplunged from uncertainty to uncertainty. From adopting a solution wildand absurd, I am thrown back upon a darkness still more fearful, and amlost in conjectures of the most tremendous nature. 

And where is it that I am obliged to refer my timid enquiries? Alas, Ihave no friend upon whose bosom to support myself, I have no relation tointerest in my cause. I am forlorn, forsaken and desolate. By naturenot formed for defence, not braced to encounter the storms of calamity, where shall I hide my unprotected head? Forgive me, my lord, if I ammistaken; pardon the ravings of a distracted mind. It is possible I amobliged to recur to him from whom all my misfortunes took their source, who has guided unseen all those movements to which this poor and brokenheart is the sacrifice. Perhaps the words that now flow from my pen, are directed to the disturber of my peace, the interceptor of all thathappiness most congenial to my heart, the murderer of my husband!

Where, in the mean time, where is this countess, this dreaded rival?You, my lord, have perhaps ere this time seen her. Tell me, what arethose ineffable charms that seduced a heart which was once so constant?St. Julian was never mercenary, and I have a fortune that might havefilled out his most unbounded wishes. What is that strange fascination, what that indescribable enchantment, that sunk a character so glorious, that libertines venerated, and the friends of virtue adored, to a depthso low and irretrievable? I have thought much of it, I have turned itevery way in my mind, but I can never understand it. The more I reflectthe further I am bewildered. 

But whither am I wandering? What strange passion is it, that I socarefully suppressed, over which I so loudly triumphed, that now burstsits limits? How fatal and deplorable is that train of circumstances, that brings a name, that was once inscribed on my heart, to myremembrance, accompanied with attendants, that awaken all my tenderness, and breathe new life into each forgotten endearment! Is it for me, awife, a mother, to entertain these guilty thoughts? And can they respecthim by whose fatal hand my husband fell? How low is the once spotlessMatilda della Colonna sunk!

But I will not give way to this dereliction and despair. I think myheart is not made of impenetrable stuff. I think I cannot long surviveafflictions thus complicated, and trials thus severe. But so long as Iremain in this world of calamity, I will endeavour to act in a mannernot unworthy of myself. I will not disgrace the race from which Isprung. Whatever others may do, I will not dishonour the family to whichI am united. I may be miserable, but I will not be guilty. I may be amonument of anguish, but I will not be an example of degeneracy. 

Gracious heaven! if I have been deceived, what a train of artifice andfraud rushes upon my terrified recollection? How carefully have all mypassions, in the unguarded hour of anguish and misery, been wrought andplayed upon? All the feelings of a simple and undissembling mind havebeen roused by turns, to excite me to a deed, from which rectitudestarts back with horror, which integrity blushes to look on! And have Ibeen this poor and abject tool in the hand of villains? And are therehearts cool and obdurate enough, to watch all the trembling starts ofwretchedness, to seduce the heart that has given itself up to despair?Can they look on with frigid insensibility, can they behold distresswith no other eye but that of interest, with no other watch but thatwhich discovers how it may be disgraced for ever? Oh, wretched Matilda!whither, whither hast thou been plunged!

My memory is up in arms. I cannot now imagine how I was induced toso decisive and adventurous a step. But I was full of the anguish ofdisappointment, and the resentment of despair. How assiduously was Icomforted? What sympathy, what angelic tenderness seemed to flow fromthe lips of him, in whose heart perhaps there dwelt every dishonourableand unsated passion? It was all a chaos. My heart was tumultuous hurry, without leisure for retrospect, without a moment for deliberation. Anddo I dare to excuse myself? Was I not guilty, unpardonably guilty? Oh, a mind that knew St. Julian should have waited for ages, should haverevolved every circumstance a thousand times, should have disbelievedeven the evidence of sense, and the demonstration of eternal truth!Accursed precipitation! Most wicked speed! No, I have not suffered halfwhat I have deserved. Heap horrors on me, thou dreadful dispenser ofavenging providence! I will not complain. I will expire in the midst ofagonies without a groan!

But these thoughts must be banished from my heart for ever. Wretched asI am, I am not permitted the consolation of penitence, I am not free toaccuse and torment myself. No, that step has been taken which can neverbe repealed. The marquis of Pescara was my husband, and whatever werehis true character, I will not crush his memory and his fame. I have, I fear, unadvisedly entered into connexions, and entailed upon myselfduties. But these connexions shall now be sacred; these duties shall bedischarged to the minutest tittle. Oh, poor and unprotected orphan, thouart cast upon the world without a friend! But thou shalt never want theassiduity of a mother. Thou, at least, are guileless and innocent. Thou shalt be my only companion. To watch over thee shall be the soleamusement that Matilda will henceforth indulge herself. That thou wiltremind me of my errors, that I shall trace in thee gradually as thyyears advance, the features of him to whom my unfortunate life owed allits colour, will but make thee a more proper companion, an object morecongenial to the sorrows of my soul. 

Letter XVIII

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marchioness of Pescara

Cerenzo_

Madam, You may possibly before this letter comes to your hands have learned anevent that very nearly interests both you and me. If you have not, it isnot in my power at this time to collect together the circumstances, andreduce them to the form of a narration. The design of my present letteris of a very different kind. Shall I call that a design, which is theconsequence of an impulse urging me forward, without the consent of mywill, and without time for deliberation?

I write this letter with a hand dyed with the blood of your husband. Letnot the idea startle you. Matilda is advanced too far to be frightenedwith bugbears. What, shall a mind inured to fickleness and levity, a mind that deserted, without reason and without remorse, the mostconstant of lovers, and that recked not the consequences, shall such amind be terrified at the sight of the purple blood, or be moved from itshorrid tranquility by all the tragedies that an universe can furnish?

Matilda, I have slain your husband, and I glory in the deed. I willanswer it in the face of day. I will defy that man to come forward, and when he views the goary, lifeless corse, say to me with a tone offirmness and conviction, "Thou hast done wrong. "

And now I have but one business more with life. It is to arraign thefair and traiterous author of all my misfortunes. Start not at the blackcatalogue. Flinch not from the detail of infernal mischief. The mindthat knows how to perpetrate an action, should know how to hear thestory of it repeated, and to answer it in all its circumstances. 

Matilda, I loved you. Alas, this is to say little! All my thoughts hadyou for their centre. I was your slave. With you I could encountertenfold calamity, and call it happiness. Banished from you, the worldwas a colourless and confused chaos. One moment of displeasure, oneinterval of ambiguous silence crouded my imagination with every franticapprehension. One smile, one word of soft and soothing composition, fellupon my soul like odoriferous balm, was a dulcet and harmonious sound, that soothed my anguish into peace, that turned the tempest within meto that still and lifeless calm, where not a breath disturbs the vastserene. 

And this is the passion you have violated. You have trampled upon alover, who would have sacrificed his life to save that tender andenchanting frame from the impression of a thorn. And yet, Matilda, ifit had been only a common levity, I would have pardoned it. If you hadgiven your hand to the first chance comer, I would have drenched the cupof woe in solitude and darkness. Not one complaint from me should havereached your ear. If you could have found tranquility and contentment, Iwould not have been the avenging angel to blast your prospects. 

But there are provocations that the human heart cannot withstand. I didnot come from the hand of nature callous and intrepid, I was the stoicof philosophy and reason. To lose my mistress and my friend at once. Tolose them!--Oh, ten thousand deaths would have been mercy to the loss!Had they been tossed by tempests, had they been torn from my eyes bywhirlwinds, I would have viewed the scene with eye-balls of stiffenedhorn. But to find all that upon which I had placed my confidence, uponwhich I rested my weary heart, foul and false at once: to have thosebosoms, in which I fondly thought I reigned adored, combined in onedamned plot to overwhelm and ruin me--Indeed, Matilda, it was too much!

Well, well. Be at peace my soul. I have taken my revenge. But revenge isnot a passion congenial to the spirit of St. Julian. It was once softand tender as a babe. You might have bended and moulded it into whatform you pleased. But I know not how it is, it is now remorseless andunfeeling as a rock. I have swam in horror, and I am not satiated. I could hear tales of distress, and I could laugh at their fanciedmiseries. I could view all the tragedies of battle, and walk up and downamidst seas of blood with tranquility. It is well. I did not think Icould have done all this. But inexplicable and almighty providencestrengthens, indurates the heart for the scenes of detestation to whichit is destined. 

And is it Rinaldo that I have slain? That friend that I held a thousandtimes to my bosom, that friend over whose interests I have watchedwithout weariness? Many a time have I dropped the tear of oblivion overhis youthful wanderings. I exulted in the fruits of all my toil. Yes, Matilda, I have seen the drops of sacred pity bedew his cheek. I haveseen his bosom heave with generous resentment, and heroic resolution. Oh, there was a time, when the author of nature might have looked downupon his work, and said, "This is a man. " What benefits did not Ireceive from his munificent character, and wide extended hand?

And who made me his judge and his avenger? What right had I to thrust mysword into his heart? He now lies a lifeless corse. Upon his breastI see the gaping and death-giving wound. The blood bursts forth incontinued streams. His hair is clotted with it. That cheek, that latelyglowed, is now pale and sallow. All his features are deformed. The firein his eye is extinguished for ever. Who has done this? What wanton andsacrilegious hand has dared deface the work of God? It could not be hispreceptor, the man upon whom he heaped a thousand benefits? It could notbe his friend? Oh, Rinaldo, all thy errors lie buried in the damp andchilly tomb, but thy blood shall for ever rise to accuse me!

Letter XIX

_The Marquis of San Severino to the Marchioness of Pescara

Naples_

Madam, I have just received a letter from your ladyship which gives me theutmost pain. I am sincerely afflicted at the unfortunate concern I havehad in the melancholy affairs that have caused you so much uneasiness. Iexpected indeed that the sudden death of so accomplished and illustriousa character as your late husband, must have produced in a breastsusceptible as yours, the extremest distress. But I did not imagine thatyou would have been so overwhelmed with the event, as to have forgottenthe decorums of your station, and to have derogated from the dignity ofyour character. Madam, I sincerely sympathize in the violence ofyour affliction, and I earnestly wish that you may soon recover thatself-command, which rendered your behaviour upon all occasions a modelof elegance, propriety and honour. 

Your ladyship proposes certain questions to me in your epistle of a verysingular nature. You will please to remember, that they will for themost part be brought in a few days before a court of judicature. I musttherefore with all humility intreat you to excuse me from giving them adirect answer. There would be an impropriety in a person, so illustriousin rank, and whose voice is of considerable weight in the state, forestalling the inferior courts upon these subjects. One thing howeverI am at liberty to mention, and your ladyship may be assured, that inany thing in my power I should place my highest felicity in gratifyingyou. There was indeed some misinformation upon the subject; but I havenow the honour to inform you from authority upon which I depend, thatthe count de St. Julian is now, and has always remained single. Ibelieve there never was any negociation of marriage between him and thenoble house of Aranda. 

Madam, it gives me much uneasiness, that your ladyship should entertainthe smallest suspicion of any impropriety in my behaviour in theseaffairs. I believe the conduct of no man has been more strictlyconformed, in all instances, to the laws of decorum than my own. Objectsof no small magnitude, have upon various occasions passed under myinspection, and you will be so obliging as to believe that upon nooccasion has my veracity been questioned, or the integrity of mycharacter suffered the smallest imputation. The rectitude of my actionsis immaculate, and my honour has been repeatedly asserted with my sword. 

Your ladyship will do me the favour to believe, that though I cannotbut regard your suspicions as equally cruel and unjust, I shall neverentertain the smallest resentment upon their account. I have the honourto be, with all possible deference and esteem, Madam, Your ladyship's most faithful servant, The marquis of San Severino. 

Letter XX

_The Count de St. Julian to Signor Hippolito Borelli

Leontini_

My dear friend, Travelling through the various countries of Europe, and expanding yourphilosophical mind to embrace the interests of mankind, you still areso obliging as to take the same concern in the transactions of youryouthful friend as ever. I shall therefore confine myself in the letterwhich I now steal the leisure to write, to the relation of those events, of which you are probably as yet uninformed. If I were to give scope tothe feelings of my heart, with what, alas, should I present you but acircle of repetitions, which, however important they may appear tome, could not but be dull and tedious to any person less immediatelyinterested?

As I pursued with greater minuteness the enquiries I had begun beforeyou quitted the kingdom of the two Sicilies, I found the arguments stillincreasing upon me, which tended to persuade me of the innocence ofMatilda. Oh, my friend, what a letter did I address to her in the heightof my frenzy and despair? Every word spoke daggers, and that in a momentwhen the tragical event of which I was the author, must naturally haveoverwhelmed her with astonishment and agony. Yes, Hippolito, this actionmust remain an eternal blot upon my character. Years of penitence couldnot efface it, floods of tears could not wash it away. 

But before I had satisfied my curiosity in this pursuit, the timeapproached in which it was necessary for me to take a public trial atNaples. This scene was to me a solemn one. The blood of my friend satheavy at my heart. It is true no provocation could have been morecomplicated than that I had received. Take it from me, Hippolito, as mymost mature and serious determination, that a Gothic revenge is beneaththe dignity of a man. It did not become me, who had aimed at thecharacter of unaccommodating virtue, to appear in defence of an actionthat my heart disallowed. To stand forward before the delegated power ofmy country with the stain of blood upon me, was not a scene for a man ofsensibility to act in. But the decision of my judges was more indulgentthan the verdict of my own mind. 

One of the persons who was most conspicuous upon this occasion, was themarquis of San Severino. Hippolito, it is true, I have been hurried intomany actions that have caused me the severest regret. But I would notfor ten thousand worlds have that load of guilt upon my mind, that thisman has to answer for. And yet he bore his head aloft. He was placid andserene. He was even disengaged and gay. He talked in as round a tone, of honour and integrity, of veracity and virtue, as if his life werespotless, and his heart immaculate. The circumstances however thatcame out in the progress of the affair, were in the highest degreedisadvantageous to him. The general indignation and hatred seemedgradually to swell against him, like the expansive surges of the ocean. A murmur of disapprobation was heard from every side, proceeded fromevery mouth. Even this accomplished villain at length hung his head. When the court was dissolved, he was encountered with hisses and scornfrom the very lowest of the people. It was only by the most decisiveexertions of the guards of the palace, that he was saved from being tornto pieces by the fury of the populace. 

You will be surprized to perceive that this letter is dated at theresidence of my fathers. Fourteen days ago I was summoned hither by theparticular request of my brother, who had been seized with a violentepidemical distemper. It was extremely sudden in its operation, andbefore I arrived he was no more. He had confessed however to one of thefriends of our house, before he expired, that he had forged the will ofmy father, instigated by the surprize and disappointment he had felt, when he understood that that father, whom he had employed so manyunjustifiable means to prepossess, had left his whole estate, exclusiveof a very small annuity, to his eldest son. Since I have been here, Ihave been much employed in arranging the affairs of the family, which, from the irregular and extemporary manner in which my brother lived, Ifound in considerable disorder. 

Letter XXI

_The Count de St. Julian to the Marchioness of Pescara_

_Leontini_

Madam, I have waited with patience for the expiration of twelve months, thatI might not knowingly be guilty of any indecorum, or intrude upon thatsorrow, which the tragical fate of the late marquis so justly claimed. But how shall I introduce the subject upon which I am now to addressyou? Where shall I begin this letter? Or with what arguments may I bestpropitiate the anger I have so justly incensed, and obtain that boonupon which the happiness of my future life is so entirely suspended?

Among all the offences of which I have been guilty, against the simplestand gentlest mind that ever adorned this mortal stage, there is nonewhich I less pardon to myself, than that unjust and precipitate letter, which I was so inconsiderate as to address to you immediately after Ihad steeped my hand in the murder of your husband. Was it for me, whohad so much reason to be convinced of the innocence and disinterestedtruth of Matilda, to harbour suspicions so black, or rather to affronther with charges, the most hideous and infamous? What crime isthere more inexcusable, than that of attributing to virtue all theconcomitants of vice, of casting all those bitter taunts, all thataggravated and triumphant opprobrium in the face of rectitude, thatought to be reserved only for the most profligate of villains? Yes, Matilda, I trampled at once upon the exemptions of your sex, uponthe sanctity of virtue, upon the most inoffensive and undesigning ofcharacters. And yet all this were little. 

What a time was it that I chose for an injury so atrocious! A beautifuland most amiable woman had just been deprived, by an unforeseen event, of that husband, with whom but a little before she had entered into themost sacred engagements. The state of a widow is always an afflictiveand unprotected one. Rank does not soften, frequently aggravates thecalamity. A tragedy had just been acted, that rendered the name ofMatilda the butt of common fame, the subject of universal discussion. How painful and humiliating must this situation have been to thatanxious and trembling mind; a mind whose highest ambition coveted onlythe tranquility that reigns in the shade of retreat, the silence andobscurity that the wisest of philosophers have asserted to be the mostvaluable reputation of her sex? Such was the affliction, in which Imight then have known that the mistress of my heart was involved. 

But I have since learned a circumstance before which all otheraggravations of my inhumanity fade away. The moment that I chose forwanton insult and groundless arraignment, was the very moment in whichMatilda discovered all the horrid train of hypocrisy and falsehood bywhich she had been betrayed. What a shock must it have given to hergentle and benevolent mind, that had never been conscious to onevicious temptation, that had never indulged the most distant thought ofmalignity, to have found herself surprized into a conduct, to the natureof which she had been a stranger, and which her heart disavowed? Of allthe objects of compassion that the universe can furnish, there is nonemore truly affecting, than that of an artless and unsuspecting mindinsnared by involuntary guilt. The astonishment with which it isoverwhelmed, is vast and unqualified. The remorse with which itis tortured, are totally unprepared and unexpected, and have beenintroduced by no previous gradation. It is true, the involuntarilyculpable may in some sense be pronounced wholly innocent. The guiltymind is full of prompt excuses, and ready evasions, but the untaintedspirit, not inured to the sophistry of vice, cannot accommodate itselfwith these subterfuges. If such be the state of vulgar minds involvedin this unfortunate situation, what must have been that of so soft andinoffensive a spirit?

Oh, Matilda, if tears could expiate such a crime, ere this I had beenclear as the guileless infant. If incessant and bitter reproaches couldoverweigh a guilt of the first magnitude, mine had been obliterated. Butno; the words I wrote were words of blood. Each of them was a barbedarrow pointed at the heart. There was no management, there was noqualification. And when we add to this the object against which all myinjuries were directed, what punishment can be discovered sufficientlysevere? The mind that invented it, must have been callous beyond allcommon hardness. The hand that wrote it must be accursed for ever. 

And yet, Matilda, it is not merely pardon that I seek. Even that wouldbe balm to my troubled spirit. It would somewhat soften the harshoutlines, and the aggravated features of a crime, which I shall never, never forgive to my own heart. But no, think, most amiable of women, ofthe height of felicity I once had full in view, and excuse my presentpresumption. While indeed my mind was guiltless, and my hand unstainedwith blood, while I had not yet insulted the woman to whose affections Iaspired, nor awakened the anger of the gentlest nature, of a heart madeup of goodness, and tenderness and sympathy, I might have aspired withsomewhat less of arrogance. Neither your heart nor mine, Matilda, wereever very susceptible to the capricious distinctions of fortune. 

But, alas, how hard is it for a mind naturally ambitious to mould and tolevel itself to a state of degradation. Believe me, I have put forth anhundred efforts, I have endeavoured to blot your memory from a soul, inwhich it yet does, and ever will reign unrivalled. No, it is to fightwith impassive air, it is to lash the foaming tempest into a calm. Time, which effaces all other impressions, increases that which is indeliblywritten upon my heart. A man whose countenance is pale and wan, and whoevery day approaches with hasty and unremitted strides to the tomb, mayforget his situation, may call up a sickly smile upon his countenance, and lull his mind to lethargy and insensibility. Such, Matilda, is allthe peace reserved for me, if yet I have no power in influencing thedeterminations of your mind. Stupidity, thou must be my happiness!Torpor, I will bestow upon thee all the endearing names, that commonmortals give to rapture!

And yet, Matilda, if I retain any of that acute sensibility to virtueand to truth, in which I once prided myself, there can be no conductmore proper to the heir of the illustrious house of Colonna, than thatwhich my heart demands. You have been misguided into folly. What is morenatural to an ingenuous heart, than to cast back the following scandalupon the foul and detested authors, with whom the wrong originated. Youhave done that, which if all your passions had been hushed into silence, and the whole merits of the cause had lain before you, you would neverhave done. What reparation, Matilda, does a clear and generous spiritdictate, but that of honestly and fearlessly acknowledging the mistake, treading back with readiness and haste the fatal path, and embracingthat line of conduct which a deliberate judgment, and an informedunderstanding would always have dictated?

Is it not true, --tell me, thou mistress of my soul, --that upon yourdetermination in this one instance all your future reputation issuspended? Accept the hand of him that adores you, and the truth willshine forth in all its native splendour, and none but the blind canmistake it. Refuse him, and vulgar souls will for ever confound youwith the unfortunate Rinaldo, and his detested seducer. Fame, belovedcharmer, is not an object that virtuous souls despise. To brave thetongue of slander cannot be natural to the gentle and timid spirit ofMatilda. 

But, oh, I dare not depend upon the precision of logic, and thefrigidity of argumentation. Let me endeavour to awaken the compassionand humanity of your temper. Recollect all the innocent and ecstaticendearments with which erewhile our hours were winged. Never wassublunary happiness so pure and unmingled. It was tempered with themildest and most unbounded sympathy, it was refined and elevated withall the sublimity of virtue. These happy, thrice happy days, you, andonly you, can recall. Speak but the word, and time shall reverse hiscourse, and a new order of things shall commence. Think how much virtuedepends upon your fiat. Satisfied with felicity ourselves, our heartswill overflow with benevolence for the world. Never will misery pass usunrelieved, never shall we remit the delightful task of seeking out themodest and the oppressed in their obscure retreat. We will set mankindan example of integrity and goodness. We will retrieve the originalhonours of the wedded state. Methinks, I could rouze the most lethargicand unanimated with my warning voice! Methinks, I could breathe a spiritinto the dead! Oh, Matilda, let me inspire ambition into your breast!Let me teach that tender and right gentle heart, to glow with a mutualenthusiasm!

Letter XXII

_The Answer_

_Cosenza_

My lord, It is now three weeks since I received that letter, in whichyou renew the generous offer of your hand. Believe me, I am trulysensible of the obligation, and it shall for ever live in my gratefulheart. I am not now the same Matilda you originally addressed. I haveacted towards you in an inexcusable manner. I have forfeited thatspotless character which was once my own. All this you knew, and allthis did not deter you. My lord, for this generosity and oblivion, onceagain, and from the bottom of my heart, I thank you. 

But it is not only in these respects, that the marchioness of Pescaradiffers from the daughter of the duke of Benevento. Those poor charms, my lord, which were once ascribed to me, have long been no more. Thehand of grief is much more speedy and operative in its progress than theicy hand of age. Its wrinkles are already visible in my brow. The floodsof tears I have shed have already furrowed my cheeks. But oh, my lord, it is not grief; that is not the appellation it claims. They are thepangs of remorse, they are the cries of never dying reproach withwhich I am agitated. Think how this tarnishes the heart and blunts theimagination. Think how this subdues all the aspirations of innocence, and unnerves all the exertions of virtue. Perhaps I was, flattery andfriendship had at least taught me to think myself, something above thecommon level. But indeed, my lord, I am now a gross and a vulgar soul. All the nicer touches are fretted and worn away. All those littledistinctions, those minuter delicacies I might once possess areobliterated. My heart is coarse and callous. Others, of the samestandard that I am now, may have the same confidence in themselves, thesame unconsciousness of a superior, as nature's most favoured children. But I am continually humbled by the sense of what I was. 

These things, my lord, I mention as considerations that have someweight with me, and ought perfectly to reconcile you to my unalterabledetermination. But these, I will ingenuously confess, are not theconsiderations that absolutely decide me. You cannot but sufficientlyrecollect the title I bear, and the situation in which I am placed. Theduties of the marchioness of Pescara are very different from those bywhich I was formerly bound. Does it become a woman of rank and conditionto fling dishonour upon the memory of him to whom she gave her hand, or, as you have expressed it, to cast back the scandal to which she may beexposed upon the author with whom it originated? No, my lord: I mustremember the family into which I have entered, and I will never givethem cause to curse the day upon which Matilda della Colonna wasnumbered among them. What, a wife, a widow, to proclaim with her ownmouth her husband for a villain? You cannot think it. It were almostenough to call forth the mouldering ashes from the cincture of the tomb. 

My lord, it would not become me to cast upon a name so virtuous andvenerable as yours, the whisper of a blame. I will not pretend to arguewith you the impropriety and offence of a Gothic revenge. But it isnecessary upon a subject so important as that which now employs my pen, to be honest and explicit. It is not a time for compliment, it is nota moment for disguise and fluctuation. Whatever were the merits of thecontest, I cannot forget that your hand is deformed with the blood of myhusband. My lord, you have my sincerest good wishes. I bear you noneof that ill will and covert revenge, that are equally the disgrace ofreason and Christianity. But you have placed an unsuperable barrierbetween us. You have sunk a gulph, fathomless and immeasurable. For usto meet, would not be more contrary to the factitious dignity of rank, than shocking to the simple and unadulterated feelings of our nature. The world, the general voice would cry shame upon it. Propriety, decency, unchanged and eternal truth forbid it. 

Yet once more. I have a son. He is all the consolation and comfort thatis left me. To watch over his infancy is my most delightful, and mostvirtuous task. I have filled the character, neither of a mistress, nor awife, in the manner my ambition aimed at. I have yet one part left, andthat perhaps the most venerable of all, the part of a mother. Excellent, and exalted name! thee I will never disgrace! Not for one moment will Iforget thee, not in one iota shalt thou be betrayed!

My lord, I write this letter in my favourite haunt, where indeed I passhour after hour in the only pleasure that is left me, the nursery of mychild. At this moment I cast my eyes upon him, and he answers me withthe most artless and unapprehensive smile in the world. No, belovedinfant! I will never injure thee! I will never be the author of thyfuture anguish! He seems, St. Julian, to solicit, that I would love himalways, and behold him with an unaltered tenderness. Yes, my child, Iwill be always thy mother. From that character I will never derogate. That name shall never be lost in another, however splendid, or howeverattractive. Were I to hear you, my lord, they would tear him from myarms, and I should commend their justice. I should see him no more. These eyes would no longer be refreshed with that artless and adorablevisage. I should no longer please myself with pouring the accents ofmy sorrow into his unconscious ear. Obdurate, unfeeling, relentless, unnatural mother! These would be the epithets by which I should best beknown. These would be the sentiments of every heart. This would be theunbought voice, even of those vulgar souls, in which penury had mostnarrowed the conceptions, and repressed the enthusiasm of virtue. It istrue, my lord, Matilda is sunk very low. The finger of scorn has pointedat her, and the whisper of unfeeling curiosity respecting her, has runfrom man to man. But yet it shall have its limits. My resolution isunalterable. To this I will never come. 

My lord, among those arguments which you so well know how to urge, youhave told me, that the cause you plead, is the cause of benevolenceand charity. You say, that felicity would open our hearts, and teach ourbosoms to overflow. But surely this is not the general progress of thehuman character. I had been taught to believe, and I hope I have foundit true, that misfortune softens the disposition, and bids compassiontake a deeper root. It shall be ever my aim, to make this improvement ofthose wasting sorrows, with which heaven has seen fit to visit me. Foryou, I am not to learn what is your generous and god like disposition. My lord, I will confess a circumstance, for which I know not whetherI ought to blush. Animated by that sympathetic concern, which I onceinnocently took in all that related to you, I have made the most minuteenquiries respecting your retreat at Leontini. I shall never be afraid, that the man, whose name dwells in the sweetest accents upon the lips ofthe distressed, and is the consolation and the solace of the helplessand the orphan, will degenerate into hardness. Go on, my lord! You arein the path of virtue. You are in the line that heaven chalked out foryou. You will be the ornament of humanity, and your country's boast tothe latest posterity. 

FINIS