Corpus of Modern Scottish Writing (CMSW) - www.scottishcorpus.ac.uk/cmsw/ Document : 658 Title: Julia de Roubigné, Vol. 2 Author(s): Mackenzie, Henry JULIA DE ROUBIGNÉ, A TALE. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. VOL. II. JULIA DE ROUBIGNÉ, A TALE. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. PUBLISHED BY The AUTHOR of THE MAN OF FEELING, and THE MAN OF THE WORLD. VOLUME THE SECOND. LONDON: PRINTED FOR W. STRAHAN; AND T. CADELL, IN THE STRAND. MDCCLXXVII. ADVERTISEMENT. MY readers will eaſily perceive ſomething particular, in the place where the following letters of Savillon are found, as they are manifeſtly of a date conſiderably prior to many of the preceding. They came to my hands, aſſorted in the manner I have now publiſhed them, probably from a view in my young friend, who had the charge of their arrangement, of keeping the correſpondence of Julia, which communicated the great train of her feelings on the ſubjects contained in them, as much undivided as poſſible. While I conjectured this reaſon for their preſent order, I was aware of ſome advantage, which theſe papers, as relating a ſtory, might derive from an alteration in that particular; but, after balancing thoſe different conſiderations, without coming to any deciſion, my indolence, perhaps (a ſtronger motive with moſt men than they are diſpoſed to allow), at length prevailed, and I reſolved to give them to the Public in the order they were tranſmitted to me from France. Many of the particulars they recount are anticipated by a peruſal of the foregoing letters; but it is not ſo much on ſtory, as ſentiment, that their intereſt with the reader muſt depend. JULIA JULIA DE ROUBIGNÉ, A TALE. IN A SERIES OF LETTERS. LETTER XXVI. Savillon to Beauvaris. AFTER a very unfavourable paſſage, we are at laſt arrived at our deſtined port. A ſhip is lying along-ſide of us, ready to ſail for France, and every one on board, who can write, is now writing to ſome relation or friend, the hardſhips of his voyage, and the period of his arrival. How few has Savillon to greet with tidings! to Roubigné I have already written; to Beauvaris I am now writing; and, when I have excepted theſe, there is not in France a ſingle man, to whom I am entitled to write. Yet I mean not to claſs them together: to Roubigné I owe the tribute of eſteem, the debt of gratitude; for you I feel ſomething tenderer than either. Roubigné has been the guide, the father, of my youth, and him I reverence as a parent: you have been the friend, the brother, of my ſoul, and with yours it mingles as with a part of itſelf. You remember the circumſtances of our parting. You would not bid me adieu till the ſhip was getting under way: I believe you judged aright, if you meant to ſpare us both: the buſtle of the ſcene, the rattling of the ſails, the noiſe of the ſailors, had a mechanical effect on the mind, and ſtifled thoſe tender feelings, which we indulge in ſolitude and ſilence. When I went to bed, I had time to indulge them. I found it vain to attempt ſleeping, and ſcarcely wiſhed to ſucceed in attempting it. About midnight I aroſe, and went upon deck. The wind had been fair all day, and we were then, I ſuppoſe, more than thirty leagues from the ſhore. I looked on the arch of heaven, where the moon purſued her courſe unclouded; and my ear caught no ſound, except the ſtilly noiſe of the ſea around me. I thought of my diſtance from France as of ſome illuſive dream, and could not believe, without an effort, that it was not four and twenty hours ſince we parted. I recollected a thouſand things which I ſhould have ſaid to you, and ſpoke them involuntarily in the ear of night. There was, my friend, there was one thing, which I meant to have told you at parting. Had you ſtaid a few moments longer in the room after the ſeaman called us, I ſhould have ſpoken it then; but you ſhunned being alone with me, and I could not command even words enough, to tell you, that I wiſhed to ſpeak with you in private. Hear it now, and pity your Savillon. Julia de Roubigné! — Did you feel that name as I do! — Even traced with my own pen, what throbbing remembrances has it raiſed! — You are acquainted with my obligations to her father: you have heard me ſometimes talk of her; but you know not, for I trembled to tell you, the power ſhe has acquired over the heart of your friend. The fate of my father, as well mutual inclination, made Roubigné his friend; for this laſt is of a temper formed rather to delight in the pride of aſſiſting unfortunate worth, than in the joy of knowing it in a better ſituation. After the death of my father, I became the ward of his friend's generoſity: a ſtate I ſhould have brooked but ill, had not Julia been his daughter. From thoſe early days, when firſt I knew her, I remember her friendſhip as making part of my exiſtence: without her, pleaſure was vapid, and ſorrow, in her ſociety, was changed into enjoyment. At that time of life, the mind has little reſerve. We meant but friendſhip, and called it ſo without alarm. The love, to which at length I diſcovered my heart to be ſubject, had conquered without tumult, and become deſpotic under the ſemblance of freedom. The misfortunes of her family firſt ſhewed me how I loved. — When her father told them the ruined ſtate of his fortune, when he prepared them for leaving the now alienated ſeat of his anecſtors, I was a ſpectator of the ſcene. When I ſaw the old man, with indignant pride, ſtifling the anguiſh of his heart, and pointing to the chaiſe that was to carry them from Belville, his wife, with one hand claſping her huſband's, the other laid on her boſom, turning up to Heaven a look of reſignation; his daughter, ſtriving to check her tears, kneeling before him, and vowing her duty to his misfortunes; then did I firſt curſe my poverty, which prevented me from throwing myfelf at her feet, and bidding her parents be happy with their Julia! — The luxury of the idea ſtill ruſhes on my mind! — to heal the fortunes of my father's friend; to juſtify the ways of Heaven to his ſaint-like wife; to wipe the tears from the eyes of his angel daughter! — Beauvaris, our philoſophy is falſe: power and wealth are the choiceſt gifts of heaven: to poſſeſs them indeed, is nothing, but thus to uſe them, is rapture! I had them not thus to uſe; but what I could, I did. I attended his family that ancient manſion, which was now ſole property of the once opulent Roubigné. With unwearied attention I ſoothed his ſorrows, and humbled myſelf before his misfortunes, as much as I had formerly reſiſted dependence on his proſperity. He felt the aſſiduity of my friendſhip, and I ſaw him grateful for its exertion; yet would the idea of being obliged, often rankle in his mind; and I have ſeen him frequently look at me with an appearance of anger, when he thought I was conſcious of obliging him. Far different was the gentle nature of his daughter. She thanked me with unfeigned gratitude for my ſervices to her father, and ſeemed ſolicitous to compenſate with her ſmiles, for that want of. acknowledgment ſhe obferved in him. Had my heart been free before, it was impoſſible to preſerve its freedom now. A ſpectator of all thoſe excellencies which, though ſhe ever poſſeſſed, her preſent ſituation alone could give full room to exert; all that ſublimity of mind, which bore adverſity unmoved; all that gentleneſs, which contrived to lighten it to her father, and ſmooth the rankling of his haughty ſoul! I applauded the election I had made, and looked on my love as a virtue. Yet there were moments of anxiety, in which I feared the conſequences of indulging this attachment. My own ſituation, the ſituation of Julia, the pride of her father, the pride which it was proper for herſelf to feel: all theſe were preſent to my view, and ſhewed me how little I could build on hope; yet it cheated me, I know not how, and I dreamed, from day to day, of bleſſings, which every day's reflection told me were not to be looked for. There was, indeed, ſomething in the ſcene around us, formed to crate those romantic illuſions. The retreat of Roubigné is a venerable pile, the remains of ancient Gothic magnificence, and the grounds adjoining to it are in that style of melancholy grandeur, which marks the dwellings of our forefathers. One part of that ſmall eſtate, which is ſtill the appendage of this once-reſpectable manſion, is a wild and rocky dell, where taſteleſs wealth has never warred on nature, nor even elegance refined or embelliſhed her beauties. The walks are only worn by the tread of the ſhepherds, and the banks only ſmoothed by the feeding of their flocks. There, too dangerous ſociety! have I paſſed whole days with Julia: there, more dangerous ſtill! have I paſſed whole days in thinking of her. A circumſtance, trifling in itſelf, added not a little to the faſcination of the reſt. The ſame good woman who nurſed me, was alſo the nurſe of Julia. She was too fond of her foſter-daughter, and too well treated by her, ever to leave the fortunes of her family. To this reſidence ſhe attended them when they left Belville, and here too, as at that place, had a ſmall houſe and garden allotted her. It was ſituated at the extreme verge of that dell I have deſcribed, and was often the end of thoſe walks we took through it together. The good Laſune, for that is our nurſe's name, conſidered us her children, and treated us, in thoſe viſits to her little dwelling, with that ſimplicity of affection, which has the moſt powerful effect on hearts of ſenſibility. Oh! Beauvaris! methinks I ſee the figure of Laſune, at this moment, pointing out to your friend, with rapture in her countenance, the beauties of her lovely daughter! She places our ſeats together; ſhe produces her ſhining platters, with fruit and milk, for our repaſt; ſhe preſſes the ſmiling Julia, and will not be denied by Savillon! — Am I then a thouſand leagues diſtant? Does Julia remember Savillon? — Should I hope that ſhe does? — My friend, I will confeſs my weakneſs; perhaps, it is worſe than weakneſs; I have wiſhed — I have hoped, that I am not indifferent to her. Often have I been on the point of unloading my throbbing heart, of telling her how paſſionately I loved, of aſking her forgiveneſs for my preſumption. I have thought, perhaps, it was vanity, that at ſome ſeaſons ſhe might have anſwered and bleſſed me; but I ſaw the conſequences which would follow to both, and had fortitude enough to reſiſt the impulſe. — A time may come, when better fortune ſhall entitle me to ſpeak; when the pride of Roubigné may not bluſh to look on Savillon as his ſon. But this is the language of viſionary hope! In the mean time, I am torn from her, from France, from every connection my heart had formed; caſt, like a ſhipwrecked thing, on the other ſide of the Atlantic, amidſt a deſert, of all others, the moſt dreadful, the deſert of ſociety, with which no ſocial tie unites me! — Where now are Roubigné's little copſes, where his winding walks, his nameleſs rivulets? Where the ivy'd gate of his venerable dwelling, the Gothic windows of his echoing hall? — That morning, on which I ſet out for Paris, is ſtill freſh on my memory. I could not bear the formality of parting, and ſtole from his houſe by day-break. As I paſſed that hall, the door was open; I entered to take one laſt look, and bid it adieu! I had ſat in it with Julia the night before; the chairs we had occupied were ſtill in their places; you know not, my friend, what I felt at the ſight: there was ſomething in the ſilent attitude of thoſe very chairs, that wrung my heart beyond the power of language; and, I believe, the ſervant had told me that my horſes waited, five or ſix times over, before I could liſten to what he ſaid. A gentleman has ſent to aſk, if my name is Savillon: if it is, he deſires his compliments, and will do himſelf the pleaſure of waiting of me. I ſtarted to hear my name thus aſked for in Martinique. This gentleman is a ſea-captain, a particular acquaintance of my uncle he is more, Beauvaris, he is an acquaintance of Roubigné, has been often at Belville, has ſometimes ſeen my Julia. — We are intimate already, and he has offered to conduct me to my uncle's houſe; his horſes, he ſays, are in waiting. Adieu, my deareſt friend! think of me often; write to me often; though you ſhould ſeldom have an opportunity of conveying letters, yet write as if you had; make a journal of intelligence, and let it come when it may. Tell me every thing, though I ſhould aſk nothing. Your letters muſt give me back my country, and nothing is a trifle that belongs to her. LETTER. XXVII. Savillon to Beauvaris. IT is now a week ſince I reached my uncle's, during all which time I have been ſo much occupied in anſwering queſtions to the curioſity of others, or aſking queſtions for the ſatisfaction of my own, that I have ſcarce had a moment left for any other employment. I have now ſeized the opportunity of the reſt of the family being ſtill a-bed, to write to you an account of this uncle, of him under whoſe protection I am to riſe into life, under whoſe guidance I am to thrid the mazes of the world. I fear am unfit for the talk: I muſt unlearn feelings in which I have long been accuſtomed to delight: I muſt accommodate ſentiment to conveniency, pride to intereſt, and ſometimes even virtue itſelf to faſhion. But is all this abſolutely neceſſary? — I hate to believe it. I have been frequently told ſo indeed, but my authorities are drawn either from men who have never entered the ſcene at all, or entered it, reſolved to be overcome, without the trouble of reſiſtance. To think too meanly of mankind is dangerous to our reverence of virtue. It is ſuppoſed, that in theſe wealthy iſlands, profit is the only medium of opinion, and that morality has nothing to do in the ſyſtem; but I cannot eaſily imagine that, in any latitude, the boſom is ſhut to thoſe pleaſures which reſult from the exerciſe of goodneſs, or that honeſty ſhould be always ſo unſucceſsful as to have the ſneer of the million againſt it. Men will not be depraved beyond the perſuaſion of ſome motive, and ſelf-intereſt will often be the parent of ſocial obligation. My uncle is better fitted for judging of this queſtion; he is cool enough to judge of it from experience, without being miſled by feeling. — He believes there are many more honeſt dealings than honeſt men, but that there are more honeſt men than knaves every where; that-common ſenſe will keep them ſo, even excluſive of principle; but that all may be vanquiſhed by adequate temptation. With a competent ſhare of plain uſeful parts, and a certain ſteady application of mind, he entered into commerce at an early period of life. Not apt o be ſeduced by the glare of great apparent advantage, nor eaſily intimidated from his purpoſes by accidental diſappointment, he has held on, with ſome viciſſitude of fortune, but with uniform equality of temper, till, in virtue of his abilities, his diligence, and his obſervation, he has acquired very conſiderable wealth. He ſtill, however, continues the labour of the race, though he has already reached the goal; not becauſe he is covetous of greater riches, but becauſe the induſtry, by which greater riches are acquired, is grown neceſſary to his enjoyment of life. "I have been long, ſaid he yeſterday, a very happy man; having had a little leſs time, and a little more money, than I know what to make of." The opinion of the world he,truſts but little, in his judgment of others; of men's actions he ſpeaks with caution, either in praiſe or blame, and is commonly moſt ſceptical, when thoſe around him are moſt convinced: for it is a maxim with him, in queſtions of character, to doubt of ſtrong evidence, from the very circumſtance of its ſtrength. With regard to himſelf, however, he accepts of the common opinion, as a ſort of coin, which paſſes current, though it is not always real, and often ſeems to yield up the conviction of his own mind in compliance to the general voice. Ever averſe to ſplendid project in action, or ſplendid conjecture in argument, he contents himſelf with walking in the beaten track of things, and does not even venture to leave it, though he may, now and then, obſerve it making ſmall deviations from reaſon and juſtice. He has ſometimes, ſince our acquaintance began, tapped me on the ſhoulder, in the midſt of ſome ſentiment I was uttering, and told me, with a ſmile, that theſe were fine words, and did very well in the mouth of a young man. Yet he ſeems not diſpleaſed with my feeling what himſelf does not feel; and looks on me with the more favourable eye, that I have ſomething about me for experience and obſervation to prune. His plan of domeſtic economy is regular but nobody is diſturbed by its regularity; for he is perfectly free from that rigid attention to method, which one frequently ſees in the houſes of old batchelors. He has ſenſe, or ſang-froid enough, not to be troubled with little diſarrangements, and bears, with wonderful complacency, and conſequently with great eaſe to gueſts, thoſe accidents which diſturb the peace of other entertainments. Since my arrival, we have had every day ſomething like a feaſt, probably from a ſort of compliment which his friend meant to pay to him and to me; but at his table, in its moſt elevated ſtyle, the government is nearly republican; he aſſumes very little, either of the trouble, or the dignity of a landlord, ſatisfied with giving a general aſſurance of welcome and good-humour in his aſpect. At one of thoſe dinners was a neighbour and intimate acquaintance of my uncle, a Mr. Dorville, with his wife and daughter. The young lady was ſeated next me, and my uncle ſeemed to incline that I ſhould be particularly pleaſed with her. He addreſſed ſuch diſcourſe to her as might draw her forth to the greateſt advantage; and, as he had heard me profeſs myfelf a lover of muſic, he made her ſing, after dinner, till, I believe, ſome of the company began to be tired of their entertainment. After they were gone, he aſked my opinion of Mademoiſelle Dorville, in that particular ſtyle by which a man gives you to underſtand, that his own is a very favourable one. To ſay truth, the lady's appearance is in her favour; but there is a jealous ſort of feeling, which ariſes in my mind, when, I hear the praiſes of any woman but one; and, from that cauſe perhaps, I anſwered my uncle rather coldly. I ſaw he thought ſo, from the reply he made; I offered ſome aukward apology; he ſmiled, and ſaid, I was a philoſopher. Alas! he knows not how little claim I have to philoſophy in that way; if, indeed, we are ſo often to profane that word, by affixing to it the idea of inſenſibility. To-day I begin buſineſs. My uncle and I are to view his different plantations, and he is to ſhew me, in general, the province he means to allot me. I wiſh for an opportunity to be aſſiduous in his ſervice: till I can do ſomething on my part, his favours are debts upon me. It is only to a friend, like my Beauvaris, that one feels a pleaſure in being obliged. LETTER XXVIII. Savillon to Beauvaris. A Thouſand thanks for your laſt letter. When you know how much I en joyed the unwieldy appearance of the packet, with my friend's hand on the back of it, you will not grudge the time it coſt you. It is juſt ſuch as I wiſhed; your ſcene-painting is delightful. No man is more ſuſceptible of local attachments than I; and, with the Atlantic between, there is not a ſtone in France, which I can remember with indifference. Yet I am happier here than I could venture to expect. Had I been left to my own choice, I ſhould probably have ſat down in ſolitude, to think of the paſt, and enjoy my reflections; but I have been forced to do better. There is an active duty, which rewards every man in the performance; and my uncle has ſo contrived matters, that I have had very little time unemployed. He has been liberal of inſtruction, and, I hope, has found me willing to be inſtructed. Our buſineſs, indeed, is not very intricate; but, in the ſimpleſt occupations, there are a thouſand little circumſtances, which experience alone can teach us. In certain departments, however, I have tried projects of my own: ſome of them have failed in the end, but all gave me pleaſure in the purſuit. In one I have been ſucceſsful beyond expectation; and in that one I was the moſt deeply intereſted, becauſe it touched the cauſe of humanity. To a man not callous from habit, the treatment of the negroes, in the plantations here, is ſhocking. I felt it ſtrongly, and could not forbear expreſſing my ſentiments to my uncle. He allowed them to be natural, but pleaded neceſſity, in juſtification of thoſe ſeverities, which his overſeers ſometimes uſed towards his ſlaves. I ventured to doubt this propoſition, and begged he would ſuffer me to try a different mode of government in one plantation, the produce of which he had already allotted to my management. He conſented, though with the belief that I ſhould ſucceed very ill in the experiment. I began by endeavouring to ingratiate myſelf with ſuch of the ſlaves as could beſt ſpeak the language of my country; but I found this was a manner they did. not underſtand, and that, from a white, the appearance of indulgence carried the ſuſpicion of treachery. Moſt of them, to whom rigour had become habitual, took the advantage of its remitting, to neglect their work altogether; but this only ſerved to convince me, that my plan was a good one, and that I ſhould undoubtedly profit, if I could eſtabliſh ſome other motive, whoſe impulſe was more ſteady than thoſe of puniſhment and terror. By continuing the mildneſs of my conduct, I at laſt obtained a degree of willingneſs in the ſervice of ſome; and I was ſtill induced to believe, that the moſt ſavage and ſullen among them had principles of gratitude, which a good maſter might improve to his advantage. One ſlave, in particular, had for ſome time attracted my notice, from that gloomy fortitude, with which he bore the hardſhips of his ſituation. Upon inquiring of the overſeer, he told me, that this ſlave, whom he called Yambu, though, from his youth and appearance of ſtrength, he had been accounted valuable, yet, from the untractable ſtubbornneſs of his diſpoſition, was worth leſs money than almoſt any other in my uncle's poſſeſſion. This was a language natural to the overſeer. I anſwered him, in his own ſtyle, that I hoped to improve his price ſome hundreds of livres. On being further informed, that ſeveral of his fellow-ſlaves had come from the ſame part of the Guinea coaſt with him, I ſent for one of them who could ſpeak tolerable French, and queſtioned him about Yambu. He told me, that, in their own country, Yambu was maſter of them all; that they had been taken priſoners when fighting in his cauſe, by another prince, who, in one battle, was more fortunate than theirs; that he had ſold them to ſome white men, who came, in a great ſhip, to their coaſt; that they were afterwards brought hither, where other white men purchaſed them from the firſt, and ſet them to work where I ſaw them; but that, when they died, and went beyond the Great Mountains, Yambu ſhould be their maſter again. I diſmiſſed the negro, and called this Yambu before me. When he came, he ſeemed to regard me with an eye of perfect indifference. One who had inquired no further, would have concluded him poſſeſſed of that ſtupid inſenſibility, which Europeans often mention as an apology for their cruelties. I took his hand; he conſidered this a prologue to chaſtiſement, and turned his back to receive the laſhes he ſuppoſed me ready to inflict. "I wiſh to be the friend of Yambu," ſaid I. He made me no anſwer: I let go his hand, and he ſuffered it to drop to its former poſture. "Can this man have been a prince in Africa?" ſaid I to myſelf. — I reflected for a moment. — "Yet what ſhould he now do, if he has? — Juſt what I ſee him do. I have ſeen a depoſed ſovereign at Paris; but in Europe, kings are artificial beings, like their ſubjects. — Silence is the only throne which adverſity has left to princes." I fear, (ſaid I to him) you have been ſometimes treated harſhly by the overſeer; but you ſhall be treated ſo no more: I wiſh all my people to be happy." He looked on me now for the firſt time. — "Can you ſpeak my language, or ſhall I call for ſome of your friends who can explain what you would ſay to me?" — "I ſpeak no ſay to you," he replied in his broken French. — "And you will not be my friend?" — "No." — "Even if I ſhould deſerve it." — "You a white man." — I felt the rebuke as I ought. — "But all white men are not overſeers. What ſhall I do to make you think me a good man?" — "Uſe men goodly." — "I mean to do ſo, and you among the firſt, Yambu." — "Be good for Yambu's people; do your pleaſe with Yambu." Juſt then the bell rung as a ſummons for the negroes to go to work: he made a few ſteps towards the door. "Would you now go to work (ſaid I), if you were at liberty to avoid it?" — "You make go for whip, and no man love go." — "I will go along with you, though I am not obliged; for I chuſe to work ſometimes, rather than be idle." — "Chuſe work, no work at all," ſaid Yambu. — 'Twas the very principle on which my ſyſtem was founded. I took him with me into the houſe when our taſk was over. "I wrought chuſe-work (ſaid I), Yambu, yet I did leſs than you?" — "Yambu do chuſework then too?" — "You ſhall do ſo always, anſwered I: from this moment you are mine no more!" — "You ſell me other white men then?" — "No, you are free, and may do whatever you pleaſe!" — "Yambu's pleaſe no here, no this country?" he replied, waving his hand, and looking wiſtfully towards the ſea. — "I cannot give you back your country, Yambu; but I can make this one better for you. You can make it better for me too, and for your people!" — "Speak Yambu that (ſaid he eagerly), and be good man!" — "You would not (ſaid I) make your people work by the whip, as you ſee the overſeers do?" — "Oh! no, no whip!" — "Yet they muſt work, elſe we ſhall have no ſugars to buy them meat and clothing with." — (He put his hand to his brow, as if I had ſtarted a difficulty he was unable to overcome.)— "Then you ſhall have the command of them, and they ſhall work chuſe-work for Yambu." — He looked aſkance, as if he doubted the truth of what I ſaid; I called the negro with whom I had the firſt converſation about him, and, pointing to Yambu, "Your maſter (ſaid I) is now free, and may leave you when he pleaſes!" — "Yambu no leave you," ſaid he to the negro warmly. — "But he may accompany Yambu if he chuſes." — Yambu ſhook his head. — "Maſter, (ſaid his former ſubject), where we go? leave good white man, and go to bad; for much bad white men in this country." — "Then if you think it better, you ſhall, both ſtay; Yambu ſhall be my friend, and help me to raiſe ſugars for the good of us all: you ſhall have no overſeer but Yambu, and ſhall work no more than he bids you?" — The negro fell at my feet, and kiſſed them: Yambu ſtood ſilent, and I ſaw a tear on his cheek. — "This man has been a prince in Africa!" ſaid I to myſelf. I did not mean to deceive them. Next morning I called thoſe negroes who had formerly been in his ſervice together, and told them that, while they continued in the plantation, Yambu was to ſuperintend their work; that, if they choſe to leave him and me, they were at liberty to go; and that, if found idle or unworthy, they ſhould not be allowed to ſtay. He has, accordingly, ever ſince had the command of his former ſubjects, and ſuperintended their work in a particular quarter of the plantation; and, having been declared free, according to the mode preſcribed by the laws of the iſland, has a certain portion of ground allotted him, the produce of which is his property. I have had the ſatisfaction of obſerving thoſe men, under the feeling of good treatment, and the idea of liberty, do more than almoſt double their number ſubject to the whip of an overſeer. I am under no apprehenſion of deſertion or mutiny; they work with the willingneſs of freedom, yet are mine with more than the obligation of ſlavery. I have been often tempted to doubt whether there is not an error in the whole plan of negro ſervitude, and whether whites, or creoles born in the Weſt-Indies, or perhaps cattle, after the manner of European huſbandry, would not do the buſineſs better and cheaper than the ſlaves do. The money which the latter coſt at firſt, the ſickneſs (often owing to deſpondency of mind) to which they are liable after their arrival, and the proportion that die in conſequence of it, make the machine, if it may be ſo called, of a plantation extremely expenſive in its operations. In the liſt of ſlaves belonging to a wealthy planter, it would aſtoniſh you to ſee the number unfit for ſervice, pining under diſeaſe, a burden on their maſter. — I am talking only as a merchant: — but as a man — good Heavens! when I think of the many thouſands of my fellow-creatures groaning under ſervitude and miſery — Great God! haſt thou peopled thoſe regions of thy world for the purpoſe of calling out their inhabitants to chains and torture? — No; thou gaveſt them a land teeming with good things, and lighted'ſt up thy ſun to bring forth ſpontaneous plenty; but the refinements of man, ever at war with thy works, have changed this ſcene of profuſion and luxuriance, into a theatre of rapine, of ſlavery, and of murder! Forgive the warmth of this apoſtrophe; here it would not be underſtood; even my uncle, whoſe heart is far from a hard one, would ſmile at my romance, and tell me that things muſt be ſo. Habit, the tyrant of nature and of reaſon, is deaf to the voice of either; here ſhe ſtifles humanity, and debaſes the ſpecies — for the maſter of ſlaves has ſeldom the ſoul of a man. This is not difficult to be accounted for; from his infancy he is made callous to thoſe feelings, which ſoften at once and ennoble our nature. Children muſt of neceſſity firſt exert thoſe towards domeſtics, becauſe the ſociety of domeſtics is the firſt they enjoy; here they are taught to command for the ſake of commanding, to beat and torture for pure amuſement; — their reaſon and good-nature improve as may be expected. Among the legends of a European nurſery, are ſtories of captives delivered, of ſlaves releaſed, who had pined for years in the durance of unmerciful enemies. Could we ſuppoſe its infant audience tranſported to the ſea-ſhore, where a ſhip laden with ſlaves is juſt landing; the queſtion would be univerſal, "Who ſhall ſet theſe poor people free?" — The young Weſt-Indian aſks his father to buy a boy for him, that he may have ſomething to vent his ſpite on when he is peeviſh. Methinks too, theſe people loſe a ſort of connexion which is of more importance in life than moſt of the relationſhips we enjoy. The ancient, the tried domeſtic of a family, is one of its moſt uſeful members, one of its moſt aſſured ſupports. My friend, the ill-fated Roubigné, has not one relation who has ſtood by him in the ſhipwreck of his fortunes but the ſtorm could not ſever from their maſter his faithful Le Blanc, or the venerable Laſune. Oh Beauvaris! I ſometimes ſit down alone, and tranſporting myſelf into the little circle at Roubigné's, grow ſick of the world, and hate the part which I am obliged to perform in it. LETTER XXIX.* Savillon to Beauvaris. SINCE the date of my laſt is a longer period than you allow between my letters; but my time has been more than commonly occupied of late. Among other employments was that of acquiring a friend. Be not, however, jealous: my heart cannot own a ſecond in the ſame * It is proper to apologize to the reader for introducing a letter ſo purely epiſodical. I might tell him that it is not altogether unneceſſary, as it introduces to his acquaintance a perſon, whoſe correſpondent Savillon becomes at a future period; but I muſt once more reſort to an egotiſm for the true reaſon: the picture it exhibited pleaſed myſelf, and I could not reſiſt the deſire of communicating it. degree with Beauvaris; yet is this one above the level of ordinary men. He enjoys alſo that privilege which misfortune beſtows on the virtuous. Among thoſe, with whom my uncle's extenſive dealings have connected him, he had mentioned, with particular commendation, one Herbert, an Engliſhman, a merchant in one of the Britiſh Weſt-- India iſlands. Chance brought him lately to Martinique, and I was ſolicitous to ſhew every poſſible civility to one, who, to the claim of a ſtranger, added the character of a worthy and amiable man. Prepoſſeſſed as I was in his favour, my expectations fell ſhort of the reality. I diſcovered in him a delicacy and fineneſs of ſentiment, which ſomething beyond the education of a trader muſt have inſpired; and I looked on him perhaps with the greater reverence, from the circumſtance of having found him in a ſtation where I did not expect he would be found. On a cloſer inveſtigation, I perceived a tincture of melancholy enthuſiaſm in his mind, which, I was perſuaded, was not altogether owing to the national character, but muſt have ariſen from ſome particular cauſe. This increaſed my regard for him; and I could not help expreſſing it in the very ſtyle which was ſuited to its object, a quiet and ſtill attention, ſympathetic but not intruſive. He ſeemed to take notice of my behaviour, and looked as if he had found a perſon, who gueſſed him to be unhappy, and to whom he could talk of his unhappineſs. I encouraged the idea with that diffidence, which, I believe, is of all manners the moſt intimate with a mind of the ſort I have deſcribed; and, ſoon after, he took an opportunity of telling me the ſtory of his misfortunes. It was ſimple, but not the leſs pathetic. Inheriting a conſiderable fortune from his father, he let out in trade with every advantage. Soon after he was ſettled in buſineſs, he married a beautiful and excellent woman, for whom, from his infancy, he had conceived the tendereſt attachment; and, about a year after their marriage, ſhe bleſſed him with a ſon. But love and fortune did not long continue to ſmile upon him. Loſſes in trade, to which, though benevolence like his be more expoſed, the moſt prudent and unfeeling are liable, reduced him, from his former affluence, to very embarraſſed circumſtances; and his diſtreſs was aggravated from the conſideration, that he did not ſuffer alone, but communicated misfortune to a woman he paſſionately loved. Some very conſiderable debts remained due to him in the Weſt-Indies, and he found it abſolutely neceſſary for their recovery, to repair thither himſelf, however terrible might be a ſeparation from his wife, now in a ſituation of all others the moſt ſuſceptible. They parted, and ſhe was, ſoon after, delivered of a girl, whoſe promiſing appearance as well as that of her brother, was ſome conſolation for the abſence of their father. His abſence, though cruel, was neceſſary, and he found his affairs in ſuch, ſituation, that it promiſed not to be long. Day after day, however, elapſed, without their final ſettlement. The impatience both of his wife and him was increaſed, by the appearance of a concluſion, which ſo repeatedly diſappointed them; till, at laſt, he ventured to ſuggeſt, and ſhe warmly approved, the expedient of coming out to a huſband, whoſe circumſtances prevented him from meeting her at home. She ſet ſail with her children; but wife nor children ever reached the unfortunate Herbert! they periſhed in a ſtorm ſoon after their departure from England. You can judge of the feelings of a man, who upbraided himſelf as their murderer. An interval of madneſs, he informed me, ſucceeded the account he received of their death. When his reaſon returned, it ſettled into a melancholy, which time has ſoothed, not extinguiſhed, which indeed ſeems to have become the habitual tone of his mind. Yet is it gentle, though deep, in its effects; it diſturbs not the circle of ſociety around him, and few except ſuch as are formed to diſcover and to pity it, obſerve any thing peculiar in his behaviour. But he holds it not the leſs ſacred to himſelf; and often retires from the company of thoſe, whom he has entertained with the good-humour of a well-bred man, to arrange the memorials of his much-loved Emily, and call up the ſad remembrance of his former joys. Having acquired a ſort of privilege with his diſtreſs, from my acquaintance with its cauſe, I entred his room yeſterday, when he had thus ſhut out the world, and found him with ſome letters on the table before him, on which he looked, with a tear, not of anguiſh, but of tenderneſs. I ſtopped ſhort on perceiving him thus employed; he ſeemed unable to ſpeak, but making a movement, as if he deſired that I ſhould come forward, put two of thoſe letters ſucceſſively into my hand. They were written by his wife: the firſt, ſoon after their marriage, when ſome buſineſs had calied him away from her into the country; and the ſecond, addreſſed to him in the Weſt-- Indies, where, by that time, their ill-- fortune had driven him. They pleaſed me ſo much, that I aſked his leave to keep them for a day or two. He would not abſolutely refuſe me; but ſaid they had never been out of his poſſeſſion. I preſſed him no further: I could only read them over repeatedly, and ſome parts, that ſtruck moſt forcibly on my memory, which you know is pretty tenacious, I can recollect almoſt verbatim. To another, it might ſeem odd to write ſuch things as theſe; but my Beauvaris is never inattentive to the language of nature, or the voice of misfortune. In the firſt letter were the following expreſſions. "You know not what feelings are here, at thus, for the firſt time, writing to my Henry under the name of a huſband. — A mixture of tenderneſs, of love, of eſteem, confidence. A ſomething, never experienced before, is ſo warm in my heart, that ſure it is, at this moment, more worthy of his love than ever. — Shall not this laſt, my Harry, notwithſtanding what I have heard from the ſcoffers among you men? I think it ſhall. It is not a tumultuous tranſport, that muſt ſuddenly diſappear; but the ſoft, ſtill pleaſure of a happy mind, that can feel its happineſs, and delight in its cauſe. "I have had little company ſince you left me, and I wiſh not for much. The idea of my Henry is my beſt companion. I have figured out your journey, your company, and your buſineſs, and filled up my hours with the picture of what they are to you." * * * * * * * * "John has juſt taken away my chicken: you know he takes liberties. — "Dear heart, a leg and wing only. — Betty ſays, Madam, the cheeſecakes are excellent." — I ſmiled at John's manner of preſſing, and helped myſelf to a cheeſecake. The poor fellow looked ſo happy — "My maſter will ſoon return," ſaid he, by way of accounting for my puny dinner. He ſet the wine upon the table: I filled out half a glaſs, and began to think of you; but, in carrying it to my lips, I reproached myſelf that it was not a bumper: that was remedied as it should be. John, I believe, gueſſed at the correction. — "God bleſs him!" I heard him ſay, muttering as he put up the things his baſket. — I ſent him down with the reſt of the bottle, and they are now drinking your health in the kitchen." * * * * * * * * * * "My couſin Harriet has come in to ſee me, and is going on with the cap I was making up, while I write this by her. She is a better milliner than I, and would have altered it ſomewhat; but I ſtuck to my own way, for I heard you ſay you liked it in that ſhape. — "It is not half ſo faſhionable, indeed, my dear," ſaid Harriet; but ſhe does not know the luxury of making up a cap to pleaſe the huſband one loves. — This is all very fooliſh: is it not? but I love to tell you thoſe trifles: it is like having you here. If you can, write me juſt ſuch letter about you." Of the other letter, I recollect ſome paſſages, ſuch as theſe. "Captain Lewſon has juſt now been with me, but has brought no letter; and gives for reaſon, your having written by a ſhip that left the iſland but a few days before him, meaning the Triton, by which I got your laſt; but I beg to hear from you by every opportunity, eſpecially by ſo friendly a hand as Lewſon; it would endear a man, to whom I have reaſon to be grateful, much more to me, that he brought a few lines from you. Think, my deareſt Harry, that earing from you is all that your Emily has now to expect, at leaſt for a long, long time. "Perhaps, (as you ſometimes told me, in former days, when, alas! we only talked of misfortunes) we always think our preſent calamity the bittereſt; yet, methinks, our ſeparation is the only evil, for which could not have found a comfort. In truth, we were not unhappy: health and ſtrength were left us: we could have done much for one another, and for our dear little ones. I fear, my love, you thought of me leſs nobly, than I hope I deſerved: I was not to be ſhocked by any retrenchment from our former way of living: I could have born even the. hardſhips of poverty, had it left me my Harry." * * * * * * * * * "Your ſweetmeats arrived very ſafe under the care of Captain Lewſon: the children have profited by them, particularly Billy, who has ſtill ſome remains of the hooping-cough. He aſked me, if they did not come from papa; and when, ſaid he, will papa come himſelf? "Papa," cried my little Emmy, who has juſt learned to liſp the word. "She never ſaw papa, (replied her brother) did ſhe, mamma?" — I could not ſtand this prattle; my boy wept with me for company's ſake!" * * * * * * * * * * "Emmy, they tell me, will be a beauty. She has, to ſay truth, lovely dark blue eyes, and a charming complexion. I think there is ſomething of melancholy in her look; but this may be only my fancy. Billy is quite different, a bold ſpirited child; yet he is remarkably attentive to every thing I endeavour to teach him, and can read a little already, with no other tutor than myſelf I choſe this taſk, to amuſe my lonely hours; for I make it a point of duty, to keep up my ſpirits as well as I can. Sometimes, indeed I droop in ſpite of me, eſpecially when you ſeem to waver about the time of your return. Think, my love, what riſks your health runs for the ſake of thoſe riches, which are of no uſe without it; and, after all, it is chiefly in opinion, that their power of beſtowing happineſs conſiſts. I am ſure, the little parlour, in which I now write, is more ſnug and comfortable, than the large room we uſed to receive company in formerly; and the plain meal, to which I ſit down with my children, has more reliſh than the formal dinners we were obliged to invite them to. Return then, my deareſt Harry, from thoſe fatigues and dangers, to which, by your own account, you are obliged to be expoſed. Return to your Emily's love, and the ſmiles of thoſe little cherubs that wait your arrival." Such was the wife whom Herbert loſt; you will not wonder at his grief; yet ſometimes, when the whole ſcene is before me, I know not how, I almoſt envy him his tears. It is ſomething to endeavour to comfort him. 'Tis perhaps a ſelfiſh movement in our nature, to conceive an attachment to ſuch a character; one that throws itſelf on our pity by feeling its diſtreſſes, is ever more beloved than that which riſes above them. — I know, however, without farther inquiry, that I feel myſelf pleaſed with being the friend of Herbert; would we were in France, that I might make him the friend of Beauvaris! Your laſt mentions nothing of Roubigné, or his family. I know he diſlikes writing, and therefore am not ſurpriſed at his ſilence to myſelf. You ſay, in a former letter, you find it difficult to hear of them; there is a young lady in Paris, for whom the lovely Julia has long entertained a very uncommon friendſhip; her name is Roncilles, daughter of the preſident Roncilles. — Yet, on ſecond thoughts, I would not have you viſit her, on purpoſe to make inquiry as from me but you may fall on ſome method of getting intelligence of them in this line. Do not let ſlip the opportunity of this ſhip's return to write me fully; ſhe is conſigned to a correſpondent of ours, and particular care will be taken of my letters. I think, if that had been the caſe with the laſt that arrived here, I ſhould have found one from you on board of her. Think of me frequently, and write me as often as our ſituation will allow. LETTER XXX. Savillon to Beauvaris. Begin to ſuſpect that the ſenſibility, of which young minds are proud, from which they look down with contempt on the unfeeling multitude of ordinary men, is leſs a bleſſing than an inconvenience. — Why cannot I be as happy as my uncle, as Dorville, as all the other good people around me — I eat, and drink, and ſing, nay I can be merry, like them; but they cloſe the account, and ſet down this mirth for happineſs; I retire to the family of my own thoughts, and find them in weeds of ſorrow. Herbert left this place yeſterday! the only man beſides thee, whom my ſoul can acknowledge as a friend And him, perhaps, I ſhall ſee no more: And thee! my heart droops at this moment, and I could weep without knowing why. — Tell me, as ſoon as poſſible, that you are well and happy; there is, methinks, a languor in your laſt letter — or is it but the livery of my own imagination, which the objects around me are conſtrained to wear? Herbert was a ſort of proxy for my Beauvaris; he ſpoke from the feelings of a heart like his. To him I could unboſom mine, and be underſrood; for the ſpeaking of a common language, is but one requiſite towards the deareſt intercourſe of ſociety. His ſorrows gave him a ſacredneſs in my regard, that made every endeavour to ſerve or oblige him, like the performance of a religious duty; there was a quiet ſatisfaction in it, which calmed the rufflings of a ſometimes troubled ſpirit, and reſtored me to peace with myſelf. He is ſailed for England, whither ſome buſineſs, material to a friend of his much. loved Emily, obliges him to return. He yields to this, I perceive, as a duty he thinks himſelf bound to diſcharge, though the ſight of his native country, ſpoiled as it is of thoſe bleſſings which it once poſſeſſed for him, muſt be no eaſy trial of his fortitude. He talks of leaving it as ſoon as this affair will allow him, not to return to the Weſt-Indies (for of his buſineſs there he is now independent), but to travel through ſome parts of Europe, which the employments of his younger years prevented him from viſiting at an early period of life. If he goes to Paris, he has promiſed me to call on you. — Could I be with you! — What a thought is there! — but I ſhall not be forgotten at the interview. I have juſt received yours of the third of laſt month. I muſt ſtill complain of its ſhortneſs, though I dare not quarrel with it, as it aſſures me of your welfare. But get rid, I pray you, of that very bad practice, of ſuppoſing things unimportant at Martinique, becauſe you think them ſo at Paris. Give me your intelligence, and allow me to be the judge of its conſequence. You are partial to your friend, when you write in ſuch high terms, of his treatment of Yambu. We think but ſeldom of thoſe things which habit has made common, otherwiſe we ſhould correct many of them; there needed only to give one's feelings room on this theme, and they could prompt no other conduct than mine. Your approbation, however, is not loſt upon me; the beſt of our reſolutions are bettered, by a conſciouſneſs the ſuffrage of good men in their favour; and the reward is ſtill higher, when that ſuffrage is from thoſe we love. My uncle has ſent for me, to help him to entertain ſome company who are juſt arrived here. He knows not what a train of thinking, he calls me from — I have a little remembrancer, Beauvaris, a picture, which has hung at my boſom for ſome years paſt, that ſpeaks ſuch things! — The ſervant again! — — Mademoiſelle Dorville is below, and I muſt come immediately. — Well then — It will be difficult for me to be civil to her — yet the girl deſerves politeneſs. — But that picture! — * * * * * * * * * LETTER XXXI. Savillon to Beauvaris. YOU ſay the letter, to which your laſt was an anſwer, was written low ſpirits; I confeſs I am not always in high ones; not even now, though am juſt returned from a little feaſt, when there was much mirth, and excellent wine. It was a dinner given by Dorville, on occaſion of his daughter's birth day, to which my uncle and I, among other of his friends, had been long invited. The old gentleman diſplayed his wealth, and all his wit, in entertaining us; ſome of us thanked him for neither, though every one's complaiſance obliged them to eat of his dainties, and laugh at his jeſts. It is after ſuch a ſcene, that one is often in a date the moſt ſtupid of any. The aſſumption of a character, in itſelf humiliating, diſtreſſes and waſtes us, while the loſs of ſo much time, like the bad fortune of a gameſter, is doubly felt, when we reflect that fools have won from us. Yet it muſt be ſo in life, and I wiſh to overcome the ſpleen of repining at it. I was again ſet next Mademoiſelle Dorville, and had the honour of accompanying ſome of the ſongs ſhe ſung to us. A vain fellow, in my circumſtances, might imagine that girl liked him. I believe there is nothing ſo ſerious in her mind, and I ſhould be ſorry there were. The theft of a woman's affections is not ſo atrocious, as that of her honour; but I have often ſeen it more terrible than that of her life; at leaſt, if living wretchedneſs be worſe than death: yet is it reckoned a very venial breach of confidence, to endeavour to become more than agreeable, where a man feels it impoſſible to repay what he may receive. Her father, I am apt to believe, has ſomething of what is commonly called a plot upon me; but as to him my conſcience is eaſy, becauſe, the coffers of my uncle being his quarry, it matters not much if he is diſappointed. Were it not from a point of delicacy, not to run the ſmalleſt riſk of being thought particular, I could, ſometimes, be very well entertained with the ſociety of Mademoiſelle Dorville. There is a ſprightlineſs about her, which amuſes, though it is not winning, and I never found it fo eaſy to talk nonſenſe to any other woman. I fancy this is always the caſe, where there is no chance of the heart being intereſted: it is perfectly ſo in the Preſent inſtance with me. — Oh! Beauvaris! I have laid out more ſoul in ſitting five minutes with Julia de Roubigné in ſilence, than I ſhould in a year's converſation with this little Dorville. The converſation of women has perhaps a charm from its weakneſs; but this muſt be, like all their other weakneſſes that pleaſe us, what claims an intereſt in our affections, without offending our reaſon. I know not if there is really a ſex in the ſoul: cuſtom and education have eſtablifhed one, in our idea; but we wiſh to feel the inferiority of the other ſex, as one that does not debaſe but endear it. To their knowledge, in many things, we have ſet limits, becauſe it ſeems to encroach on the ſoftneſs of their feelings, which we ſuppoſe of that retiring kind, that ſhuns the keenneſs of argument or enquiry. Knowledge or learning has often this effect among men: it is even ſometimes fatal to taſte, if by taſte is meant the effect which beauties have on ourſelves, rather than the power of criticiſing on that which they ought to have on others. There is a little world of ſentiment made for women to move in, where they certainly excel our ſex, and where our ſex, perhaps, ought to be excelled by them. This is irreſiſtibly engaging, where it is natural; but, of all affectations, that of ſentiment is the moſt diſguſting. It is, I believe, more common in France than any where elſe; and I am not ſure, if it does not proceed from our women poſſeſſing the reality leſs. The daughter of Monſ. Dorville, when ſhe would be great, is always ſentimental. I was forced to tell her to-day, that I hated ſentiments, and that they ſpoiled the complexion. She looked in the glaſs, and began to aſk ſome queſtions about the Italian comedy. My uncle, who had ſtaid ſome time behind me with Dorville, came in. He was very copious on the ſubject of Mademoiſelle. I was perfectly of his opinion in every thing, and praiſed her in echo to what he ſaid; but he had diſcernment enough to ſee an indifference in this, which I was ſorry to find he did not like. I know not how far he meant to go, if we had been long together; but he found himſelf ſomewhat indiſpoſed, and was obliged to go to bed. I ſat down alone, and thought of Julia de Roubigné. My uncle is, this morning, really ill. I owe him too much, not to be diſtreſſed at this. He is uneaſy about his own ſituation, though, I believe, without reaſon; but men, who, like him, have enjoyed uninterrupted health, are apt to be apprehenſive. I have ſent for a phyſician without letting him know; for it was another effect of his good conſtitution, to hold the faculty in contempt. At preſent, I am ſure, he will thank me, in his heart, for my precaution. The doctor has been with him, and talks doubtfully; that, perhaps, is unavoidable in a ſcience, from its nature, ſo uncertain; for this man has really too much knowledge to wiſh to ſeem wiſer. I find I muſt conclude this letter, as the ſhip, by which I am to ſend it, is within a quarter of an hour of ſailing, Would it had been a few days later! a few days might do much in a fate like mine. — I cannot expreſs that ſort of doubt and fear, which the look of futurity, at this moment, gives me. Do not, for Heaven's ſake do not fail to write me about the ſituation of Roubigné and his family. I know his unwillingneſs to write, and decorum prevents (Is it vanity to think ſo?) his daughter; therefore I addreſſed my laſt letter to Madame de Roubigné; but even when I ſhall recieve her anſwer, it will not ſay enough. You know what my heart requires; do not diſappoint it*. * There are no letters, in this collection, of a later date, from Savillon to Beauvaris. The perſon who at firſt arranged them, ſeems to intend to account for this, by the following note on the outſide of the preceding one, written in a hand of which I ſee little jottings on ſeveral of the letters, "Beauvaris died 5th April, a few days after the receipt of this." LETTER XXXII. Julia de Montauban to Maria de Roncilles. YOU muſt not expect to hear from me ſo often as formerly; we have, here, an even tenor of days, that admits not of much deſcription. Comedies and romances, you know, always end with a marriage, becauſe, after that, there is nothing to be ſaid. But I have reaſon to be angry with you for finding ſo little to ſay at Paris; though, I believe, the fault is in myſelf, or rather in your idea of me. You think I am not formed to reliſh thoſe articles of intelligence, which are called news in your great town; the truth is, I have often heard them with very little reliſh; but I know you have wit enough to make them pleaſant if you would; and even if you had not, do but write any thing, and I ſhall read it with an intereſt. You flatter me by your praiſes of the naiveté, in the picture I drew of our party of pleaſure. God knows, I have no talent that way; yet the groupe was fantaſtic enough, and, though I felt quite otherwiſe than merry next morning, when I wrote to you, yet I found a ſort of pleaſure in deſcribing it. There is a certain kind of trifling, in which a mind not much at eaſe can ſometimes indulge itſelf. One feels an eſcape, as it were, from the heart, and is fain to take up with lighter company. It is like the theft of a truant boy, who goes to play for a few minutes while his maſter is aſleep, and throws the chiding for his taſk upon futurity. We have very different company at preſent. Madame de Sancerre has been here theſe three days. Her huſband was an acquaintance of Monſ. de Montauban in Spain, and, you will remember, we uſed to be of her parties in town; ſo ſhe is a gueſt of both ſides of the houſe, though I believe no great favourite of either. She is a wit, you know, and ſays abundance of good things; and will ſay any thing, provided it be witty. Here, indeed, we give her ſo little opportunity, that her genius is almoſt famiſhed for want of ſubject. At Paris, I remember her ſurrounded with men of letters; they praiſed her learning, and to us ſhe ſeemed wonderful both as a ſcholar and a critic; but here when I turn the diſcourſe on books, ſhe chuſes to talk of nothing but the beau monde. Her deſcriptions, however, are diverting enough, and I believe ſhe is not the worſe pleaſed with me, that I can only hear them without being able to anſwer; for I think, if there is a member of our ſociety ſhe diſlikes, it is that relation of the count, whom I mentioned to you in my laſt, Monſ. de Rouillé, who is come to ſpend ſome weeks here. From the account of his vivacity which I received from his kinſman, I thought Madame de Sancerre would have thought it a piece of high good fortune to have met him here; but, I ſee, I miſtook the thing; and that ſhe would reliſh his company better, if he were as ſtupid as the reſt of us. I am of a different opinion, and begin to like him much; the better, that I was prepared to be ſomewhat afraid of him; but I find in him nothing to be feared; on the contrary, he is my very ſafeſt barrier againſt the ſometimes too powerful brilliancy of the lady. Rouillé is conſtitutionally happy; but his vivacity, though it ſeems to be conſtant, does not appear to be unfeeling. It is not the cheerfulneſs of an unthinking man, who is ready to laugh, on all occaſions, without leave of his reaſon, or, what is worſe, of his humanity; ſome ſuch people I have ſeen, whoſe mirth was like the pranks of a madman, and if not of conſequence enough to excite anger or fear, was entitled to our compaſſion. Rouille has the happy talent of hitting that point where sentiment mingles with good humour. His wit, except when forced into oppoſition by the petulance of others, is ever of that gentle kind from which we have nothing to dread; that ſports itſelf in the level of ordinary underſtandings, and pleaſes, becauſe it makes no one diſpleaſed with himſelf. Even the natural gravity of Montauban yields to the winning livelineſs of Rouillé, and though the firſt ſeems to feel a little aukwarkneſs in the attempt, yet he often comes down from the loftineſs of his own charater, to meet the pleaſantry of the other's. Do not rally me on the ſavour of matrimony in the obſervation, if I venture to ſay, that Montauban ſeems to have reſumed ſomewhat of his former dignity. Think not that I ſuſpect the ſmalleſt diminution of his affection; but now, when the eaſe of the huſband has reſtored him to his native character — I know not what I would ſay — Believe me, I mean nothing at all — I have the greateſt reaſon to be ſatisfied and happy. At preſent, I believe, he is now and then out of humour with this viſitant of ours, Madame de Sancerre; and, it may be, thrown into ſomewhat of a ſeverity in his manner, from the obſervation of an oppoſite one in her. When ſhe utters, as ſhe does pretty often, any joke at which ſhe laughs heartily herſelf, I laugh, ſometimes with good will, but oftener (out of complaiſance) without; Rouillé laughs, and is ready with his jeſt in return; but Montauban looks graver than ever. Indeed, there is no reſource for one who cannot laugh at a jeſt, but to look grave at it. I wiſh my Maria could have accepted of the invitation he communicated by me ſome time ago. I think I ſhould have ſhewn him, in my friend, a livelineſs that would not have diſpleaſed him. Could you ſtill contrive to come, while Rouillé is here, you muſt be charmed with one another. It would give me an opportunity of making up to you, for the many dull letters I have obliged you to read; but you taxed yourſelf early with my correſpondence; it was then, perhaps, tolerable; it has, of late, been a mere collection of egotiſms, the egotiſms too of a mind ill at eaſe — but I have given up making apologies or acknowledgments to you; they are only for common obligations: mine is a debt beyond their quittance. LETTER XXXIII. Montauban to Segarva. I AM now three letters in your debt; yet the account of correſpondence uſed formerly to be in my favour. The truth is, that of facts I have nothing to write, and of ſentiments almoſt as little. Of the firſt, my ſituation here in the country deprives me; and of the laſt, that quiet ſort of ſtate I have got into is little productive. When I was unhappy as the lover of Julia, or firſt happy as her huſband, I had theme enough, and to ſpare. I can tell you, that I am happy ſtill; but it is a ſort of happineſs that would not figure in narration. I believe my Julia is every thing that a good wife ſhould be I hope I am a good huſband. I am neither young nor old enough for a doating one. You will ſmile and look back to certain letters and notes of mine, written ſome four or five months ago. I do not know why I ſhould be aſhamed of them. Were Segarva to marry, he would write ſuch letters for a while, and there never was a man who could write ſuch letters long. If there were, I am not ſure if I ſhould wiſh to be that man. When we cannot be quite ſo happy as others, our pride naturally balances the account: it ſhews us that we are wiſer. Rouillé, who has been here for a week or two, is of a different opinion: he holds the happieſt man to be ever the wiſeſt. You know Rouillé's diſpoſition, which was always too much in the ſun for us; but the goodneſs of his heart, and the purity of his honour, are above the reſt of his character. With this prepoſſeſſion in his favour, I hear him laugh at me, without reſentment; and by and by he ſteals upon me, till I forget myſelf, and laugh with him. I am ſometimes gay; but I feel a ſort of trouble in gaiety. It is exactly the reverſe with Rouillé: he can be ſerious, when he means to be ſo; but, if we mean nothing, he is gay, and I am ſerious. My wife is neither one nor t'other: there is ſomething about her too gentle for either; but, I think, her penſive ſoftneſs deſerts more readily to Rouille's ſide than to mine, though one ſhould imagine his manner the more diſtant from hers of the two. Rouillé jokes me on this: he calls her the middle ſtage between us; but ſays, it is up-hill towards my ſide. "A ſolitary caſtle, and a ſtill evening (ſaid he) would make a Julia of me; but to be Montauban, I muſt have a fog and a priſon." Perhaps, if we conſider matters partially, theſe men have the advantage of us: the little cordialities of life are more frequently in uſe than its greater and more important duties. Somebody, I think, has compared them to ſmall pieces of coin, which, though of leſs value than the large, are more current amongft men; but the parallel fails in one reſpect: a thouſand of thoſe livres do not conſtitute a louis; and I have known many characters poſſeſſed of all that the firſt could give, whoſe minds were incapable of the laſt. In this number, however, I mean not to include Rouillé. We have another gueſt, who illuſtrates my meaning better, the widow of Sancerre, whom you introduced to my acquaintance, a long time ago, in Spain. She was then nothing; for Sancerre conſidered all women nothing, and took care that, during his life, ſhe ſhould be no exception to the rule. He died; ſhe regained her freedom; and ſhe uſes it as one to whom it had been long denied. She is juſt fool enough to be a wit, and carries on a perpetual cruſade againſt ſenſe and ſeriouſneſs. I bear with her very impatiently: ſhe plagues me, I believe, the more. My wife ſmiles, Rouillé laughs at me; I am unable to laugh, and aſhamed to be angry; ſo I remain ſilent and ſtupid. Sometimes I ceaſe to think of her, and blame myſelf. Why ſhould I allow this ſpleen of ſenſe to diſqualify me for ſociety? — Once or twice I almoſt muttered things againſt my preſent ſituation. — Julia loves me; I know ſhe does: ſhe has that tenderneſs and gratitude, which will ſecure her affection to a huſband, who loves her as I do; but ſhe muſt often feel the difference of diſpoſition between us. Had ſuch a man as Rouillé been her huſband — not Rouillé neither, though ſhe ſeems often delighted with his good humour, when I cannot be pleaſed with it. — We are neither of us ſuch a man as the writer of a romance would have made a huſband for Julia. — There is, indeed, a pliability in the minds of women in this article, which frequently gains over opinion to the ſide of duty. — Duty is a cold word. — No matter, we will canvaſs it no farther. I know the purity of her boſom, and, I think, I am not unworthy of its affection. Her father I ſee much ſeldomer than I could wiſh; but he is greatly altered of late. Since the time of his wife's death, I have obſerved him droop apace; but Julia ſays, that the diſtreſs of their circumſtances kept up in him a ſort of falſe ſpirit, which, when they were diſembarraſſed, left him to ſink under reflection. His faculties, I can eaſily perceive, are not in that vigour they were wont to be; yet his bodily ſtrength does not much decline, and he ſeems more contented with himſelf, than he was when in full poſſeſſion of his abilities. We wiſh him to live with us; but he has conſtantly refuſed our requeſt, and it is a matter of delicacy to preſs him on that point. We go to ſee him ſometimes: he receives us with ſatisfaction, not ardour: violent emotions of every kind appear to be quenched in him. It creates, methinks, a feeling of mingled complacency and ſadneſs, to look on the evening of a life and of a character like Roubigné's. Shall I not ſee you here ſome time this autumn? You gave me a ſort of promiſe, and I need you more than ever. I want the ſociety of ſome one, in whoſe company I can be pleaſed, without the tax of thinking that I am ſilly for being ſo. LETTER XXXIV. Julia to Maria. I Have juſt now received a piece of intelligence, which I muſt beg my Maria inſtantly to ſatisfy me about. Le Blanc, my father's ſervant, was here a few hours ago, and among other news, informed Liſette, that a nephew of his, who is juſt come with his maſter from Paris, met Savillon there, whom he perfectly remembered, from having ſeen him in his viſits to his uncle at Belville. The lad had no time for enquiry, as his maſter's carriage was juſt ſetting off, when he obſerved a chaiſe drive up to the door of the hotel, with a gentleman in it, whom he knew to be Savillon, accompanied by a valet de chambre, and two black ſervants on horſeback. Think, Maria, what I feel at this intelligence! — Yet why ſhould it alarm me? — Alas! you know this poor, weak, throbbing heart of mine! I cannot, if I would, hide it from you. — Find him out, for Heaven's ſake, Maria; tell me— yet what now is Savillon to your Julia? — No matter — do anything your prudence may ſuggeſt; only ſatisfy me about the fate of this once dear — Again! I dare not truſt myſelf on the ſubject — Monſ. de Montauban! — Farewell! Delay not a moment to anſwer this. — Yet do not write, till you have learned ſomething ſatisfactory. At any rate, write me ſpeedily. — I have forgotten the name of the hotel, where the lad met him; it was ſituated in the Rue St. Anne. LETTER. XXXV. Montauban to Segarva. MY wife (that word muſt often come acroſs the narration of a married man) has been a good deal indiſpoſed of late. You will not joke me on this intelligence, as ſuch of my neighbours whom I have ſeen have done; it is not however what they ſay, or you may think; her ſpirits droop more than her body; ſhe is thoughtful and melancholy when ſhe thinks ſhe is not obſerved, and, what pleaſes me worſe, affects to appear otherwiſe, when ſhe is. I like not this ſadneſs which is conſcious of itſelf. Yet, perhaps, I have ſeen her thus before our marriage, and have rather admired this turn of mind than diſapproved of it but now I would not have her penſive — nor very gay neither — I would have nothing about her, methinks, to ſtir a queſtion in me whence it aroſe. She ſhould be contented with the affection ſhe knows I bear for her. I do not expect her to be romantically happy, and ſhe has no cauſe for uneaſineſs — I am not uneaſy neither — yet I wiſh her to conquer this melancholy. I was laſt night abroad at ſupper: Julia was a-bed before my return. I found her lute lying on the table, and a muſic-- book open by it. I could perceive the marks of tears ſhed on the paper, and the air was ſuch as might encourage their falling: ſleep however had overcome her ſadnefs, and ſhe did not awake when I opened the curtains to look on her. When I had ſtood ſome moments, I heard her ſigh ſtrongly through her ſleep, and preſently ſhe muttered ſome words, I know not of what import. I had ſometimes heard her do ſo before, without regarding it much; but there was ſomething that rouſed my attention now. I liſtened; ſhe ſighed again, and again ſpoke a few broken words; at laſt, I heard her plainly pronounce the name Savillon, two or three times over, and each time it was accompanied with ſighs ſo deep, that her heart ſeemed burſting as it heaved them. I confeſs the thing ſtruck me and, after muſing on it ſome time, I reſolved to try a little experiment this day at dinner, to diſcover whether chance had made her pronounce this name, or if ſome previous cauſe had impreſſed it on her imagination. I knew a man of that name at Paris, when I firſt went thither, who had an office under the intendant of the marine. I introduced ſome converſation on the ſubject of the fleet, and ſaid, in an indifferent manner, that I had heard ſo and ſo from my old acquaintance Savillon. She ſpilt ſome ſoup ſhe was helping me to at the inſtant; and, ſtealing a glance at her, I ſaw her cheeks fluſhed into crimſon. I have been ever ſince going the round of conjecture on this incident. I think I can recollect once, and but once, her father ſpeak of a perſon called Savillon reſiding abroad, from whom he had received a letter; but I never heard Julia mention him at all. I know not why I ſhould have forborn aſking her the reaſon of her being ſo affected at the ſound; yet, at the moment I perceived it, the queſtion ſtruck in my throat. I felt ſomething like guilt hang over this incident altogether — it is none of mine then — nor of Julia's neither, I truſt — and yet, Segarva, it has touched me nearer — much nearer than I ſhould own to any one but you. Nine at night. Upon looking over what I had written in the afternoon, I had almoſt reſolved to burn this letter, and write another; but it ſtrikes me as inſincerity to a friend like Segarva, not to truſt him with the very thought of the moment, weak as it may be. I begin now to be aſhamed of the effect that trifle, I mentioned above, had upon me. Julia is better, and has been ſinging to me the old Spaniſh ballad, which you ſent us lately. I am delighted with thoſe ancient national ſongs, becauſe there is a ſimplicity, and an expreſſion in them, which I can underſtand. Adepts in muſic are pleaſed with more intricate compoſitions; and they talk more of the pleaſure than they feel; and others talk after them, without feeling at all. LETTER XXXVI. Savillon to Herbert. I AM here in Paris, and fulfil the promiſe, which your friendſhip required of me, to write to you immediately on my arrival. Alas! my reception is not ſuch as I looked for. He, whom alone my arrival ſhould have intereſted, my ever faithful Beauvaris! — he meets me not — we ſhall never meet — he died, while I was imagining fond things of our meeting! Gracious God! what have I done, that I ſhould be always thus an outcaſt from ſociety? When France was dear to me as life itſelf, my deſtiny tore me from her coaſt; now, when I anticipated the pleaſures of my return, is this the welcome ſhe affords me? Forlorn and friendleſs as my early days were, I complained not while Beauvaris was mine: he was wholly mine, for his heart was not made for the world. Naturally reſerved, he ſhrunk early from its notice; and, when he had lived to judge of its ſentiments, he wiſhed not to be in the liſt of its friends. His extreme modeſty, indeed, was an evil in his fate; becauſe it deprived him of that protection and aſſiſtance, which his ſituation required. Thoſe who might have been patrons of his merit, had not time to ſearch for talents his baſhfulneſs obſcured. His virtues even ſuffered imputation from it: ſhy, not only of intimacy, but even of opinion and ſentiment, perſons, whoſe ſituation ſeemed to entitle them to his confidence, complained of his coldneſs and indifference, and he was accuſed of want of feeling, from what, in truth, was an exceſs of ſenſibility. This jewel, undiſcovered by others, was mine. From infancy, each had accuſtomed himſelf to conſider his friend but a better part of himſelf; and, when the heart of either was full, talking to the other was but unloading it in ſoliloquy. Forgive me, my dear Herbert, for thus dwelling on the ſubject. The only ſad comfort I have now left me, is to think of his worth: it is a privilege I would not waſte on common minds, to hear me on this theme; your's can underſtand it. Why was I abſent from Paris? Too much did the latter days of Beauvaris require me! They ſaw him ſtruggling with poverty as well as ſickneſs; yet the laſt letter he wrote me confeſſed neither; and ſome little preſents, the produce of Martinique, which I ſent him, he would not convert into money, becauſe they came from me. I am now ſitting in the room, in which he died! — On that paltry bed lay the head of Beauvaris — on this deſk, whereon I write, he wrote! — Pardon me a while, I am unable to go on. It is from the indulgence of ſorrow, that we firſt know a reſpite from affliction. I have given a looſe to my grief, and I feel the relief, which my tears have afforded me. I am now returned to my hotel, and am able to recollect myſelf. I have not yet ſeen any acquaintance of Monſ. de Roubigné; this blow, indeed, did not allow me leiſure or ſpirits for enquiry; I feel as if I were in a foreign land, and am almoſt afraid of the noiſe and buſtle I hear in the ſtreets. I have ſent, however, offering a viſit to a particular young lady, of whom I ſhall be able to get intelligence of Roubigné's family; but my meſſenger is not yet returned. He has found her, and ſhe has appointed me to come to her to-morrow morning. You cannot imagine what a flutter the expectation of this viſit has thrown me into; I am not apt to ſtand in awe of preſages, but I could be very weak that way at this moment. My man, who poſſeſſes a happy vivacity, brought me in, after dinner, a bottle of Burgundy, which, he ſaid, the landlord aſſured him was excellent. I have drunk three fourths of it, by way of medicine; it has made my head ſomewhat dizzy, but my heart is as heavy as before. What a letter of egotiſm have I written! but you have taught me to give vent to my feelings, by the acquaintance you have allowed me with yours. To ſpeak one's diſtreſſes to the unfeeling is terrible; even to aſk the alms of pity is humiliating; but to pour our griefs into the boſom of a friend, is but committing to him a pledge above the truſt of ordinary men. Do not, I beſeech you, forget your deſign of travelling into France this ſeaſon; — yet why ſhould I aſk this? I know not where fortune may lead me! it cannot, however, place me in a ſituation, where the friendſhip of Herbert ſhall be forgotten. P. S. I direct this for you at London, as, I think, you muſt be there by this time. Your anſwer will find me here; let it be ſpeedy. LETTER XXXVII. Savillon to Herbert. BEAR with me, Herbert, bear with me. The firſt uſe I make of that correſpondence which you deſired, is to pour out my miſeries before you! but you can hear them. — You have known what it is to love, and to deſpair as I do. When I told you my Beauvaris was no more, I thought I had exhauſted the ſum of diſtreſs, which this viſit to Paris was to give me. I knew not then what fate had prepared for me — that Julia, on whom my doating heart had reſted all its hopes of happineſs; — that Julia is the wife of another! All but this I could have born; the loſs of fortune, the decay of health, the coldneſs of friends, might have admitted of hope; here only was deſpair to be found, and here I have found it! Oh! Herbert! ſhe was ſo interwoven with my thoughts of futurity, that life now fades into a blank, and is not worth the keeping; — but I have a uſe for it; I will ſee her yet at leaſt — Wherefore ſhould I wiſh to ſee her? — Yet, methinks, it is now the only object that can prompt a wiſh in me. When I viſited that lady, that Maria de Roncilles, whom I knew to be the deareſt of her friends, ſhe ſeemed to receive me with confuſion; her tongue could ſcarce articulate the words that told me of Julia's marriage: She mentioned ſomething too of having heard of mine. — I am tortured every way with conjecture — my brain ſcarce holds its recollection. — Julia de Roubigné is married to another! I know not what I ſaid to this friend of her's at firſt; I remember only that, when I had recovered a little, I begged her to convey a letter from me to Julia; ſhe ſeemed to heſitate in her conſent; but ſhe did at laſt conſent. Twice have I written, and twice have I burnt what I had written — I have no friend to guide, to direct me — not even to weep to! At laſt I have finiſhed that letter; it contains the laſt requeſt which the miſerable Savilion has to make. This one interview paſt, and my days have nothing to mark them with anxiety or hope. I am now more calmly wretched; the writing of that letter has relieved, for a while, my ſwelling heart. I went with it myſelf to Mademoiſelle de Roncilles's; ſhe was abroad, ſo I left it without ſeeing her. You can judge of my feelings; I wondered at the indifference of the faces I met with in my way; they had no cares to cloud them, none at leaſt like Savillon's. — Why of all thoſe thouſands am I the moſt wretched? I am returned to my hotel. I hear the voices of my ſervants below: they are telling, I ſuppoſe, the adventures of their voyage. I can diſtinguiſh the voice of my man, and. his audience are merry around him — Why ſhould he not jeſt? he knows not what his maſter ſuffers. Something like a ſtupid ſleepineſs oppreſſes me: laſt night, I could not ſleep. Where are now thoſe luxurious ſlumbers, thoſe wandering dreams of future happineſs? — Never ſhall I know them again — Good night, my Herbert! — It is ſomething ſtill to ſleep and to forget them. LETTER XXXVIII. Julia to Maria. WHAT do you tell me! Savillon is Paris! unmarried, unengaged, raving of Julia! Hide me from myſelf, Maria, hide me from myſelf — Am I not the wife of Montauban? — Yes, and I know that character which, as the wife of Montauban, I have to ſupport: her huſband's honour and her own are in the breaſt of Julia. My heart ſwells, while I think of the ſtation in which I am placed. — Relentleſs Honour! thou trieſt me to the uttermoſt; thou enjoineſt me to think no more of ſuch a being as Savillon. But can I think of him no more Cruel remembrances! — Thou too, my friend, betrayeſt me; you dare not truſt me with the whole ſcene; but you tell me enough. — I ſee him, I ſee him now! He came, unconſcious of what Fortune had made of me; he came, elate with the hopes of ſharing with his Julia that wealth, which propitious Heaven had beſtowed on him. — She is married to another! — I ſee him ſtart back in amazement and deſpair; his eye wild and haggard, his voice loſt in the throb of aſtoniſhment! He thinks on the ſhadows which his ſond hopes had reared — the dreams of happineſs! — Say not that he wept at the thought. — Had thoſe tears fallen upon Julia's grave, Memory! thou couldſt not thus have ſtung me. But, perhaps, gentle as his nature is, he was not weak enough to be overcome by the thought. Could he but think of me with indifference — Tell him, Maria, what a wretch I am: a wife, without a wife's affection, to whom life has loſt its reliſh, and virtue its reward. Let him hate me, I deſerve his ſcorn — yet, methinks, I may claim his pity. — The daughter of Roubigné, the wife of Montauban! I will not bear to be pitied. No; I will ſtifle the grief that would betray me, and be miſerable without a witneſs. This heart ſhall break, this proud heart, without ſuffering a ſigh to relieve it. Alas! my friend, it will not be. — That picture, Maria, that picture Why did I not baniſh it from my ſight? too amiable Savillon! Look there, look there! in that eye there is no ſcorn, no reproach to the unhappy Julia: mildneſs and melancholy! — We were born to be miſerable! — Think'ſt thou, Maria, that at this moment — it is poſſible — he is gazing thus on the reſemblance of one, whoſe ill-fated raſhneſs has undone herſelf and him! — he thus weep over it as I do? Will he pardon my offences, and thus preſs it? — I dare not: this boſom is the property of Montauban. — Tears are all I have to beſtow. Is there guilt in thoſe tears? Heaven knows. I cannot help weeping. I was interrupted by the voice of my huſband, giving ſome orders to his ſervant at the door of my apartment. He entered with a look of gaiety; but I fear, by the change of his countenance, that he obſerved my tears. I clapped on my hat to hide them, and told him, as well as I could, that I was going to walk. He ſuffered me to leave him, without any further queſtion. I ſtrolled I knew not whither, till I found myſelf by the ſide of a little brook, about a quarter of a mile's diſtance from the houſe. The ſtillneſs of noon, broken only by the gentle murmuring of the water, and the quiet hum of the bees, that hung on the wild flowers around it; theſe gave me back myſelf, and allowed me the languor of thought; my tears fell without controul, and almoſt without diſtreſs. I would have looked again on the picture of Savillon, for I could then have truſted myſelf with the ſight of it; but I had left it behind in my chamber. The thoughts of its being ſeen by my huſband gave wings to my return. I hope he miſſed it; for I found it lying, as I had left it, on my dreſſing-table, in the midſt of ſome letters of compliment, which had been thrown careleſsly there the day before; and, when I went down ſtairs, I diſcovered nothing in his behaviour that ſhould have followed ſuch a diſcovery. On the contrary, I think, he ſeemed more pleaſed than uſual, and was particularly attentive to me. I felt his kindneſs a reproach, and my endeavours to return it ſat aukwardly upon me. There was a treachery, methought, in my attempts to pleaſe him, and, I fear, the greater eaſe I meant to aſſume in making thoſe attempts, I gave them only more the appearance of conſtraint. What a ſituation is mine! to wear the appearance of ſerenity, while my heart is wretched, and the diſſimulation of guilt, though my ſoul is unconſcious of a crime! — There is ſomething predictive in my mind, that tells me I ſhall not long be thus; but I am ſick of conjecture, as I am bereft of hope, and only ſatisfy myſelf with concluding, that, in the moſt fateful lives, there is ſtill a certain point, where the maze of deſtiny can bewilder no more! LETTER XXXIX. Montauban to Segarva. SEGARVA! — but it muſt be told — I bluſh even telling it to thee — have I lived to this? — that thou ſhouldſt hear the name of Montauban coupled with diſhonour! I came into my wife's room yeſterday morning, ſomewhat unexpectedly. I obſerved ſhe had been weeping, though ſhe put on her hat to conceal it, and ſpoke in a tone of voice affectedly indifferent. Presently ſhe went out on pretence of walking; I ſtaid behind, not without ſurpriſe at her tears, though, I think, without ſuſpicion; when turning over (in the careleſs way one does in muſing) ſome looſe papers on her dreſſing-table, I found the picture of a young man in miniature, the glaſs of which was ſtill wet with the tears ſhe had ſhed on it. I have but a confuſed remembrance of my feelings at the time; there was a bewildered pauſe of thought, as if I had waked in another world. My faithful Lonquillez happened to enter the room at that moment; look there! ſaid I, holding out the picture without knowing what I did; he held it in his hand, and turning it, read on the back, Savillon. I ſtarted at that ſound, and ſnatched the picture from him; I believe he ſpoke ſomewhat, expreſſing his ſurpriſe at my emotion; I know not what it was, nor what my anſwer: he was retiring from the chamber — I called him back. — "I think, (ſaid I) thou loveſt thy maſter, and would ſerve him if thou could'ſt?" — "With my life?" anſwered Lonquillez — the warmth of his manner touched me: I think I laid my hand on my ſword. Savillon! I repeated the name; "I have heard of him," ſaid Lonquillez. — "Heard of him!" — "I heard Le Blanc talk of him a few days ago." — "And what did he ſay of him?" — "And ſaid he had heard of this gentleman's arrival from the Weſt-Indies, from his own nephew, who had juſt come from Paris; that he remembered him formerly, when he lived with his maſter at Belville, the ſweeteſt young gentleman, and the handſomeſt in the province." — My ſituation ſtruck me at that inſtant. — I was unable to enquire further. — After ſome little time, Lonquillez left the room; I knew not that he was gone, till I heard him going down ſtairs. I called him back a ſecond time; he came: I could not ſpeak. — "My dear maſter!" (ſaid Lonquillez) — It was the accent of a friend, and it overcame me. "Lonquillez, (ſaid I) your maſter is moſt unhappy! — Canſt thou think my wife is falſe to me?" — "Heaven forbid!" ſaid he, and ſtarted back in amazement. — "It may be I wrong her; but to dream of Savillon, to keep his picture, to weep over it." — "What ſhall I do, Sir?" ſaid Lonquillez. — "You ſee I am calm, I returned, and will do nothing raſhly; — try to learn from Le Blanc every thing he knows about this Savillon. Liſette too is ſilly, and talks much. I know your faith, and will truſt your capacity; get me what intelligence you can, but beware of ſhewing the moſt diſtant ſuſpicion.—We heard my wife below; — threw down the picture where I had found it, and haſtened to meet her. As I approached her, my heart throbbed ſo violently that I durſt not venture the meeting. My dreſſing-room door ſtood a-jar; I ſlunk in there, I believe, unperceived, and heard her paſs on to her chamber. I would have called Lonquillez to have ſpoken to him again; but I durſt not then, and have not found an opportunity I ſaw my wife ſoon after; I counterfeited as well as I could, and, I think, ſhe was the moſt embarraſſed of the two; ſhe attempted once or twice to bring in ſome apology for her former appearance; complained of having been ill in the morning, that her head had ached, and her eyes been hot and uneaſy. She came herſelf to call me to dinner. We dined alone, and I marked her cloſely; I ſaw, (by Heaven! I did) a fawning ſolicitude to pleaſe me, an attempt at the good-humour of innocence, to cover the embarraſſment of guilt. I ſhould have obſerved it, I am ſure I ſhould, even without a key; as it was, I could read her ſoul to the bottom. — Julia de Roubigné! the wife of Montauban! — Is it not ſo? I have had time to think, — You will recollect the circumſtances of our marriage — her long unwillingneſs, her almoſt unconquerable reluctance. — Why did I marry her? Let me remember — I durſt not truſt the honeſt deciſion of my friend, but ſtole into this engagement without his knowledge; I purchaſed her conſent, bribed, I bought her; bought her, the leavings of another! — I will trace this line of infamy no further: there is madneſs in it! Segarva, I am afraid to hear from you; yet write to me, write to me freely. If you hold me juſtly puniſhed — yet ſpare me, when you think on the ſeverity of my puniſhmen LETTER XL. Montauban to Segarva. LONQUILLEZ has not ſlept on his poſt and chance has aſſiſted his vigilance. Le Blanc came hither the morning after our converſation: Lonquillez managed his enquiry with equal acuteneſs and caution: the other told every thing as the ſtory of an old man — he ſmiled and told it. He knew not that he was delivering the teſtimony of a witneſs — that the fate of his former miſtreſs hung on it! This Savillon lived at Belville from his earlieſt youth, the companion of Julia, though a dependant on her father. When they were forced to remove thence, he accompanied their retreat, the only companion of Roubigné, whom adverſity had left him to comfort it — but he had his reward: the company of the daughter often ſupplied the place of her father's. He was her maſter in literature, her fellow-ſcholar in muſic and painting, and they frequently planned walks in concert, which they afterwards trod together — Le Blanc has ſeen them there, liſtening to the ſong of the nightingale. — I am to draw the concluſion. — All this might be innocent, the effects of early intimacy and friendſhip; and on this ſuppoſition might reſt the quiet of an indifferent huſband, But why was this intimacy, this friendſhip, ſo induſtriouſly concealed from me? The name of Savillon never mentioned, except in guilty dreams? while his picture was kept in her chamber for the adultery of the imagination! — Do I triumph while I puſh this evidence? — Segarva! whither will it lead me? The truth riſes upon me, and every ſucceeding circumſtance points to one concluſion. Liſette was to-day of a junketting party, which Lonquillez contrived for the entertainment of his friend Le Blanc. Mention was again made of old ſtories, and Savillon was a perſon of the drama. The wench is naturally talkative, and ſhe was then in ſpirits from company and good cheer. Le Blanc and ſhe recollected interviews of their young miſtreſs and this handſome eleve of her father. They were, it ſeems, nurſed by the ſame woman, that old Laſune, for whom Julia procured a little dwelling, and a penſion of four hundred livres, from her unſuſpecting huſband. "She loved them (ſaid Le Blanc) like her own children, and they were like brother and ſiſter to each other." — " Brother and ſiſter, indeed!" (ſaid Liſette.) She was more ſagacious, and had obſerved things better. — "I know what I know, (ſaid ſhe) but, to be ſure, thoſe things are all over now, and, I am perſuaded, my miſtreſs loves no man ſo well as her own huſband. What ſignifies what happened ſo long ago, eſpecially while Monſ. de Montauban knows nothing about the matter?" Theſe were her words: Lonquillez repeated them thrice to me. — Were I a fool, a driveller, I might be ſatisfied to doubt and be uneaſy; it is Montauban's to ſee his diſgrace, and, ſeeing, to revenge it. Lonquillez has been with me: his diligence is indefatigable; but he feels for the honour of his maſter, and, being a Spaniard, is entitled to ſhare it. He went with Le Blanc to ſee Laſune, whom that old man, it ſeems, never fails to viſit when he is here. Lonquillez told her, that Le Blanc had news for her about her foſter-ſon. "Of my dear Savillon?" cried ſhe. "Yes (ſaid Le Blanc). You will have heard, that he arrived from abroad ſome weeks ago; and I am told, that he is worth a power of money, which his uncle left him in the. Weſt-Indies." — "Bleſs him! Heavens bleſs him! (cried Laſune.) Then I may ſee him once more before I die. You never ſaw him, (turning to Lonquillez) but Le Blanc remembers him well: the handſomeſt, ſweeteſt, beſt conditioned — your miſtreſs and he have often ſat on that bench there — Lord pity my forgetfulneſs! — it was far from this place; but it was juſt ſuch a bench — and they would prefer poor Laſune's little treat to all the fine things at my maſter's — and how he would look on my ſweet child! — Well, deſtiny rules every thing; but there was a time, when I thought I ſhould have called her by another name than Montauban." — Lonquillez was too much ſtruck with her words to appear unaffected by them: ſhe obſerved his ſurpriſe. — "You think no harm, I hope," ſaid ſhe. He aſſured her he did not. "Nay, I need not care, for that part, who hears me, yet ſome folks might think it odd; but we are all friends here, as we may ſay, and neither of you, I know, are tale-bearers, otherwiſe I ſhould not prattle as I do; eſpecially, as the laſt time I ſaw my lady, when I aſked after her foſter-brother, ſhe told me, I muſt not ſpeak of him now, nor talk of the meetings they uſed to have at my houſe." Such were her words; the memory of Lonquillez is faithful, and he was intereſted to remember — I drew my breath ſhort, and muttered vengeance: the good fellow ſaw my warmth, and tried to moderate it. "It is a matter, Sir, (ſaid he) of ſuch importance, that, if I may preſume to adviſe, nothing ſhould be believed raſhly. If my miſtreſs loves Savillon, if he ſtill anſwers her fondneſs, they will ſurely write to each other. I commonly take charge of the letters for the poſt: if you can find any proof that way, it cannot lie nor deceive you." I have agreed to his propoſal. — How am I fallen, Segarva, when ſuch artifices are eaſy to me! — But I will not pauſe on trivial objections — the fate of Montauban is ſet upon this caſt, and the leſſer moralities muſt ſpeak unheeded. LETTER XLI. Montauban to Segarva. IT is ſomething to be ſatisfied of the worſt. I have now ſuch proof, Segarva! — Enquiry is at an end, and vengeance the only buſineſs I have left. Before you can anſwer this — the infamy of your friend cannot be eraſed, but it shall be waſhed in blood! Lonquillez has juſt brought me a letter from my wife to a Mademoiſelle de Roncilles, a boſom-friend of hers at Paris. He opened it, by a very ſimple operation, without hurting its appearance. It conſiſted only of a few hurried lines, deſiring her to deliver an encloſed letter to Savillon, and to take charge of his anſwer. — That letter now lies before me. — Read it, Segarva — thou wilt wiſh to ſtab her while thou read'ſt it — but Montauban has a dagger too. "I know not, Sir, how to anſwer the "letter my friend Mademoiſelle de Ron"cilles has juſt ſent me from you. The "intimacy of our former days I ſtill recal, as "one of the happieſt periods of my life The "friendſhip of Julia you are certainly ſtill "entitled to, and might claim, without "the ſuſpicion of impropriety, though fate "has now thrown her into the arms of an"other, There would then be no occaſion "for this ſecret interview, which, I con"feſs, I cannot help dreading; but, as "you urge the impoſſibility of your viſiting "Monſ, de Montauban, without betraying "emotions, which, you ſay, would be danger"ous to the peace of us all, conjured as I am "by thoſe motives of compaſſion, which "my heart is, perhaps, but too ſuſceptible "of for my own peace, I have at laſt, not "without a feeling like remorſe, reſolved to "meet you on Monday next, at the houſe "of our old nurſe Laſune, whom I ſhall "prepare for the purpoſe, and on whoſe fide"lity I can perfectly rely. I hope you will "give me credit for that remembrance of "Savillon, which your letter, rather un"juſtly, denies me, when you find me "agreeing to this meaſure of imprudence, "of danger, it may be of guilt, to mitigate "the diſtreſs, which I have been unfortu"nate enough to give him." I feel at this moment a ſort of determined coolneſs, which the bending up of my mind to the revenge her crimes deſerve, has conferred upon me; I have therefore underlined * ſome paſſages in this damned ſcroll, that my friend may ſee the weight of that proof on which I proceed. Mark the air of prudery that runs through it, the trick of voluptuous vice to give pleaſure the zeſt of nicety and reluctance. "It may be of guilt." — Mark with what coolneſs ſhe invites him to participate it! — Is this the hand-writing of Julia? — I am awake and ſee it, — — Julia! my wife! damnation! * The paſſages here alluded to are printed in Italics. I have been viſiting this Laſune, whoſe houſe is deſtined for the ſcene of my wife's interview with her gallant. I feel the meanneſs of an inquiſition, that degrades me into the wretched ſpy on an abandoned woman. — I bluſhed and heſitated while I talked to this old doating miniſter of their pleaſures. But the moment comes when I ſhall reſume myfelf, when I ſhall burſt upon them in the terrors of puniſhment. Whether they have really impoſed on the ſimplicity of this creature, I know not; but her anſwers to ſome diſtant queſtions of mine looked not like thoſe of an accomplice of their guilt. — Or, rather, it is I who am deceived; the cunning of intrigue is the property of the meaneſt among the ſex. — It matters not: I have proof without her. She conducted me into an inner room fitted up with a degree of nicety. On one ſide ſtood a bed, with curtains and a bed-cover of clean cotton. That bed, Segarva! — but this heart ſhall down; I will be calm — at the time, while I looked on it, I could not; the old woman obſerved my emotion, and aſked if I was ill; I recovered myſelf however, and ſhe ſuſpected nothing; I think ſhe did not — It looked as if the Beldame had trimmed it for their uſe — damn her! damn her! killing is poor — Canſt thou not invent me ſome luxurious vengeance? Lonquillez has re-ſealed and ſent off her letter to Savillon; he will take care to bring me the anſwer: but I know the anſwer — "On Monday next" — why ſhould I ſtart as I think on it? — Their fate is fixed! mine perhaps — but I will think no more. — Farewell. Rouillé is juſt arrived here; I could have wiſhed him abſent now. He cannot participate my wrongs; they are ſacred to more determined ſouls. — Methinks, at this time, I hate his ſmiles; they ſuit not the purpoſes of Montauban. LETTER XLII. Julia to Maria. I Hope, from the conveyance which Liſette has procured for this letter, it may reach you nearly as ſoon, as that in which I incloſed one for Savillon. If it comes in time, let it prevent your delivering that letter. I have been conſidering of this interview again, and I feel a ſort of crime in it towards my huſband, which I dare not venture on. I have treſpaſſed too much againſt ſincerity already, in concealing from him my former attachment to, that unfortunate young man. So ſtrongly indeed did this idea ſtrike me, that I was prepared to tell it him this very day, when he returned from riding, and found me ſcarce recovered from the emotion which a reperuſal of Savillon's letter had cauſed; but his look had a ſternneſs in it, ſo oppoſite to thoſe feelings which ſhould have opened the boſom of your diſtracted Julia, that I ſhrunk back into ſecreſy, terrified at the reflection on my own purpoſe. — Why am I the wife of this man? but if confidence and tenderneſs are not mine to give, there is a duty which is not mine to refuſe. — Tell Savillon, I cannot ſee him. Not in the way he aſks — let him come as the friend of Julia de Roubigné — Oh! Maria! what a picture do theſe words recall the friend of Julia de Roubigné! — in thoſe happy days when it was not guilt to ſee, to hear, to think of him — when this poor heart was inconſcious of its little wanderings, or felt them but as harmleſs dreams, which ſweetened the real ills of a life too early viſited by misfortune! When I look back on that life, how fateful has it been! Is it unjuſt in Providence, to make this ſo often the lot of hearts little able to ſtruggle with misfortune? or is it indeed the poſſeſſion of ſuch hearts, that creates their misfortunes? Had I not felt as I have done, half the ills I complain of had been nothing, and at this moment I were happy. Yet to have wanted ſuch a heart, ill-ſuited as it is to the rude touch of ſublunary things — I think I cannot wiſh ſo much. There will come a time, Maria, (might I forebode without your cenſure, I ſhould ſay it may not be diſtant) when they ſhall wound it no longer! In truth, I am every way weak at preſent. My poor father adds much to my diſtreſſes: he has appeared, for ſome time paſt, to be verging towards a ſtate, which alone I ſhould think worſe than his death. His affection for me is the only ſenſe now quite alive about him, nay it too partakes of imbecillity. He uſed to embrace me with ardour; he now embraces me with tears. Judge then, if I am able to meet Savillon at this time, if I could allow myſelf to meet him at all. Think what I am, and what he is. The coolneſs I ought to maintain had been difficult at beſt; at preſent, it is impoſſible. I can ſcarce think without weeping; and to ſee that form — Maria! when this picture was drawn! — I remember the time well — my father was at Paris, and Savillon left with my mother and me at Belville. The painter (who was accidentally in our province) came thither to give me a few leſſons of drawing. Savillon was already a tolerable deſigner; but he joined with me in becoming ſcholar to this man. When our maſter was with us, he uſed ſometimes to guide my hand; when he was gone, at our practice of his inſtructions, Savillon commonly ſupplied his place. But Savillon's hand was not like the other's: I felt ſomething from its touch, not the leſs delightful from carrying a ſort of fear along with that delight: it was like a pulſe in the ſoul! — Whither am I wandering? What now are thoſe ſcenes to me, and why ſhould I wiſh to remember them? Am I not another's, irrevocably another's? — Savillon knows I am. — Let him not wiſh to ſee me: we cannot recal the paſt, and wherefore, wherefore ſhould we add to the evils of the preſent? LETTER xLIII. Montauban to Segarva. I HAVE miſſed ſome link of my intelligence; for the day is paſt, and no, anſwer from Savillon is arrived. I thank him, whatever be the reaſon, for he has given me time to receive the inſtructions of my friend. You caution me well as to the certainty of her guilt. You know the proof I have already acquired; but I will have aſſurance beyond the poſſibility of doubt: I will wait their very meeting, before I ſtrike this blow, and my vengeance, like that of Heaven, ſhall be juſtified by a repetition of her crimes. I am leſs eaſily convinced, or rather I am leſs willing to be guided, by your opinion, as to the ſecreſy of her puniſhment. You tell me, that there is but one expiation of a wife's infidelity. — I am reſolved, ſhe dies — but that the ſacrifice ſhould be ſecret. Were I even to upbraid her with her crime, you ſay, her tears, her proteſtations would outplead the conviction of ſenſe itſelf, and I ſhould become the dupe of that infamy I am bound to puniſh. — Is there not ſomething like guilt in this ſecreſy? Should Montauban ſhrink, like a coward, from the vindication of his honour? — Should he not burſt upon this ſtrumpet and her lover — the picture is beaſtly — the ſword of Montauban! — thou art in the right, it would diſgrace it. — Let me read your letter again. I am a fool to be ſo moved — but your letter has given me back myſelf. "The diſgrace is only publiſhed by an open revenge: it can be buried with the guilty by a ſecret one." — I am yours, Segarva, and you ſhall guide me. Chance has been kind to me for the means. Once, in Andaluſia, I met with a Venetian empiric, of whom, among other chymical curioſities, I bought a poiſonous drug, the efficacy of which he ſhewed me on ſome animals to whom he adminiſtered it. The death it gave was eaſy, and altered not the appearance of the thing it killed. I have fetched it from my cabinet, and it ſtands before me. It is contained in a little ſquare phial, marked with ſome hieroglyphic ſcrawls, which I do not underſtand. Methinks, while I look on it — I could be weak, very weak, Segarva. — But an hour ago I ſaw her walk, and ſpeak, and ſmile — yet theſe few drops! — I will look on it no more. — I hear the tread of her feet in the apartment above. Did ſhe know what paſſes in my mind! — the ſtudy in which I ſit ſeems the cave of a demon! Lonquillez has relieved me again. He has this moment got from her maid the following letter, addreſſed to her friend Mademoiſelle de Roncilles. What a ſex it is! but I have heard of their alliances of intrigue. — It is not that theſe things are uncommon, but that Montauban is a fool — a huſband — a — perdition ſeize her! 'Is my friend too leagued againſt me? 'Alas! my virtue was too feeble before, 'and needed not the addition of Maria's 'arguments to be overcome. Savillon's 'figure, you ſay, aided by that languid 'paleneſs, which his late illneſs had given 'it, was irreſiſtible. — Why is not Julia 'ſick? — yet, wretched as ſhe is, irre'trievably wretched, ſhe breathes, and walks, and ſpeaks, as ſhe did in her moſt 'happy days! —. 'You intreat me, for pity's ſake, to meet 'him. — "He hinted his deſign of ſoon 'leaving France to return to Martinique." ' — Why did he ever leave France? Had 'he remained contented with love and 'Julia, inſtead of this ſtolen, this guilty 'meeting — What do I ſay? — I live but 'for Montauban! 'I will think no longer. — This one 'time I will ſilence the monitor within me. '— Tell him, I will meet him. On Thurſday next, let him be at Laſune's in the evening: it will be dark by ſix. 'I dare not read what I have written. 'Farewell.' It will be dark by ſix. — Yet I will keep my word, Segarva! they ſhall meet, that certainty may precede my vengeance; but, when they part, they part to meet no more. Lonquillez's fidelity I know: his ſoul is not that of a ſervant he ſhall provide for Savillon. Julia is a victim above him — Julia ſhall be the charge of his maſter. Farewell! when I write again, it ſhall not be to threaten. LETTER XLIV. Savilion to Herbert. AFTER an interval of torture, I have at laſt received an anſwer from Madame de Montauban — Have I lived to write that name! — but it is fit that I be calm. Her friend has communicated her reſolution of allowing me to ſee her in thehouſe of that good Laſune, whom I have mentioned to you in ſome of our converſations, as the common nurſe of both. Were it not madneſs to look back, and that, at preſent, I need the full poſſeſſion of myſelf, the idea of Laſune's houſe would recal ſuch things — but they are paſt, never, never to return! I have recovered and can go on calmly. I ſet out to-morrow morning; Thurſday next is the day ſhe has appointed for our interview. I have but to diſpatch this one great buſineſs, and then depart from my native country for ever. Every tie that bound me to this world is now broken, except that which accident gave me in your friendſhip: before I croſs the Atlantic, I would once more ſee my Herbert; when I have indulged myſelf in that laſt throb of affection, which our friendſhip demands at parting, there remains nothing for me to do, but to ſhrink up from all the feelings of life, and look forward, without emotion, to its cloſe! I feel, at this moment, as if I were on my death-bed, the neceſſity of a manly compoſure; that ſtifled ſigh was the laſt ſacrifice of my weakneſs! I am now thinking what I have to do with the hours that remain: meet me like a man, and help me to employ them as I ought. Nothing ſhall drag me back to Europe, and therefore I would ſhake off every occaſion to reviſit it. Though the externals of place and diſtance are not of much importance to me, yet there is ſomething in large towns that I wiſh to avoid. As you mention a deſign of being in Dorſetſhire ſometime ſoon, may I aſk you to make next week that time, and meet me at the town of Poole in that county? Inconſiderable and unknown as I am, there are circumſtances that might mark me out in Picardy; and therefore I ſhall go by Dieppe to that port of England, where I know I ſhall, at this ſeaſon, find an opportunity of getting over the Atlantic. I incloſe a letter to a merchant in London, relating to ſome buſineſs, in which my uncle was concerned with the houſe, of which he is a partner. Be ſo kind as forward it, and let him know, that I deſire the anſwer may be committed to your care. As I ſee, by his correſpondence, that he is not altogether a man of buſineſs, he may perhaps be deſirous of meeting with you, to aſk ſome queſtions about the nephew of his old acquaintance. He will wonder, as others will, at ſo rich a man returning to Martinique. If a reaſon is neceſſary, invent ſome one; it is peculiar to miſery like mine to be incapable of being told. — I ſhall relapſe, if I continue to write. — You will, if it is poſſible, meet me at Poole; if not, write to me thither, where I ſhall find you. Let your letter wait me at the poſt-houſe. Farewell. LETTER XLV. Julia to Maria. THE hour is almoſt arrived! My huſband has juſt left me: he came into my room in his riding-dreſs. — "I ſhall not be at home (ſaid he) till ſupper-- time, and Rouillé's ſhooting party will detain him till it is late." — The conſciouſneſs of my purpoſe preſſed on my tongue while I anſwered him: I faltered, and could hardly ſpeak. "You ſpeak faintly (ſaid Montauban). You are not ill, I hope," taking my hand. I told him, truly, that my head ached a good deal, that it had ached all day, that I meant to try if a walk would do it ſervice. "Perhaps it may," anſwered he, and methought he looked ſteadily, and with a ſort of queſtion, at me; or rather my own mind interpreted his look in that manner. — I believe I bluſhed.— How I tremble as I look on my watch! Would I could recal my promiſe! I am ſomewhat bolder now; but it is not from having conquered my fear; ſomething like deſpair aſſiſts me. — It wants but a few minutes — the hand that points them ſeems to ſpeak as I watch it. — I come, Savillon, I come! How ſhall I deſcribe our meeting? I am unfit for deſcribing — it cannot be deſcribed — I ſhall be calmer by and by. I know not how I got to the houſe. From the moment I quitted my chamber, I was unconſcious of every thing around me. The firſt object that ſtruck my eye was Savillon! I recollect my nurſe placing me in a chair oppoſite to where he ſat — ſhe left us — I felt the room turning round with me — I had fainted, it ſeems. When I recovered, I found her ſupporting me in her arms, and holding a phial of ſalts to my noſe. Savillon had my hands in his, gazing on me with a countenance of diſtreſs and terror. — My eye met his, and, for ſome moments, I looked on him, as I have done in my dreams, unmindful of our ſituation, — The preſſure of his hand awakened me to recollection. He looked on me more earneſtly ſtill, and breathed out the word Julia! — It was all he could utter; but it ſpoke ſuch things, Maria! — You cannot underſtand its force. Had you felt it as I did! — I could not, indeed I could not help burſting into tears. "My deareſt children," cried the good Laſune, taking our hands, which were ſtill folded together, and ſqueezing them in hers. The action had ſomething of that tender ſimplicity in it, which is not to be reſiſted. I wept afreſh; but my tears were leſs painful than before. She fetched a bottle of wine from a cupboard, and forced me to take a glaſs of it. She offered another to Savillon. He put it by, with a gentle inclination of his head. "You ſhall drink it, indeed, my dear boy, (ſaid ſhe) it is a long time ſince you taſted any thing in this houſe." — He gave a deep ſigh, and drank it. She had given us time to recover the power of ſpeech; but I knew leſs how to begin ſpeaking than before. My eyes now found ſomething in Savillon's, which they were aſhamed to meet. — Laſune left us; I almoſt wiſhed her to ſtay. Savillon ſat down in his former place: he threw his eyes on the ground — "I know not, (ſaid he, in a faltering voice) how to thank you for the condeſcenſion of this interview — our former friendſhip —" I trembled for what he ſeemed about to ſay. — "I have not forgotten it," ſaid I, half interrupting him. — I ſaw him ſtart from his former poſture, as if awaked by the ſound of my voice. — "I aſk not (continued he) to be remembered: I am unworthy of your remembrance. — In a ſhort time, I ſhall be a voluntary exile from France, and breathe out the remains of life amidſt a race of ſtrangers, who cannot call forth thoſe affections, that would henceforth be ſhut to the world!" — "Speak not thus, (I cried) for pity's ſake, ſpeak not thus! Live, and be happy, happy as your virtues deſerve, as Julia wiſhes you!" "Julia wiſh me happy!" — "Oh! Savillon, you know not the heart that you wring thus! — If it has wronged you, you are revenged enough," — "Revenged! revenged on Julia! Heaven is my witneſs, I intreated this meeting, that my parting words might bleſs her!" — He fell on his knees before me — "May that Power (he cried), who formed this excellence, reward it! May every bleſſing this life can beſtow, be the portion of Julia! May ſhe be happy, long after the tongue that aſks it, is ſilent for ever, and the heart, that now throbs with the wiſh, has ceaſed its throbbing!" — Had you ſeen him, Maria, as he uttered this! — What ſhould I have done? — Weeping, trembling, unconſcious, as it were, of myſelf, I ſpoke I know not what — told him the weakneſs of my ſoul, and lamented the deſtiny that had made me another's. This was too much. When I could recollect myſelf, I felt that it was too much. I would have retracted what I had ſaid: I ſpoke of the duty I owed to Montauban, of the eſteem which his virtues deſerved. — "I have heard of his worth (ſaid Savillon); I needed no proof to be convinced of it; he is the huſband of Julia." — There was ſomething in the tone of theſe laſt words, that undid my reſolution again. — I told him of the falſe intelligence I had received of his marriage, without which no argument of prudence, no paternal influence, could have made me the wife of another. — He put his hand to his heart, and threw his eyes wildly to heaven. — I ſhrunk back at that look of deſpair, which his countenance aſſumed. — He took two or three hurried turns through the room; then, reſuming his ſeat, and lowering his voice, "It is enough (ſaid he), I am fated to be miſerable! but the contagion of my deſtiny ſhall ſpread no farther. — This night I leave France for ever!" — "This night!" I exclaimed. "It muſt be ſo (ſaid he, with a determined calmneſs); but before I go, let me depoſit in your hands this paper. It is a memorial of that Savillon, who was the friend of Julia!" — I opened it: it was a will, bequeathing his fortune to me. "This muſt not be (ſaid I), this muſt not be. Think not, I conjure you, ſo deſpairingly of life; live to enjoy that fortune, which is ſo ſeldom the reward of merit like thine. I have no title to its diſpoſal." "You have the beſt one (returned Savillon, ſtill preſerving his compoſure), I never valued wealth, but as it might render me, in the language of the world, more worthy of thee. To make it thine, was the purpoſe of my wiſhing to acquire it; to make it thine, is ſtill in my power." "I cannot receive this, indeed I cannot. Think of the ſituation in which I ſtand." I preſſed the paper upon him: he took it at laſt, and pauſing, as if he thought, for a moment — "You are right, there may be an impropriety in your keeping it. — Alas! I have ſcarce a friend, to whom I can intruſt any thing; yet I may find one, who will ſee it faithfully executed." He was interrupted by Laſune, who entered ſomewhat hurriedly, and told me, Liſette was come to fetch me, and that ſhe had met my huſband in her way to the houſe. "We muſt part then (ſaid he), for ever! — let not a thought of the unfortunate Savillon diſturb the happineſs which Heaven allots to Julia; ſhe ſhall hear of him but once again — when that period arrives, it will not offend the happy Montauban, if ſhe drops a tear to the memory of one, whoſe love was expiated by his ſufferings!" — Maria! was it a breach of virtue, if then I threw myfelf, on his neck, if then I wept on his boſom? His look, his laft look! I fee it ſtill! never shall I forget it!— Merciful God! at whoſe altar I vowed fidelity to another! impute not to me as a crime the remembrance of Savillon;— thou canſt ſee the purity of that heart, which bleeds at the remembrance Eleven at night. You know my preſentiments of evil; never did I feel them ſo ſtrong as at preſent. I tremble to go to bed—the taper that burns by me is dim, and methinks my bed looks like a grave! I was weak enough to call back Liſette. I pretended ſome little buſineſs for her; the poor girl obſerved that I looked ill, and aſked if ſhe ſhould ſit by me: I had almoſt ſaid Yes, but had courage enough to combat my fears in that inſtance. She bid me Good night — there was ſomewhat ſolemn in her utterance of that Goodnight; I fancy mine was not without its particular emphaſis, for ſhe looked back wiſtfully as I ſpoke. — I will ſay my prayers and forget it; pray for me too, my friend. — I have need of your prayers, indeed I have — Good night to my deareſt Maria! If I have recollection enough — Oh! my Maria! — I will be calm — it was but a dream — will you bluſh for my weakneſs? yet hear me — if this ſhould be the laſt time I ſhall ever write — the memory of my friend mingles with the thought! — yet methinks I could, at this time, beyond any other, die contented. My fears had given way to ſleep; but their impreſſion was on my fancy Methought I ſat in our family-monument at Belville, with a ſingle glimmering lamp, that ſhewed the horrors of the place, when, on a ſudden, a light like that of the morning, burſt on the gloomy vault, and the venerable figures of my fathers, ſuch as I had ſeen them in the pictures of our hall, ſtood ſmiling benignity upon me! The attitude of the foremoſt was that of attention, his finger reſting upon his lip. — I liſtened — when ſounds of more than terreſtrial melody ſtole on my ear, borne, as it were, on the diſtant wind, till they ſwelled at laſt to muſic ſo exquiſite, that my raviſhed ſenſe was ſtretched too far for deluſion, and I awoke in the midſt of the intrancement! I roſe, with the memory of the ſounds full upon my mind; the candle I had ordered to ſtand by me was ſtill unextinguiſhed. I ſat down to the organ, and, with that ſmall ſoft ſtop you uſed to call ſeraphic, endeavoured to imitate their beauty. And never before did your Julia play an air ſo heavenly, or feel ſuch extaſy in the power of ſound! When I had catched the ſolemn chord that laſt aroſe in my dream, my fingers dwelt involuntarily on the keys, and methought I ſaw the guardian ſpirits around me, liſtening with a rapture like mine! — But it will not laſt — the bliſsful deluſion is gone, and I am left a weak, an unhappy woman ſtill! — I am ſick at heart, Maria, and a faintneſs like that of death — The fit is over, and I am able to write again; and I will write while I am able. Methinks, my friend, I am taking farewell of you, and I would lengthen out the lingering words as much as I can. I am juſt now recalling the ſcenes of peaceful happineſs we have enjoyed together. — I imagine I feel the arm of my Maria thrown round my neck — her tears fall on my boſom! — Think of me when I am gone. — This faintneſs again. — Farewell! farewell! perhaps —— LETTER XLVI. Montauban to Segarva. IT is done, Segarva, it is done! — the poor unthinking — Support me, my friend, ſupport me with the thoughts of that vengeance I owe to my honour — the guilty Julia has but a few hours to live. I did but liſten a moment at the door; I thought I heard her maid upon the ſtairs — it is not yet the time. — Hark! — it was not my wife's bell — the clock ſtruck eleven — never ſhall ſhe hear it ſtrike that hour again! — Pardon me, my Segarva; methinks I ſpeak to you, when I ſcrawl upon this paper. I wiſh for ſomebody to ſpeak to; to anſwer, to comfort, to guide me. — Had you ſeen her, when theſe trembling hands delivered her the bowl! — She had complained of being ill, and begged to lie alone; but her illneſs ſeemed of the mind, and when ſhe ſpoke to me, ſhe betrayed the embarraſſment of guilt. I gave her the drug as a cordial. She took it from me, ſmiling, and her look ſeemed to loſe its confuſion. She drank my health! She was dreſſed in a white ſilk bed-gown, ornamented with pale pink ribbands. Her cheek was gently fluſhed from their reflection; her blue eyes were turned upwards as ſhe drank, and a dark-- brown ringlet lay on her ſhoulder. — Methinks I ſee her now — how like an angel ſhe looked! Had ſhe been innocent, Segarva! — You know, you know, it is impoſſible ſhe can be innocent. Let me recollect myſelf — a man, a ſoldier, the friend of Segarva! — At the word innocent I ſtopped; I could ſcarce hold my pen; I roſe from my ſeat, I know not why. Methought ſome one paſſed behind me in the room. I ſnatched up my ſword in one hand, and a candle in the other. — It was my own figure in a mirror that ſtood at my back. — What a look was mine! — Am I a murderer? — Juſtice cannot murder, and the vengeance of Montauban is juſt. Lonquillez has been with me. — I durſt not queſtion him when he entered the apartment — but the deed is not done: he could not find Savillon. After watching for ſeveral hours, he met a peaſant, whom he had ſeen attending him the day before, who informed him, that the ſtrange gentleman had ſet off, ſome time after it grew dark, in a poſt-chaiſe, which drove away at full ſpeed. Is my revenge then incomplete? — or is one victim ſufficient to the injured honour of a huſband? — What a victim is that one! I went down ſtairs to let Lonquillez out by a private paſſage, of which I keep the key. When I was returning to my apartment, I heard the ſound of muſic proceeding from my wife's chamber; there is a double door on it; I opened the outer one without any noiſe, and the inner has ſome panes of glaſs a-top, through which I ſaw a part of the room. Segarva! ſhe ſat at the organ, her fingers preſſing on the keys, and her look up-raiſed with enthuſiaſtic rapture — the ſolemn ſounds ſtill ring in my ear! ſuch as angels might play, when the ſainted ſoul aſcends to Heaven! I am the fool of appearances, when I have ſuch proofs — Liſette is at my door. It is now that I feel myſelf a coward; the horrid draught has begun to operate! — She thinks herſelf in danger; a phyſician is ſent for, but he lives at a diſtance; before he arrives — Oh! Segarva! She begged I would quit the chamber; ſhe ſaw my confuſion, and thought it proceeded from diſtreſs at her illneſs. — Can guilt be thus miſtreſs of herſelf? — let me not think that way — my brain is too weak for it! — Liſette again! She is guilty, and I am not a murderer! I go to — LETTER XLVII. Monſieur de Rouillé to Mademoiſelle Roncilles. MADAM, THE writer of this letter has no title to addreſs you, except that which common friendſhip and common calamity may give him. Amidſt the fatal ſcenes, which he has lately witneſſed, his recollection was loſt; when it returned, it ſpoke of Mademoiſelle de Roncilles, the firſt, he believes, and deareſt friend of the moſt amiable, but moſt unfortunate Madame de Montauban. The office he now undertakes is terrible; but it is neceſſary. — You muſt ſoon be told, that your excellent friend is no more! Hear it then from one, who knew her excellence, as you did; who tells the horrid circumſtances of her death with a bleeding heart. — Yes, Madam, I muſt prepare you for horrors; and, while the remembrance tears my own boſom, aſſume the calmneſs that is neceſſary for yours. On the evening of Thurſday laſt, I was told Madame de Montauban was a good deal indiſpoſed, and had gone to bed before her uſual time. At a very ſhort and ſilent ſupper, I perceived her huſband uncommonly agitated, and, as ſoon as decency would allow me, withdrew and left him. Betwixt eleven and twelve o'clock, (I had not yet gone to bed) one of the maid-ſervants came to my room, begging I would inſtantly attend her to the chamber of her miſtreſs, who was ſo extremely ill, that, without immediate aſſiſſtance, they feared the very worſt conſequences. I had formerly ſtudied a little phyſic, and been in uſe to practiſe it in ſome particular campaigns, when abler aſſiſtance could not be had. I ran down ſtairs with the ſervant, deſiring my own man to ſeek out a little caſe of lancets and follow us. The girl informed her miſtreſs of my being at the door of her apartment. She deſired I might come in, and with that ſmile, which ſickneſs could not quench, ſtretched out her hand to me. I found her pulſe low and weak, and ſhe complained of a ſtrange fluttering at her heart, which hardly allowed her to ſpeak. I was afraid to venture on bleeding, and only gave her a little of ſome common reſtoratives that were at hand. She found herſelf ſomewhat relieved, and ſat up in her bed ſupported by her maid. Montauban entered the room: his:countenance ſurpriſed me: it was not that of diſtreſs alone, it was marked with turbulence and horror. It ſeemed to hurt his wife. At that moment ſhe was ſcarce able to ſpeak; but ſhe forced out a few broken words, begging him to leave the room, for that her illneſs affected him too much. He withdrew in ſilence. In a little time, ſhe ſeemed a good deal eaſier; but her pulſe was ſtill lower than before. She ordered her maid to call Monſ. de Montauban again: "I dare not truſt to future moments (ſaid ſhe), and I have ſomething important to reveal to him." — I offered to leave the room as he entered. — "His friend may hear it" — ſhe ſaid, in a faltering voice. She fixed her eye languidly, but ſteadily, on Montauban. He advanced towards her with an eager gaze, without uttering a word. When ſhe would have ſpoken, her voice failed her again, and ſhe beckoned, but with a modeſty in her action, ſignifying her deſire that he ſhould ſit down by her. She took his hand; he ſeemed unconſcious of her taking it, and continued to bend a look of earneſtneſs upon her. When ſhe had recovered the power of utterance, "I feel, Sir, (ſaid ſhe) ſomething in this illneſs predictive of the worſt; at any rate, I would prepare for it. If I am now to die, I hope (lifting up her eyes with a certain meek aſſurance which it is impoſſible to paint) I die in peace with Heaven! there is one account which I wiſh to ſettle with you. Theſe moments of eaſe, which I enjoy, are allowed me to confeſs my offence, and intreat your forgiveneſs." "Thou wert guilty then?" — exclaimed her huſband, ſtarting from his ſeat. She pauſed in aſtoniſhment at the impaſſioned geſture he aſſumed — "Speak!" cried Montauban, recovering himſelf a little, his voice ſuffocated with the word. "When you have heard me (ſaid Julia), you will find, I am leſs guilty than unfortunate; yet I am not innocent, for then I ſhould not have been the wife of Montauban." When I became yours, my heart owned you not for the lord of its affections; there was an attachment —— yet look not ſo ſternly on me. — He, in whoſe favour that prepoſſeſſion was formed, would not have wronged you if he could. His virtues were the objects of my affection; and had Savillon been the thing you fear, Julia had been guiltleſs even of loving him in ſecret. Till yeſterday he never told me his love; till yeſterday he knew not I had ever loved him." — "But yeſterday," cried Montauban, ſeeming to check the agitation he had ſhewn before, and lowering his voice into a tone of calm ſeverity. "For the offence of yeſterday, (ſaid ſhe) I would obtain your pardon, and die in peace. I met Savillon in ſecret; I ſaw the anguiſh of his ſoul, and pitied it. — Was it a crime thus to meet him? Was it a crime to confeſs my love, while I received the laſt farewell of the unfortunate Savillon? This is my offence — perhaps the laſt that Julia can commit, or you forgive!" He claſped his hands convulſively together, and throwing up to Heaven a look of deſpair, fell ſenſeleſs into my arms, Julia would have ſprung to his aſſiſtance, but her ſtrength was unequal to the effort: her maid ſcreamed for help, and ſeveral of the ſervants ruſhed into the room. We recovered the hapleſs Montauban; he looked round wildly for a moment, then faſtening his eye on Julia — "I have murdered thee, he cried; that draught I gave thee — that draught was death!" He would have preſſed her to his boſom; ſhe ſunk from his embrace — her cloſing eye looked piteous upon him — her hand was half ſtretched to his — and a ſingle ſigh breathed out her ſoul to Heaven! "She ſhall not die," he cried, eagerly catching hold of her hand, and bending over her lifeleſs body with a glare of inconceivable horror in his aſpect. I laid hold of his arm, endeavouring to draw his attention towards me; but he ſeemed not to regard me, and continued that frightful gaze on the remains of his much-- injured wife. I made a ſign for the ſervants to aſſiſt me, and taking his hand, began to uſe a gentle ſort of violence to lead him away. He ſtarted back a few paces, without, however, altering the direction of his eye, "You may torture me (cried he, wildly), I can bear it all — Ha! Segarva there! — let them prove the hand-writing if they can — mark it, I ſay, there is no blood in her face — let me aſk one queſtion of the doctor — you know the effects of poiſon — her lips are white — bid Savillon kiſs them now —— they ſhall ſpeak no more, Julia ſhall ſpeak no more!" Word was now brought me, that the phyſician, who had been ſent for to the aſſiſtance of Julia, was arrived. He had come, alas! too late for her; but I meant to uſe his ſkill on behalf of Montauban. I repeated my endeavours, to get him away from the dreadful object before him; and at laſt, though he ſeemed not to heed the intreaties I made uſe of, he allowed himſelf to be conducted to his own apartment, where the doctor was in waiting. There were marks of confuſion in this man's countenance, which I wiſhed to diſſipate. I made uſe of ſome expreſſive looks, to ſignify that he ſhould appear more eaſy; and, aſſuming that manner myſelf, begged Montauban to allow him to feel his pulſe. — "You come to ſee my wife, (ſaid he, turning towards him) — tread ſoftly — ſhe will do well enough when ſhe wakes. There! — (ſtretching out his arm) — your hand trembles ſadly; I will count the beatings myſelf — here is ſomething amiſs; but I am not mad. — Your name is Arpentier, mine is Montauban — I am not mad." The phyſician deſired him to get undreſſed, and go to bed. "I mean. to do ſo, for I have not ſlept theſe two nights — but it is better not. Give me ſome potion againſt bad dreams — that's well thought on, that's well thought on." His ſervant had begun to undreſs him. He went for a few minutes into his cloſet; he returned with his night-gown on, and his look appeared more thoughtful and leſs wild than formerly. He made a ſlight bow to the phyſician: "I ſhall ſee you when I riſe, Sir. — Rouillé, is it not? (addreſſing himſelf to me, and ſqueezing my hand) — I am not fit for talking juſt now, I know I am not. — Good night!" I left him, whiſpering his ſervant to ſtay in the room, unperceived, if he could; but, at any rate, not to leave his maſter alone. I know not how I was ſo long able to command reflection. The moment I left Montauban, the horror of the ſcene I had witneſſed ruſhed upon my mind, and I remember nothing of what paſſed, till I found myſelf kneeling before the breathleſs remains of the ill-fated Julia. The doctor was ſtanding by me with a letter in his hand: it was written by Montauban, and had been found open on the table of his ſtudy. Arpentier gave it me, ſaying, it contained things which ſhould be communicated only to the friends of the count. From it I diſcovered the dreadful certainty of what I had before gathered from the diſtracted words of Montauban. He had ſuppoſed his wife faithleſs, his bed diſhonoured, and had revenged the imagined injury by poiſon. — My God! I can ſcarce, at this moment, believe that I have waked and ſeen this! But his ſervant now came running into, the room, calling for us to haſten into his maſter's chamber, for that he feared he was dead. We ruſhed into the room together — it was too true: Montauban was no more! The doctor tried, he confeſſed, without hope, ſeveral expedients to revive him; but they failed of ſucceſs. I hung over the bed, entranced in the recollection of the fateful events I had ſeen. Arpentier, from the habit of looking on the forms of death, was more maſter of himſelf; after examining the body, and pondering a little on the behaviour of the count, he went into the cloſet, where he found, on a ſmall table, a phial uncorked, which he brought to me. It explained the fate of Montauban; a label faſtened to it, was inſcribed LAUDANUM; its deadly contents he had ſwallowed in his delirium, before he went to bed. Such was the concluſion of a life diſtinguiſhed by the exerciſe of every manly virtue, and, except in this inſtance, unſtained with a crime. While I mourn the fate of his moſt amiable wife, I recal the memory of my once dearly-valued friend, and would ſhelter it with ſome apology if I could. Let that honour which he worſhipped plead in his defence. — That honour we have worſhipped together, and I would not weaken its ſacred voice; but I look on the body of Montauban — I weep over the pale corſe of Julia! — I ſhudder at the ſacrifices of miſtaken honour, and lift up my hands to pity and to juſtice. * * * * * * * * * * THE END Publiſhed by the ſame Author. 1. The MAN of FEELING, a new Edition, Price 3s. 2. The MAN of the WORLD, in 2 Volumes, 2d Edition, Price 6s. 3. The PURSUITS of HAPPINESS. INSCRIBED TO A FRIEND. Price 1s. 6d.