SPANISH MEMOIRS; IN A SERIES OF ORIGINAL LETTERS. VOL. I.
SPANISH MEMOIRS; IN A SERIES OF ORIGINAL LETTERS. CONTAINING THE HISTORY OF DONNA ISABELLA DELLA VILLAREA, NIECE TO DON JOHN, TWENTIETH AND LAST DUKE OF ARANDINA.
Published by the
AUTHOR
of
MARIA, OR THE GENEROUS RUSTIC. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I.
Sad mournful presage of her future years,
The child of misery baptiz'd in tears.
LANGHORNE.
LONDON: Printed for C. ELLIOT, T. KAY, and Co. No 332, opposite Somerset-House, Strand, London; And C. ELLIOT, Edinburgh. M; DCC, LXXXVII.
TO THE LADY L***M OF THE KINGDOM OF IRELAND; ARE THESE MEMOIRS INSCRIBED, BY HER LADYSHIP'S VERY FAITHFUL AND OBEDIENT HUMBLE SERVANT, THE EDITOR.
ADVERTISEMENT.
DURING my residence on the Continent, I was so fortunate as to contract an acquaintance with the present Bishop of M—o, who was for many years superior of the Scots College at Seville. To that amiable man I am indebted for the following letters; which were discovered by him, during his residence in Seville, at the bottom of an old chest, which stood in a deserted and traditionally haunted room in the attic story of the College.
THE letters were transcribed into a book that was bound in vellum, and in good condition. From the date of the Preface which is prefixed to them, they appear to have been
collected
at the close of the last century. At what time they were
written,
it is impos sible now to determine; though probably about the year 1671, as about that time the dukedom of Arandina became extinct by the death of Don John twentieth and last Duke.
THE author of the Preface which is prefixed to these letters seems to have been well acquainted; with the history of the house of Arandina; and it is by no means improbable, that Father Alberto, who makes so important a figure through the whole of the history, was the person who thus preserved it.
HAD these pages been the production of a later period; I should have been led to suppose, that the character of Alberto had been copied from that of the Bishop of M—, whose many amiable qualities, and distinguished talents, have insured to him the respect and esteem of all who are so fortunate as to rank in the number of his acquaintance. Nor can I lay down my pen without expressing the satisfaction with which I embrace this opportunity of testifying my respect for that truly amiable man; whose virtues would reflect honour on the highest station, and whose piety would adorn any communion.
How far the Editor has acted with propriety in availing himself of the permission to print these letters, will be determined by the public; to whose inspection they are now respectfully submitted.
MEMOIRS PREFIXED TO THE LETTERS, BY THE PERSON WHO COLLECTED THEM.
DONNA Isabella della Villarea was the only fruit of an unfortunate marriage. Her father was the younger brother of Don John, twentieth and last Duke of Arandina, and grandee of the first order. Don Frederick, the father of Isabella, at an early period of his life, became strongly attached to Donna Eliza, daughter of Don Carlos de Ulloa, a grandee of the second class.
THE narrowness of Don Frederick's fortune retarded for a long time his union with Donna Eliza. At length, wearied with the frequent disappointments he experienced, and not seeing any appearances in his favour, he determined no longer to defer the completion of his happiness. He had, indeed, repeatedly applied to his brother for assistance; but the only answer which he obtained from the Duke was, that younger brothers had better not marry. Don Frederick now stated his case to Donna Eliza; who heroically preferred a
cottage
with Don Frederick, to a palace with the Duke of Castillo Neuovo, who at that time paid his addresses to her.
DON FREDERICK was soon blessed with the hand of Donna Eliza; whilst the family of Ulloa, incensed to the last degree at the step she had taken, determined never more to see her.
MEANTIME, Frederick and Eliza retired to a small farm he had purchased in the province of Andalusia; where, for some months, they experienced a state of uninterrupted felicity; to which, however, a period was at length put by the villany of the Duke of Castillo Neuovo; for one night, as Don Frederick was returning home totally unattended, the Duke, aided by a party of
bravos,
attacked him. Don Frederick defended himself with the utmost valour; and, after dispatching the Duke and two of the villains, sunk, covered with wounds, and expired. The remainder of the party instantly retired with the body of the Duke, whilst that of Don Frederick, was soon after found by some peasants and carried home. The first person who encountered the mournful procession was Donna Eliza. The scene that ensued is too horrible for description. Suffice it to say, that in a few hours Isabella was born, and her mother recovered by slow degrees from that phrensy into which the death of Don Frederick had driven her. Donna Eliza continued in her retirement in Andalusia, where she indulged her melancholy, by spending great part of each day at the monument which she had reared over the dust of her beloved Lord. In this manner had five years elapsed, when Donna Eliza found herself seized with a fever, which she was assured would prove mortal. No sooner did she receive the awful intelligence, than she addressed the following letter to the Duke of Arandina, to be delivered by Isabella after her death.
DON JOHN,
IT is in acts of mercy only that man can resemble Heaven. Remember
that
whilst you read this letter; which will not be delivered to you till the trembling hand that writes, and the bleeding heart that dictates, are no more.
I ACKNOWLEDGE, that by marrying your too-amiable brother I injured him irreparably. I reduced him to unmerited poverty; I deprived him of your friendship and your protection; and yet could only recompence all these losses by bestowing on him my unworthy self: A reward highly inadequate to his deserts; but the unfortunate Eliza had no other to conser, and the too-generous Don Frederick was satisfied.
GREAT as is the pleasure with which I behold my approaching dissolution, when I consider that a few hours will certainly reunite me to my much-beloved. Frederick; yet my pleasure is far from unalloyed, when I reflect that the only fruit of our fatal short-lived union, the hapless Isabella, whose misfortunes were coeval with her birth, will (if you withhold your protection) be exposed to innumerable dangers. Have pity, then, on the helpless orphan, who will deliver this to your hands; and who, if you desert her, will be left to the wide world, without one friendly hand to guide her infant steps. Reflect, Don John, on the ills to which the continuation of your resentment must expose her. Do not punish Isabella for the errors of her unhappy parents. They have drunk deep of the bitter cup of afflicttion, do not oblige her to swallow the dregs. By kindness to my Isabella, you will atone for all the sufferings you have caused me. I, with my dying breath, forgive you; and righteous Heaven will also pardon you, if you are a protector to my dear insant. A tremor, that now pervades my whole frame, obliges me to conclude with once more assuring you of the pardon, nay, of the esteem, of
The unfortunate ELIZA.
SCARCELY had Eliza finished this letter, when, clasping Isabella in her arms, she ceased to sigh, and sought her Frederick in the realms of bliss. No sooner was Eliza entombed with her Frederick, than Isabella was sent to the Castle of Villarea, where Don John then resided. On her arrival, she delivered to him her mother's letter, which he read with considerable attention; and, after pausing upon it for some time, he ordered his niece to be placed in the convent of Ventina, where she remained till the age of sixteen. The Duke then determined to place her in his own Castle: a determination with which she was by no means pleased; as, from the specimens which she had seen of her uncle's behaviour during two or three short visits at the convent, she had no great prospect of happiness under his roof or in his society; Added to this, she could not bid an eternal adieu to those walls where she had passed so many happy hours, without feeling some pangs, especially as she was then to be for ever separated from the friends of her youth, of whom the most distinguished was Donna Laura de Cassildina. The parting of these ladies was highly affecting to
both,
but especially to Donna Isabella, who looked with horror on a world, which she had been ever taught to consider as worse than it really is.
OF her reception at Villarea, a full account is to be seen in her first letter to Donna Laura, with whom she constantly corresponded, and to whom she communicated every event that befel her during their separation.
THUS, then, I have collected all the facts relating to the life of Donna Isabella della Villarea; a woman distinguished by every amiable quality; in whom even the prying eye of envy could not discover a flaw, whilst malice Itself paid her virtue the tribute of silence.
SPANISH MEMOIRS; IN A SERIES OF ORIGINAL LETTERS.
LETTER I.
DONNA ISABELLA VILLAREA to DONNA LAURA DE CASSILDINA.
From the Castle of Villarea.
IN obedience to the sacred injunctions of my Laura, I shall not fail to inform her of every event, however trivial, that may occur in this dreary solitude: A solitude which alone can be banished by the presence of her to whom I now write. For her presence, however, I have no reason to hope; I am almost tempted to say, I do not entertain a wish. My uncle's behaviour could not fail to render this place truly disagreeable to my dearest friend; and great as the happiness of her society must always be to the wretched Isabella, it would suffer an alloy which in the end would prove its destruction, when I reflected that I was a source of pain to her who has been the friend of my youth, who so kindly soothed my woes, and to whom I am indebted for the small portion of selicity which I once enjoyed—but of which I am now for ever deprived.
MY Laura will not be a little anxious to hear what was the reception I met with from the Duke on my arrival. He received me at the gate, surrounded by a numerous train of domestics in rich dresses, who appeared to me the finest people I had ever seen; and though I have been here some days, I cannot yet reconcile myself to giving them my orders.
MY uncle's reception of me was formal and polite. He told the servants, that they must henceforth consider me as their mistress, and must. pay an implicit obedience to my commands. He then introduced me to his father-confessor, who resides in the house with him, and who appears to be about fifty, has a pleasing countenance, an air strongly tinctured with melancholy, and manners highly polished. From what I have seen of him, I have reason to hope he will prove an agreeable companion, A summons to attend the Duke leaves me only time to subscribe myself.
The unalterably Affectionate friend of my Laura.
LETTER II.
From the same to the same.
TEN thousand thanks for my Laura's letter: it has scarce ever been out of my hands since its arrival. The affectionate regard which you so kindly express for me, serves only to increase my reget, when I reflect that I am for ever banished from so amiable a friend. But, as you have often observed, it is our duty to submit, without repining, to the dispensations of Providence, whose conduct to short-sighted mortals seems sometimes severe, when it is directed to their good, and when a different conduct would involve them in misery. But my business at present is not to moralize, but to describe the Castle and, its environs. The house is ancient, and the building has an air of melancholy grandeur, well suited to my disposition. The orange groves that surround it, and which are now in full blossom, add greatly to the beauty of the place; and, would Heaven grant me the presence of my Laura, I should esteem it a perfect paradise. A poor compliment this to Villarea; as earth contains not the spot, however barren or however horrid, that would not appear to me a paradise, if that spot contained my Laura.
THE peasantry are poor and lazy; but as my uncle's, allowance to me is liberal, I can remedy the former, though not the latter evil. Indeed I greatly fear all attempts on that head will prove ineffectual; as every writer, who has mentioned the peasantry of Spain, speaks of them as indolent in the extreme. The most industrious peasantry of whom I have ever read any account, are those of England; though, having only seen them represented by writers of their own country, I know not what credit is to be given to the representations.
IN your letter, you express a wish to become more acquainted with my uncle. Of him, however, I know nothing more than at my first arrival, as he lives chiesty alone; and, wherever he appears, preserves so much state, as renders unsuccessful all attempts to become acquainted with him.
FATHER ALBERTO is a widely different character. His pleasing manners and melancholy air deeply interest you in every thing that concerns him. He is so good as to join me in my walks, and exerts himself on all occasions to render my residence here pleasant. You would like him much. If all men resembled him, what a world would this be! My Laura perhaps would then quit the peaceful cloister, and adorn some high station in active life.— But I must bid you adieu, as, the letters are called for, and my paper is nearly exhausted. I will, however, always leave room enough to admit of my subscribbing myself,
Yours unalterably, And ever affectionately, ISABELLA
LETTER III.
From the same to the same.
MY Laura is too grateful for my letters; as, were I debarred the privilege of addressing her, I should not know how to employ those hours of my life which I do not consecrate to heaven. But so great is the pleasure of writing to my friend, that, whilst I have my pen in my hand, I almost forget that I am unfortunate. The Duke is going to Madrid on business. How happy is it for me that his excessive
hauteur
induces him to live entirely in the country, instead of spending his whole life in Madrid, as do all men of his rank! But at Court he finds, what he will never brook,
superior.
He leaves me here to guard the Castle in his absence. I am rejoiced that I am not of the party, as then I should have scarcely found time to tell my Laura how I love her. But as I remain at Villarea, I shall have little else to do, except to offer up prayers for her happiness; an employment highly grateful, and of which I shall never be weary. No Laura, never will I cease entreating Heaven to shower down its choicest blessings on your head. May your days flow gently on; may tranquil pleasure gild your future years; and never may the misfortunes of Isabella extend their baneful influence over the fate of her friend.—The Duke is just about to depart, and has ordered me to his apartment to receive his commands. —The Duke is gone, attended by a numerous train. The Castle really seems like a desert. Were you to see it, you would suppose some fatal catastrophe had happened in the family —so great an effect can the absence even of the most insignificant people produce.
FATHER ALBERTO has just been here. He advises me to fly to you for a few days. How good, how amiable he is! He undertakes to settle it with the Duke; and I shall be with you almost as soon as this letter. O with what ecstacy do I look forward to our meeting! When I shall embrace you, and assure you in person how sincerely I am
Your unalterably affectionate ISABELLA.
LETTER IV.
From the same to the same.
HERE I am at length returned to Villarea and to misery. O, Laura! what did I not feel when forced to tear myself from your arms!—to leave those much-loved walls, within which we have spent so many happy hours; when, free from care and free from danger, our time was devoted to Heaven and to our own improvement. On those hours and on that employment I reflect with pleasure mingled with regret; for though they still are yours, to me they never will return. How painful is that thought!—And shall we never meet again? I trust we shall: and be assured, that no event (however gloomy its appearance) will by me be deemed unfortunate, which restores Isabella to Ventina and to you.
THE Duke is just returned, and approves of my having visited you. Father Alberto has invited me to walk; I shall therefore defer the conclusion of my letter till my return from my ramble, which will not fail to be pleasant, as he is of the party. So adieu for the present. On my return I shall resume my pen.
AFTER a long walk, I am returned home, and with pleasure sit down to address my Laura. My pleasure, indeed, is the greater, as my amiable friend Alberto has begun the relation of his own memoirs; so that now I shall be at no loss for materials of which to compose my letters. I shall, however, defer entering, on his story till my next; and I shall conclude with assuring my Laura, that I am
Hers unalterably, ISABELLA.
LETTER V.
From the same to the same.
YOU are, no doubt, my dear Laura, anxious to become acquainted with the memoirs of Alberto. I shall therefore proceed to relate them in his own words as nearly as I can.—
Your goodness (said he) having often led you to express a wish that you were acquainted with my history, I will, without reserve, communicate to you all the particulars of it with, which I myself am acquainted.
FORTY years ago, the master of a Spanish merchantman being on a voyage to England, whither he was bound to dispose of his cargo, it happened that one night there arose a violent storm. Just as it began, he descried an English ship making signals of distress; but the violence of the hurricane prevented him from rendering her any assistance, and she perished in the storm. The next morning, the winds being now calmed, he discovered me, then not apparently above, a year old, floating on a piece of the wreck. He instantly took me on board; and, some signs of life appearing, all attempts were made for my recovery; and these at last proving successful, my preserver, when all inquiries after my original proved ineffectual, adopted me as his son. No fewer than three English ships had perished in that storm; nor could he find any one who knew that any of them had a child on board. Thus was I precluded for ever from discovering to whom I owed my birth,—and whether or not both my parents perished in that fatal night;—fatal to
me,
because it deprived me of my natural protectors, and yet did not rob me of a life that has been perpetually overcast with the gloomy clouds of misfortune. But the ways of Providence are unsearchable; and it is our duty to submit to its will without repining. Nor have I any doubt but that for wise and good reasons my life was preserved from the merciless waves. Under the roof of my second father (whose name I bear), the first sixteen years of my life were passed in ease and tranquillity, when the good man proposed that I should accompany him on a voyage to Italy. As was natural at my age, I embraced with pleasure an offer of seeing foreign countries, and a few days brought us in sight of the Italian coast. On our arrival at port, I hastened on shore, that I might gratify my curiosity, and make observations on the inhabitants of a country which had so often given lords to the world. It happened, that one night as I was walking alone on a retired part of the beach, I heard the shrieks of some person in distress, and they appeared to be those of a female. I followed the sound; and soon discovered two ruffians dragging a most beautiful woman towards a boat that waited for them. I flew with the utmost speed to rescue the distressed fair one, and was happy enough to prove successful in the enterprise; for having dispatched one of the villains, the other made a precipitate retreat, leaving me master of the field.
Here, however, Laura, I must stop, as here Father Alberto was summoned to attend the Duke. The next post shall give you more information concerning the fair unknown; in the mean time, believe me
Yours affectionately, ISABELLA DELLA VILLAREA.
LETTER VI.
From the same to the same.
FATHER ALBERTO'S goodness having furnished me with ample matter for another letter, it is with the greatest pleasure that I now address my Laura. I would indeed write oftener than I do, were it not that the deep solitude in which I dwell furnishes nothing worthy of notice. When I take up my pen to address you, I relinquish it for want of matter. Were I to say I love you sincerely,
that
you know already; so that when I have nothing new to communicate, you must not blame me for being silent. Thus much for myself in answer to your last. We will now proceed to the memoirs of our friend.
"AFTER (continued he) the villains were defeated, I was left at full leisure to contemplate the fair unknown, who soon recovered such a degree of recollection as to thank me for the service which I had rendered her. After gazing with ecstacy on the most perfect form that I had ever beheld, I requested permission to attend her home. To this she consented; and we proceeded to a very high wall, through which, by an iron gate, we entered a most beautiful garden. As we proceeded toward the house, which terminated the view, she informed me that her name was Estafania; that she was the only daughter of a considerable merchant of the name of Altino, and heiress to all his fortunes.
To that indeed (said she) I attribute the calamity from which your valour has rescued me. The
fame of my wealth,
rather than the
lustre of my charms,
procured me many suitors. Amongst them was Alcanzar, for whom I conceived an insuperable aversion, which his subsequent conduct has fully justified. He became much exasperated at my behaviour, and determined to carry me off by force; in which attempt he would have succeeded, had not your sword rid me for ever of such a dangerous enemy. The service which you have done to me is such as I never can repay. I will, however, now introduce you to the presence of those, who will endeavour to testify the gratitude they must entertain for your conduct towards their daughter.
Saying this, the conducted me into a saloon, in the midst of which there played a fountain, surrounded by orange-trees in large vases."—But here, Laura, I must stop, as the time will only admit of my subscribbing myself
Yours unalterably.
LETTER VII.
From the same to the same.
YOU are no doubt, Laura, very anxious for the sequel of Alberto's narrative: I shall therefore proceed in his own words as nearly as I can recollect them.
"IN the saloon I was introduced to the father and mother of Estafania; who, on hearing the story of her escape, returned their most grateful thanks to her deliverer. After remaining some time, I proposed to return to the ship; and, having requested permission to make personal inquiry after the health of Estafania, was with difficulty permitted to retire. They assured me how happy I should make them by a frequent repetition of my visit; and the next day I accordingly returned, and was received with every possible demonstration of gratitude. Her parents now expressed a wish to know to whom they were endebted for the deliverance of their daughter. I informed them with the utmost frankness of my situation, and gave them a short sketch of my memoirs. When I concluded, they expressed their hopes that fortune would now prove propitious, and would cease to persecute me (here, however, they were, alas! mistaken.): They presented me with a ring of considerable value; and desired me, during my residence there, to consider their house as my home: A request with which: I most readily complied, as the charms; of Estafania had made me her slave. For several weeks I enjoyed the most exquisite happiness; but it was too great to last. Our business being concluded, we prepared to visit Spain. I quitted Italy with the utmost reluctance: but I was a dependent; and could not therefore think of remaining with Estafania, although my vanity led me to believe that I was not disagreeable to her. When the dreaded hour of departure arrived, I repaired to the house of Altino, and found Estafania sitting alone in the saloon. As it was the last opportunity I should have of seeing her, I determined to reveal the sentiments with which she had inspired me. She received my declaration with emotion, but devoid of surprise; assured me, that time should never efface from her memory the essential service which I had rendered her; that if ever she saw me more, she should think herself too happy; that as I proposed returning to Italy the next summer, she would, in the mean time, endeavour to obtain her parents consent, that she might bestow her
hand
on one who, she said, had well deserved her
heart.
"—Here, however, Laura, I shall stop, as here Father Alberto was again summoned to attend the Duke. Adieu, dearest friend; believe me
Ever yours, I. D. VILLAREA.
LETTER VIII.
From the same to the same.
DONNA ISABELLA in continuation.
FROM this morning's walk I have learned the rest of Alberto's tale.—"After (continued he) I had taken leave of her father and mother, I embarked for Spain, and a short voyage landed us at Cadiz. But, ah! how altered was I since I sailed thence! I had sustained a loss we never can suffer but once. The change it had effected was so striking as to be observed by every one who saw me. I now played none but plaintive airs, and seldom touched my guitar without bedewing it with my tears. I was become the victim of melancholy; and the image of Estafania was never absent from my mind. At night, when fancy was permitted to rove unfettered by the chains of reason, I was perpetually wafted to those scenes of former joys, the shores of Italy, where indeed I enjoyed a bliss supreme, the society of my Estafania. But, alas! the blissful phantoms vanished at the approach of day, and each new sun beheld my griefs increase. In this manner near a year had elapsed, when my kind friend the shipmaster informed me that he was soon to revisit Italy. You will easily conceive with what readiness I embraced the proposal, and with what anxiety I embarked; but when the shores of Italy appeared, my anxiety became unutterable. Sometimes my fancy represented Estafania welcoming me with joy; sometimes her
monument
rose to my view; and, at other times, me-thought I saw her blessing the arms of some happy rival. At length, however, the wished-for dreaded hour of debarkation arrived, and I hastened to land."—Here a flood of tears relieved my worthy friend; and here I shall for the present conclued my narrative. Adieu, dearest Laura. Believe me
Ever yours, ISABELLA.
LETTER IX.
From the same to the same.
DONNA ISABELLA in continuation.
"SCARCE (continued he) had I reached the shore, before my attention was arrested by the sight of a marble monument, erected beneath the shade of a large willow, which seemed to weep over the urn it shadowed. I approached with prophetic horror, as if I had known that it contained the ashes of the too amiable woman, in whose cause I was once so happy as to draw a successful sword. What did I not feel, when, on a nearer approach, I discovered that it was inscribed with the name of ESTAFANIA! Chilled with horror at the sight, I remained motionless, till recalled to myself by the approach of a man who had long served the family of her whom I adored. From him I learned, that some months had elapsed since Heaven had claimed its own. A consumption which attacked my amiable mistress soon terminated her sublunary existence, and snatched her from the arms of two worthy and affectionate parents; who, unable to behold without agony the scenes of former bliss, had removed to a distant territory, leaving their mansion to the care of servants; having determined never to revisit scenes that must necessarily call to remembrance the virtues and the fate of an only child, with whom perished all their hopes of earthly happiness.
HAVING indulged my grief for some time, I returned to the vessel; and, after passing a sortnight in a state too horrible to be described, I returned to Spain. Previous to my departure, I once more ventured to visit the urn that contained all the happiness I ever possessed, and with an aching heart bid a last adieu to the shores of Italy."—Here we were interrupted, and here I shall stop; as I am too much affected by the sad tale I have just heard to admit of my doing more than subscribing myself
Yours unalterably, ISABELLA.
LETTER X.
From the same to the same.
DONNA ISABELLA in continuation.
"AFTER my return to Spain (continued he), I determined to enter into the priesthood, and was soon nominated by your uncle to be his chaplain; and though happiness on this side the grave can never be mine, yet here I enjoy a quiet; life well suited to my disposition. In all my distresses, I. have looked to Heaven for support, and have never been disappointed. In the practice of religious duties, I have a pleasure which is totally independent of worldly circumstances,; and had much happiness of another fort been my lot, I should probably not have experienced that pleasure. That every happiness (continued he) which this world can bestow, may be yours, is my sincerest wish: but if you, like me, are doomed to live to grief, may you, like me seek comfort in religion; and remember, that however melancholy our prospects may appear, the rays of piety and virtue will dispel, or at least greatly dissipate, the surrounding gloom. The mind that is
truly virtuous
can never be
wholly wretched.
"—Here he ceased, and I retired to my chamber to communicate to Laura the conclusion of the wo-fraught tale. It is the property of misfortune to soften the manners and ennoble the mind. Those who themselves have suffered, are ever prone to pity the sufferings of others. But why should I weary my Laura with remarks?: Nothing that I can advance on the subject will enrich her accomplished mind with one new idea. That every happiness may through life attend her, is the sincerest wish of
Her unalterably affectionate ISABELLA DELLA VILLAREA.
LETTER XI.
DONNA LAURA to DONNA ISABELLA on her having assumed the Veil.
YESTERDAY, my Isabella, I pronounced the solemn vow, by which I am bound to consecrate solely to religion the remainder of my days. Many have considered this seclusion from the world as an act highly meritorious, though to me it appears in a light widely different. By retiring from the world at the early dawn of life, we in a manner quit the station assigned us by Providence; and, however we may employ ourselves, can at best be deemed but deserters. Some there are, indeed, whose weak virtue is ill qualified to resist the powerful attacks it must daily experience from vice and folly: these do wisely to fly, rater than, by a feeble and unsuccessful resistance, to increase the triumph of a wicked world. Conscious that the small portion of virtue which I possess would scarcely be sufficient to support me in the hour of trial, I have determined to shun a foe I am not able to encounter. I am, however, well aware with what approbation Heaven beholds the conduct of those who, though surrounded by the strongest temptations, and allured by all the incitements of pleasure, continue with unshaken perseverance to tread the paths of virtue, and by their bright example reflect honour on their nature and their God. For an undertaking so arduous, Heaven has fully qualified my Isabella. Each noble, each heavenly virtue, finds an asylum in her breast, where they all unite to direct her thoughts and her actions. The reward of a life so employed will, no doubt, be proportionally splendid. That it may be long before you claim that reward, is, however, the sincerest wish of one, to whom (were heaven to claim its own) this world would be a vale of tears.
ADIEU, my dearest Isabella. Believe me
Yours most affectionately And unalterably, LAURA DE CASSILDINA
Here I ought to have inserted a letter of Isabella's in reply to the above; but an accident that befel it after it came into my possession, unhappily rendered the characters totally illegible.
.
LETTER XII.
DONNA ISABELLA DELLA VILLAREA to DONNA LAURA DE CASSILDINA.
OH, my Laura! how can I paint my present feelings? The Duke being suddenly called from home for a few days, I determined to gratify an inclination I had long felt, and to indulge my feelings by visiting the hallowed spot where the honoured ashes of my parents moulder. Accompanied by Alberto, I set out for the village where my infant years were spent. At the close of day we reached the hamlet; and having secured a lodging at the house of the Curè, I repaired, with a throbbing heart, to the tomb of my parents. A grove of cypress appeared. I entered with cautious steps, as if I feared to waken those who slept. It is a covered monument in the form of an altar, composed of black and white marble. I would have advanced, but the scene was too much for my weak spirits. I fainted in the arms of Alberto and Marianne. When their attention restored me, I approached the tomb; and, by the pale moon's uncertain light, read the inscription, which mentioned their names, and the dates of their respective deaths. O Heaven, Laura, what were my feelings! I fell on my knees,—I bedewed the hallowed marble with my tears,—called on each, dear departed shade;—then turned to heaven my streaming eyes, and begged a blessing.
IN vain Alberto tried to remove me from the monument: for me it bad resistless attractions; and whilst memory is mine, shall be for ever dear. At length I was persuaded to retire; but it was with the greatest difficulty I could ever prevail on myself to quit the awful scene. The stream, that flowed with melancholy murmurs through the grove, seemed to reproach me for quitting the sacred spot; but half the night was spent, and Alberto feared a longer stay might injure my health. I complied with his wish. On my arrival at the Curè's, I instantly retired to my apartment; and, notwithstanding the dejection of my spirits, I fell asleep. Fancy, fleeting fancy, transported me back to the tomb of Frederic and Eliza. It appeared to me, after I had remained some time kneeling at their shrine, that the monument opened, and that I instantly entered; the massive portals then closed, and I waked to lament an existence that is indeed painful. At the first dawn of the day I revisited the grove; and, after shedding some tributary tears, returned with Alberto to Villarea. Adieu, dearest Laura.
Pity your ISABELLA.
LETTER XIII.
DONNA ISABELLA to DONNA LAURA.
A SEVERE illness has for some time prevented my addressing my Laura; but I shall with the greatest pleasure consecrate these first hours of returning health to friendship and to her. My illness was indeed of so serious and alarming a nature, that my uncle condescended to make personal inquiries after my health, though that wonderful event took place but once during the course of a long illness.
I CANNOT say I was very grateful for that one instance of his condescension; as, though it was not then probable that we should ever meet till time should have destroyed even the remembrance of the illustrious house of Arandina, he preserved as much state as if he had been visiting a dying galley-slave, rather than a niece, who (however her unhappy parents may have injured his pride) has never by any action of her life derogated from his dignity. The good Alberto was seldom absent from my chamber, and endeavoured as much as possible to alleviate my sufferings. He offered to inform you of my situation; but I chose you should remain in ignorance of those sorrows you could not alleviate. I am, however, so well recovered at present, as to walk out in the cool of the evening. In the faces of my faithful Marianne and Alberto, I can discover the strongest marks of pleasure at my recovery. Adieu. I am just going to walk. The evening is sodivine, that, if Laura were to accompany me, I could easily be persuaded that my connection with this world had ceased, and that I had really entered into the bright regions of eternal day: but if that were the case, I should see those dear parents, who are now no longer the victims of fate.
Adieu, dearest friend.
LETTER XIV.
From the same to the same.
OH, Laura, what a scene have I just witnessed! We went to walk that we might enjoy the delightful evening. Scarcely had we entered the grove that terminates the lawn, when we were alarmed by the clashing of swords; and in a moment my terror was increased to the highest, at seeing a man with a sword in his hand, and covered with blood, spring over the sence. No sooner did I behold this horrid spectacle, than I sunk into the arms of the faithful Marianne. Meanwhile the stranger who had thus alarmed us requested our protection, informing us that he had just escaped from assassins, with whom he had long maintained an unequal combat. Father Alberto having assured him of protection, directed all his endeavours towards effecting my recovery, in which he at length succeeded; and the first object that I beheld was the bleeding stranger kneeling at my feet. A sight so horrible, occasioned an instantaneous relapse 3 and it was with difficulty my wavering spirit was ever recalled. How happy if it then had sought another world, and united me to my dear, dear parents, of whom I am for ever talking with my good old nurse. On my recovery, I learned what I have just communicated to you. We sent the stranger to the gardener's lodge, and ordered all possible care and attention to be shown him. We would indeed have placed him in the Castle, but that we dreaded the Duke's temper, which, you know, is rather warm. The sequel of this strange tale shall be the subject of another letter from
Yours unalterably, ISABELLA DONNA VILLAREA.
LETTER XV.
DONNA ISABELLA in continuation.
I AM just returned from a visit to the lodge in company with Alberto. We had an interview with the unfortunate stranger, who is now so much recovered from his wounds as to sit in the garden on a bench for some hours every day. At our approach, he attempted to rise; but from loss of blood was too feeble. After recovering himself a little, and returning his thanks in the most pleasing manner, he thus addressed us:
I am the only son of Albino de Castina a merchant in Cadiz, who has a small house in this neighbourhood, whither I was going when attacked by the ruffians, from whom you so kindly protected me. They were hired to assassinate me by a woman of considerable wealth, who has done me the honour to entertain sentiments in my favour. To these I made not a suitable return; which has so exasperated her, that she determined on having a bloody revenge. On that revenge I shall ever reflect with pleasure, since to it. I am indebted for the honour of being known to the present company. My humble situation in life precludes me from testifying my gratitude in any way but by words; yet you will, I trust, do me the justice to believe me, when I assure you, that the
power
alone is wanting on my part; and that my
life
(my only possession) will for ever be at the devotion of those to whom I am indebted for its prolongation.
HE was by this time so much exhausted, that Father Alberto interrupted his grateful effusions; and, after repeating our injunctions to the servants, we retired. We have sent to inform his father of the misfortune that had befallen him, and his arrival is hourly expected. Thus much of our poor
protegé.
Of myself I have nothing to say, but that I am, as usual,
Yours unalterably, And ever affectionately, ISABELLA, DELLA VILLAREA.
LETTER XVI.
From the same to the same.
MY
protegé
is now so well recovered as to think of returning to Cadiz. There is something in his manner that interests me much in his behalf. You cannot conceive how I pity him; the more, as he has no prospect of being able to pacify the enraged fair one, unless he were to consecrate to her service the remainder of a life which she has so basely attempted to shorten. He seems much engrossed with his own reflections; and is, I fancy, the slave of some less willing damsel than his
intended murderess.
If this be the case, he has my best wishes for his success. He is an unfortunate man, and 'twere pity he should suffer more. He has returned thanks for the favours which he has received, and is preparing to depart. He goes next week. He is really an amiable man. I wish he were known to Laura. But why should I wish him to contemplate charms which he never could possess? Why should I add despair to the catalogue of his misfortunes?
THE Duke sets off to-morrow for Madrid. I wish my Laura were to supply his place at the Castle. But Laura has vowed eternal solitude; she consecrates to religion alone those hours which, if sometimes devoted to friendship, would make me happy beyond conception. Oh that my poor rhetoric could have prevailed on her not to pronounce the fatal vow! How wish I that it were in my power to visit you in the absence of the Duke: but I fear he would not approve of my always running away the moment he left the Castle, though this might be construed into a great compliment to him, as it would imply, that the Castle is intolerable when he is not here to enliven the scene. I will sot, however, devote all my paper to complimenting the Duke; but will reserve room enough to admit of my subscribing myself
Yours unalterably.
LETTER XVII.
From the same to the same.
WHY does my Laura reproach me with want of affection? Why say that my letters are less friendly than before? What proof can I give her of that friendship, which I now do and ever shall entertain for my amiable nun? What will convince her that I am as much hers now as when we first joined in choral praises to the Deity? Oh, Laura, how have I wept over your cruel page? If ever I cease to value your friendship, may I then cease (my trembling hand with reluctance writes the dire sentence) to enjoy it; but that fatal period can never arrive till your deserted Isabella seeks the peaceful abodes of death. Do not, by cruel accusations, embitter the already wretched life of your poor Isabella. Do not add the loss of your esteem to the sad catalogue of her woes, at the recital of which you have so often wept, so bitterly lamented. I can say no more; my tears obliterate faster than I write. O pity a wretch whom Providence has so severely visited, and do not deprive her of her only friend!—her only earthly comfort! Adieu. Tho' deprived of your friendship, I will still be yours, and yours alone.
LETTER XVIII.
From ALONZO DE CASTINA to DONNA ISABELLA.
NOTHING but my having already experienced your goodness could lead me to hope your pardon for the liberty I am going to take; but I cannot bid adieu to my kind benefactress, without earnestly soliciting an interview of five minutes, at which no third person shall be present. I trust the will have the goodness to add this favour to the many she has already conferred on him, who is, with gratitude and respect her devoted slave. If you will not grant, at least pardon the request of
ALONZO DE CASTINA.
LETTER XIX.
DONNA ISABELLA
in answer.
I HAVE this instant received your billet, containing a request with which it is totally impossible that I should comply. The service which I rendered you merits few thanks. Alleviating the sufferings of my fellow-creatures, is to me at once a duty and a pleasure. I conduced myself toward you as I should toward any other person whom I had seen in your state. By not repeating your request, you may obtain the pardon of
ISABELLA DELLA VILLAREA.
LETTER XX.
ALONZO DE CASTINA to DONNA ISABELLA.
I LIKE a coward fled from death; and now life is decreed to be my punishment; doomed as I am to worship those charms I must never more behold. How much more enviable had been my lot, if, covered with wounds, I had expired at the feet of Isabella! My fate might then have obtained her pity; I should at least have escaped her scorn. But since my pardon can be obtained only by never repeating my request; I will retire to some solitude, where I will continue to regret the interposition of Providence that preserved my life, merely that I might experience the scorn of that woman, at whose feet I should have with pleasure breathed my last. But I must submit. What can the wretched do! They can only lament; and to that employment will Alonzo consecrate the remainder of a life which was once preserved, and is now embittered, by the too amiable Isabella; whilst that every happiness may attend her, shall be the constant prayer of one who must for ever regret the distance which fortune has placed between him and happiness.
LETTER XXI.
DONNA ISABELLA to DONNA LAURA.
I HAVE this day received from Alonzo two letters, which I send you inclosed, together with my answer. I hope you will approve of it, though perhaps it was cruel to refuse him one five minutes interview, he is so much hurt by the refusal. However, he is gone; so I shall dismiss the subject: But, do tell me, whether or not you would have granted the request. I wish you had been here to advise me. Was it wrong to refuse him? Do write me word. My head achs so much, that I shall go and walk a little. At my return I will finish my letter.
OH, Laura, I am undone! I have seen Alonzo. I went alone to walk in the grove. I had not been long there when Alonzo, rushing from amongst the trees, threw himself at my feet. He earnestly begged a moment's audience. I weakly complied; —listened to the most eloquent of beings. He sighed, knelt, vowed eternal love, and has ruined the peace of Isabella. I fear I love him, but I will conquer myself. Am I not right? How do you advise me to act? Do, tell me. I am half distracted: What must I do? I have exiled him: What more can I do? Do, tell me; and believe me
Ever yours, ISABELLA.
LETTER XXII.
DON ALONZO to DONNA ISABELLA.
IN obedience to the commands of her I adore, I am now at Cadiz, where I propose to remain till once more permitted to urge my suit in person. I trust, however, that your
correspondence
is a blessing I shall be permitted to enjoy; as, if
that
be withheld, my exile will be insupportable. Prudence, indeed, may dictate, a refusal; but prudence is not sufficiently powerful to render Isabella cruel: yet such she must be esteemed, were she to answer this petition by a denial; as that would render the life she preserved for ever wretched. Whatever be the result of this letter, Isabella will be ever adored by
ALONZO.
LETTER XXIII.
DONNA ISABELLA
in reply.
I HAVE just received your letter, containing a request,—the compliance with which would certainly be highly inconsistent with prudence. But, alas! prudence deserted me where most I needed her support. My conduct in the grove has already convinced you, that I am not insensible of your merit. Do not, however, wish to form a connection with one who has through life been unfortunate; and who, were she to bestow that hand you so earnestly solicit, would bring, as a portion, miseries, of which she trusts you will be for ever ignorant. By corresponding with you, I should only encourage hopes which I can never gratify; and, were the Duke to become acquainted with our correspondence, I should immediately forfeit his protection. You would then receive to your arms a poor deserted orphan, whose only inheritance is misfortune, and whose sole possession is an aching heart. Do not suffer your reason to be blinded by a violent, and consequently short-lived, passion. Before the circling year shall restore that day on which you first beheld me, you will almost have forgotten that the wretched writer of these lines exists. Do not, in the mean time, by your importunities, increase the afflictions of
ISABELLA.
LETTER XXIV.
DONNA ISABELLA DELLA VILLAREA
to
DONNA LAURA DE CASSILDINA.
OH, Laura! that fatal interview has destroyed my repose. I insisted on Alonzo's instantly quitting the neighbourhood; and forbade him my presence for ever. He retired in silence; but since his departure, he has written to me requesting my correspondence. This, of course, I refused; and have urged such reasons as will, I hope, be deemed sufficient even by Alonzo. Righteous heaven! to know Isabella, is to be unfortunate. I have not the power of conferring happiness on any one. All I wish is to render no one miserable.
INCLOSED you will receive his letter and my reply. From that reply you will learn, that he has made some impression on a heart, that was, that must, be ever yours. O! that when Providence determined to prolong Alonzo's days, it had not chosen the wretched Isabella as its instrument. I should not then have known that he existed. My years would, probably, have elapsed, undisturbed by those feelings which now distract my soul. Grant, Heaven, I be not numbered amongst the crowds of victims that have fallen before its shrine! If ever the remembrance of my sad tale should be perpetuated, I, perhaps, like Heloise, may experience the pity of posterity. When my aching heart shall have long ceased to beat, perhaps some kindred spirit may drop one tributary tear on my cold relics. But whither is my fancy roving? How far beyond the bounds of reason? Do, dear Laura, write to Alonzo: Endeavour to convince him of his own imprudence. If you succeed, you will eternally oblige
Your ISABELLA.
LETTER XXV.
DONNA LAURA
to
DON ALONZO.
YOU will, no doubt, be much surprised at the receipt of a letter from one who is totally unknown to you. Your surprise will, probably, receive no small addition, when you discover that your correspondent is one whose life is devoted to religious retirement: Not who has retired from the world in disgust; but who has never experienced either its pains or its pleasures: one whom nothing but the interest she takes in the misfortunes of an amiable friend, could have induced to address a person to whom she is an entire stranger. But, at the request of that Isabella for whom you profess so serious a regard, I shall endeavour to convince you, that by continuing to solicit a hand you never can obtain, you will only inflict misery on her whom you profess to adore, without, in any degree, advancing your own wishes. You have not to learn, that your rank in life leaves you no room to hope for the approbation of her uncle, one of the proudest grandees of Spain.
YOu are not ignorant of the misfortunes of her parents: and can you wish, that, by your means, Isabella should experience a similar fate? The only manner in which you can testify the sincerity of your attachment is, by desisting from your present pursuit. By this conduct, and by this
alone,
will you ever convince her, that your gratitude is lasting. Should the arguments I have advanced, prove sufficient to effect the purpose for which they are intended, I shall esteem you a truly grateful man; but if you persist in soliciting the hand of Isabella, such conduct will plainly evince, that your
own
happiness, and not that of Isabella, is the object of your pursuit.
I remain your wellwisher, LAURA DE CASILDINA.
LETTER XXVI.
DON ALONZO to DONNA ISABELLA.
NOT satisfied with blasting all my hopes yourself, you invite others to join you in the cruel employment: Your friend Donna Laura has written to me a long expostulatory letter, in which she calmly advises me to desist from my present pursuit, as by that conduct, and by that
alone,
she says, I can ever convince you that my gratitude is lasting. Gratitude,—what a word is that! If I am permitted to be only grateful, the preservation of my life I must consider as a misfortune; for I love you, I adore you, and feel, that without a return of love, I must for ever be wretched. That I am not worthy of such a return, I am more sensible than your friend can be: but if you be determined to listen to no addresses but those which are worthy of you, to the exquisite happiness resulting from a mutual attachment you must for ever remain a stranger; for the man has not yet been born, whose accomplishments entitle him to the heart and hand of Isabella. That in me it is presumption to pretend to either, I needed not the information of Donna Laura to convince me; but from her alone have I learned, that my birth is the great obstacle in my way to happiness. Of the inferiority of my rank in life to that of the Duke of Arandina I am not ignorant; but can Isabella,—can the daughter of Donna Eliza, put wealth, or titles, or a long line of ancestry, in the balance, against the purest and most refined attachment, that ever inhabited a human breast? Your friend says that you can,—that you deem my addresses disgraceful, and that they inflict misery upon you. If this be indeed the case, I will cease to urge them. That I should ever cease to love you, till I cease to exist, is impossible; but my love shall not be your torment: may you be happy, though I must be wretched. But, surely, a mind angelic as yours cannot delight in the wretchedness of others! And since your correspondence, as a friend, would afford much relief to my aching heart,
that,
I hope, you will not refuse, to one who will receive with ecstacy, and remember with gratitude, the inestimable gift. If even this favour be denied me, I will instantly bid an eternal adieu to Spain, and wander over the world, till death shall kindly put a period to my sufferings: Whilst an aged parent, and an only sister, will join with me in lamenting the distance of rank, which fortune has placed between the too lovely Isabella and the exile who adores her. In anxious expectation of you're answer,
I remain Your devoted slave, ALONZO.
LETTER XXVII.
DONNA ISABELLA
in reply.
MY friendship you have had from the moment I first saw you; and sooner than drive you to the extremities you threaten, I will not even refuse you my correspondence, provided that no references to that unhappy passion, which now reigns in your breast, shall ever occur in any of your letters. On these terms I consent occasionally to correspond with you: Moved, indeed, by pity for those to whom the execution of your rash threats must occasion so much pain. If in any instance you transgress this rule, you will hear no more from
ISABELLA.
LETTER XXVIII.
DONNA ISABELLA
to
DONNA LAURA.
I BLUSH to inform you that Alonzo has obtained my permission to correspond with me. Of the terms on which, and the reasons why, I have granted this request, you will see a full account in the inclosed letter. I fear I have acted imprudently; yet what could I do? Had I obstinately refused my consent, he might have been driven to despair, and might have embittered the evening of an aged parent's life, whilst his innocent sister would have been reduced to a situation truly forlorn; and I, when it was too late, should have regretted the step which I had taken. However this affair may terminate, I shall have the comfort of knowing that I acted in that manner which to my weak judgement appeared the best. Do, write to me immediately; and if you cannot approve the conduct, at least pity the situation, of your
ISABELLA.
LETTER XXIX.
DONNA LAURA
to
DONNA ISABELLA.
LOVE frequently, on its first appearance, assumes the mask of friendship. Even then the disguise is easily penetrated. But when love has once appeared in its proper colours, and only assumes the mask of friendship in the hour when its hopes are on the point of destruction, then the deception
may,
nay,
must,
be visible to every observer, however superficial. Friendship has often brightened into love; but love hás seldom, if ever, sunk into friendship. O, Isabella, what could tempt you to sign the rash promise? You regret the want of advisers: Where was your faithful Alberto when you took the precipitate step? You cannot in this instance obtain the approbation, but you will always possess the pity and the friendship, of
LAURA.
LFTTERR XXX.
DONNA ISABELLA
to
DONNA LAURA.
YOUR letter has this instant reached me. You cannot conceive how it has hurt me, as I am sure my conduct must have been highly culpable to have occasioned so severe a letter from my Laura. You blame me for not consulting Alberto. He, alas! good man, is gone to Madrid. But my state of mind has for some time been so agitated as to banish every idea I could wish to have retained. Had he been here, rest assured I had never taken even a step of much less importance than that alluded to without his sanction. I am so dejected that I can scarcely refrain from tears. Adieu, dear Laura. Believe me
Ever yours, ISABELLA.
LETTER XXXI.
DONNA LUCINDA DE GONZARA
to
DON ALONZO.
KNOW, detested man, vengeance is now within my reach; and if I neglect the bright opportunity, may Heaven curse me. I prepare you for the blow only to increase your punishment by the horrors of anticipation.—Feel them and tremble.
THAT affection with which (un-worthy as you are) I once honoured you, is now changed into a hatred that shall pursue you (if possible) beyond the grave:—it shall at least conduct you thither. Nothing but your death can satiate the revenge of a slighted woman.
LETTER XXXII.
DONNA LUCINDA to DON JOHN DUKE OF ARANDINA.
DON JOHN,
SOME time ago, as a young man of the name of Castina was travelling near the Castle of Villarea, being attacked by robbers, he escaped (though not unhurt) into the groves of Villarea. There he found your niece, who conducted him to the gardener's lodge, where he remained till healed of his wounds. During his confinement, he was constantly visited by your niece Donna Isabella; who, the day of his departure, favoured him with a private interview—when they exchanged the most solemn vows of perpetual attachment. These facts I had from your gardener, who was himself working in the grove at the time. Now Don Alonzo is under an engagement to marry me; and I am sure you would not wish your niece should wrong any woman, so as to rob her of a contracted husband. I therefore hope you will forbid him to continue his addresses. You will easily procure some other husband for your niece, and will render a great service to your well-wisher
LUCINDA DE GONZARA.
LETTER XXXIII.
DUKE OF ARANDINA in reply.
WOMAN,
IF he be not sent to the
mines
as a reward due to his uncommon presumption, you may enjoy your fellow unrivalled by the niece of
DON JOHN DUKE OF ARANDINA.
LETTER XXXIV.
DON ALONZO
to
DONNA ISABELLA.
SURE Hell contains no fiend equal to a slighted female! The truth of this assertion is fully proved by the inclosed letter: but as her malice cannot deprive me of Isabella, I have little to dread from her threats. Her former attempt has made me cautious how I venture abroad alone or unarmed.—Tomorrow I set out for Corseyda, where I shall have the happiness of being within a league of Villarea; and where, with all impatience, I shall expect the blessing of a line from my Isabella.
ALONZO DE CASTINA.
LETTER XXXV.
DONNA ISABELLA
to
DON ALONZO.
I HAVE just received your letter, and own that the contents have occasioned some painful sensations in my breast. Our sex, however amiable they often are, however tender their feelings, yet, when slighted, seldom fail to revenge themselves, and that in the most cruel manner. You will do well to keep within your own territories, as there alone you will be in safety.
THE Duke and Father Alberto return to-morrow. I expect the arrival of the good Alberto, my kind counsellor, with much anxiety. Had he not been absent, you would probably never have prevailed on me to subscribe myself
Yours, &c. ISABELLA.
LETTER XXXVI.
DONNA ISABELLA
to
DONNA LAURA.
TO-MORROW the Duke and good Alberto return. I have now remained here in solitude a whole month. Oh that that month had been passed at the dear convent of Ventina! for then Alonzo would never have triumphed over my prudence. He, it is true, at present corresponds solely as a friend; but I fear he will embrace the first opportunity to lay aside the disguise which he has been forced to assume, and will appear once more as my lover. I have, I fear, gone too far to retreat. Do, direct me. How I long for the arrival of good Alberto! I will tell him all, and then let him direct my future conduct. O how I long for to-morrow!—Adieu. Believe me
Ever yours, ISABELLA.
LETTER XXXVII.
FATHER ALBERTO
to
DONNA LAURA.
AT the request of your Isabella, I have taken up my pen, to communicate to you every circumstance relating to her present misfortune. Last night the Duke returned, and retired to his apartment without any thing remarkable in his conduct. But this morning he ordered all the servants to attend him in the great hall; when, producing a letter from a woman of the name of Gonzara (the woman who endeavored to procure the assassination of Alonzo), he obliged the gardener to read it aloud. It contained a full account of Alonzo's rencounter with Isabella in the grove, as well as of the parting scene which took place in my absence. This account, she said, was communicated to her by the gardener; who now threw himself on his knees, and implored the Duke's pardon for having concealed the affair from his knowledge. No sooner was the Duke convinced that his information was well founded, than his appearance ceased to be human. The man was instantly dismissed for having concealed from the Duke what, for a few dollars, he had communicated to Gonzara. Poor Isabella, during this scene, had swooned. Happily every attempt to recover, her proved ineffectual; so that she was insensible of the abuse with which she was loaded by the Duke. I intreated the Duke to be less violent; assuring him that I had been the adviser of Isabella through the whole of the affair, at least as far as related to receiving Alonzo when wounded, and to procuring a proper attendance to be paid to him during his illness. Adding, at the same time, that illustrious as was the house of Arandina, it must ever receive additional lustre from acts of mercy and benevolence; and that no station, however exalted, could exempt us from the duties which we owe to our fellow-pilgrims in the vale of tears. To this the Duke replied, that I was the first person who had ever proposed to convert his gardener's lodge into an infirmary for all rogues who happened to quarrel on his estate; and that both his niece and I were very much to blame for the part we had acted. I said, Whatever might be the errors of Isabella, I was sure they would, on inquiry, prove to be those of the head, and not of the heart; and that the former were very excusable in people of her age, and who, like her, were totally unacquainted with the customs of the world. He at length became a little pacified, permitted Isabella to be removed, and postponed any farther inquiry till to-morrow; —when you shall hear more from,
Madam,
Your very obedient servant, ALBERTO.
LETTER XXXVIII.
FATHER ALBERTO
to the same.
THE illness of your friend is this day considerably increased; she is now very feverish, and I fear in great danger; she is not yet delirious; but weeps incessantly, and sighs out the name of Laura. Her love for you is, indeed, very great; and she is well worthy of that affecttion which we both entertain for her; she is certainly an angel in flesh and blood. Much as she now suffers from his treachery, she has insisted on my carrying the gardener thirty dollars, that he and his family may not suffer want an their dismission from the Duke's service: For, said she, though he has greatly injured me, and betrayed the trust I reposed in him; yet, perhaps, he was in want of money, and could not withstand the proffered bribe. At any rate, his
family
are innocent; and
they
will be greatly distressed till he is able to procure some employment. Thus does she practice that important duty so inculcated by the great Author of our faith. How bright is the example she affords! and how few will endeavour to imitate such an original! She has sent for me. I must, therefore, cease to descant on a subject so truly pleasing to him,
Who is, Madam, with respect, Your obedient servant, ALBERTO.
LETTER XXXIX.
From the same to the same.
I HAVE the pleasure to inform you that our amiable friend is somewhat better. She this day gave me an account of her whole conduct: She has preserved the copies of all Alonzo's letters and her answers.
The original letters of Alonzo are, she says, in your possession, as well as her answers. Had Isabella been more versed in the ways of the world, she would certainly not have permitted Alonzo to Correspond with her. But how few are there whose lives are marked with a single imprudence, and that of no very serious nature!
AT her request, I communicated her letters and those of Alonzo to the Duke, who raved like a madman. He recounted all his ancestors for thirty generations; called on them to pour down vengeance on the head of their disgraceful descendant, the amiable Isabella; vowed eternal vengeance to Alonzo, for whom he sent a messenger requiring his immediate attendance. In vain did I endeavour to place the conduct of Isabella in the most favourable point of view; in vain did I observe that she discouraged all hopes in the breast of Alonzo. He still continued to rave at Isabella, till on the arrival of Alonzo his fury took another course. No sooner did this unfortunate youth appear, than he loaded him with every possible insult, and at last struck him. On this, Alonzo drew his sword, but happily was disarmed by the attendants. The Duke now ordered his hands to be tied; and producing his patent of creation, read it aloud to Alonzo. In it were enumerated thirty titles of honour; and amongst others, the Earldom of Joppa, Viscount Mount Sinai, and Baron Capernaum, granted to his ancestor by Godfrey de Boulogne King of Jerusalem.
He now asked Alonzo, how the son of a merchant could
presume
to offer himself to a daughter of the house of Arandina in any higher capacity than that of a lackey? Told him, that, if ever he was found within his territories, he would secure him an appointment in the mines; and then dismissed him. Alonzo retired vowing vengeance; whilst I used all my art to dissuade the Duke from visiting the poor Isabella; and happily I succeeded. He is now gone to vent is fury in the grove. That he may there recover his reason, is the sincerest wish of,
Madam,
Yours, &c.ALBERTO.
LETTER XL.
From the same to the same.
ISABELLA has at length been pardoned by the Duke, after having received a great deal of what he calls wholesome advice. The terms on which he has consented to pardon her, and to which she has acceded, are these: That she shall never more see or correspond with Alonzo; that she shall in two months retire to Ventina; and at the end of her probationary year, shall assume the veil.
Poor girl! I pity her sincerely; for she is really attached to Alonzo, and he seems equally partial to her. I hope to prevail with the Duke to mitigate her sentence, and that he will not drive an amiable woman to a perpetual seclusion from a world which she would adorn by her splendid virtues. Heaven never hears with approbation the vows of involuntary victims. In that class I must rank Isabella, as love possesses too great a portion of her heart to admit of her becoming a good nun. She may, like Heloise, retire to a cloister; but love will erect an altar in her cell, whilst her sighs will ever fan the destructive flame.
To your prayers, Madam, I shall now recommend her; whilst I remain, With respect,
Yours, &c. ALBERTO.
LETTER XLI.
DONNA ISABELLA
to
DONNA LAURA.
SINCE Heaven has for wise and good reasons prolonged my life, I hope there is yet some mercy in store for your Isabella. The good Alberto has by this time informed you of all that has befallen me within these few days. The obligations. I owe him are unspeakable. Heaven reward him! I never can. You know the terms on which I have procured my pardon; and you pity me. Adieu, dearest Laura, I am too feeble to write more.
Good God, how wretched is your ISABELLA! THIS letter is languid as my wasted frame.
LETTER XLIII.
DON ALONZO
to
DONNA ISABELLA.
O ISABELLA, that for one moment I could forget that I adore you!—But, stop, he is the uncle of my Isabella;—he shall live. Just Heaven, what did I not suffer on that ever-to-be-remembered day! —The bare recollection distracts me. I hear you are not well. For pity's sake, write to me. Tell me how you do; tell me who betrayed the secret of our correspondence. How I pant for vengeance! But Isabella still shall direct the conduct of
ALONZO.
P. S. When my sword was levelled at his breast, why was I. disappointed of my revenge? Curse on the hated tyrant.—But whither am I hurrying? I write nonsense. —I am mad with rage.—If he presume to insult my Isabella, by Heaven he dies. Oh, Isabella, I can write no more. It is my
sword,
and not my
pen,
I wish to wield.
LETTER XLIII.
DONNA ISABELLA
to
DON ALONZO.
I HAVE just received your letter, which to me was totally unintelligible. I was ignorant of your ever having seen the Duke. The kind Alberto, unwilling to increase my pain, had concealed from me that fatal interview to which your letter alludes. I do not wonder that you were exasperated: such treatment no one could bear. It was unmerited; it was unjust in the last extreme. But yet, my Alonzo, when vengeance lifts her sword and points it at the breast of Don John, let the tears of Isabella avert the blow.—Oh! Alonzo, you can give me no proof of that affection you prosess for me—so real, so pleasing, so generous,—as by pardoning Don John. O ever bear in mind that he is the sole earthly protector of that Isabella whom you profess to adore. I am poor—Never till now did I wish for wealth—yet if I possessed it, I would not injure thy generous soul by the offer. No! the only bribe I will ever propose as the reward of your forbearance—is my friendship; —
that
is the sole offering I can make at the shrine of your injured honour. Oh! may it be deemed sufficient; so shall you ever possess the esteem of
ISABELLA.
LETTER XLIV.
DON ALONZO in reply.
MY present bliss is too great to last. Offered the friendship of Isabella!—Is that
valued,
that envied, treasure to be mine at last? Vengeance! no, by Heaven, he shall experience none from me; he shall live: but to you he is indebted for the prolongation of his days—detested tyrant! Oh, Isabella, my gratitude shall be lasting as my life. I can write no more; I am drunk with joy. Believe me to be, with sincerest gratitude,
Your devoted slave, ALONZO.
LETTER XLIV.
DONNA ISABELLA to DONNA LAURA.
ALL my apprehensions for the safety of the Duke being removed by the promise Alonzo has given me not to take vengeance on him for his conduct at the Castle, I shall now express to my Laura the fears I entertain concerning my future happiness. Oh, my Laura, how little do we short-sighted mortals know what will be conducive to our happiness! The time was when I thought that no event (however gloomy in its appearance) could be deemed unfortunate, if it was the occasion of my returning to Ventina and to you. But, ah! how changed are all my sentiments! How often have I wearied Heaven with prayers that I might return to Ventina!
now
the mention of those walls fills my mind with horror. Why this wonderful change? Is Laura less beloved than before? No,
that
is impossible.—Is Isabella less enamoured of virtue than she once was? She hopes not.—Is her heart a stranger to love? Ah, no!
that
is the sad truth—Alonzo is beloved. Within Ventina's walls he never must appear; yet Villarea is not more
propitious
to his wishes than Ventina. But the solemn vow I so soon must make, chills my blood with horror. Have mercy on me, Heaven. Oh! How my heart throbs! Adieu, dear Laura. Sympathise with
Your ISABELLA.
LETTER XLV.
DONNA LAURA
to
DONNA ISABELLA.
LAURA cannot relieve, but she sincerely sympathises with, her dear Isabella. How cruel, how truly detestable is her uncle! What says the good Alberto
to
these proceedings? He cannot approve them! No one can refrain from pouring the severest censures on such horrid conduct. Heavens! how I detest that tyrant.
OH, Isabella, that I could but mitigate your pains! Your apartments here are bespoke. The Lady Abbess speaks of you in the kindest manner; but sincerely regrets your present return,—as it is so contrary to your wishes.
MAY you, my dear friend, when you revisit these walls, regain your long-lost peace. Adieu. Believe me ever
Yours unalterably, LAURA.
END OF VOLUME FIRST.