Impossible it is to describe the condition of his mind when got into the street:—his once violent affection was now converted into the extremest hatred and contempt;—he detested not only Harriot, and the whole sex, but even himself, for having been made the dupe of so unworthy a creature, and could have tore out his own heart, for having joined with her in deceiving him.—Having wandered about some time, giving a loose to his fury, the considerations of what he should do, at last took their turn:—home he could not go, the servant who used to admit him knew nothing of his being out, and he durst not alarm the family by knocking at the door, having passed by several times, and found all fast.

In this perplexity, as he went through a street he had not been used to frequent, he saw a door open, and a great light in a kind of hall, with servants attending:—he asked one of them to whom it belonged, and was told it was a gaming-house, on which he went in, not with any desire of playing, but to pass away some time; finding a great deal of company there, he notwithstanding engaged himself at one of the tables, and tho' he was not in a humour which would permit him to exert much skill, he won considerably.

The company did not break up till five in the morning, and he then growing drowsy, and yet unable to find any excuse to make to his father, he could not think of seeing his face, so went to a bagnio to take that repose he had sufficient need of, the fatigues of his mind having never suffered him to enjoy any sound sleep, since his father's discovery of the extravagance he had been guilty of.

On his awaking, the transaction of the preceding night returned to his remembrance with all its galling circumstances, and the more he reflected on his disobedience to his father, the less he could endure the thoughts of coming into his presence:—in fine, that shame which so often prevents people from doing amiss, was now the motive which restrained him from doing what he ought to have done.—Had he immediately gone home, thrown himself at his father's feet, and confessed the truth, his youthful errors had doubtless merited forgiveness; but this, though he knew it was both his duty, and his interest, he could not prevail on himself to do; and to avoid the rebukes he was sensible were due to his transgressions, he resolved to hide himself as long as he could from the faces of all those who had a right to make them.

In fine, he led the life of a perfect vagabond, sculking from one place to another, and keeping company with none but gamesters, rakes, and sharpers, falling into all manner of dissolution; and whenever his reason remonstrated any thing to him on these vicious courses, he would then, to banish remorse for one fault, fly to others, yet worse, and more destructive.

It is true, he often looked back upon his former behaviour, and was struck with horror at comparing it with the present;—the reflection too how much his mother-in-law might take advantage of the just displeasure of his father against him, to prejudice him in his future fortune, even to cause him to be disinherited, sometimes most cruelly alarmed him; yet, not all this, nor the wants he was plunged in on an ill run at play, (which was the sole means by which he subsisted) were sufficient to bring him to do that which he now even wished to do, tired with the conversation of those profligates, and secretly shocked at the scenes of libertinism he was a daily witness of.

His thoughts thus divided and perplexed, he at length fell into a kind of despair; and not caring what became of himself, he resolved to enter on board some ship, and never see England again, unless fortune should do more than he had reason to hope for in his favour.



CHAP. VI.

Shews the great force of natural affection and the good effects it has over a grateful mind.

If children could be sensible of parental tenderness, or knew what racking cares attend every misdoing of an offending offspring, the heart of Natura would have been so much touched with what his father endured on his account, as to have enabled him to have got the better of that guilty shame, which alone hindered him from submitting to him; but conscious of deferring only the severest reproofs, he could not flatter himself there was a hope of ever being reinstated in that affection he had once possessed, and was too proud to content himself with less.

That afflicted parent being informed of his son's flight, spared no cost or pains to find out the place of his retreat; but all his enquiries were in vain, and he was wholly in the dark, till it came into his head to search a little escritore which stood in his chamber, and of which he had taken away the key: on breaking it open, he found the counterpart of his contract with Harriot, and by that discovery was no longer at a loss for the motives which had obliged his son to raise money, not doubting but the woman was either extremely indigent; or a jilt: but to think the heir of his estate had been so weak as to enter into so solemn and irretrievable an engagement, with a person of either of these characters, gave him an inexpressible disquiet. All his endeavours were now bent on finding her out, not in the least questioning but his son was with her: the task was pretty difficult, the contract discovering no more of her than her name, and the parish in which she lived; yet did the emissaries he employed at last surmount it: they brought him word not only of the exact place where she lodged, but also of her character, as they learned it from the neighbours; they heard also that a young gentleman, whose description answered that of Natura, had been often seen with her, and that she had given out she was married to him.

The father having received this information, consulted with his brother-in-law what course was to be taken, and both being of opinion, that should any enquiry be made concerning Natura, it would only oblige them to quit their lodgings, and fly to some place where, perhaps, it would be more difficult to trace them; it was agreed to get a lord chief justice's warrant, and search her lodgings, without giving any previous alarm.

This was no sooner resolved than put in execution: the father and uncle, attended by proper officers, burst into the house, and examined carefully every part of it; but not finding him, they sought, and perfectly perswaded Harriot could give intelligence of him, they threatened her severely, and here she displayed herself in her proper colours;—nothing ever behaved with greater impudence:—she told them, that she knew nothing of the fool they wanted; but if she could find him, would make him know what the obligations between them exacted from him: in fine, it was easy for them to perceive, there was nothing satisfactory to be obtained from her, and they departed with akeing hearts, but left not the street without securing to their interest a person in the neighbourhood, who promised to keep a continual eye upon her door, and if they ever saw the young gentleman go in, to send them immediate notice.

It is needless to acquaint the reader how fruitless this precaution was: Natura was far from any inclination ever more to enter that detested house, and in that desponding humour, already mentioned, had certainly left the kingdom, and compleated his utter undoing, if Providence had not averted his design, by the most unexpected means.

He was at Wapping, in the company of some persons who used the sea, in order to get into some ship, he cared not in what station, when a young man, clerk to an eminent merchant of his father's acquaintance, happened to come in, to enquire after the master of a vessel, by whom some goods belonging to his master were to be shipped: he had often seen Natura, and though much altered by his late way of living, knew him to be the person whom he had heard so great a search had been made after: he took no notice of him however, as he found the other bent earnestly in discourse did not observe him, but privately informed himself of all he could relating to his business there, and as soon as he came home acquainted his master with the discovery he had made, who did not fail to let his father know it directly.

It is hard to say, whether joy at hearing of his son, or grief at hearing he was in so miserable a condition, was most predominant in him; but the first emotions of both being a little moderated, the consideration of what was to be done, took place:—the clerk having found out that he was lodged in an obscure house at that place, in order to get on board the first ship that sailed, the father would needs go himself, and the merchant offering to accompany him in their little journey, a plan of proceeding was formed between them, which was executed in the following manner.

They went together into a tavern, and sent to the house the clerk had directed, under pretence, that hearing a young man was there who had an inclination for the sea, a master of a ship would be glad to treat with him on that affair.—Natura, happily for him, not having yet an opportunity of engaging himself, obeyed the summons, and followed the messenger:—his father withdrew into another room, but so near as to hear what passed, and there was only the merchant to receive him; but the sight of one he so little expected in that place, and whom he knew was so intimate in their family, threw him into a most terrible consternation. He started back, and had certainly quitted the house, if the merchant, aware of his intention, had not catched hold of him, and getting between him and the door, compelled him to sit down while he talked to him.

He began with asking what had induced him to think of leaving England in the manner he was going to do;—reminded him of the estate to which he was born, the family from which he was descended, and the education which he had received; and then set before his eyes the tenderness with which his father had used him, the grief to which he had exposed him, and above all the madness of his present intentions:—Natura knew all this as well as he that remonstrated to him; but as he had not been capable of listening to his own reflections on that head, all that was said had not the least effect upon him, and the merchant could get no other answer from him, than that as things had happened, he had no other course to take.

The truth was, that as he could not imagine by what means the merchant was apprized of his design, he thought his father was also not ignorant of it; and as he did not vouchsafe either to come in person, or send any message to him from himself, and perhaps was even ignorant that the merchant had any intention of reclaiming him, he looked upon it as a confirmation of his having intirely thrown off all care of him, and in this supposition he became more resolute than ever in his mind, to go where he never might be heard of more.

'What though,' said the merchant, 'you have been guilty of some youthful extravagancies, I am perfectly assured there requires no more than your submitting to intreat forgiveness, to receive: come,' continued he, 'I will undertake to be your mediator, and dare answer I shall prevail.'—'No, sir,' replied Natura, 'I am conscious of having offended beyond all possibility of a pardon;—nor can I ever bear to see my father again.'

The merchant laboured all he could to overcome this mingled pride and shame, which he perceived was the only obstacle to his return to duty; but to no purpose, Natura continued obstinate and inflexible, till his father, having no longer patience to keep himself concealed, rushed into the room, and looking on his son with a countenance which, in spite of all the severity he had endeavoured to assume, betrayed only tenderness and grief.—'So, young man,' said he, 'you think it then my place to seek a reconciliation, and are perhaps too stubborn to accept forgiveness, even though I should condescend to offer it.'

Natura was so thunderstruck at the appearance of his father, and the manner in which he accosted him, that he was far from being able to speak one word, but threw himself at his feet, with a look which testified nothing but confusion: that action, however, denoting that he had not altogether forgot himself, melted the father's heart; he raised him, and forcing him to sit down in a chair close by him; 'Well, Natura,' said he, 'you have been disobedient to an excess; I wish it were possible for your distresses to have given you a remorse in proportion;—I am still a father, if you can be a son.'—He would have proceeded, but was not able:—the meagre aspect, dejected air, and wretched appearance of a son so dear to him, threw him into a condition which destroyed all the power of maintaining that reserve which he thought necessary to his character.

Natura, on the other hand, was so overcome with the unhoped-for gentleness of his behaviour, that he burst into a flood of tears.—Filial gratitude and love, joined with the thoughts of what he had done to deserve a far different treatment, so overwhelmed his heart, that he could express himself no other way than by falling on his knees a second time, and embracing the legs of his father, with a transport, I know not whether to say of grief or joy; continued in that posture for a considerable time, overwhelmed at once with shame, with gratitude, and love:—at length, gaining the power of utterance,—'O sir,' cried he, 'how unworthy am I of your goodness!'—but then recollecting as it were somewhat more; 'yet sure,' pursued he, 'it is not possible you can forgive me all.—I have been guilty of worse than, perhaps, you yet have been informed of:—I am a wretch who have devoted myself to infamy and destruction, and you cannot, nay ought not to forgive me.'

The father was indeed very much alarmed at this expression, as fearing it imported his distresses had drove him to be guilty of some crime of which the law takes cognizance.—'I hope,' said he, 'your having signed a contract with an abandoned prostitute, is the worst action of your life?'

It is impossible to describe the pleasure with which Natura found his father was apprized of this affair, without being obliged to relate it himself, as he was now determined to have done:—all his obduracy being now intirely vanquished, and converted into the most tender, affectionate, and dutiful submission.

'Can there be a worse?' replied he, renewing his embraces, 'and can you know it, and yet vouchsafe to look on me as your son!'—'If your penitence be sincere,' said the good old gentleman, 'I neither can, nor ought refuse to pardon all:—but rise,' continued he, 'and freely give this worthy friend and myself, the satisfaction we require;—a full confession of all your misbehaviour, is the only attonement you can make, and that I can expect from you:—remember I have signed your pardon for all that is past, but shall not include in it any future acts of disobedience, among which, dissimulation, evasion or concealment, in what I demand to be laid open, I shall look upon as of the worst and most incorrigible kind.'

He needed not have laid so strong an injunction on the now truly contrite Natura;—he disguised nothing of what he had done, even to the mean arts of gaming, to which he had been obliged to have recourse after his voluntary banishment from all his friends; and then painted the horrors he conceived at the things he daily saw, and the despair which had induced him to leave England, in such lively colours, that not only his father, but the merchant, were affected by it, even to the letting fall some tears.

But not to be too tedious in this part of my narration, never was there a more perfect reconciliation:—the father till now knew not how much he loved his son, nor the son before felt half that dutiful affection and esteem for his father.

It now remained to conclude how the forgiven youth was to be disposed:—there were two reasons which rendered it imprudent for him to go home; first, on the score of his mother-in-law, who being better informed than her husband could have wished, of the errors of his son, he feared would have behaved to him in a fashion which, he easily foresaw, would be attended with many inconveniences; even perhaps to the driving him back into his late vicious courses; and secondly, on that of the contract, which it would be more difficult to get Harriot to relinquish, if Natura were known to be re-established in his father's favour, than if concealed and supposed still in disgrace with him.—The generous merchant made an offer of an apartment in his house; but Natura, who had not seen his sister of a long time, proposed a visit to her; as thinking the society of that dear and prudent relation, would not only console, but establish him in virtue.

The father listened to both, and after some little deliberation, told his son, that he approved of his going to his sister for a month or two, or three, at his own option; 'but,' said he, 'it is not fit a young man like you should bury yourself for any long time in the country;—you are now of a right age to travel, and I would have you enlarge your understanding by the sight of foreign manners and customs:—I would, therefore, have you make a short visit to my daughter, after which, accept of my friend's invitation, and in the mean time I shall prepare things proper for your making the tour of Europe, under a governor who may keep you in due limits.'

Had Natura never offended his father, the utmost he could have wished from his indulgence, was a proposal of this kind:—he was in a perfect extasy, and knew not how sufficiently to express his gratitude and satisfaction; on talking, however, more particularly on the affair, it was agreed he should go first to the merchant's, in order to be new cloathed, and recover some part of those good looks his late dissolute way of life had so much impaired.

Every thing being settled so much to the advantage of Natura, even a few hours made some alteration in his countenance; so greatly does the ease of the mind contribute to the welfare of the body!—he parted not till night from this indulgent parent, when he went home with the merchant, and had the next day tradesmen of all kinds sent for, who had orders to provide, in their several ways, every thing necessary for a young gentleman born to the estate he was.—As youth is little regardless of futurity, he forgot, for a time, what consequences might possibly attend his contract with Harriot, and was as perfectly at ease, as if no such thing had ever happened. When fully equipped, he went down into that country where his sister lived, and if the least thought of his former transactions remained in him, they were now intirely dissipated, by the kind reception he there met with, and the entertainments made for him by the neighbouring gentry.

But his heart being bent on his travels, and receiving a letter from his father, wherein he acquainted him that all things were ready for his departure, he took leave of the country, after a stay of about nine weeks, and returned to the merchant's, where his father soon came to see him, and told him, he had provided a governor for him, who had served several of the sons of the nobility in that capacity, and was perfectly acquainted with the languages and manners of the countries through which they were to pass.

This tender parent moreover acquainted him, that having consulted the lawyers, on the score of that unhappy obligation he had laid himself under to Harriot, and finding they had given it as their assured opinion, that it was drawn up in the most binding and authentic manner, he had offered that creature a hundred guineas to give up her claim; but she had obstinately rejected his proposal, and seemed determined to compel him to the performance of his contract; or in case he married any other woman, to prosecute him for the moiety of whatever portion he should receive with her.

The mention of this woman, who had given Natura so much disquiet, and who indeed had been the primary cause of all his follies and misfortunes, together with the thoughts of what future inconveniencies she might involve him in, both on the account of his fortune and reputation, made him relapse into his former agitations, and afterwards rendered him extremely pensive, and he could not forbear crying out, that he would chuse rather to abandon England for ever, and, pass the whole remainder of his days in foreign climates, than yield to become the prey any way of so wicked, so infamous a wretch, 'whom,' said he, 'I shall never think on, without hating myself for having ever loved.'

The good-natured merchant, as well as his father, perceiving these reflections began to take too much root in him, joined in endeavouring to alleviate the asperity of them, by telling him, that it was their opinion, as indeed it seemed highly probable, that when he was once gone, she would be more easily prevailed upon; especially as the reconciliation between him and his father was to be kept an inviolable secret. The old gentleman also added, in order to make him easy, that how exorbitant soever she might be in her demands, and whatever it should cost, though it were the half of his estate, he would rid him of the contract; which second proof of paternal affection, renewed in Natura, as well it might, fresh sentiments of love, joy, and duty; and the same promise being again and again reiterated, he soon resumed his former chearfulness, and thought of nothing but the new scenes he was going to pass through.

In fine, not many days elapsed before he departed, with his governor and one footman, who had been an antient servant in the family.—As their first route was to France, they went in the Dover stage, and thence embarked for Calais, without any thing material happening, except it were, that on sight of the ocean, Natura was fired with a devout rhapsody at the thoughts of finding himself upon it, in a manner so vastly different from that in which, but a few months since, his despair had led him to project; and the resolution he made within himself never to be guilty of any thing hereafter, which should occasion a blush on his own face, or incur the displeasure of a father, to whom he looked upon himself as much more indebted, for the forgiveness he had received, than for being the author of his existence.

So great an effect has mercy and benevolence over a heart not hardened by a long practice of vice! How far Natura persevered in these good intentions, we shall hereafter see; but the very ability of forming them, shews that there is a native gratitude and generosity in the human mind, which, in spite of the prevalence of unruly passions, will, at sometimes, shine forth, even in the most thoughtless and inconsiderate.



BOOK the Second.



CHAP. I.

The inconsideration and instability of youth; when unrestrained by authority, is here exemplified, in an odd adventure Natura embarked in with two nuns, after the death of his governor.

Novelty has charms for persons of all ages, but more especially in youth, when manhood is unripened by maturity, when all the passions are afloat, and reason not sufficiently established in her throne by experience and reflection, the mind is fluctuating, easily carried down the stream of every different inclination that invites, and seldom or never has a constant bent.

From seventeen or eighteen to one or two and twenty, I look upon to be that season of life in which all the errors we commit, will admit of most excuse, because we are then at an age to think ourselves men, without the power of acting as becomes reasonable men. It was in the midst of this dangerous time, that Natura set out in order to make the tour of Europe, and his governor dying soon after their arrival in Paris, our young traveller was left to himself, and at liberty to pursue whatever he had a fancy for.

The death of this gentleman was in effect a very great misfortune to Natura; but as at his time of life we are all too apt to be impatient under any restraint, tho' never so mild and reasonable, he did not consider it in that light; and therefore less lamented his loss, than his good nature would have made him do, had he been the companion of his travels in any other station than that of governor, the very name of which implied a right of direction over his behaviour, and a power delegated by his father of circumscribing every thing he did. I believe, whoever looks back upon himself at that age, will be convinced by the retrospect, that there was nothing wonderful in Natura's imagining he had now discretion enough to regulate his conduct, without being under the controul of any person whatever; and could not, for that reason, be much afflicted at being eased of a subordination not at all agreeable to his humour, and which he thought he had not the least occasion for.

The baron d' Eyrac had often invited him to pass some days with him, at a fine villa he had about some ten leagues from Paris; but his governor not having approved that visit, he had hitherto declined it.—He now, however, took it into his head to go, and as the distance was so short, went on horseback, attended by his footman, with a portmanteau containing some linnen and cloaths, his intention being to remain there while the baron stayed, which, as he was informed, would be three weeks, or a month;—it being then the season for hunting, and that part of the country well suited for the diversion.

He had been on a party of pleasure a considerable way on this road before, so thought he had no occasion for a guide, and that he should easily be directed to the house; but it so happened that being got about twenty miles from Paris he missed his route, and took one the direct contrary, and which at last brought him to the entrance of a very thick wood:—there was not the least appearance of any human creature, nor the habitation of one, and he was beginning to consult with his servant whether to go back, or proceed till they should arrive at some town or village for refreshment, when all at once there fell the most terrible shower of hail and rain, accompanied with thunder, that ever was heard;—this determined them to go into the wood for shelter:—the storm continued till night, and it was then so dark, that they could distinguish nothing:—they wandered, however, leading their horses in their hands, for it was impossible to ride, hoping to find some path, by which they might extricate themselves out of that horrid labyrinth.

Some hours were passed in this perplexed situation, and Natura expected no better than to remain there till morning, when he heard a voice at a little distance, cry, 'Who goes there?' Never had any music been half so pleasing to the ears of Natura. 'Friends,' replied he, 'and travellers, that have lost their way.' On this the person who had spoke, drew nearer, and asked whither they were bent. Natura told him to the villa of the baron d' Eyrac. 'The baron d' Eyrac,' said the other, 'he lives twelve miles on the other side the wood, and that is five miles over.'—He then asked if there were no town near, to which he could direct them.—'No,' replied the other, 'but there is a little village where is one inn, and that is above half a league off:—you will never find your way to it; but if you will pay me, I will guide you.' Natura wished no more, and having agreed with him for his hire, followed where he led.

Nothing that was ever called an inn, had so much the shew of wretchedness; nor could it be expected otherwise, for being far from any great road, it was frequented only by shepherds, and others the meanest sort of peasants, who worked in the adjacent grounds, or tended the cattle.

In this miserable place was Natura obliged to take up his lodging:—he lay down, indeed, on the ragged dirty mattress, but durst not take off his cloaths, so noisome was every thing about him:—fatigued as he was, he could not close his eyes till towards day, but had not slept above two hours before the peasant who had served him as a guide, and had also stayed at the inn, came into his room, and waked him abruptly, telling him the lady abbess desired to speak with him.—Natura was much vexed at this disturbance, and not sufficiently awaked to recollect himself, only cried peevishly, 'What have I to do with abbesses,' and then turned to sleep again.

On his second waking, his footman acquainted him, that a priest waited to see him:—Natura then remembered what the peasant had said, but could not conceive what business these holy people had with him; he went down however immediately, and was saluted by a reverend gentleman, who told him, that the lady abbess of a neighbouring monastery (whose almoner he was) hearing from one of her shepherds the distress he had been in, had sent to intreat he would come, and refresh himself with what her convent afforded.

Natura was now ashamed of having been so rough with the peasant, but well atoned for it by the handsome apology he now made; after which he told the almoner, that he would receive the abbess's commands as soon as he was in a condition to be seen by her.—This was what good manners exacted from him, tho' in truth he had no inclination for a visit, in which he proposed so little satisfaction.

He then made his servant open the portmanteau, and give him such things as were proper to equip him for this visit; and while he was dressing, was informed by his host, that this abbess was a woman of quality, very rich, and owned the village they were in, and several others, which brought her in more rent.

If the vanity so natural to a young heart, made Natura, on this information, pleased and proud of the consideration such a lady had for him while unknown, how much more cause had he to be so, when being shewn by the same peasant into the monastery, he was brought into a parlour, magnificently furnished, and no sooner had sat down, than a very beautiful woman, whom he soon found was the lady abbess, appeared behind the grate, and welcomed him with the most elegant compliments.

He had never been in a monastery before, and had a notion that all the nuns, especially the abbesses, were ill-natured old women: he was therefore so much surprized at the sight of this lady, that he had scarce power to return the politeness she treated him with.—Her age exceeded not twenty-four; she was fair to an excess, had fine-turned features, and an air which her ecclesiastic habit could not deprive of its freedom; but the enchanting manner of her conversation, her wit, and the gaiety that accompanied all she said, so much astonished and transported him, that he cried out, without knowing that he did so, 'Good God!—is it possible a monastery can contain such charms!'—She affected to treat the admiration he expressed, as no other than meer bagatelle; but how serious a satisfaction she took in it, a very little time discovered.

'A monastery,' said she, 'is not so frightful a solitude as you, being a stranger to the manners of this country, have perhaps painted to yourself:—I have companions in whom I believe you will find some agreements.'—She then rung a bell, and ordered an attending nun, or what they call a lay-sister, to call some of the sisterhood, whose names she mentioned; and presently came two nuns, with a third lady in a different habit; the least handsome of these might have passed for a beauty, but she that was the most so I shall call Elgidia; she was sister to the abbess, but wanted a good many of her years, and being intended for a monastic life by their parents, had been sent there as a pensioner, till she should be prevailed upon to take the veil.

The abbess, having learned from Natura that he was from England, told them, in a few words, what she knew of him, and the motive of the invitation she had made him; then desired they would entertain him till her return, having some affair, which called her thence for a small time.

As Elgidia appeared by her dress to be more a woman of this world than her companions, he directed his discourse chiefly to her; but whether it were that she had less gaiety in her temper, or that she was that moment taken up with some very serious thought, Natura could not be certain, but he found her much less communicative, than either of those, whose profession seemed to exact greater reserve.

As Natura spoke French perfectly well, and delivered all he said with a great deal of ease, they were very much pleased with his conversation; and yet more so, when, at the return of the abbess, that wit and spirit they before found in him, seemed to have gained an additional vigour.

The truth is, the first sight of this beautiful abbess had very much struck him; and a certain prepossession in her favour, had rendered him not so quick-sighted as he might otherwise have been to the charms of her sister:—not that he was absolutely in love with her, nor entertained the least wish in prejudice to the sanctity of her order; it was rather an admiration he was possessed with on her account, which the surprize, at finding her person and manner so widely different from what he had expected, contributed very much to excite in him.

The breakfast, which consisted of chocolate, tea, coffee, rich cakes, and sweetmeats, was served upon the Turnabout; but the abbess told him, that their monastery had greater privileges than any other in France; for they were not restrained from entertaining their kindred and friends, tho' of a different sex, within the grate; 'as you shall experience,' said she, with the most obliging air, 'if you will favour us with your company at dinner.'

Nothing could be more pleasing to Natura than this invitation, and it cannot, therefore, be supposed he hesitated much to comply with it; however, as the hour of their devotion drew nigh, and forms must be observed, he was desired to take a tour round about the village till twelve, at which time they told him dinner would be on the table.

He was still in so much amazement at what he had seen and heard, that he was not sorry at having an opportunity of being alone, to reflect on all had passed; but the deeper he entered into thought, the more strange it still seemed to him; till happening accidentally to fall into some discourse with a gentleman in the village, he was told by him, that the nunnery they were in sight of, was called, Le Convent de Riche Dames; that none but women of condition entered themselves into it, and that they enjoyed liberties little different from those that live in the world:—'It is true,' said this person, 'the gay manner in which they behave, has drawn many reflections on their order, yet I know not but they may be equally innocent with those of the most rigid.'

This was enough to shew Natura, that the civilities he received, were only such as any stranger, who appeared of some rank, might be treated with, as well as himself; and served to abate that little vanity which, without this information, might have gained ground in his heart; at least it did so for the present: what reasons he founds afterwards for the indulging it, the reader will anon be enabled to judge.

He was not, however, without a good deal of impatience for the hour appointed for his return, which being arrived, the portress admitted him into a fine room behind the grate, where he found the abbess, Elgidia, the two nuns he had seen in the morning, and another, which, it seems, were all the abbess thought proper should be present.

The table was elegantly served, and the richness of the wines, helped very much to exhilerate the spirits of the company.—Elgidia alone spoke little, tho' what she said was greatly to the purpose, and discovered that it was not for want either of sentiment or words she retained so great a taciturnity.—Natura saying somewhat, that shewed he took notice how singular she was in this point, the abbess replied, that her sister did not like a convent, that the comedy, the opera, and ball, had more charms for her than devotion. On which Natura made some feint attempts to justify a goute for those public diversions, but was silenced by the abbess, who maintained the only true felicities of life were religion and friendship. 'What then do you make of love, madam?' cried he briskly: 'love, the first command of Heaven, and the support of this great universe:—love, which gives a relish to every other joy, and'—he was going on, but the abbess interrupted him, 'Hold!—Hold!' said she, 'this is not a discourse fit for these sacred precincts.'—But these words were uttered in a sound, and accompanied with a look, which wholly took away their austerity, and it was easy for Natura to perceive by the manner in which they were spoke, as well as by a sigh, which escaped Elgidia at the same time, that neither of these ladies were in reality enemies to the passion he was defending.

Some little time after dinner was over, Natura was about to take his leave; but the abbess told him, that she had formed a design to punish him for pretending to espouse the cause of love; 'and that is,' said she, 'by detaining you in a place, where you must never speak, nor hear a word, in favour of it':—'we have,' continued she, 'a little apartment adjoining to the monastery, tho' not in it, which serves to accommodate such friends as visit us, and are too far from home to return the same day:—you must not refuse to pass at least one night in it; and I dare promise you, that you will not find yourself worse lodged, than the preceding one:—your servant may also lie in the same house, and I will send your horses to a neighbouring farmer; who will take care of them.'

The manner in which this request was urged, had somewhat in it too obliging, for Natura to have denied, in good manners, even if his inclinations had been opposite; but indeed he was too much charmed with the conversation of the lovely abbess, and her fair associates, to be desirous of quitting it.—He not only stayed that night, but also, on their continuing to ask it, many succeeding ones.—He lay in the apartment above-mentioned, breakfasted, dined, and supped in the convent, as if a pensioner in the place, always in the same company, and ambitious of no other.

The gallantries with which he treated the abbess, were as tender as innocence would permit; nor did he presume to harbour any views of being happier with her than he was at present.

But see! the strange caprice of love! It was not through a coldness of constitution, nor any confederations of her quality and function, which rendered him so content with enjoying no more of her than her conversation; nor that hindered him from taking advantage of many advances she made him, whenever they were alone, of becoming more particular; but it was the progress Elgidia every day made in his esteem:—the more he saw that beautiful young lady, the more he thought her charming; and every time she spoke discovered to him a new fund of wit, and sweetness of disposition:—it was not in her power to erase the first impression her sister had made on him, but it was to stop the admiration he had for her from growing up into a passion:—whenever he saw either of them alone, he thought her most amiable he was with; and when they were together, he was divided between both.

For upwards of a month did he continue in the same place, and in the same situation of mind; but then either the abbess's own good sense, or the advice of some friend, remonstrating to her, that so long a stay of a young gentleman, who was known to be not of her kindred, might occasion discourses to her disreputation, and that of the monastery in general; she took the opportunity one day, when he was making an offer of going, as he frequently did, to speak to him in this manner:

'I know not how,' said she, 'to part with you, and I flatter myself you think of going, rather because you imagine your tarrying here for any length of time, might be inconvenient for us, than because you are tired of the reception you have found here.'

'Ah madam!' cried he, 'be assured I could live for ever here;—and that I only grieve that such a hope is impossible.—If what you now say is sincere,' answered she, 'you may at least prolong the happiness we at present enjoy:—but I shall put you to the proof,' continued she, looking on him with eyes in which the most eager passion was visibly painted,—'to hush the tongue of censure, you shall remove to a town about seven miles distant, where there are many good houses, in one of which you may lodge, under pretence of liking the air of this country, and visit us, as other of our friends do, as frequently as you please, without endangering any remarks, even though you should stay with us three or four nights at a time.'

Natura was so ravished at this proposal, and the kind, almost fond manner, in which it was made, that he catched hold of her hand, and kissed it, with a vehemence not conformable to a Platonic affection:—she seemed, however, far from being offended at his boldness, which had perhaps proceeded to greater lengths, had not Elgidia at that instant come into the room.—The abbess was a little disconcerted, but to conceal it as well as she could, 'sister,' said she, 'I have made our guest the proposal I mentioned to you this morning, and leave you to second it': with these words she withdrew.

Elgidia appeared in little less confusion than her sister had done; but Natura was in infinitely more than either of them.—The sudden sight of her who possessed at least half of his affections, just in the moment he was in a kind of rapture with another, struck him like the ghost of a departed mistress; and tho' he had never made any declaration of love either to the one or the other, yet his heart reproached him with a secret perfidy, and he durst scarce lift his eyes to her face, when with a timid voice he at last said, 'Madam, may I hope you take any interest in what your sister has been speaking of?'—'You may be sure I do,' replied she, 'in all that concerns the abbess; as to my farther sentiments on your staying or going, they can be of no consequence to you.'—'How, madam!' resumed he, by this time a little re-assured, 'of no consequence! You know nothing of my heart, if you know it not incapable of forming the least wish but to please you.'

He said many other tender and gallant things to her, in order to engage her to add her commands to those of the abbess; but, either the belief that he was wholly devoted to that lady, or the natural reserve of her temper, would suffer her to let him draw no more from her, than that she should share in the happiness her sister proposed to herself, in his continuing so near them.

But tho' Elgidia could command her words, she could not have so much power over her eyes as to keep them from betraying a tenderness not inferior to that of her sister; and Natura had the satisfaction of finding he was beloved by both these amiable women, without thinking himself so far attached to either, as not to be able to break off whenever he pleased.

But to what end tended all this gallantry! to what purpose was all this waste of time, in an amour, which either had no aim in view, or if it had, must be such a one, as must turn to the confusion of the persons concerned in it!—These indeed are questions any one might naturally ask, but could not have been resolved by Natura, who took a pleasure in prosecuting the adventure, and neither examined what he proposed by it himself, or considered what consequences might ensue; and herein he but acted as most others do of his age, who rarely give themselves the pains of consulting what may, or will be, when pleased with what is.

He went to the place the abbess had directed, but imagined he should be very much at a loss for amusement, being wholly a stranger to every body. He would doubtless have been so, had his retreat been in any other country than France; but as it is the peculiar characteristic of that nation to entertain at first sight with the same freedom and communicativeness of a long acquaintance, he soon found himself neither without company nor diversion:—whether he had an inclination to hunt, or dance, or play, he always met with persons ready to join in the party, so that the intervals he passed there, between his visits to the monastery, seemed not at all tedious to him.

The ladies, however, were far from being forgotten by him; ten days had not elapsed, before he returned to renew, or rather to improve, the impression he had both given and received.—The abbess appeared all life and spirit at his return, but Elgidia was more melancholly than when he left her; but it was a melancholly which had in it somewhat of a soft languor, which was very engaging to Natura, especially as he had reason to believe, by several looks and expressions, which in some unguarded moments fell from her, that he had the greatest interest in it.

The oftener he saw her, the more he was confirmed in this conjecture; but as he could not be assured of it, never treated her in a manner which should give her room to guess what his thoughts were, for fear of meeting with a rebuff, which would have been too mortifying to his vanity:—but as the belief of being beloved by her, rendered her insensibly more dear to him; the regards he paid her, and the sighs which frequently issued from his breast when he approached her, did not escape the notice of the quick-sighted abbess; and disdaining a competitorship in a heart she thought she had wholly engrossed, resolved to be more plain than hitherto she had been, in order to bring him to declare himself.

With this view she led him one day into the garden, and being seated in a close arbour, where there was no danger of being overheard,—'Natura,' said she, 'I doubt not but you may perceive, by the civilities I have treated you with, that you are not indifferent to me; but as you cannot be sensible to how great a degree my regard for you extends, it remains that I confess to you there is but one thing wanting to compleat the intire conquest of my heart'; 'and that is,' continued she, fixing her eyes intently on his face, 'that you will cease for the future to pay those extraordinary assiduities to Elgidia you have lately done.'

How much soever Natura was transported at the beginning of this discourse, the closure of it gave him an inexpressible shock, insomuch that he was wholly unable to make any reply, to testify the sense he had of the obligation she conferred on him. 'I see,' said she, 'the too great influence my sister has over you leaves me no room to hope any thing from you:—I did not think the sacrifice I exacted from you so great, that the purchase of my heart would not have atoned for it; but since I find it is otherwise, I repent I put you to the trial.'

In speaking these words she rose up, and flew out of the arbour: the confusion Natura was in, prevented him from endeavouring to detain her; and before he could resolve with himself how to behave in so critical a conjuncture, she was out of sight.—Whatever tenderness he had for the other, he could not bear the thoughts of having offended this lady: the confession she had just made him, seemed to deserve all his gratitude; and tho' the price she demanded for her heart was too excessive for him to comply with, yet he resolved to make his peace with her the first time he found her alone, on the best terms he could.

This was an opportunity, however, not so easily attained as he had imagined:—the abbess conceived so much spite at the little inclination he had testified to comply with her demand, that she kept one or other of the nuns with her the whole remainder of that day, and he could only tell her by his eyes how desirous he was of coming to an eclaircisement.

But as if this was a day destined to produce nothing but extraordinary events, perceiving the abbess industriously avoided speaking to him, he had retired into the parlour to ruminate on the affair, when Elgidia came in to him, and with somewhat more gaiety than she was accustomed to, cried, 'What, alone, Natura! but I suppose you attend my sister, and I will not be any interruption'; and then turned to go out of the room. All the discontent he was in for the displeasure he found he had given the abbess, could not keep him from getting between her and the door:—'I have no other way to convince you of the injustice of your suspicion,' said he, 'than to detain you here; tho' perhaps,' added he, looking on her with an unfeigned tenderness, 'while I am clearing myself in one article, it may not be in my power to prevent betraying my guilt in another, which it may be you will find yet less worthy of forgiveness.'

'I know not,' replied she, with a smile too enchanting to be resisted, 'that I ever gave you any tokens of a rigid disposition; and besides, I am inclined to have so good an opinion of you, that I look on your giving me any cause of offence, as one of the things out of your power.'

Emboldened by these words, 'Suppose, madam,' returned he, 'I should confess to you that I was indulging the most passionate tenderness for the beautiful Elgidia!—that her sweet idea is always present with me, and that I sometimes am presuming enough to cherish the hopes of not being hated by her':—'tell me,' continued he, 'what punishment does this criminal deserve?'

'To be treated in the same manner,' answered she blushing, 'if he is sincere; and to be made know that he cannot have formed any designs upon the heart of Elgidia, which Elgidia has not equally harboured upon that of Natura.'—A declaration so unexpected might very well transport a young man, even beyond himself, and all considerations whatever:—forgetful of the respect due to her quality and virtue, and regardless of the place they were in, he seized her in his arms, and almost smothered her with kisses, before she could disengage herself; at length, breaking from him, 'It is not by such testimonies as these,' said she, 'that I expected you should repay the acknowledgment I have made; but by a full laying open your bosom, as to what passes in it, in regard to my sister:—I know very well she loves you, and am apt to believe she has not been more discreet than myself in concealing it from you; but am altogether at a loss as to the returns you may have made her passion.'

Natura now really loving her, hesitated not to do as she desired; neither making any secret of the admiration which the abbess had raised in him at first sight, nor the discourse she had lately entertained him with, and the injunction she had laid upon him. Elgidia took this as so great a proof of his affection, that she made no scruple to ratify the confession she had made him by all the endearments that innocence would permit:—after which, they consulted together how he should behave to the abbess, whose temper being violent, it was not proper to drive to extremes; and it was therefore agreed between them, that he should continue to treat her with a shew of tenderness: Elgidia even proposed, that he should renounce her, in case the other continue to insist upon it; but Natura could not consent his insincerity should go so far.

They parted, mutually content with each other; and Natura himself believed his inclinations were now fixed, by the assurance Elgidia had given him of the most true and perfect passion that ever was: but how little do we know of our own hearts at his years! the next time he saw the abbess alone, he relapsed into the same fluctuating state as before, and found too much charms in the kindness she expressed for him, to be able to withdraw himself intirely from her.

That lady, who loved to an excess, could not be any long time without affording him the means of reconciliation; and the next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, descended alone into the garden, giving him a look at the same time, which commanded him to follow:—he did so, and perceiving she took her way to the same arbour they had been in before, he went in soon after her, affecting, rather than feeling, a timidity in approaching her. 'Well, Natura,' said she, 'have you yet examined your heart sufficiently, to know whether the full possession of mine, can atone for your breaking with my sister';—to which he replied, that as he had no engagements with Elgidia, nor had ever any other thoughts of her, than such as were excited by that respect due to her sex and rank, he was wholly ignorant in what manner it was exacted from him to behave:—'but,' added he, 'if vowing that from the first moment I beheld your charms, I became absolutely devoted to you, may deserve any part of that affection you are pleased to flatter me with, I am ready to give you all the assurances in the power of words.'

This asseveration could not be called altogether false, because he had really a latent inclination in him towards her, which all the tenderness he had for Elgidia could not eradicate; and this it was that gave all he said such an air of sincerity as won upon the abbess, to believe her jealousy had misinterpreted the looks she had sometimes seen him give her sister, and at length made her desist from reproaching him on that score.

The tranquility of her mind being restored, she gave a loose to the violence of her passion, in such caresses as might well make the person who received them forgetful of all other obligations:—in these transporting moments the lovely abbess had his whole soul:—he now, unasked, abjured not only Elgidia, but all the sex beside, and even wondered at himself for having ever entertained a wish beyond the happiness he enjoyed at present.

The abbess was too well versed in the affairs of love, not to be highly satisfied with the proofs he gave of his, than which, it is certain, nothing for the time could be more sincere or ardent; death was it to them both to put an end to this inchanting scene, but as they were seen to go into the garden soon after one another, and too long a stay together might occasion a suspicion of the cause, they were obliged to separate, though not without a promise of meeting in the same place at night, after the nuns were all retired to their respective chambers.

The abbess passed through a back-way into the chapel, it being near the time of prayers, and Natura returned by the great walk into the outward cloister, where Elgidia seeing him at a distance, and alone, waited his coming, to know of him how he had proceeded with her sister.—Natura, yet full of the abbess and the favours he had received from her, would have gladly dispenced with this interview; but she was too near, before he perceived her, for him to draw back with decency.

Far from suspecting any change in him, and judging of his integrity by her own, 'I was impatient,' said she, 'to hear the event of your conversation with the abbess; tell me therefore in a few words, for the bell rings to chapel, whether you have succeeded so far as to stifle all jealousies of me?' 'Yes, madam,' replied he, recovering himself as well as he could from his confusion, 'we may be easy for the future, as to that particular.'—'I long for the particulars of your discourse' resumed she, 'but cannot now stay to be informed; meet me in the garden after the sisterhood are in bed'; 'this,' continued she, putting a key into his hand, 'will admit you by the gate that leads to the road:—do not fail to be there at nine.'—The haste she was in to be gone, would not have permitted him time to make any answer, if he had been provided with one, and he could only just kiss her hand as she turned from him.

But what was the dilemma he was now involved in! the hour, and place she appointed, were the very same in which he was to meet the abbess! impossible was it for him to gratify both, and not very easy to deceive either:—he went back into the garden, ruminating what course he should take in so intricate an affair; at first he thought of writing a little billet, and slipping it into Elgidia's hand, acquainting her that the abbess had commanded him to attend her in the garden at the time she mentioned, and telling her that he thought it necessary to obey, to prevent all future suspicion:—but he rejected this design, not only as that young lady might possibly have the curiosity to conceal herself behind the arbour, and would then be a witness of things it was no way proper she should be informed of, but also because his heart reproached him for having already done more than he could answer, and forbad him to deceive her any farther; in fine, that he might be guilty of perfidy to neither, he resolved to quit both, at least for that night, but knew not yet on what he should determine for the future.

Divine service being over, he repaired to the parlour, where, after they were sat down to dinner, he said, addressing himself to the abbess, that having sent his servant that morning to his lodgings, he had received letters of the utmost importance, which required immediate answers; and that he must be obliged for that reason to take his leave; 'though with what regret,' added he, 'it is easy to perceive, by the long stay I always make here.'

The abbess insisted upon it, that he should not go;—told him he might write what he pleased there without interruption; and that his man might carry his dispatches to the post: but all she urged could not prevail, and both that lady and her sister had the mortification to hear him give orders that his own horse should be got ready with all expedition; as for his servant he was left behind for a few hours, on the account of packing up some things he had brought him in the design of staying a longer time.

In fine, he went away, with a promise of returning in a short time. The abbess was inwardly fretted at the disappointment, but imagined it was only occasioned by the motive he pretended, till a young nun who was her confidante in all things, and had happened to cross the cloyster when Natura and Elgidia were talking together before prayers, and had seen him kiss her hand, informed her of this passage, and added, of her own conjecture, that the abrupt departure of Natura was owing to somewhat that lady had said to him:—there needed no more to inflame the passionate and jealous abbess; she doubted not of being betrayed, and flew directly to her sister's chamber, accused her of being guilty of the most criminal intercourse with a stranger, and threatened if she did not confess the whole truth to her, and swear never to see him more, she would send an account of her behaviour to their parents, who would not fail to thrust her into a less commodious convent, and compel her to take the veil directly.

The mild and timid disposition of Elgidia, could not sustain this shock; she immediately fainted away, and help being called to bring her to herself, in opening her bosom a paper fell out of it, which the abbess snatching up, ran to her chamber to examine, and found it contained these words:

'To prevent my dear angel from being surprized at my sudden departure, know that it is to avoid the abbess, who obliged me to give her a promise of meeting her this night in the garden:—at my next visit you shall be informed at full of all that passed between us in the morning. Adieu.

Natura.

As Natura had no opportunity to make an excuse to Elgidia, he had slipt this billet into her hand on taking leave; and though no more was meant by it than to make her easy till his return, there was sufficient in the expression not only to convince the abbess that her sister was indeed her rival, but also to make her think herself had been the dupe to their amour.—Impossible would it be to describe the force of those passions, which, in this dreadful instant, overwhelmed her soul; so I shall only say, it was as great as woman could sustain, and which the impatience of venting on their proper object, put it into her head to go to him in a disguise, and upbraid his perfidy. As she seldom listened to any dictates, but those of her passion, this design was no sooner formed than preparations were made for the execution, nor could all her confidante urged, on the danger and scandal of the attempt, deter her from it.

There was a fellow who was frequently employed about the monastery, in whom she could confide:—him she sent to a farmer, with orders to hire three horses, one for herself, another for her confidante, who, in spite of all her apprehensions on that account, she would needs make accompany her, and the third for the man, who was to attend them as a valet, the little road they had to travel. This fellow was directed to bring the horses about ten o'clock at night, at which time it would be dark, to the corner of a wall at the farther end of the garden, when she and her companion were to mount, and away on this wild expedition.

But while the abbess was busy on her project, Elgidia had also another, though of somewhat a less desperate kind; her sister's temper gave her but too much reason to believe she would revenge herself on her by all the ways in her power; and trembling at the thoughts of being exposed to her parents, and the censure of the world, as the other had threatened, which she knew no way to avoid, but by Natura making up this quarrel; and tho' she knew it could only be done by his renouncing all pretensions to herself, yet she rather chose to lose the man she loved, than her reputation. As she knew not whether the abbess would delay the gratification of her malice any longer than the next morning, she resolved to send for Natura that same night, in order to engage him to a second reconciliation with her sister, let the terms be never so cruel to herself.

She had no sooner laid this plot, than she ran to see if the servant he had left behind was yet gone, and finding he was not, bad him wait a little, that she might send a letter by him to his master. The contents of her epistle were as follow:

'Something has happened, which lays me under a necessity of speaking to you this night:—the only consolation I have under the severest of all afflictions, is, that I did not take back the key I gave you in the morning: I beg you will make use of it, and let me find you in the close arbour as soon as the darkness will permit your entrance unobserved:—fail not, if you have any regard for the honour, the peace, and even the life of the unfortunate

Elgidia.

Natura had no sooner received this billet from the hands of his servant, than all his tenderness for the fair authoress of it revived in him, which, joined to his impatient curiosity for the knowledge of the accident she mentioned, easily determined him to do as she desired.

He set out at the close of day; but the moon rising immediately after, shone so extremely bright as proved her, no less than the sun, an enemy to the design he was at present engaged in; he was therefore obliged to wait till that planet had withdrawn her light, before he durst approach the convent.

The abbess and her companion having dressed themselves in riding habits, went at the above-mentioned hour to the gate where they expected the man and horses were attending their coming; but there was not the least appearance of any.—the abbess, emboldened by her impatience and despair, would needs venture out some paces beyond the gate, to listen if she could hear any sound of what she wanted, but had not long continued in that posture, before she discovered by the twinkling light of the stars, two men on horseback, galloping directly to the place where she stood:—impossible was it for her to discern what sort of persons they were, but easy to know, as there were two men, and no more than two horses, that they were not those she looked for; on which she ran with all the haste she could back into the garden, and clapping the gate after her, in her fright stopped not till she was almost at the entrance of the cloyster:—both she and her companion were out of breath; but when they had a little recovered it, the latter took the liberty of railying her on the terror she had been in, at the sight of two persons, who were, doubtless, only pursuing their own affairs, without any thought or notice of them:—the abbess acknowledged the pleasantry was just, and returned again to the gate, which having opened, they found two horses tied to a tree, at a little distance from it, without any person to look after them. She imagined they belonged to the farmer, but could not guess wherefore there was not a third, or how it happened that the man was not with them.—The two lady-adventurers waited in hopes of seeing their attendant with another horse, till the abbess, fearing the night would be too far spent for the execution of her design, and grown quite wild with rage and vexation, resolved to go without a guide; and accordingly she, and the young nun that was with her, mounted the horses they found there, and rode away.

Little did this distracted woman imagine to whom she was indebted for the means of conveying herself where she wished to be; for in effect these horses were Natura's, and it was no other than himself, attended by his man, who had put her into that fright, which occasioned her running so far back into the garden, as gave him time to enter, without being either seen or heard by her:—he was no sooner within the gate, than his servant tied the horses to a tree, as has been related, and retired to a more convenient place, either to lye down to sleep, or on some other occasion.—Thus did an accident which had like to have broken all Elgidia's measures, turn wholly to the advantage of them, and she found as much satisfaction, as a person in her situation could possibly take, in finding Natura so punctual to the summons she had sent:

It was with a flood of tears she related to him all that had passed between the furious abbess and herself after his departure, and concluded her discourse with beseeching him to see her in the morning, and omit nothing that might pacify her, 'even,' said she, 'to forswear ever speaking to me more.'

Natura was touched to the very soul at the grief he saw her in, and equally with the tender consideration she had for him; and now more devoted to her than ever, would have done any thing to prove the sincerity of his passion, but that which she demanded of him:—it was in vain she urged the impossibility of keeping a correspondence together under the same roof with a rival who had all the power in her own hands; or that she represented how much better it would be for both to break off so dangerous an intercourse of themselves, before the rage of the abbess should put her upon doing it, in a manner which might involve them all in destruction:—all the arguments she made use of, only served to render him more amorous, and consequently less able to part with her.—The difference he found between these two sisters; the outrageous temper of the one, compared with the prudence, sweetness, and gentleness of the other, rendered the comparison almost odious to him; and as he could not but acknowledge the impractibility of maintaining a conversation with the latter, without the participation of the former; nor though he should even consent to divide himself between them, would either of them be content, he told Elgidia, that the only way to solve these difficulties, was, for her to fly from the monastery, and be the partner of his fortune, as she was the mistress of his heart.

Such a proposition made her start!—to abandon all her friends, and put herself wholly in the power of a stranger, of whose fortune, family, or fidelity, she could not be assured, gave her very just alarms; but whatever was her reluctance at the first mention of such an enterprize, the extreme passion she had for him, rendered all her apprehensions, by degrees, less formidable:—he told her he had no other wishes, than such as were dictated by honour;—that he would marry her as soon as they should arrive at a place where the ceremony could be performed with safety:—that he was heir to a considerable estate after his father's death, that on his return to England he should have a handsome settlement out of it, and that his present allowance was sufficient to keep them above want.—People easily believe what they wish, especially from the mouth of a beloved person.—Natura indeed had uttered no untruths as to his circumstances, but as to the main point, his marrying her, it is impossible to judge whether in that he was sincere, because he knew not himself whether he was so, tho' in the vehemence of his present inclinations he might imagine he did so, and at that time really meant as he said.

Be that as it may, Elgidia suffered herself to be won by his perswasions; and being so, the present opportunity was not to be lost.—He had horses at the gate, could conduct her, he said, where she might be concealed till they got quite out of the reach of her kindred, and failed not to remonstrate, that if she delayed, but even till the next morning, not only the jealousy of the abbess, but a thousand other accidents, might separate them for ever.

As the lovers past their time in this manner, the distracted abbess was prosecuting her journey, in quest of him she had left behind: as the way she had to go was so short, there was no great danger of any mischief attending it, neither did any happen; but how great was her confusion! when arriving at the house where Natura lodged, she was told he went out in the evening, on the receipt of a billet brought him by his servant.—This disappointment destroyed all the remains of temperance had been left in her; she presently guessed the billet came from no other than Elgidia, doubted not but they were together, and figured in her mind a scene of tenderness between them so cruel to her imagination, that frenzy itself scarce exceeded what she endured:—she rode back with even more precipitation than she had set out, and being alighted at the gate thro' the great walk, supposing Elgidia had brought him into her chamber, where, if she found them, thought of nothing, but sacrificing one or both of them to her resentment.

In this situation of mind, it cannot be imagined she had any thought about the horses; but her companion having more the power of reflection, and judging them to be the farmer's, thought it best to tye them to a tree within the garden, that so they might be secured, and sent to him in the morning; which having done, and shut the gate, she was going to follow the abbess, when she met her coming back:—'I have considered,' said she, 'that my perfidious sister would rather chuse the close arbour for her rendezvous, than her own chamber, where there would be more danger of being overheard by the nuns who lie near her;—go you therefore,' continued she, 'and wait me in my apartment, while I search the garden.'

The nun obeyed, glad to be eased of this nocturnal attendance, and the abbess drew near, as softly as she could, to the arbour; and standing behind the covert of the greens of which it was composed, heard the consent Elgidia gave to accompany Natura, and saw her quit him, with a promise of returning, as soon as she had put on a habit somewhat more proper for travelling.

Had she followed the first dictates of her passion in this stabbing circumstance, she had either pursued her sister, and inflicted on her all that vindictive malice could suggest, or run into the arbour, and discharged some part of her fury on Natura:—each alike shared her resentment, but divided between both, lost its effects on either:—a revenge more pleasing, and less unbecoming of a female mind, at length got the better of those furious resolves;—she thought, that as every thing favoured such a design, and she was equipped for the purpose, to take the place of her sister, would afford her an exquisite triumph over the disappointment she should occasion them: accordingly, after staying long enough to encourage the deception, she came round the arbour, and entered at the passage by which Elgidia had gone out:—Natura, not doubting but it was his beloved, took her in his arms, saying, 'How transporting is the expedition you have made in your return; and indeed we had need of it, for the night is far exhausted, and it is necessary you should be out of this part of the country before day-break.'

The abbess answered not to what he said, but gave him her hand; on which he led her towards the gate, entertaining her with the most endearing expressions as they walked, to all which she was still dumb. Natura was not surprized at it, as imagining she was too much engrossed by the thoughts of what she was about to do, to be able to speak:—but how great was his mortification, when having opened the gate, he found his servant, who having missed the horses, was just come back from a fruitless search of them.—He drew his sword, and had not the fellow stept nimbly aside, had certainly killed him:—while he was venting his passion in the severest terms, the abbess shut the gate upon him, and locked it with her own key, which, leaving in the lock, the one he had made use of, could now be of no service.—A caprice he had so little reason to expect in Elgidia, might very well surprize him, especially at a time when both had so much cause to be more grave!—he called to her, he complained, he even reproached the unkindness, and ill-manners of this treatment, while the abbess indulged on the other side the most spiteful pleasure in his vexation.

She left him railing at fate and womankind, without convincing him of his error, when as she was going to the monastery, she met Elgidia just coming out, and directing her steps towards the arbour:—they were in the same path, and facing each other:—Elgidia, full of the fears which usually attend actions of the nature she was about to do, no sooner perceived the form of a woman, and habited in the same manner as herself, than she took it for a spirit; and terrified almost to death, cried out, 'a ghost! a ghost!' and ran, shrieking, with all her force to the cloyster, resolved, as much as it then was in her power to resolve on any thing, to desist from her enterprise.—She made no stop, till she got into her chamber, where she threw herself on the bed, in a condition not to be described.

The abbess was so well satisfied with the success of this last stratagem, that it greatly abated the thoughts of taking any further revenge:—she went laughing to her confidante, and told her the whole story, who congratulated her upon it, and said, that in her opinion, she might take it as a peculiar providence of Heaven, that had disappointed her first design, which could only have increased her confusion, and probably brought a lasting scandal on the order. The abbess wanted not reason, when her passion would permit her to exert it, and could not help confessing the truth of what the other remonstrated:—she now easily saw they were Natura's horses they had made use of, but how it came to pass that those she had bespoke, or the man she had ordered to bring them, happened to fail, remained a point yet to be discussed:—the morning, however, cleared it up;—the fellow acquainted her, that the farmer had no horses at home, and that as he was coming to let her know it, he saw two men at the gate, one of whom entered, so that he imagined she had provided herself elsewhere:—she then bad him turn out Natura's horses, which the nun having said how she had disposed of them, not thinking herself obliged to take any care of what belonged to a man, who had treated her with so much ingratitude.

Natura was all this time in the utmost perplexity, not only at the usage he imagined had been given him by Elgidia, but also for the loss of his horses; and at being told when he came home, that two women, in riding habits, well mounted, but without any attendants, had been to enquire for him:—all these things, the meaning of any one of which he was not able to fathom, so filled his head, that he could not take any repose:—pretty early in the morning, a letter was brought him from Elgidia, which he hastily opened, but found nothing in it, but what served to heighten his amazement and discontent.

She told him that she could not dispense with letting him know the occasion of her breach of promise; that intending nothing more than to perform it, she was hastening to the arbour, when, in the middle of the garden, she was met by an apparition, which, as near as she could discern, had the resemblance of herself;—that the terror she was in had obliged her to retire; and that as she could look on what she had seen, as no other than a warning from Heaven, she had determined to use her utmost endeavours for extinguishing a passion obnoxious to its will; to which end she desired he would make no farther attempts to engage her to an act so contrary to her duty, or even ever to see her more.

Natura had so little notion of spirits and ghosts, that at first he took this story only as a pretence, to cover a levity he had not suspected her to be guilty of; but when he reflected on the silence of the person he had taken for her, and the description of those who had been to enquire for him, he began to imagine, as he had not the least thought of the abbess, that something supernatural had indeed walked the garden that night, and had also been at his own lodgings in order to perplex him more:—a thousand little tales he had been told in his infancy, concerning the tricks played on mortals by those shadowy beings, now came fresh into his mind; and as the belief of what Elgidia had wrote gained ground in him, was not far from being of her opinion, that it was a warning from Providence, and to repent of having attempted to snatch from the altar a woman devoted to it.

It is doubtless accidents such as this, that have given rise to so many stories of apparitions, as have been propagated in the world; and had not Natura been afterwards informed of the whole truth, it is likely he would have been as great a defender of these ideas, as any who are accounted superstitious:—but however that might have been, it wrought so strongly on his mind at present, that joined with the considerations of those perpetual perplexities which must infallibly attend an ecclesiastical intrigue; besides, those which the abbess would involve him in, made him resolve to obey Elgidia's commands, and pursue the matter no farther, but go directly to the baron d' Eyrac's, who he heard was still at his country-house.

The loss of his horses, however, very much vexed him; he bought them, because he preferred that way of travelling to a post-chaise: they had cost him forty louis d'ores in Paris, and knew not whether the country he was in would afford him any so fit for his purpose:—he was just sending his man to enquire where others were to be had, when his own were at the door, without the least damage done either to themselves or saddles:—the farmer who had the care of them while he was at the monastery, found them wandering in the field, and easily knowing to whom they belonged, brought them home.

This was some consolation to him for the loss of his mistresses; and he began to resolve seriously on his departure; but thinking it would be the highest ungenerosity to quit the convent, without acknowledging the favours he had received there, he wrote a letter to the abbess, full of gratitude and civility, telling her, that tho' the necessity of his affairs required he should take an eternal leave of that place, he should always preserve the memory of those honours he had received in it.—To Elgidia he wrote in much the same strain she had done to him, and concluded with desiring her to believe it was to Heaven alone he could resign her. Those letters he sent by his man, and ordered him to leave them with the portress, to avoid any answers which might have drawn him into a longer correspondence than he desired, or perhaps even have occasioned a revival of those inclinations in him, which he was now convinced of the folly and danger of.

This was the first proof he gave of a firmness of resolution, and was indeed as great a one as could have been expected from a man of the age he was:—it must be owned, that at that time love is the strongest passion of the soul, and as neither Elgidia nor the abbess wanted charms to inspire it, and he had been but too sensible of the force of both, to be able, I say, to tear himself away in the manner he now did, was a piece of heroism, which I with every one in the like circumstance may have power to imitate.

He hired another horse and guide, that he might not lose his way a second time, and departed the same day for the baron's, where he was received by that young nobleman with the utmost kindness as well as politeness, and found so much in his conversation, and those who came to visit him, and the continual amusements of that place, as made him soon forget all he had partook in the monastery:—he remained there while the baron stayed, and then came with him to Paris.

On his return he frequented the same company, and pursued the same pleasures he had done before; but as nothing extraordinary befel him, I shall not enter into particulars, my design being only to relate such adventures as gave an opportunity for the passions to exert themselves in influencing the conduct of his life.



CHAP. II.

The pleasures of travelling described, and the improvement a sensible mind may receive from it: with some hints to the censorious, not to be too severe on errors, the circumstances of which they are ignorant of, occasioned by a remarkable instance of an involuntary slip of nature.

Of all the countries Natura intended to see, Italy was that of which he had entertained the most favourable idea:—his curiosity led him to convince himself whether it really deserved to be intitled the garden of the world; and therefore it was thither he resolved to make his next progress.—Being told that in so long a journey he would find an excessive expence, as well as incommodity, in travelling on horseback, by reason he must be obliged to hire a guide from one place to another, he sold his horses, and after having hired a post-chaise, took leave of his acquaintance, and of a place where he had enjoyed all the pleasures agreeable to a youthful taste.

He went by the way of Burgundy, and passing through Dijon proceeded to Lyons, where the sight of the ruins of some Roman palaces yet remaining there, the fine churches, and beautiful prospect that city affords, being situated at the confluence of the rivers Rhone and Soane, tempted him to stay some days.—He was one evening sitting with his landlord in the inn-yard, when a post-chaise came in, out of which alighted a gentleman and a lady, just by the place where they were.—The man got up with all the obsequiousness of persons of his calling, to bid them welcome, and shew them into a room:—the lady, in passing, looked earnestly at Natura, and his eyes were no less attached on her: he thought he saw in her face features he was perfectly acquainted with, but could not, at that instant, recollect where he had been so. Not so with her, she easily remembered him, and in less than half an hour he received an invitation by his name from these new guests to sup with them, which he accepted of with great politeness, but said at the same time, he could not imagine to whom he was obliged for that honour.—On his coming into the room, 'Difference of habit,' said the lady, smiling, 'joined with the little probability there was of meeting me in this place, may well disguise me from your knowledge; but these impediments to remembrance, are not on your account; monsieur Natura is the same in person at Lyons, as at the convent of Riche Dames, though perhaps,' added she, 'somewhat changed in mind.' There needed no more to make him know she was one of the two nuns who always dined, when he was there, with the abbess, and was her particular confidante.—'By what miracle, madam, are you here?' cried he: 'by such another,' answered she, 'as might have brought Elgidia here, had not an unlucky spirit put other thoughts into her head.'

She then proceeded to inform him, that loving, and being equally beloved by the gentleman who was with her, she had made her escape with him from the monastery, and was going with him into one of the Protestant cantons of Switzerland, of which he was a native, and where they were certain of being safe from any prosecutions, either from her kindred, or the church.

Natura, after having made his compliments to the gentleman on the occasion, enquired of her concerning the abbess and Elgidia; on which she informed him of all the particulars related in the preceding chapter; adding, that after the receipt of the two letters he had sent, the sisters came to a mutual understanding, each confessed her foible to the other, and the cause of their quarrel being for ever removed, a sincere reconciliation between them ensued.

As gratitude is natural to the soul, and never is erased but by the worst passions that can obtrude upon the human mind, Natura had enough for these ladies to make him extremely glad no worse consequences had attended their acquaintance with him, but was extremely merry, as they were all indeed, at the story of the supposed spirit:—they passed the best part of the night together in very entertaining discourses, and the next day the two lovers proceeded on their journey to Switzerland, as Natura the following one did his to Avignon.

Here again he halted for some time, to feast his eyes, and give subject for future contemplation, on the magnificent buildings, fine gardens, churches, and other curiosities, which he was told of, gave him a sample, tho' infinitely short, of what he would find in Rome;—the grandeur in which the nobility lived, the elegance and politeness in the houses of even the lowest rank of gentry, and the masquerades, balls, and other public diversions, which every night afforded, made him already see that neither the pleasures, nor the delicacies of life were confined to Paris.

The desire of novelty is inherent to a youthful heart, and nothing so much gratifies that passion as travelling:—variety succeeds variety;—whether you climb the craggy mountains, or traverse the flowery vale;—whether thick woods set limits to the light, or the wide common yields unbounded prospect;—whether the ocean rolls in solemn state before you, or gentle streams run purling by your side, nature in all her different shapes delights; each progressive day brings with it fresh matter to admire, and every stage you come to presents at night customs and manners new and unknown before.

The stupendous mountains of the Alps, after the plains and soft embowered recesses of Avignon, gave perhaps a no less grateful sensation to the mind of Natura: he wanted indeed such a companion as death had deprived him of in his good governor, to instruct him how to improve contemplation, and to moralize on the amazing and different objects he beheld; yet as his thoughts were now wholly at liberty, and his reason unclouded by any passions of what kind soever, he did not fail to make reflections suitable to the different occasions.

Whoever has seen Rome will acknowledge he must find sufficient there to exercise all his faculties; but though the architecture, and the paintings which ornament that august city might have engrossed his whole attention, the many venerable reliques which were shewn him of old Rome, appeared yet more lovely in his eyes; which shews the charms antiquity has for persons even of the most gay dispositions: but this, according to my opinion, is greatly owing to the prejudice of education, which forces us as it were to an admiration of the antients, meerly because they are so, and not that they are in any essential respect always deserving that vast preference given them over the moderns:—this may be easily proved by the exorbitant prices some of our virtuoso's give for pieces of old copper, which are reckoned the most valuable, as the inscriptions or figures on them are least legible.

Natura, however, was not so absorbed in his admiration of the ruined corner of a bath, or the half-demolished portico of an amphitheatre, as to neglect those entertainments which more affect the senses, and consequently give the most natural delight;—the exquisite music performed at the churches, carried him there much oftener than devotion would have done, and rarely did he fail the opera at night.

As the Romans are allowed to be the best bred people upon earth, especially to strangers, be they of what country or perswasion soever, neither the being an Englishman or a Protestant hindered him from making very good acquaintance, and receiving the greatest civilities from them; but the person to whom he was most obliged, and who indeed had taken a particular fancy to him, was the younger son of the family of Caranna: this nobleman, knowing his taste for music, would frequently take him with him to his box at the opera-house, most persons of condition having little closets or boxes to themselves, of which every one keeps his own key, and none can be admitted but by it:—nothing can be more indulging, as there are curtains to draw before them, and the seats are made in such a manner that the person may lie down at his ease.

The signior of Caranna being otherwise engaged one night, when a celebrated piece was to be performed, he lent his key to Natura, unknowing that his wife, who had also one, had made a compliment of her's to a young lady of her acquaintance.

Natura by some accident being delayed from going till after the opera began, on entering was surprized to find a very beautiful young person there, stretched on the sopha:—as he had been told the box would be intirely empty, he knew not whether he ought to retire or go forward and seat himself by her:—this consideration kept him some minutes in the posture he was in, and perceiving she was too much taken up with the music, either to have heard him open the door, or see him after he came in, he had the opportunity of feasting his eyes, with gazing on the thousand charms she was mistress of; all which were displayed to a great advantage by the shadowy light which gleamed from the stage thro' a thin crimson taffety curtain, which she had drawn before her, to the end she might neither be seen by others, nor see any thing herself which might take off her attention from the music.

In fine, he drew near, and had placed himself close by her before she observed him; but no sooner did so, than she started, and appeared in some confusion: he made a handsome apology for the intrusion, which he assured her, with a great deal of truth, was wholly owing to chance, and said he would withdraw, if his presence would be any interruption to the pleasure she proposed:—she seemed obliged to him for the offer, but told him she would not abuse the proof he gave of his complaisance by accepting it; on which he bowed, and continued in his place.

Both the music, and the words, seemed intended to lull the soul into a forgetfulness of all beside, and fill it only with soft ideas:—it had at least this effect upon the lady, who had closed her eyes, and was in reality lost to every other sense than that of hearing.—Natura, either was, or pretended to be, equally transported, and sunk insensibly upon her bosom, without any opposition on her part:—she had possibly even forgot she was not alone, and when an air full of the most inchanting tenderness was singing, was so much dissolved in extasy, that crying out, 'O God, 'tis insupportable!' she threw her arms over Natura's neck, who was still in the same posture I just mentioned;—he spoke not a word, but was not so absorbed in the gratification of one faculty, as to let slip the gratification of the others:—he seized the lucky moment;—he pressed her close, and in this trance of thought, this total absence of mind, stole himself, as it were, into the possession of a bliss, which the assiduity of whole years would perhaps never have been able to obtain.

Reason and thought at last returned; she opened her eyes, she knew to what the rapture she had been in had exposed her, and was struck with the most poignant shame and horror:—she broke with all her force from that strict embrace in which he had continued to hold her; and being withdrawn to the farther corner of the closet,—'What have I done,' cried she, 'What have I done!'—these words she repeated several times, and accompanied them with tears, wringing her hands, and every testimony of remorse.—It was in vain for him to attempt to pacify her, much less to prevail on her to suffer any second proofs of his tenderness;—she would not even give him leave to touch her hand, and on his offering it, pushed him back, saying, 'No, stranger! you have taken the advantage of my insensibility but shall never triumph over my reason, which enables me to hate you,—to fly from you for ever, as from a serpent.'