As soon as they were come into the Pleasure-Boat, unseen of any, he kneel'd at the Feet of Atlante, and there utter'd so many passionate and tender Things to her, with a Voice so trembling and soft, with Eyes so languishing, and a Fervency and a Fire so sincere, that her young Heart, wholly uncapable of Artifice, could no longer resist such Language, and such Looks of Love; she grows tender, and he perceives it in her fine Eyes, who could not dissemble; he reads her Heart in her Looks, and found it yielding apace; and therefore assaults it anew, with fresh Forces of Sighs and Tears: He implores she would assure him of her Heart, which she could no other way do, than by yielding to marry him: He would carry her to the next Village, there consummate that Happiness, without which he was able to live no longer; for he had a thousand Fears, that some other Lover was, or would suddenly be provided for her; and therefore he would make sure of her while he had this Opportunity: and to that End, he answer'd all the Objections she could make to the contrary. But ever, when he named Marriage, she trembled, with fear of doing something that she fancy'd she ought not to do without the Consent of her Father. She was sensible of the Advantage, but had been so us'd to a strict Obedience, that she could not without Horror think of violating it; and therefore besought him, as he valued her Repose, not to urge her to that: And told him further, That if he fear'd any Rival, she would give him what other Assurance and Satisfaction he pleas'd, but that of Marriage; which she could not consent to, till she knew such an Alliance would not be fatal to him: for she fear'd, as passionately as he lov'd her, when he should find she had occasion'd him the Loss of his Fortune, or his Father's Affection, he would grow to hate her. Tho' he answer'd to this all that a fond Lover could urge, yet she was resolv'd, and he forc'd to content himself with obliging her by his Prayers and Protestations, his Sighs and Tears, to a Contract, which they solemnly made each other, vowing on either Side, they would never marry any other. This being solemnly concluded, he assum'd a Look more gay and contented than before: He presented her a very rich Ring, which she durst not put on her Finger, but hid it in her Bosom. And beholding each other now as Man and Wife, she suffer'd him all the decent Freedoms he could wish to take; so that the Hours of this Voyage seem'd the most soft and charming of his Life: and doubtless they were so; every Touch of Atlante transported him, every Look pierced his Soul, and he was all Raptures of Joy, when he consider'd this charming lovely Maid was his own.

Charlot all this while was gazing above-deck, admiring the Motion of the little Vessel, and how easily the Wind and Tide bore her up the River. She had never been in any thing of this kind before, and was very well pleas'd and entertain'd, when Rinaldo call'd her down to eat; where they enjoy'd themselves, as well as was possible: and Charlot was wondring to see such a Content in their Eyes.

But now they thought it was high time for them to return; they fancy the Footman missing them at Church, would go home and alarm their Father, and the Knight of the Ill-favour'd Countenance, as Charlot call'd Count Vernole, whose Severity put their Father on a greater Restriction of them, than naturally he would do of himself. At the Name of this Count, Rinaldo chang'd Colour, fearing he might be some Rival; and ask'd Atlante, if this Vernole was a-kin to her? She answer'd no; but was a very great Friend to her Father, and one who from their Infancy had had a particular Concern for their Breeding, and was her Master for Philosophy. 'Ah! (reply'd Rinaldo, sighing) this Man's Concern must proceed from something more than Friendship for her Father'; and therefore conjur'd her to tell him, whether he was not a Lover: 'A Lover! (reply'd Atlante) I assure you, he is a perfect Antidote against that Passion': And tho' she suffer'd his ugly Presence now, she should loathe and hate him, should he but name Love to her.

She said, she believed she need not fear any such Persecution, since he was a Man who was not at all amorous; that he had too much of the Satire in his Humour, to harbour any Softness there: and Nature had form'd his Body to his Mind, wholly unfit for Love. And that he might set his Heart absolutely at rest, she assur'd him her Father had never yet propos'd any Marriage to her, tho' many advantageous ones were offer'd him every Day.

The Sails being turned to carry them back from whence they came; after having discoursed of a thousand Things, and all of Love, and Contrivance to carry on their mutual Design, they with Sighs parted; Rinaldo staying behind in the Pleasure-Boat, and they going a-shore in the Wherry that attended: after which he cast many an amorous and sad Look, and perhaps was answer'd by those of Atlante.

It was past Church-time two or three Hours, when they arrived at home, wholly unprepar'd with an Excuse, so absolutely was Atlante's Soul possest with softer Business. The first Person that they met was the Footman, who open'd the Door, and began to cry out how long he had waited in the Church, and how in vain; without giving them time to reply. De Pais came towards 'em, and with a frowning Look demanded where they had been? Atlante, who was not accustom'd to Excuses and Untruth, was a while at a stand; when Charlot with a Voice of Joy cry'd out, 'Oh Sir! we have been a-board of a fine little Ship': At this Atlante blush'd, fearing she would tell the Truth. But she proceeded on, and said, that they had not been above a Quarter of an Hour at Church, when the Lady ——, with some other Ladies and Cavaliers, were going out of the Church, and that spying them, they would needs have 'em go with 'em: My Sister, Sir, continu'd she, was very loth to go, for fear you should be angry; but my Lady —— was so importunate with her on one side, and I on the other, because I never saw a little Ship in my Life, that at last we prevail'd with her: therefore, good Sir, be not angry. He promised them he was not. And when they came in, they found Count Vernole, who had been inspiring De Pais with Severity, and counselled him to chide the young Ladies, for being too long absent, under Pretence of going to their Devotion. Nor was it enough for him to set the Father on, but himself with a Gravity, where Concern and Malice were both apparent, reproached Atlante with Levity; and told her, He believed she had some other Motive than the Invitation of a Lady, to go on Ship-board; and that she had too many Lovers, not to make them doubt that this was a design'd thing; and that she had heard Love from some one, for whom it was design'd. To this she made but a short Reply, That if it was so, she had no reason to conceal it, since she had Sense enough to look after herself; and if any body had made love to her, he might be assur'd, it was some one whose Quality and Merit deserved to be heard: and with a Look of Scorn, she passed on to another Room, and left him silently raging within with Jealousy: Which, if before she tormented him, this Declaration increas'd it to a pitch not to be conceal'd. And this Day he said so much to the Father, that he resolv'd forthwith to send Charlot to a Nunnery: and accordingly the next day he bid her prepare to go. Charlot, who was not yet arrived to the Years of Distinction, did not much regret it; and having no Trouble but leaving her Sister, she prepared to go to a Nunnery, not many Streets from that where she dwelt. The Lady Abbess was her Father's Kinswoman, and had treated her very well, as often as she came to visit her: so that with Satisfaction enough, she was condemned to a Monastick Life, and was now going for her Probation-Year. Atlante was troubled at her Departure, because she had no body to bring and to carry Letters between Rinaldo and she: however, she took her leave of her, and promis'd to come and see her as often as she should be permitted to go abroad; for she fear'd now some Constraint extraordinary would be put upon her: and so it happened.

Atlante's Chamber was that to which the Balcony belong'd; and tho' she durst not appear there in the Daytime, she could in the Night, and that way give her Lover as many Hours of Conversation as she pleased, without being perceiv'd: But how to give Rinaldo notice of this, she could not tell; who not knowing Charlot was gone to a Monastery, waited many days at his Window to see her: at last, they neither of them knowing who to trust with any Message, one day, when he was, as usual upon his watch, he saw Atlante step into the Balcony, who having a Letter, in which she had put a piece of Lead, she tost it into his Window, whose Casement was open, and run in again unperceived by any but himself. The Paper contained only this:

My Chamber is that which looks into the Balcony; from whence, tho' I cannot converse with you in the Day, I can at Night, when I am retired to go to bed: therefore be at your Window. Farewel.

There needed no more to make him a diligent Watcher: and accordingly she was no sooner retired to her Chamber, but she would come into the Balcony, where she fail'd not to see him attending at his Window. This happy Contrivance was thus carry'd on for many Nights, where they entertain'd one another with all the Endearment that two Hearts could dictate, who were perfectly united and assur'd of each other; and this pleasing Conversation would often last till Day appear'd, and forced them to part.

But old Bellyaurd perceiving his Son frequent that Chamber more than usual, fancy'd something extraordinary must be the Cause of it; and one night asking for his Son, his Valet told him, he was gone into the great Chamber, so this was called: Bellyaurd asked the Valet what he did there; he told him he could not tell; for often he had lighted him thither, and that his Master would take the Candle from him at the Chamber-Door, and suffer him to go no farther. Tho' the old Gentleman could not imagine what Affairs he could have alone every Night in that Chamber, he had a Curiosity to see: and one unlucky Night, putting off his Shoes, he came to the Door of the Chamber, which was open; he enter'd softly, and saw the Candle set in the Chimney, and his Son at a great open Bay-Window: he stopt awhile to wait when he would turn, but finding him unmoveable, he advanced something farther, and at last heard the soft Dialogue of Love between him and Atlante, whom he knew to be she, by his often calling her by her Name in their Discourse. He heard enough to confirm him how Matters went; and unseen as he came, he returned, full of Indignation, and thought how to prevent so great an Evil, as this Passion of his Son might produce: at first he thought to round him severely in the Ear about it, and upbraid him for doing the only thing he had thought fit to forbid him; but then he thought that would but terrify him for awhile, and he would return again, where he had so great an Inclination, if he were near her; he therefore resolves to send him to Paris, that by Absence he might forget the young Beauty that had charm'd his Youth. Therefore, without letting Rinaldo know the Reason, and without taking Notice that he knew any thing of his Amour, he came to him one day, and told him, all the Masters he had for the improving him in noble Sciences were very dull, or very remiss: and that he resolved he should go for a Year or two to the Academy at Paris. To this the Son made a thousand Evasions; but the Father was positive, and not to be persuaded by all his Reasons: And finding he should absolutely displease him if he refus'd to go, and not daring to tell him the dear Cause of his Desire to remain at Orleans, he therefore, with a breaking Heart, consents to go, nay, resolves it, tho' it should be his Death. But alas! he considers that this Parting will not only prove the greatest Torment upon Earth to him, but that Atlante will share in his Misfortunes also: This Thought gives him a double Torment, and yet he finds no Way to evade it.

The Night that finished this fatal Day, he goes again to his wonted Station, the Window; where he had not sighed very long, but he saw Atlante enter the Balcony: He was not able a great while to speak to her, or to utter one Word. The Night was light enough to see him at the wonted Place; and she admires at his Silence, and demands the Reason in such obliging Terms as adds to his Grief; and he, with a deep Sigh, reply'd, 'Urge me not, my fair Atlante, to speak, lest by obeying you I give you more cause of Grief than my Silence is capable of doing': and then sighing again, he held his peace, and gave her leave to ask the Cause of these last Words. But when he made no Reply but by sighing, she imagin'd it much worse than indeed it was; and with a trembling and fainting Voice, she cried, 'Oh! Rinaldo, give me leave to divine that cruel News you are so unwilling to tell me: It is so,' added she, 'you are destin'd to some more fortunate Maid than Atlante.' At this Tears stopped her Speech, and she could utter no more. 'No, my dearest Charmer (reply'd Rinaldo, elevating his Voice) if that were all, you should see with what Fortitude I would die, rather than obey any such Commands. I am vow'd yours to the last Moment of my Life; and will be yours in spite of all the Opposition in the World: that Cruelty I could evade, but cannot this that threatens me.' 'Ah! (cried Atlante) let Fate do her worst, so she still continue Rinaldo mine, and keep that Faith he hath sworn to me entire: What can she do beside, that can afflict me?' 'She can separate me (cried he) for some time from Atlante.' 'Oh! (reply'd she) all Misfortunes fall so below that which I first imagin'd, that methinks I do not resent this, as I should otherwise have done: but I know, when I have a little more consider'd it, I shall even die with the Grief of it; Absence being so great an Enemy to Love, and making us soon forget the Object belov'd: This, tho' I never experienc'd, I have heard, and fear it may be my Fate.' He then convinc'd her Fears with a thousand new Vows, and a thousand Imprecations of Constancy. She then asked him, 'If their Loves were discover'd, that he was with such haste to depart?' He told her, 'Nothing of that was the Cause; and he could almost wish it were discover'd, since he could resolutely then refuse to go: but it was only to cultivate his Mind more effectually than he could do here; 'twas the Care of his Father to accomplish him the more; and therefore he could not contradict it. But (said he) I am not sent where Seas shall part us, nor vast Distances of Earth, but to Paris, from whence he might come in two Days to see her again; and that he would expect from that Balcony, that had given him so many happy Moments, many more when he should come to see her.' He besought her to send him away with all the Satisfaction she could, which she could no otherwise do, than by giving him new Assurances that she would never give away that Right he had in her to any other Lover: She vows this with innumerable Tears; and is almost angry with him for questioning her Faith. He tells her he has but one Night more to stay, and his Grief would be unspeakable, if he should not be able to take a better leave of her, than at a Window; and that, if she would give him leave, he would by a Rope or two, tied together, so as it may serve for Steps, ascend her Balcony; he not having time to provide a Ladder of Ropes. She tells him she has so great a Confidence in his Virtue and Love, that she will refuse him nothing, tho' it would be a very bold Venture for a Maid, to trust her self with a passionate young Man, in silence of Night: and tho' she did not extort a Vow from him to secure her, she expected he would have a care of her Honour. He swore to her, his Love was too religious for so base an Attempt. There needed not many Vows to confirm her Faith; and it was agreed on between them, that he should come the next Night into her Chamber.

It happen'd that Night, as it often did, that Count Vernole lay with Monsieur De Pais, which was in a Ground-Room, just under that of Atlante's. As soon as she knew all were in bed, she gave the word to Rinaldo, who was attending with the Impatience of a passionate Lover below, under the Window; and who no sooner heard the Balcony open, but he ascended with some difficulty, and enter'd the Chamber, where he found Atlante trembling with Joy and Fear: He throws himself at her Feet, as unable to speak as she; who nothing but blushed and bent down her Eyes, hardly daring to glance them towards the dear Object of her Desires, the Lord of all her Vows: She was asham'd to see a Man in her Chamber, where yet none had ever been alone, and by Night too. He saw her Fear, and felt her trembling; and after a thousand Sighs of Love had made way for Speech, he besought her to fear nothing from him, for his Flame was too sacred, and his Passion too holy to offer any thing but what Honour with Love might afford him. At last he brought her to some Courage, and the Roses of her fair Cheeks assum'd their wonted Colour, not blushing too red, nor languishing too pale. But when the Conversation began between them, it was the softest in the world: They said all that parting Lovers could say; all that Wit and Tenderness could express: They exchanged their Vows anew; and to confirm his, he tied a Bracelet of Diamonds about her Arm, and she returned him one of her Hair, which he had long begged, and she had on purpose made, which clasped together with Diamonds; this she put about his Arm, and he swore to carry it to his Grave. The Night was far spent in tender Vows, soft Sighs and Tears on both sides, and it was high time to part: but, as if Death had been to have arrived to them in that Minute, they both linger'd away the time, like Lovers who had forgot themselves; and the Day was near approaching when he bid farewel, which he repeated very often: for still he was interrupted by some commanding Softness from Atlante, and then lost all his Power of going; till she, more courageous and careful of his Interest and her own Fame, forc'd him from her: and it was happy she did, for he was no sooner got over the Balcony, and she had flung him down his Rope, and shut the Door, but Vernole, whom Love and Contrivance kept waking, fancy'd several times he heard a Noise in Atlante's Chamber. And whether in passing over the Balcony, Rinaldo made any Noise or not, or whether it were still his jealous Fancy, he came up in his Night-Gown, with a Pistol in his Hand. Atlante was not so much lost in Grief, tho' she were all in Tears, but she heard a Man come up, and imagin'd it had been her Father, she not knowing of Count Vernole's lying in the House that Night; if she had, she possibly had taken more care to have been silent; but whoever it was, she could not get to bed soon enough, and therefore turn'd her self to her Dressing-Table, where a Candle stood, and where lay a Book open of the Story of Ariadne and Theseus. The Count turning the Latch, enter'd halting into her Chamber in his Night-Gown clapped close about him, which betray'd an ill-favour'd Shape, his Night-Cap on, without a Perriwig, which discover'd all his lean wither'd Jaws, his pale Face, and his Eyes staring: and made altogether so dreadful a Figure, that Atlante, who no more dreamt of him than of a Devil, had possibly have rather seen the last. She gave a great Shriek, which frighted Vernole; so both stood for a while staring on each other, till both were recollected: He told her the Care of her Honour had brought him thither; and then rolling his small Eyes round the Chamber, to see if he could discover any body, he proceeded, and cry'd, 'Madam, if I had no other Motive than your being up at this time of Night, or rather of Day, I could easily guess how you have been entertain'd.' 'What Insolence is this (said she, all in a rage) when to cover your Boldness of approaching my Chamber at this Hour, you would question how I have been entertain'd! Either explain your self, or quit my Chamber; for I do not use to see such terrible Objects here.' 'Possibly those you do see (said the Count) are indeed more agreeable, but I am afraid have not that Regard to your Honour as I have': And at that word he stepped to the Balcony, open'd it, and look'd out; but seeing no body, he shut it to again. This enraged Atlante beyond all Patience; and snatching the Pistol out of his Hand, she told him, He deserved to have it aimed at his Head, for having the Impudence to question her Honour, or her Conduct; and commanded him to avoid her Chamber as he lov'd his Life, which she believ'd he was fonder of than of her Honour. She speaking this in a Tone wholly transported with Rage, and at the same time holding the Pistol towards him, made him tremble with Fear; and he now found, whether she were guilty or not, it was his turn to beg Pardon: For you must know, however it came to pass that his Jealousy made him come up in that fierce Posture, at other times Vernole was the most tame and passive Man in the World, and one who was afraid of his own Shadow in the Night: He had a natural Aversion for Danger, and thought it below a Man of Wit, or common Sense, to be guilty of that brutal thing, called Courage or Fighting; His Philosophy told him, It was safe sleeping in a whole Skin; and possibly he apprehended as much Danger from this Virago, as ever he did from his own Sex. He therefore fell on his Knees, and besought her to hold her fair Hand, and not to suffer that, which was the greatest Mark of his Respect, to be the Cause of her Hate or Indignation. The pitiful Faces he made, and the Signs of Mortal Fear in him, had almost made her laugh, at least it allay'd her Anger; and she bid him rise and play the fool hereafter somewhere else, and not in her Presence; yet for once she would deign to give him this Satisfaction, that she was got into a Book, which had many moving Stories very well writ; and that she found her self so well entertain'd, she had forgot how the Night passed. He most humbly thanked her for this Satisfaction, and retired, perhaps not so well satisfied as he pretended.

After this, he appear'd more submissive and respectful towards Atlante; and she carry'd herself more reserv'd and haughty towards him; which was one Reason, he would not yet discover his Passion.

Thus the Time run on at Orleans, while Rinaldo found himself daily languishing at Paris. He was indeed in the best Academy in the City, amongst a Number of brave and noble Youths, where all things that could accomplish them, were to be learn'd by those that had any Genius; but Rinaldo had other Thoughts, and other Business: his Time was wholly past in the most solitary Parts of the Garden, by the melancholy Fountains, and in the most gloomy Shades, where he could with most Liberty breathe out his Passion and his Griefs. He was past the Tutorage of a Boy; and his Masters could not upbraid him, but found he had some secret Cause of Grief, which made him not mind those Exercises, which were the Delight of the rest: so that nothing being able to divert his Melancholy, which daily increased upon him, he fear'd it would bring him into a Fever, if he did not give himself the Satisfaction of seeing Atlante. He had no sooner thought of this, but he was impatient to put it in execution; he resolved to go (having very good Horses) without acquainting any of his Servants with it. He got a very handsom and light Ladder of Ropes made, which he carry'd under his Coat, and away he rid for Orleans, stay'd at a little Village, till the Darkness of the Night might favour his Design: And then walking about Atlante's Lodgings, till he saw a Light in her Chamber, and then making that Noise on his Sword, as was agreed between them, he was heard by his adorable Atlante, and suffer'd to mount her Chamber, where he would stay till almost break of Day, and then return to the Village, and take Horse, and away for Paris again. This, once in a Month, was his Exercise, without which he could not live; so that his whole Year was past in riding between Orleans and Paris, between Excess of Grief, and Excess of Joy by turns.

It was now that Atlante, arrived to her fifteenth Year, shone out with a Lustre of Beauty greater than ever; and in this Year, in the Absence of Rinaldo, had carry'd herself with that Severity of Life, without the youthful Desire of going abroad, or desiring any Diversion, but what she found in her own retired Thoughts, that Vernole, wholly unable longer to conceal his Passion, resolv'd to make a Publication of it, first to the Father, and then to the lovely Daughter, of whom he had some Hope, because she had carry'd her self very well towards him for this Year past; which she would never have done, if she had imagin'd he would ever have been her Lover: She had seen no Signs of any such Misfortune towards her in these many Years he had conversed with her, and she had no Cause to fear him. When one Day her Father taking her into the Garden, told her what Honour and Happiness was in store for her; and that now the Glory of his fall'n Family would rise again, since she had a Lover of an illustrious Blood, ally'd to Monarchs; and one whose Fortune was newly encreased to a very considerable Degree, answerable to his Birth. She changed Colour at this Discourse, imagining but too well who this illustrious Lover was; when De Pais proceeded and told her, 'Indeed his Person was not the most agreeable that ever was seen: but he marry'd her to Glory and Fortune, not the Man: And a Woman (says he) ought to look no further.'

She needed not any more to inform her who this intended Husband was; and therefore, bursting forth into Tears, she throws herself at his Feet, imploring him not to use the Authority of a Father, to force her to a thing so contrary to her Inclination: assuring him, she could not consent to any such thing; and that she would rather die than yield. She urged many Arguments for this her Disobedience; but none would pass for current with the old Gentleman, whose Pride had flatter'd him with Hopes of so considerable a Son-in-law: He was very much surpriz'd at Atlante's refusing what he believ'd she would receive with Joy; and finding that no Arguments on his Side could draw hers to an obedient Consent, he grew to such a Rage, as very rarely possest him: vowing, if she did not conform her Will to his, he would abandon her to all the Cruelty of Contempt and Poverty: so that at last she was forced to return him this Answer, 'That she would strive all she could with her Heart; but she verily believed she should never bring it to consent to a Marriage with Monsieur the Count.' The Father continued threatning her, and gave her some Days to consider of it: So leaving her in Tears, he returned to his Chamber, to consider what Answer he should give Count Vernole, who he knew would be impatient to learn what Success he had, and what himself was to hope. De Pais, after some Consideration, resolved to tell him, she receiv'd the Offer very well, but that he must expect a little Maiden-Nicety in the Case: and accordingly did tell him so; and he was not at all doubtful of his good Fortune.

But Atlante, who resolved to die a thousand Deaths rather than break her solemn Vows to Rinaldo, or to marry the Count, cast about how she should avoid it with the least Hazard of her Father's Rage. She found Rinaldo the better and more advantageous Match of the two, could they but get his Father's Consent: He was beautiful and young; his Title was equal to that of Vernole, when his Father should die; and his Estate exceeded his: yet she dares not make a Discovery, for fear she should injure her Lover; who at this Time, though she knew it not, lay sick of a Fever, while she was wondering that he came not as he used to do. However she resolves to send him a Letter, and acquaint him with the Misfortune; which she did in these Terms:

ATLANTE to RINALDO.

My Father's Authority would force me to violate my sacred Vows to you, and give them to the Count Vernole, whom I mortally hate, yet could wish him the greatest Monarch in the World, that I might shew you I could even then despise him for your Sake. My Father is already too much enraged by my Denial, to hear Reason from me, if I should confess to him my Vows to you: So that I see nothing but a Prospect of Death before me; for assure your self, my Rinaldo, I will die rather than consent to marry any other: Therefore come my Rinaldo, and come quickly, to see my Funerals, instead of those Nuptials they vainly expect from

Your Faithful ATLANTE.

This Letter Rinaldo receiv'd; and there needed no more to make him fly to Orleans: This raised him soon from his Bed of Sickness, and getting immediately to horse, he arrived at his Father's House; who did not so much admire to see him, because he heard he was sick of a Fever, and gave him leave to return, if he pleas'd: He went directly to his Father's House, because he knew somewhat of the Business, he was resolv'd to make his Passion known, as soon as he had seen Atlante, from whom he was to take all his Measures: He therefore fail'd not, when all were in Bed, to rise and go from his Chamber into the Street; where finding a Light in Atlante's Chamber, for she every Night expected him, he made the usual Sign, and she went into the Balcony; and he having no Conveniency of mounting up into it, they discoursed, and said all they had to say. From thence she tells him of the Count's Passion, of her Father's Resolution, and that her own was rather to die his, than live any Body's else: And at last, as their Refuge, they resolv'd to discover the whole Matter; she to her Father, and he to his, to see what Accommodation they could make; if not, to die together. They parted at this Resolve, for she would permit him no longer to stay in the Street after such a Sickness; so he went home to bed, but not to sleep.

The next Day, at Dinner, Monsieur Bellyaurd believing his Son absolutely cur'd, by Absence, of his Passion; and speaking of all the News in the Town, among the rest, told him he was come in good time to dance at the Wedding of Count Vernole with Atlante, the Match being agreed on: 'No, Sir (reply'd Rinaldo) I shall never dance at the Marriage of Count Vernole with Atlante; and you will see in Monsieur De Pais's House a Funeral sooner than a Wedding.' And thereupon he told his Father all his Passion for that lovely Maid; and assur'd him, if he would not see him laid in his Grave, he must consent to this Match. Bellyaurd rose in a Fury, and told him, 'He had rather see him in his Grave, than in the Arms of Atlante: Not (continued he) so much for any Dislike I have to the young Lady, or the Smallness of her Fortune; but because I have so long warn'd you from such a Passion, and have with such Care endeavour'd by your Absence to prevent it.' He travers'd the Room very fast, still protesting against this Alliance: and was deaf to all Rinaldo could say. On the other side the Day being come, wherein Atlante was to give her final Answer to her Father concerning her Marriage with Count Vernole; she assum'd all the Courage and Resolution she could, to withstand the Storm that threatned a Denial. And her Father came to her, and demanding her Answer, she told him, 'She could not be the Wife of Vernole, since she was Wife to Rinaldo, only son to Bellyaurd.' If her Father storm'd before, he grew like a Man distracted at her Confession; and Vernole hearing them loud, ran to the Chamber to learn the Cause; where just as he enter'd he found De Pais's Sword drawn, and ready to kill his Daughter, who lay all in Tears at his Feet. He with-held his Hand; and asking the Cause of his Rage, he was told all that Atlante had confess'd; which put Vernole quite beside all his Gravity, and made him discover the Infirmity of Anger, which he used to say ought to be dissembled by all wise Men: So that De Pais forgot his own to appease his, but 'twas in vain, for he went out of the House, vowing Revenge to Rinaldo: And to that end, being not very well assur'd of his own Courage, as I said before, and being of the Opinion, that no Man ought to expose his Life to him who has injur'd him; he hired Swiss and Spanish Soldiers to attend him in the nature of Footmen; and watch'd several Nights about Bellyaurd's Door, and that of De Pais's, believing he should some time or other see him under the Window of Atlante, or perhaps mounting into it: for now he no longer doubted, but this happy Lover was he, whom he fancy'd he heard go from the Balcony that Night he came up with his Pistol; and being more a Spaniard than a Frenchman in his Nature, he resolv'd to take him any way unguarded or unarm'd, if he came in his Way.

Atlante, who heard his Threatnings when he went from her in a Rage, fear'd his Cowardice might put him on some base Action, to deprive Rinaldo of his Life; and therefore thought it not safe to suffer him to come to her by Night, as he had before done; but sent him word in a Note, that he should forbear her Window, for Vernole had sworn his Death. This Note came, unseen by his Father, to his Hands: but this could not hinder him from coming to her Window, which he did as soon as it was dark: he came thither, only attended with his Valet, and two Footmen; for now he car'd not who knew the Secret. He had no sooner made the Sign, but he found himself incompass'd with Vernole's Bravoes; and himself standing at a distance cry'd out, 'That is he': With that they all drew on both sides, and Rinaldo receiv'd a Wound in his Arm. Atlante heard this, and ran crying out, 'That Rinaldo, prest by Numbers, would be kill'd.' De Pais, who was reading in his Closet, took his Sword, and ran out; and, contrary to all Expectation, seeing Rinaldo fighting with his Back to the Door, pull'd him into the House, and fought himself with the Bravoes: who being very much wounded by Rinaldo, gave ground, and sheer'd off; and De Pais, putting up old Bilbo into the Scabbard, went into his House, where he found Rinaldo almost fainting with loss of Blood, and Atlante, with her Maids binding up his Wound; to whom De Pais said, 'This charity, Atlante, very well becomes you, and is what I can allow you; and I could wish you had no other Motive for this Action.' Rinaldo by degrees recover'd of his Fainting, and as well as his Weakness would permit him, he got up and made a low Reverence to De Pais, telling him, 'He had now a double Obligation to pay him all the Respect in the World; first, for his being the Father of Atlante; and secondly, for being the Preserver of his Life: two Tyes that should eternally oblige him to love and honour him, as his own Parent.' De Pais reply'd, 'He had done nothing but what common Humanity compell'd him to do: But if he would make good that Respect he profess'd towards him, it must be in quitting all Hopes of Atlante, whom he had destin'd to another, or an eternal Inclosure in a Monastery: He had another Daughter, whom if he would think worthy of his Regard, he should take his Alliance as a very great Honour; but his Word and Reputation, nay his Vows were past, to give Atlante to Count Vernole.' Rinaldo, who before he spoke took measure from Atlante's Eyes, which told him her Heart was his, return'd this Answer to De Pais, 'That he was infinitely glad to find by the Generosity of his Offer, that he had no Aversion against his being his Son-in-law; and that, next to Atlante, the greatest Happiness he could wish would be his receiving Charlot from his Hand; but that he could not think of quitting Atlante, how necessary soever it would be, for Glory, and his—(the further) Repose.' De Pais would not let him at this time argue the matter further, seeing he was ill, and had need of looking after; he therefore begg'd he would for his Health's sake retire to his own House, whither he himself conducted him, and left him to the Care of his Men, who were escap'd the Fray; and returning to his own Chamber, he found Atlante retir'd, and so he went to bed full of Thoughts. This Night had increas'd his Esteem for Rinaldo, and lessen'd it for Count Vernole; but his Word and Honour being past, he could not break it, neither with Safety nor Honour: for he knew the haughty resenting Nature of the Count, and he fear'd some Danger might arrive to the brave Rinaldo, which troubled him very much. At last he resolv'd, that neither might take any thing ill at his Hands, to lose Atlante, and send her to the Monastery where her Sister was, and compel her to be a Nun. This he thought would prevent Mischiefs on both sides; and accordingly, the next Day, (having in the Morning sent Word to the Lady Abbess what he would have done) he carries Atlante, under pretence of visiting her Sister, (which they often did) to the Monastery, where she was no sooner come, but she was led into the Inclosure: Her Father had rather sacrifice her, than she should be the Cause of the Murder of two such noble Men as Vernole and Rinaldo.

The Noise of Atlante's being inclos'd, was soon spread all over the busy Town, and Rinaldo was not the last to whom the News arriv'd: He was for a few Days confin'd to his Chamber; where, when alone, he rav'd like a Man distracted; But his Wounds had so incens'd his Father against Atlante, that he swore he would see his Son die of them, rather than suffer him to marry Atlante; and was extremely overjoy'd to find she was condemn'd, for ever, to the Monastery. So that the Son thought it the wisest Course, and most for the advantage of his Love, to say nothing to contradict his Father; but being almost assur'd Atlante would never consent to be shut up in a Cloyster, and abandon him, he flatter'd himself with hope, that he should steal her from thence, and marry her in spite of all Opposition. This he was impatient to put in practice: He believ'd, if he were not permitted to see Atlante, he had still a kind Advocate in Charlot, who was now arriv'd to her Thirteenth Year, and infinitely advanc'd in Wit and Beauty. Rinaldo therefore often goes to the Monastery, surrounding it, to see what Possibility there was of accomplishing his Design; if he could get her Consent, he finds it not impossible, and goes to visit Charlot; who had command not to see him, or speak to him. This was a Cruelty he look'd not for, and which gave him an unspeakable Trouble, and without her Aid it was wholly impossible to give Atlante any account of his Design. In this Perplexity he remain'd many Days, in which he languish'd almost to Death; he was distracted with Thought, and continually hovering about the Nunnery-Walls, in hope, at some time or other, to see or hear from that lovely Maid, who alone could make his Happiness. In these Traverses he often met Vernole, who had Liberty to see her when he pleas'd: If it happen'd that they chanc'd to meet in the Daytime, tho' Vernole was attended with an Equipage of Ruffians, and Rinaldo but only with a couple of Footmen, he could perceive Vernole shun him, grow pale, and almost tremble with Fear sometimes, and get to the other Side of the Street; and if he did not, Rinaldo having a mortal Hate to him, would often bear up so close to him, that he would jostle him against the Wall, which Vernole would patiently put up, and pass on; so that he could never be provok'd to fight by Day-light, how solitary soever the Place was where they met: but if they chanc'd to meet at Night, they were certain of a Skirmish, in which he would have no part himself; so that Rinaldo was often like to be assassinated, but still came off with some slight Wound. This continu'd so long, and made so great a Noise in the Town, that the two old Gentlemen were mightily alarm'd by it; and Count Bellyaurd came to De Pais, one Day, to discourse with him of this Affair; and Bellyaurd, for the Preservation of his Son, was almost consenting, since there was no Remedy, that he should marry Atlante. De Pais confess'd the Honour he proffer'd him, and how troubled he was, that his Word was already past to his Friend, the Count Vernole, whom he said she should marry, or remain for ever a Nun; but if Rinaldo could displace his Love from Atlante, and place it on Charlot, he should gladly consent to the Match. Bellyaurd, who would now do anything for the Repose of his Son, tho' he believ'd this Exchange would not pass, yet resolv'd to propose it, since by marrying him he took him out of the Danger of Vernole's Assassinates, who would never leave him till they had dispatch'd him, should he marry Atlante.

While Rinaldo was contriving a thousand ways to come to speak to, or send Billets to Atlante, none of which could succeed without the Aid of Charlot, his Father came and propos'd this Agreement between De Pais and himself, to his Son. At first Rinaldo receiv'd it with a chang'd Countenance, and a breaking Heart; but swiftly turning from Thought to Thought, he conceiv'd this the only way to come at Charlot, and so consequently at Atlante: he therefore, after some dissembled Regret, consents, with a sad put-on Look: And Charlot had Notice given her to see and entertain Rinaldo. As yet they had not told her the Reason; which her Father would tell her, when he came to visit her, he said. Rinaldo over-joy'd at this Contrivance, and his own Dissimulation, goes to the Monastery, and visits Charlot; where he ought to have said something of this Proposition: but wholly bent upon other Thoughts, he sollicits her to convey some Letters, and Presents to Atlante; which she readily did, to the unspeakable Joy of the poor Distrest. Sometimes he would talk to Charlot of her own Affairs; asking her, if she resolv'd to become a Nun? To which she would sigh, and say, If she must, it would be extremely against her Inclinations; and, if it pleas'd her Father, she had rather begin the World with any tolerable Match.

Things past thus for some Days, in which our Lovers were happy, and Vernole assur'd he should have Atlante. But at last De Pais came to visit Charlot, who ask'd her, if she had seen Rinaldo? She answer'd, 'She had.' 'And how does he entertain you? (reply'd De Pais) Have you receiv'd him as a Husband? and has he behav'd himself like one?' At this a sudden Joy seiz'd the Heart of Charlot; and both to confess what she had done for him to her Sister, she hung down her blushing Face to study for an Answer. De Pais continued, and told her the Agreement between Bellyaurd and him, for the saving of Bloodshed.

She, who blest the Cause, whatever it was, having always a great Friendship and Tenderness for Rinaldo, gave her Father a thousand Thanks for his Care; and assur'd him, since she was commanded by him, she would receive him as her Husband.

And the next Day, when Rinaldo came to visit her, as he us'd to do, and bringing a Letter with him, wherein he propos'd the flight of Atlante; he found a Coldness in Charlot, as soon as he told her his Design, and desir'd her to carry the Letter. He ask'd the Reason of this Change: She tells him she was inform'd of the Agreement between their two Fathers, and that she look'd upon herself as his Wife, and would act no more as a Confident; that she had ever a violent Inclination of Friendship for him, which she would soon improve into something more soft.

He could not deny the Agreement, nor his Promise; but it was in vain to tell her, he did it only to get a Correspondence with Atlante: She is obstinate, and he as pressing, with all the Tenderness of Persuasion: He vows he can never be any but Atlante's, and she may see him die, but never break his Vows. She urges her Claim in vain, so that at last she was overcome, and promised she would carry the Letter; which was to have her make her Escape that Night. He waits at the Gate for her Answer, and Charlot returns with one that pleased him very well; which was, that Night her Sister would make her Escape, and that he must stand in such a Place of the Nunnery-Wall, and she would come out to him.

After this she upbraids him with his false Promise to her, and of her Goodness to serve him after such a Disappointment. He receives her Reproaches with a thousand Sighs, and bemoans her Misfortune in not being capable of more than Friendship for her; and vows, that next Atlante, he esteems her of all Womankind. She seems to be obliged by this, and assured him, she would hasten the Flight of Atlante; and taking leave, he went home to order a Coach, and some Servants to assist him.

In the mean time Count Vernole came to visit Atlante; but she refused to be seen by him: And all he could do there that Afternoon, was entertaining Charlot at the Grate; to whom he spoke a great many fine Things, both of her improved Beauty and Wit; and how happy Rinaldo would be in so fair a Bride. She received this with all the Civility that was due to his Quality; and their Discourse being at an End, he took his Leave, being towards the Evening.

Rinaldo, wholly impatient, came betimes to the Corner of the dead Wall, where he was appointed to stand, having ordered his Footmen and Coach to come to him as soon it was dark. While he was there walking up and down, Vernole came by the End of the Wall to go home; and looking about, he saw, at the other End, Rinaldo walking, whose Back was towards him, but he knew him well; and tho' he feared and dreaded his Business there, he durst not encounter him, they being both attended but by one Footman a-piece. But Vernole's Jealousy and Indignation were so high, that he resolved to fetch his Bravoes to his Aid, and come and assault him: For he knew he waited there for some Message from Atlante.

In the mean Time it grew dark, and Rinaldo's Coach came with another Footman; which were hardly arrived, when Vernole, with his Assistants, came to the Corner of the Wall, and skreening themselves a little behind it, near to the Place where Rinaldo stood, who waited now close to a little Door, out of which the Gardeners used to throw the Weeds and Dirt, Vernole could perceive anon the Door to open, and a Woman come out of it, calling Rinaldo by his Name, who stept up to her, and caught her in his Arms with Signs of infinite Joy. Vernole being now all Rage, cry'd to his Assassinates, 'Fall on, and kill the Ravisher': And immediately they all fell on. Rinaldo, who had only his two Footmen on his Side, was forc'd to let go the Lady; who would have run into the Garden again, but the Door fell to and lock'd: so that while Rinaldo was fighting, and beaten back by the Bravoes, one of which he laid dead at his Feet, Vernole came to the frighted Lady, and taking her by the Hand, cry'd, 'Come, my fair Fugitive, you must go along with me.' She wholly scar'd out of her Senses, was willing to go any where out of the Terror she heard so near her, and without Reply, gave her self into his Hand, who carried her directly to her Father's House; where she was no sooner come, but he told her Father all that had past, and how she was running away with Rinaldo, but that his good Fortune brought him just in the lucky Minute. Her Father turning to reproach her, found by the Light of a Candle that this was Charlot, and not Atlante, whom Vernole had brought Home: At which Vernole was extremely astonish'd. Her Father demanded of her why she was running away with a Man, who was design'd her by Consent? 'Yes, (said Charlot) you had his Consent, Sir, and that of his Father; but I was far from getting it: I found he resolv'd to die rather than quit Atlante; and promising him my Assistance in his Amour, since he could never be mine, he got me to carry a Letter to Atlante; which was, to desire her to fly away with him. Instead of carrying her this Letter, I told her, he was design'd for me, and had cancell'd all his Vows to her: She swoon'd at this News; and being recover'd a little, I left her in the Hands of the Nuns, to persuade her to live; which she resolves not to do without Rinaldo. Tho' they press'd me, yet I resolv'd to pursue my Design, which was to tell Rinaldo she would obey his kind Summons. He waited for her; but I put my self into his Hands in lieu of Atlante; and had not the Count receiv'd me, we had been marry'd by this time, by some false Light that could not have discover'd me: But I am satisfied, if I had, he would never have liv'd with me longer than the Cheat had been undiscover'd; for I find them both resolved to die, rather than change. And for my part, Sir, I was not so much in Love with Rinaldo, as I was out of love with the Nunnery; and took any Opportunity to quit a Life absolutely contrary to my Humour.' She spoke this with a Gaiety so brisk, and an Air so agreeable, that Vernole found it touch'd his Heart; and the rather because he found Atlante would never be his; or if she were, he should be still in Danger from the Resentment of Rinaldo: he therefore bowing to Charlot, and taking her by the Hand, cry'd, 'Madam, since Fortune has dispos'd you thus luckily for me, in my Possession, I humbly implore you would consent she should make me entirely happy, and give me the Prize for which I fought, and have conquer'd with my Sword.' 'My Lord, (reply'd Charlot, with a modest Air) I am superstitious enough to believe, since Fortune, so contrary to all our Designs, has given me into your Hands, that she from the beginning destin'd me to the Honour, which, with my Father's Consent, I shall receive as becomes me.' De Pais transported with Joy, to find all Things would be so well brought about, it being all one to him, whether Charlot or Atlante gave him Count Vernole for his Son-in-law, readily consented; and immediately a Priest was sent for, and they were that Night marry'd. And it being now not above seven o'Clock, many of their Friends were invited, the Musick sent for, and as good a Supper as so short a Time would provide, was made ready.

All this was perform'd in as short a time as Rinaldo was fighting; and having kill'd one, and wounded the rest, they all fled before his conquering Sword, which was never drawn with so good a Will. When he came where his Coach stood, just against the Back-Garden-Door, he looked for his Mistress: But the Coachman told him, he was no sooner engaged, but a Man came, and with a thousand Reproaches on her Levity, bore her off.

This made our young Lover rave; and he is satisfied she is in the Hands of his Rival, and that he had been fighting, and shedding his Blood, only to secure her Flight with him. He lost all Patience, and it was with much ado his Servants persuaded him to return; telling him in their Opinion, she was more likely to get out of the Hands of his Rival, and come to him, than when she was in the Monastery.

He suffers himself to go into his Coach and be carry'd home; but he was no sooner alighted, than he heard Musick and Noise at De Pais's House. He saw Coaches surround his Door, and Pages and Footmen, with Flambeaux. The Sight and Noise of Joy made him ready to sink at the Door; and sending his Footmen to learn the Cause of this Triumph, the Pages that waited told him, That Count Vernole was this Night married to Monsieur De Pais's Daughter. He needed no more to deprive him of all Sense; and staggering against his Coach, he was caught by his Footmen and carried into his House, and to his Chamber, where they put him to Bed, all sensless as he was, and had much ado to recover him to Life. He ask'd for his Father, with a faint Voice, for he desir'd to see him before he died. It was told him he was gone to Count Vernole's Wedding, where there was a perfect Peace agreed on between them, and all their Animosities laid aside. At this News Rinaldo fainted again; and his Servants call'd his Father home, and told him in what Condition they had brought home their Master, recounting to him all that was past. He hasten'd to Rinaldo, whom he found just recover'd of his Swooning; who, putting his Hand out to his Father, all cold and trembling, cry'd, 'Well, Sir, now you are satisfied, since you have seen Atlante married to Count Vernole, I hope now you will give your unfortunate Son leave to die; as you wish'd he should, rather than give him to the Arms of Atlante.' Here his Speech fail'd, and he fell again into a Fit of Swooning; His Father ready to die with fear of his Son's Death, kneel'd down by his Bed-side; and after having recover'd a little, he said, 'My dear Son, I have been indeed at the Wedding of Count Vernole, but 'tis not Atlante to whom he is married, but Charlot; who was the Person you were bearing from the Monastery, instead of Atlante, who is still reserv'd for you, and she is dying till she hear you are reserv'd for her; Therefore, as you regard her Life, make much of your own, and make your self fit to receive her; for her Father and I have agreed the Marriage already.' And without giving him leave to think, he call'd to one of his Gentlemen, and sent him to the Monastery, with this News to Atlante. Rinaldo bowed himself as low as he could in his Bed, and kiss'd the Hand of his Father, with Tears of Joy: But his Weakness continued all the next Day; and they were fain to bring Atlante to him, to confirm his Happiness.

It must only be guessed by Lovers, the perfect Joy these two receiv'd in the sight of each other. Bellyaurd received her as his Daughter; and the next Day made her so, with very great Solemnity, at which were Vernole and Charlot: Between Rinaldo and him was concluded a perfect Peace, and all thought themselves happy in this double Union.



NOTES: The Lucky Mistake.

p. 351 This Dedication only appears in the first edition (12mo, 1689), 'for R. Bentley'. George Granville or Grenville,[1] Lord Lansdowne, the celebrated wit, dramatist and poet, was born in 1667. Having zealously offered in 1688 to defend James II, during the subsequent reign he perforce 'lived in literary retirement'. He then wrote The She Gallants (1696, and 4to, 1696), an excellent comedy full of jest and spirit. Offending, however, some ladies 'who set up for chastity' it made its exit. Granville afterwards revived it as Once a Lover and Always a Lover. Heroick Love, a tragedy (1698), had great success. The Jew of Venice (1701), is a piteously weak adaption of The Merchant of Venice. A short masque, Peleus and Thetis accompanies the play. The British Enchanters, an opera (1706), is a pleasing piece, and was very well received. At the accession of Queen Anne, Granville entered the political arena and attained considerable offices of state. Suspected of being an active Jacobite he was, under George I, imprisoned from 25 September, 1715, till 8 February, 1717. In 1722 he went abroad, and lived in Paris for ten years. In 1732 he returned and published a finely printed edition of his complete Works (2 Vols., 4to, 1732; and again, 3 Vols., 1736, 12mo). He died 30 January, 1735, and is buried in St. Clement Danes.

p. 398 double Union. In a collection of Novels with running title: The Deceived Lovers (1696), we find No. V The Curtezan Deceived, 'An Addition to The Lucky Mistake, Written by Mrs. A. Behn.' This introduction of Mrs. Behn's name was a mere bookseller's trick to catch the unwary reader. The Curtezan Deceived is of no value. It has nothing to do with Aphra's work and is as commonplace a little novel as an hundred others of its day.

[Footnote 1: The spelling 'Greenvil' 'Greenviel' is incorrect.]

* * * * * * * * *

THE UNFORTUNATE BRIDE; OR, THE BLIND LADY A BEAUTY.



TO RICHARD NORTON, OF SOUTHWICK IN HANTSHIRE, ESQUIRE.

Honour'd Sir,

Eminent Wit, Sir, no more than Eminent Beauty, can escape the Trouble and Presumption of Addresses; and that which can strike every body with Wonder, can never avoid the Praise which naturally flows from that Wonder: And Heaven is forc'd to hear the Addresses as well as praises of the Poor as Rich, of the Ignorant as Learned, and takes, nay rewards, the officious tho' perhaps impertinent Zeal of its least qualify'd Devotees. Wherefore, Sir, tho' your Merits meet with the Applause of the Learned and Witty, yet your Generosity will judge favourably of the untaught Zeal of an humbler Admirer, since what I do your eminent Vertues compel. The Beautiful will permit the most despicable of their Admirers to love them, tho' they never intend to make him happy, as unworthy their Love, but they will not be angry at the fatal Effect of their own Eyes.

But what I want in my self, Sir, to merit your Regard, I hope my Authoress will in some measure supply, so far at least to lessen my Presumption in prefixing your Name to a Posthumous Piece of hers, whom all the Men of Wit, that were her Contemporaries, look'd on as the Wonder of her Sex; and in none of her Performances has she shew'd so great a Mastery as in her Novels, where Nature always prevails; and if they are not true, they are so like it, that they do the business every jot as well.

This I hope, Sir, will induce you to pardon my Presumption in dedicating this Novel to you, and declaring my self, Sir,

Your most obedient and most humble Servant, S. Briscoe.



THE UNFORTUNATE BRIDE: or, The Blind Lady a Beauty.

Frankwit and Wildvill, were two young Gentlemen of very considerable Fortunes, both born in Staffordshire, and, during their Minority, both educated together, by which Opportunity they contracted a very inviolable Friendship, a Friendship which grew up with them; and though it was remarkably known to every Body else, they knew it not themselves; they never made Profession of it in Words, but Actions; so true a Warmth their Fires could boast, as needed not the Effusion of their Breath to make it live. Wildvill was of the richest Family, but Frankwit of the noblest; Wildvill was admired for outward Qualifications, as Strength, and manly Proportions, Frankwit for a much softer Beauty, for his inward Endowments, Pleasing in his Conversation, of a free, and moving Air, humble in his Behaviour, and if he had any Pride, it was but just enough to shew that he did not affect Humility; his Mind bowed with a Motion as unconstrained as his Body, nor did he force this Vertue in the least, but he allowed it only. So aimable he was, that every Virgin that had Eyes, knew too she had a Heart, and knew as surely she should lose it. His Cupid could not be reputed blind, he never shot for him, but he was sure to wound. As every other Nymph admired him, so he was dear to all the Tuneful Sisters; the Muses were fired with him as much as their own radiant God Apollo; their loved Springs and Fountains were not so grateful to their Eyes as he, him they esteemed their Helicon and Parnassus too; in short, when ever he pleased, he could enjoy them all. Thus he enamour'd the whole Female Sex, but amongst all the sighing Captives of his Eyes, Belvira only boasted Charms to move him; her Parents lived near his, and even from their Childhood they felt mutual Love, as if their Eyes, at their first meeting, had struck out such Glances, as had kindled into amorous Flame. And now Belvira in her fourteenth Year, (when the fresh Spring of young Virginity began to cast more lively Bloomings in her Cheeks, and softer Longings in her Eyes) by her indulgent Father's Care was sent to London to a Friend, her Mother being lately dead: When, as if Fortune ordered it so, Frankwit's Father took a Journey to the other World, to let his Son the better enjoy the Pleasures and Delights of this: The young Lover now with all imaginable haste interred his Father, nor did he shed so many Tears for his Loss, as might in the least quench the Fire which he received from his Belvira's Eyes, but (Master of seventeen Hundred Pounds a Year, which his Father left him) with all the Wings of Love flies to London, and sollicits Belvira with such Fervency, that it might be thought he meant Death's Torch should kindle Hymen's; and now as soon as he arrives at his Journey's end, he goes to pay a Visit to the fair Mistress of his Soul, and assures her, That tho' he was absent from her, yet she was still with him; and that all the Road he travell'd, her beauteous Image danced before him, and like the ravished Prophet, he saw his Deity in every Bush; in short, he paid her constant Visits, the Sun ne'er rose or set, but still he saw it in her Company, and every Minute of the Day he counted by his Sighs. So incessantly he importuned her that she could no longer hold out, and was pleased in the surrender of her Heart, since it was he was Conqueror; and therefore felt a Triumph in her yielding. Their Flames now joyned, grew more and more, glowed in their Cheeks, and lightened in their Glances: Eager they looked, as if there were Pulses beating in their Eyes; and all endearing, at last she vowed, that Frankwit living she would ne'er be any other Man's. Thus they past on some time, while every Day rowl'd over fair; Heaven showed an Aspect all serene, and the Sun seemed to smile at what was done. He still caressed his Charmer, with an Innocence becoming his Sincerity; he lived upon her tender Breath, and basked in the bright Lustre of her Eyes, with Pride, and secret Joy.

He saw his Rivals languish for that Bliss, those Charms, those Raptures and extatick Transports, which he engrossed alone. But now some eighteen Months (some Ages in a Lover's Kalendar) winged with Delights, and fair Belvira now grown fit for riper Joys, knows hardly how she can deny her pressing Lover, and herself, to crown their Vows, and joyn their Hands as well as Hearts. All this while the young Gallant wash'd himself clean of that shining Dirt, his Gold; he fancied little of Heaven dwelt in his yellow Angels, but let them fly away, as it were on their own golden Wings; he only valued the smiling Babies in Belvira's Eyes. His Generosity was boundless, as his Love, for no Man ever truly loved, that was not generous. He thought his Estate, like his Passion, was a sort of a Pontick Ocean, it could never know an Ebb; But now he found it could be fathom'd, and that the Tide was turning, therefore he sollicits with more impatience the consummation of their Joys, that both might go like Martyrs from their Flames immediately to Heaven; and now at last it was agreed between them, that they should both be one, but not without some Reluctancy on the Female side; for 'tis the Humour of our Sex, to deny most eagerly those Grants to Lovers, for which most tenderly we sigh, so contradictory are we to our selves, as if the Deity had made us with a seeming Reluctancy to his own Designs; placing as much Discords in our Minds, as there is Harmony in our Faces. We are a sort of aiery Clouds, whose Lightning flash out one way, and the Thunder another. Our Words and Thoughts can ne'er agree. So this young charming Lady thought her Desires could live in their own longings, like Misers wealth-devouring Eyes; and e'er she consented to her Lover, prepared him first with speaking Looks, and then with a fore-running Sigh, applyed to the dear Charmer thus: 'Frankwit, I am afraid to venture the Matrimonial Bondage, it may make you think your self too much confined, in being only free to one.' 'Ah! my dear Belvira,' he replied, 'That one, like Manna, has the Taste of all, why should I be displeased to be confined to Paradice, when it was the Curse of our Forefathers to be set at large, tho' they had the whole World to roam in: You have, my love, ubiquitary Charms, and you are all in all, in every Part.' 'Ay, but,' reply'd Belvira, 'we are all like Perfumes, and too continual Smelling makes us seem to have lost our Sweets, I'll be judged by my Cousin Celesia here, if it be not better to live still in mutual Love, without the last Enjoyment.' (I had forgot to tell my Reader that Celesia was an Heiress, the only Child of a rich Turkey Merchant, who, when he dyed, left her Fifty thousand Pound in Money, and some Estate in Land; but, poor Creature, she was Blind to all these Riches, having been born without the use of Sight, though in all other Respects charming to a wonder.) 'Indeed,' says Celesia, (for she saw clearly in her Mind) 'I admire you should ask my Judgment in such a Case, where I have never had the least Experience; but I believe it is but a sickly Soul which cannot nourish its Offspring of Desires without preying upon the Body.' 'Believe me,' reply'd Frankwit, 'I bewail your want of Sight, and I could almost wish you my own Eyes for a Moment, to view your charming Cousin, where you would see such Beauties as are too dazling to be long beheld; and if too daringly you gazed, you would feel the Misfortune of the loss of Sight, much greater than the want of it: And you would acknowledge, that in too presumptuously seeing, you would be blinder then, than now unhappily you are.'

'Ah! I must confess,' reply'd Belvira, 'my poor, dear Cousin is Blind, for I fancy she bears too great an Esteem for Frankwit, and only longs for Sight to look on him.' 'Indeed,' reply'd Celesia, 'I would be glad to see Frankwit, for I fancy he's as dazling, as he but now describ'd his Mistress, and if I fancy I see him, sure I do see him, for Sight is Fancy, is it not? or do you feel my Cousin with your Eyes?' 'This is indeed, a charming Blindness,' reply'd Frankwit, 'and the fancy of your Sight excels the certainty of ours. Strange! that there should be such Glances even in blindness? You, fair Maid, require not Eyes to conquer, if your Night has such Stars, what Sunshine would your Day of Sight have, if ever you should see?' 'I fear those Stars you talk of,' said Belvira, 'have some Influence on you, and by the Compass you sail by now, I guess you are steering to my Cousin. She is indeed charming enough to have been another Offspring of bright Venus, Blind like her Brother Cupid.' 'That Cupid,' reply'd Celesia, 'I am afraid has shot me, for methinks I would not have you marry Frankwit, but rather live as you do without the last Enjoyment, for methinks if he were marry'd, he would be more out of Sight than he already is.' 'Ah, Madam,' return'd Frankwit, 'Love is no Camelion, it cannot feed on Air alone.' 'No but,' rejoyn'd Celesia, 'you Lovers that are not Blind like Love it self, have am'rous Looks to feed on.' 'Ah! believe it,' said Belvira, ''tis better, Frankwit, not to lose Paradice by too much Knowledge; Marriage Enjoyments does but wake you from your sweet golden Dreams: Pleasure is but a Dream, dear Frankwit, but a Dream, and to be waken'd.' 'Ah! Dearest, but unkind Belvira,' answer'd Frankwit, 'sure there's no waking from Delight, in being lull'd on those soft Breasts of thine.' 'Alas! (reply'd the Bride to be) it is that very lulling wakes you; Women enjoy'd, are like Romances read, or Raree-shows once seen, meer Tricks of the slight of Hand, which, when found out, you only wonder at your selves for wondering so before at them. 'Tis Expectation endears the Blessing; Heaven would not be Heaven, could we tell what 'tis. When the Plot's out you have done with the Play, and when the last Act's done, you see the Curtain drawn with great indifferency.' 'O my Belvira', answered Frankwit, 'that Expectation were indeed a Monster which Enjoyment could not satisfy: I should take no pleasure,' he rejoin'd, 'running from Hill to Hill, like Children chasing that Sun, which I could never catch.' 'O thou shalt have it then, that Sun of Love,' reply'd Belvira, fir'd by this Complaint, and gently rush'd into Arms, (rejoyn'd) so Phoebus rushes radiant and unsullied, into a gilded Cloud. 'Well then, my dear Belvira,' answered Frankwit, 'be assured I shall be ever yours, as you are mine; fear not you shall never draw Bills of Love upon me so fast, as I shall wait in readiness to pay them; but now I talk of Bills, I must retire into Cambridgeshire, where I have a small Concern as yet unmortgaged, I will return thence with a Brace of thousand Pounds within a Week at furthest, with which our Nuptials, by their Celebration, shall be worthy of our Love. And then, my Life, my Soul, we shall be join'd, never to part again.' This tender Expression mov'd Belvira to shed some few Tears, and poor Celesia thought herself most unhappy that she had not Eyes to weep with too; but if she had, such was the greatness of her Grief, that sure she would have soon grown Blind with weeping. In short, after a great many soft Vows, and Promises of an inviolable Faith, they parted with a pompous sort of pleasing Woe; their Concern was of such a mixture of Joy and Sadness, as the Weather seems, when it both rains and shines. And now the last, the very last Adieu's was over, for the Farewels of Lovers hardly ever end, and Frankwit (the Time being Summer) reach'd Cambridge that Night, about Nine a Clock; (Strange! that he should have made such Haste to fly from what so much he lov'd!) and now, tir'd with the fatigue of his Journey, he thought fit to refresh himself by writing some few Lines to his belov'd Belvira; for a little Verse after the dull Prose Company of his Servant, was as great an Ease to him, (from whom it flow'd as naturally and unartificially, as his Love or his Breath) as a Pace or Hand-gallop, after a hard, uncouth, and rugged Trot. He therefore, finding his Pegasus was no way tir'd with his Land-travel, takes a short Journey thro' the Air, and writes as follows:

My dearest dear Belvira,

You knew my Soul, you knew it yours before, I told it all, and now can tell no more; Your Presents never wants fresh Charms to move, } But now more strange, and unknown Pow'r you prove, } For now your very Absence 'tis I love. } Something there is which strikes my wandring View, And still before my Eyes I fancy you. Charming you seem, all charming, heavenly fair, } Bright as a Goddess, does my Love appear, } You seem, Belvira, what indeed you are. } Like the Angelick Off-spring of the Skies, With beatifick Glories in your Eyes: Sparkling with radiant Lustre all Divine, } Angels, and Gods! oh Heavens! how bright they shine! } Are you Belvira? can I think you mine! } Beyond ev'n Thought, I do thy Beauties see, Can such a Heaven of Heavens be kept for me! Oh be assur'd, I shall be ever true, I must—— For if I would, I can't be false to you. Oh! how I wish I might no longer stay, } Tho' I resolve I will no Time delay, } One Tedious Week, and then I'll fleet away. } Tho' Love be blind, he shall conduct my Road, } Wing'd with almighty Love, to your Abode, } I'll fly, and grow Immortal as a God. } Short is my stay, yet my impatience strong, Short tho' it is, alas! I think it long. I'll come, my Life, new Blessings to pursue, } Love then shall fly a Flight he never flew, } I'll stretch his balmy Wings; I'm yours,—Adieu. }

Frankwit.

This Letter Belvira receiv'd with unspeakable Joy, and laid it up safely in her Bosom; laid it, where the dear Author of it lay before, and wonderfully pleas'd with his Humour of writing Verse, resolv'd not to be at all behind-hand with him, and so writ as follows:

My dear Charmer,

You knew before what Power your Love could boast, But now your constant Faith confirms me most. Absent Sincerity the best assures, } Love may do much, but Faith much more allures, } For now your Constancy has bound me yours. } I find, methinks, in Verse some Pleasure too, I cannot want a Muse, who write to you. Ah! soon return, return, my charming Dear, Heav'n knows how much we Mourn your Absence here: My poor Celesia now would Charm your Soul, Her Eyes, once Blind, do now Divinely rowl. An aged Matron has by Charms unknown, Given her clear Sight as perfect as thy own. And yet, beyond her Eyes, she values thee, 'Tis for thy Sake alone she's glad to see. She begg'd me, pray remember her to you, That is a Task which now I gladly do. Gladly, since so I only recommend } A dear Relation, and a dearer Friend, } Ne're shall my Love—but here my Note must end. }

Your ever true Belvira.

When this Letter was written, it was strait shown to Celesia, who look'd upon any Thing that belong'd to Frankwit, with rejoycing Glances; so eagerly she perus'd it, that her tender Eyes beginning to Water, she cry'd out, (fancying she saw the Words dance before her View) 'Ah! Cousin, Cousin, your Letter is running away, sure it can't go itself to Frankwit.' A great Deal of other pleasing innocent Things she said, but still her Eyes flow'd more bright with lustrous Beams, as if they were to shine out; now all that glancing Radiancy which had been so long kept secret, and, as if, as soon as the Cloud of Blindness once was broke, nothing but Lightnings were to flash for ever after. Thus in mutual Discourse they spent their Hours, while Frankwit was now ravished with the Receipt of this charming Answer of Belvira's, and blest his own Eyes which discovered to him the much welcome News of fair Celesia's. Often he read the Letters o're and o're, but there his Fate lay hid, for 'twas that very Fondness proved his Ruin. He lodg'd at a Cousin's House of his, and there, (it being a private Family) lodged likewise a Blackamoor Lady, then a Widower; a whimsical Knight had taken a Fancy to enjoy her: Enjoy her did I say? Enjoy the Devil in the Flesh at once! I know not how it was, but he would fain have been a Bed with her, but she not consenting on unlawful Terms, (but sure all Terms are with her unlawful) the Knight soon marry'd her, as if there were not hell enough in Matrimony, but he must wed the Devil too. The Knight a little after died, and left this Lady of his (whom I shall Moorea) an Estate of six thousand Pounds per Ann. Now this Moorea observed the joyous Frankwit with an eager Look, her Eyes seemed like Stars of the first Magnitude glaring in the Night; she greatly importuned him to discover the Occasion of his transport, but he denying it, (as 'tis the Humour of our Sex) made her the more Inquisitive; and being Jealous that it was from a Mistress, employ'd her Maid to steal it, and if she found it such, to bring it her: accordingly it succeeded, for Frankwit having drank hard with some of the Gentlemen of that Shire, found himself indisposed, and soon went to Bed, having put the Letter in his Pocket: The Maid therefore to Moorea contrived that all the other Servants should be out of the Way, that she might plausibly officiate in the Warming the Bed of the indisposed Lover, but likely, had it not been so, she had warmed it by his Intreaties in a more natural Manner; he being in Bed in an inner Room, she slips out the Letter from his Pocket, carries it to her Mistress to read, and so restores it whence she had it; in the Morning the poor Lover wakened in a violent Fever, burning with a Fire more hot than that of Love. In short, he continued Sick a considerable while, all which time the Lady Moorea constantly visited him, and he as unwillingly saw her (poor Gentleman) as he would have seen a Parson; for as the latter would have perswaded, so the former scared him to Repentance. In the mean while, during his sickness, several Letters were sent to him by his dear Belvira, and Celesia too, (then learning to write) had made a shift to give him a line or two in Postscript with her Cousin, but all was intercepted by the jealousy of the Black Moorea, black in her mind, and dark, as well as in her body. Frankwit too writ several Letters as he was able, complaining of her unkindness, those likewise were all stopt by the same Blackmoor Devil. At last, it happened that Wildvill, (who I told my Reader was Frankwit's friend) came to London, his Father likewise dead, and now Master of a very plentiful fortune, he resolves to marry, and paying a visit to Belvira, enquires of her concerning Frankwit, she all in mourning for the loss, told him his friend was dead. 'Ah! Wildvill, he is dead,' said she, 'and died not mine, a Blackmoor Lady had bewitched him from me; I received a Letter lately which informed me all; there was no name subscribed to it, but it intimated, that it was written at the request of dying Frankwit.' 'Oh! I am sorry at my Soul,' said Wildvill, 'for I loved him with the best, the dearest friendship; no doubt then,' rejoyned he, ''tis Witchcaft indeed that could make him false to you; what delight could he take in a Blackmoor Lady, tho' she had received him at once with a Soul as open as her longing arms, and with her Petticoat put off her modesty. Gods! How could he change a whole Field Argent into downright Sables.' ''Twas done,' returned Celesia, 'with no small blot, I fancy, to the Female 'Scutcheon.' In short, after some more discourse, but very sorrowful, Wildvill takes his leave, extreamly taken with the fair Belvira, more beauteous in her cloud of woe; he paid her afterwards frequent visits, and found her wonder for the odd inconstancy of Frankwit, greater than her sorrow, since he dy'd so unworthy of her. Wildvill attack'd her with all the force of vigorous love, and she (as she thought) fully convinc'd of Frankwit's death, urg'd by the fury and impatience of her new ardent Lover, soon surrender'd, and the day of their Nuptials now arriv'd, their hands were joyn'd. In the mean time Frankwit (for he still liv'd) knew nothing of the Injury the base Moorea practis'd, knew not that 'twas thro' her private order, that the fore-mention'd account of his falshood and his death was sent; but impatient to see his Dear Belvira, tho' yet extremely weak, rid post to London, and that very day arriv'd there, immediately after the Nuptials of his Mistress and his Friend were celebrated. I was at this time in Cambridge, and having some small acquaintance with this Blackmoor Lady, and sitting in her Room that evening, after Frankwit's departure thence, in Moorea's absence, saw inadvertently a bundle of Papers, which she had gathered up, as I suppose, to burn, since now they grew but useless, she having no farther Hopes of him: I fancy'd I knew the Hand, and thence my Curiosity only led me to see the Name and finding Belvira subscrib'd, I began to guess there was some foul play in Hand. Belvira being my particularly intimate Acquaintance, I read one of them, and finding the Contents, convey'd them all secretly out with me, as I thought, in Point of Justice I was bound, and sent them to Belvira by that Night's Post; so that they came to her Hands soon after the Minute of her Marriage, with an Account how, and by what Means I came to light on them. No doubt but they exceedingly surpriz'd her: But Oh! Much more she grew amaz'd immediately after, to see the Poor, and now unhappy Frankwit, who privately had enquir'd for her below, being received as a Stranger, who said he had some urgent Business with her, in a back Chamber below Stairs. What Tongue, what Pen can express the mournful Sorrow of this Scene! At first they both stood Dumb, and almost Senseless; she took him for the Ghost of Frankwit; he looked so pale, new risen from his Sickness, he (for he had heard at his Entrance in the House, that his Belvira marry'd Wildvill) stood in Amaze, and like a Ghost indeed, wanted the Power to speak, till spoken to the first. At last, he draws his Sword, designing there to fall upon it in her Presence; she then imagining it his Ghost too sure, and come to kill her, shrieks out and Swoons; he ran immediately to her, and catch'd her in his Arms, and while he strove to revive and bring her to herself, tho' that he thought could never now be done, since she was marry'd. Wildvill missing his Bride, and hearing the loud Shriek, came running down, and entring the Room, sees his Bride lie clasp'd in Frankwit's Arms. 'Ha! Traytor!' He cries out, drawing his Sword with an impatient Fury, 'have you kept that Strumpet all this while, curst Frankwit, and now think fit to put your damn'd cast Mistress upon me: could not you forbear her neither ev'n on my Wedding Day? abominable Wretch!' Thus saying, he made a full Pass at Frankwit, and run him thro' the left Arm, and quite thro' the Body of the poor Belvira; that thrust immediately made her start, tho' Frankwit's Endeavours all before were useless. Strange! that her Death reviv'd her! For ah! she felt, that now she only liv'd to die! Striving thro' wild Amazement to run from such a Scene of Horror, as her Apprehensions shew'd her; down she dropt, and Frankwit seeing her fall, (all Friendship disannull'd by such a Chain of Injuries) Draws, fights with, and stabs his own loved Wildvill. Ah! Who can express the Horror and Distraction of this fatal Misunderstanding! The House was alarm'd, and in came poor Celesia, running in Confusion just as Frankwit was off'ring to kill himself, to die with a false Friend, and perjur'd Mistress, for he suppos'd them such. Poor Celesia now bemoan'd her unhappiness of sight, and wish'd she again were blind. Wildvill dy'd immediately, and Belvira only surviv'd him long enough to unfold all their most unhappy fate, desiring Frankwit with her dying breath, if ever he lov'd her, (and now she said that she deserv'd his love, since she had convinced him that she was not false) to marry her poor dear Celesia, and love her tenderly for her Belvira's sake; leaving her, being her nearest Relation, all her fortune, and he, much dearer than it all, to be added to her own; so joyning his and Celesia's Hands, she poured her last breath upon his Lips, and said, 'Dear Frankwit, Frankwit, I die yours.' With tears and wondrous sorrow he promis'd to obey her Will, and in some months after her interrment, he perform'd his promise.



NOTES: The Unfortunate Bride.

p. 401 To Richard Norton. This Epistle Dedicatory is only to be found in the first edition of The Unfortunate Bride; or, The Blind Lady a Beauty, 'Printed for Samuel Briscoe, in Charles-Street, Covent-Garden, 1698', and also dated, on title page facing the portrait of Mrs. Behn, 1700.

Southwick, Hants, is a parish and village some 1-3/4 miles from Portchester, 4-1/2 from Fareham. Richard Norton was son and heir of Sir Daniel Norton, who died seised of the manor in 1636. Richard Norton married Anne, daughter of Sir William Earle, by whom he had one child, Sarah. He was, in his county at least, a figure of no little importance. Tuesday, 12 August, 1701, Luttrell records that 'an addresse from the grand jury of Hampshire . . . was delivered by Richard Norton and Anthony Henly, esqs. to the lords justices, to be laid before his majestie.' He aimed at being a patron of the fine arts, and under his superintendence Dryden's The Spanish Friar was performed in the frater of Southwick Priory,[1] the buildings of which had not been entirely destroyed at the suppression. Colley Cibber addresses the Dedicatory Epistle (January, 1695) of his first play, Love's Last Shift (4to, 1696), to Norton in a highly eulogistic strain. The plate of Southwick Church (S. James), consisting of a communion cup, a standing paten, two flagons, an alms-dish, and a rat-tail spoon, is silver-gilt, and was presented by Richard Norton in 1691. He died 10 December, 1732.

[Footnote 1: The house was one of Black (Austin) Canons.]

* * * * * * * * *

THE DUMB VIRGIN; OR, THE FORCE OF IMAGINATION.



INTRODUCTION.

Consanguinity and love which are treated in this novel so romantically and with such tragic catastrophe had already been dealt with in happier mood by Mrs. Behn in The Dutch Lover. Vide Note on the Source of that play, Vol. I, p. 218.

In classic lore the OEdipus Saga enthralled the imagination of antiquity and inspired dramas amongst the world's masterpieces. Later forms of the tale may be found in Suidas and Cedrenus.

The Legend of St. Gregory, based on a similar theme, the hero of which, however, is innocent throughout, was widely diffused through mediaeval Europe. It forms No. 81 of the Gesta Romanorum. There is an old English poem[1] on the subject, and it also received lyric treatment at the hands of the German meistersinger, Hartmann von Aue. An Italian story, Il Figliuolo di germani, the chronicle of St. Albinus, and the Servian romaunt of the Holy Foundling Simeon embody similar circumstances.

Matteo Bandello, Part II, has a famous[2] novel (35) with rubric, 'un gentiluomo navarrese sposa una, che era sua sorella e figliuola, non lo sapendo,' which is almost exactly the same as the thirtieth story of the Heptameron. As the good Bishop declares that it was related to him by a lady living in the district, it is probable that some current tradition furnished both him and the Queen of Navarre with these horrible incidents and that neither copied from the other.[3]

Bandello was imitated in Spanish by J. Perez de Montalvan, Sucesos y Prodigios de Amor—La Mayor confusion; in Latin by D. Otho Melander; and he also gave Desfontaines the subject of L'Inceste Innocent; Histoire Veritable (Paris, 1644). A similar tale is touched upon in Amadis de Gaule, and in a later century we find Le Criminel sans le Savoir, Roman Historique et Poetique (Amsterdam and Paris, 1783). It is also found in Brevio's Rime e Prose; Volgari, novella iv; and in T. Grapulo (or Grappolino), Il Convito Borghesiano (Londra, 1800). A cognate legend is Le Dit du Buef and Le Dit de la Bourjosee de Rome. (ed. Jubinal, Nouveau Recueil; and Nouveau Recueil du Senateur de Rome . . . ed. Meon.) Again: the Leggenda di Vergogna, etc. testi del buon secolo in prosa e in verso, edited by A. D'Ancona (Bologna, 1869) repeats the same catastrophe. It is also related in Byshop's Blossoms.

In Luther's Colloquia Mensalia, under the article 'Auricular Confession', the occurrence is said to have taken place at Erfurt in Germany. Julio de Medrano, a Spanish writer of the sixteenth century, says that a similar story was related to him when he was in the Bourbonnois, where the inhabitants pointed out the house which had been the scene of these morbid passions. France, indeed, seems to have been the home of the tradition, and Le Roux de Lincy in the notes to his excellent edition of the Heptameron quotes from Millin, Antiquites Nationales (t. iii. f. xxviii. p. 6.) who, speaking of the Collegiate Church of Ecouis, says that in the midst of the nave there was a prominent white marbel tablet with this epitaph:—

Cy-gist la fille, cy-gist le pere, Cy-gist la soeur, cy-gist le frere; Cy-gist la femme, et le mary, Et si n'y a que deux corps icy.

The tradition ran that a son of 'Madame d'Ecouis avait eu de sa mere sans la connaitre et sans en etre reconnu une fille nommee Cecile. Il epousa ensuite en Lorraine cette meme Cecile qui etait aupres de la Duchesse de Bar . . . Il furent enterres dans le meme tombeau en 1512 a Ecouis.' An old sacristan used to supply curious visitors to the church with a leaflet detailing the narrative. The same story is attached to other parishes, and at Alincourt, a village between Amiens and Abbeville, the following lines are inscribed upon a grave:—

Ci git le fils, ci git la mere, Ci git la fille avec le pere, Ci git la soeur, ci git le frere, Ci git la femme et le mari, Et ne sont pas que trois corps ici.

When Walpole wrote his tragedy, The Mysterious Mother (1768), he states he had no knowledge of Bandello or the Heptameron, but he gives the following account of the origin of his theme. 'I had heard when very young, that a gentlewoman, under uncommon agonies of mind, had waited on Archbishop Tillotson and besought his counsel. A damsel that served her had, many years before, acquainted her that she was importuned by the gentlewoman's son to grant him a private meeting. The mother ordered the maiden to make the assignation, when she said she would discover herself and reprimand him for his criminal passion; but, being hurried away by a much more criminal passion herself, she kept the assignation without discovering herself. The fruit of this horrid artifice was a daughter, whom the gentlewoman caused to be educated very privately in the country; but proving very lovely and being accidentally met by her father-brother, who never had the slightest suspicion of the truth, he had fallen in love with and actually married her. The wretched guilty mother learning what had happened, and distracted with the consequence of her crime, had now resorted to the Archbishop to know in what manner she should act. The prelate charged her never to let her son and daughter know what had passed, as they were innocent of any criminal intention. For herself, he bad her almost despair.'

The same story occurs in the writings of the famous Calvinistic divine, William Perkins (1558-1602), sometime Rector of St. Andrew's, Cambridge. Thence it was extracted for The Spectator.

In Mat Lewis' ghoulish romance, The Monk (1796) it will be remembered that Ambrosio, after having enjoyed Antonia, to whose bedchamber he has gained admittance by demoniacal aid, discovers that she is his sister, and heaping crime upon crime to sorcery and rape he has added incest.

There is a tragic little novel, 'The Illegal Lovers; a True Secret History. Being an Amour Between A Person of Condition and his Sister. Written by One who did reside in the Family.' (8vo, 1728.) After the death of his wife, Bellario falls in love with his sister Lindamira. Various sentimental letters pass between the two, and eventually Bellario in despair pistols himself. The lady lives to wed another admirer. The tale was obviously suggested by the Love Letters between a Nobleman and his Sister.

[Footnote 1: There are three MSS. Vernon MS., Oxford, edited by Horstmann; MS. Cott, Cleop. D. ix, British Museum; Auchinleck MS., Advocates' Library, Edinburgh, edited with glossary by F. Schultz, 1876.]