DUKE UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 The Glenn Negley Collection 
 of Utopian Literature 
 
Digitized by tine Internet Archive 
 in 2010 witin funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 Iittp://www.arcliive.org/details/lifeofcliarlesbr01dunl 
 
-w 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 i 
 
 OF 
 
 CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN 
 
 TOGETHER 
 
 WITH SELECTIONS 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE RAREST OF HIS PRINTED WORKS, 
 
 FROM HIS 
 
 ORIGINAL LETTERS, 
 
 AND FROM HIS 
 
 MANUSCRIPTS BEFORE UNPUBLISHED 
 
 BY WILLIAM DUNLAP. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 PHILADELPHLi - 
 
 PUBLISHED BY JAMES P. PARKE, 
 
 NO. 74, SOUTH SECOND STREET. 
 
 Merritt, Printer. 
 1815. 
 
District of Pennsylvania^ to wit: 
 
 BE IT REMEMBERED, that on the eighth clay of November In the for- 
 tieth year of the Independence of the United States of America, A. D 1816. 
 Elizabeth L. Brown of the said district, hath deposited in this office the title 
 of a book the right whereof she claims as proprietor in the words following ; 
 to wit : 
 
 " The Life of Charles Brockden Brown : together -with selections from the 
 reffest of his printed works, from his original letters, and from his manuscripts 
 btfore unpublished. By William Dunlap. In Two Volumes." 
 
 In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled " an act 
 for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and 
 books to the authors and proprietors of such copies during the time therein 
 mentioned." And also to the act entitled " an act supplementary to an act en- 
 titled " an act for the encouragement of learning by securing the copies of 
 maps, charts, and books to the authors and proprietors of such copies during 
 the times therein mentioned," and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of 
 designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints. 
 
 D. CALDWELL, 
 Clerk of the District of Pennsylvania. 
 
D?1IL 
 
 \/. 1 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The plan of these volumes, and the proposals for their 
 publication were laid before the public without the know- 
 ledge of the writer of the biography. Engagements hav- 
 ing been entered into with subscribers, the present writer 
 has been engaged to fulfil them, but not until the selec- 
 tions for the first volume had been made and printed. 
 
 The gentleman who made this selection conceived, 
 that although these papers " might excite, without grati- 
 fying the reader's curiosity, they might be considered as 
 of some importance in a biographic point of view. They 
 develope the extent and variety of his (the author's) intel- 
 lectual powers more fully than a mere statement of the 
 fact could have done without such documents. This is 
 the only interest which it was expected that their publica- 
 tion would excite, and with this view only they were 
 given. 
 
 " This will likewise serve to explain what might other- 
 wise appear confused in the arrangement of this matter. 
 The author, from a long train of subtle and metaphysical 
 reasoning would fly to fancy for recreation, and from fancy 
 to metaphysical subtleties again. It was supposed that by 
 combining these the reader would be able to conceive with 
 
IV PREFACE. 
 
 more accuracy the power which the writer possessed in so 
 eminent a degree, of changing his topics when the one 
 which he handled became irksome. He is thus made 
 in a measure to speak his own biography, and to super- 
 sede the necessity of further comment. In short, these pa- 
 pers, unfinished as they evidently are, will, it is presumed, 
 answer the purpose for which alone they were intended, 
 to give a fair exhibition of the extent and variety of the 
 author's powers. That they are not brought to a regular 
 conclusion, is to be undoubtedly regretted ; but this de- 
 fect is irremediable by the death of the writer, and in all 
 human probability they would have remained in their 
 present state w^erc he now living." 
 
BIOGRAPHY 
 
 or 
 
 CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN, 
 
 XT is generally expected that the subjects of biography should 
 be men, who, having attracted the world's gaze by their deeds, 
 their inventions, or their writings, leave at their death a strong 
 curiosity, to be satisfied by a detail of their private lives, and 
 the circumstances which led to their notoriety. But the subject 
 of the present work had not attracted that universal notice, nor 
 excited that interest, even among his countrymen generally, 
 whicli would authorize the writing his life upon the principle 
 of gratifying public curiosity ; yet there are not wanting suffi- 
 cient reasons to induce an expectation that these volumes will 
 excite interest, convey instruction, and induce a lively regret 
 that their subject was prevented by death from attaining that 
 celebrity which his talents and acquirements must have gained 
 for him, and of leaving to his country works of the highest 
 importance both scientific and literary. 
 
 Charles Brockden Brown was among the earlier adventurers 
 into the world of fiction and the painful path of public amuse- 
 ment or instruction, by the pen and the press, which the Unit- 
 pd States of America produced ; and the early adventurers in 
 
 2 * 
 
10 
 
 all perilous undertakings are justh' objects ot curiosity and in* 
 terest. Those who first saw the propriety of men in a new 
 and better political state, throwing off the shackles of an ab- 
 surd prejudice in favour of European opinions and writings^ 
 as they had thrown from thera the proffered chains and reject- 
 ed the pretensions of European tyranny ; those who first saw* 
 that the inhabitants of a country no less removed by the enjoy- 
 ment of greater liberty and better forms of government, by the 
 more extensive diffusion of the benefits of education and pro- 
 perty, and the consequent greater purity of public morals, from 
 the tyranny and intolerance of the long established govern- 
 ments of Europe, and the squalid ignorance and poverty of the 
 principal part of their popuhition, than by the remoteness of 
 their situation from the ordinary range of European polilics 
 and influence of European ambition ; those who at the same 
 time that they acknowledged the inestimable value of English, 
 French and German literature, saw the necessit}' of establishing 
 a literature for their own country ; who saw the advantages of 
 publications suited to a new state of manners and political 
 (Economy, and which shouIcJ not only pi-oduce original instruc- 
 tion, but point out and sever the good from the bad in the lit- 
 erature and institutions of Europe ; however inefficient their 
 efforts may have been, are entitled to the thanks of their 
 countr\'men, and will hereafter be esteemed not merclj^ in 
 proportion to that which they performed, but by the eflects of 
 their efforts upon those who follow in the path they opened. 
 On this ground, as well as on that of uncommon talents and 
 exemplary virtues, the subject of the follovv-ing pages is enti- 
 tled to- a targe portion of public attention. 
 
 It may be asserted that no man contemns the credit which is 
 derived from ancestry* The honours which are bestowed, or 
 assumed, from the mere circumstance of being able to speak 
 of the fame or virtues of our forefathers are doubtless of lit- 
 tle value in comparison with those honours which personal 
 merit obtains ; yet they are, in the opinion of mankind, of 
 some worth, and are felt to be so by every individual. Of 
 this species of credit, Charles Brockden Brown had a larger 
 share than falls to the lot of the greater portion of mankind ; 
 
11 
 
 and stood on the happj' level with most of his fellow citizens 
 of the United States. His parents were virtuous, religious 
 people, and as such held a respectable rank in society ; and 
 he could trace ba.elc a long line of ancestry holding the same 
 honourable station. Natives of England, and professing those 
 religious opinions which drew upon the first of the sect, the 
 contemptuous appellation of Quaker, an appellation which, 
 though bestowed in reviling, has become a name of honour, 
 and adoption through the virtues of the possessors, his an- 
 cestors fled from the persecutions of their country in the same 
 ship with William Penn, and trusted to the savages and the 
 •wilderness, rather than to the justice of their countrymen. 
 
 Charles Brockden Brown was born on the seventeenth day of 
 January, in the year l/ri, in the city of Philadelphia. 
 
 Brown is one of those names which belongs to so great a 
 portion of those who descend from English parentage, that 
 it ceases to identify an individual. Brockden is a happy ad- 
 dition which was derived from a distant relation whose his- 
 tory as preserved in the traditionary records of the family is 
 too remai-kable to be passed over without notice. 
 
 Charles Brockden lived in England, under the reign of the 
 Infamous Charles the Second. It is well known that the latter 
 part of the life of the monarch was disturbed, if not by con- 
 science, at least by the dread of the people's vengeance. Re- 
 ports of plots and conspiracies disturbed the pensioner of 
 France, even in the arms of his mistresses. Charles Brock- 
 den was at that time a student in the office of a lawyer who 
 was deeply implicated in one of these plots. The conspira- 
 tors assembled at the house of his master for the purpose of 
 holding a consultation on the most practicable mode of ac- 
 complishing their design. Brockden in an adjoining room 
 heard distinctly the whole of their conversation, but was at 
 length, by some untoward accident, discovered by the conspi- 
 rators. Aware of his danger he counterfeited sleep ; but so 
 serious was the dread of detection, excited by this circum- 
 stance in the minds of the conspirators, that for their mutual 
 security, the majority of them resolved upon his immediate 
 death. His master wishing to preserve the life of his appreo- 
 
12 
 
 tjice, represented him as too stupid to comprehend the mean- 
 ing of their conversation had he hstened to it, and used his 
 eloquence to persuade them not to embrue their hands in the 
 blood of an innocent boy. They yielded for the time, but so 
 great was his personal danger afterwards, from the returning 
 apprehensions of the conspirators, that his master insisted on 
 his embracing the first favourable opportunity of embarking 
 for America. This the boy accordingly did, and was pro- 
 moted by his talents and industry to an important office in the 
 province of Pennsylvania, which he filled with dignity and 
 honour. From this person Charles Brown inherited the ad- 
 ditional name of Brockden. 
 
 Charles Brockden Brown at a very early period of childhood 
 acquired that fondness for books which encreased with him 
 through life. Possessing a frail and delicate constitution he 
 seldom mingled in the sports of children, and that spirit of cu- 
 riosity which is strong within us at our entrance upon the bust- 
 ling scenes of life, not being gratified or dissipated by the usual 
 communication and exertions of childhood, found in books a 
 delightful source of knowledge, and an inexhaustible fund of 
 amusement. The mind of Charles was intensely devoted to 
 reading at an age in which boys are usually exhausting their 
 superabundant spirit of animation in what appears idle recrea- 
 tion, but which often gives spring and force to both mental and 
 physical exertion in future life. I^is parents relate that when 
 but an infant, if they left home, he required nothing but a book 
 to divert him, and on their return they would find him musing 
 over the page with all the gravity of a student. On his return 
 from school they would find him at the hour of dinner in the 
 parlour, where, having slipped off his shoes, he was mounted 
 on a table and deeply engaged in the consultation of a map sus- 
 pended on the side of the wall. It was thus that in Charles 
 intellectual labour itself became a species of recreation ; and 
 thinking, which is to the uncultivated so laborious and irk- 
 some an occupation, became to him the most delightful of em- 
 ployments. 
 
 At the age of ten Charles was reproved by a visitor of his 
 ♦ather's for some remark, which probably ought to have called 
 
13 
 
 forth commendation, by the contemptuous appellation of boy. 
 After the guest had departed, " Why does he call me boy ?" 
 said Charles, ** Does he not know that it is neither size nor 
 age, but understanding that makes the man ? I could ask him 
 • an hundred questions, none of which he could answer." At 
 this period of his life he was so intimately acquainted with 
 the science of geography, that he became a sort of gazetteer 
 to his father, and would point out to him on the map or chart 
 almost any part of the world which he made inquiry after ; and 
 could generally give some account of the place. 
 
 With habits so happily adapted to derive every advantage 
 from instruction and disciplined study, he entered the school 
 of Robert Proud, now well known as the author of the history 
 of Pennsylvania. At the age of eleven he received from this 
 gentleman the rudiments of the Latin and Greek languages ; 
 and jNIr. Proud always spoke in the inost flattering terms of his 
 rapid proficiency and unabating industry. The constitution 
 of Charles, at all times delicate, was now breaking down be- 
 neath the efforts which strengthened and enriched his mind. 
 What pity it is that the application which assimilates man most 
 to the exalted idea which we form of immortal perfection 
 should so certainly tend to enfeeble his body and shorten his 
 mortal existence, while the brutalizing occupations of con- 
 tinued and thought-expelling labour, give firmness and vigour 
 and duration to the frame of man. We are thus, however, 
 taught to check the ardent pursuit of knowledge, and deny 
 gratification to our love of seclusion ; to recal our minds to 
 the mingled scenes of society, and impose upon our bodies 
 the necessary tasks of labour and healthful exercise. Charleses 
 preceptor at this time recommended an abstinence from study, 
 and prescribed relaxation and excursions into the country as 
 indispensible for the re-establishment of his health. 
 
 The excursions of Charles were made on foot, and so great 
 was the benefit which he received from his pedestrian exer- 
 cises, that he continued the practice ever after. The man 
 who is habituated to solitary walking knows that it is impos- 
 sible to make the mind move with the same creeping pace 
 'vhlch is imposed upon the body ; ever alert, it flies into ever\' 
 
14 
 
 region of the known and unknown world, and while the feet 
 measure the distance between two mile stones, the mind~ranges 
 through the boundless regions of possible existence. Hence 
 arises an habitual abstraction, which operating upon a mind 
 so previously prepared as that of Charles's, caused, from a* 
 total unconsciousness of what was passing about him, or ol 
 the flight of time, or the progress of his feet, such unseason- 
 able rambles as often to excite great uneasiness in the different 
 members of his family. 
 
 After he left the school of Mr. Proud, which was before 
 he had completed the sixteenth year of his age, he wrote a 
 number of essays, some in verse and some in prose. Amongst 
 these may be mentioned, a version of a part of the book of Job, 
 some of the psalms of David, and several passages of Ossi- 
 an. At the age of sixteen he sketched plans of three distinct 
 epic poems, one on the discovery of America, another on Pi- 
 zarro's conquest of Peru, and a third on Cortez's expedition 
 to Mexico. With these he was much engrossed, and for 
 some time thought life only desirable as a mean for their ac- 
 complishment. 
 
 About this time Charles busied himself in inventing a spe- 
 cies of short-hand writing, and actually enabled himself to 
 take down the words of a speaker with almost the same ra- 
 pidity as they are usually uttered ; he likewise studied, unas- 
 sisted but by books, the French language. In this state of 
 intellectual revelry, by diversif}ing his studies and pursuits 
 he gave to each a character of novelty, which answered the 
 purposes of relaxation, and bv the aid of his pedestrain ram- 
 bles kept up as ample a portion of strength and health as 
 the nature of his constitution and the slender texture of liis 
 body would admit. 
 
 But amids^t the diversities of study and changes of avoca- 
 tion in which his active mind ran riot, it now became indispensa- 
 bly necessary for him to make his choice of a profession. 
 I'hat freedom almost amounting to licentiousness with which 
 Charles roved unguided in pursuit of knowledge, had not 
 httcd him for the severe study of one science ; however, he 
 made his choice of the profession of the law. This science, 
 
15 
 
 to a mind so ardent in the pursuit of information, opened a 
 wide and inexhaustible field for indulgence. It is withal, in 
 this country, one of the roads to opulence, and the most cer- 
 tain path to political importance and fame. Charles needed 
 not the importunity of friends or relatives to decide his choice 
 in favour of the law, and M'as with high expectations of fu- 
 ture eminence in that profession, apprenticed to Alexander 
 Wilcox, esqr. an eminent lawyer of Philadelphia. 
 
 There is no circumstance of more importance to a man's 
 future welfare, than that his early associates should be hap- 
 pily chosen. Brown selected for his first set of friends, se- 
 veral young men of brilliant talents, amiable dispositions and 
 ardent minds, who, though all of characters verv distinct 
 from his, excited his emulation and called into action his men- 
 tal powers. He at this time became one of a society for de- 
 bating questions of law, and had for associates young men 
 who have since been the ornaments of the profession, yet 
 Charles was, amongst these, distinguished both for solidity 
 of judgment, and acuteness of investigation- 
 
 After the day, passed in Mr. Wilcox's office, Charles re- 
 tired to his chamber and recorded in a journal all the inci- 
 dents and reflections which had occurred in that space of 
 time. He composed and transcribed letters and even copi- 
 ed into his journal the epistles he received from his corres- 
 pondents. This severe tax upon his time was intended for 
 improvement both in thinking and writing, and as a record 
 of that improvement. He was always anxious to acquire a 
 facility of writing and a correct and graceful style ; and 
 journalizing was the first expedient which suggested it- 
 self to him for the accomplishment of that desirable object. 
 He early, however, studied with assiduity, the writings of 
 the best English authors, with the same view, and those who 
 have attended to his later writings v/lU not hesitate to give 
 great praise to the style in which they are composed, and' 
 to lament that so early a period was put by death to the rapid 
 improvement of his rich and active mind. 
 
 Among the associates of Broun, was one of the name of 
 Davidson, who conceived the design of forming and estab- 
 
16 
 
 Ushing a literary society. Brown was invited to become a 
 member, but not having at that time a just idea of the im- 
 provement always derived from such associations, he enter- 
 ed reluctantly into the plan, but soon became the leader, and 
 prepared a set of rules which were adopted with some slight 
 modifications. The society consisted of nine members, and 
 was called the Belles Lettre Club. Its object was twofold, im- 
 provement in composition and eloquence ; and in both, there 
 is good reason to believe that Brown excelled his com- 
 panions. 
 
 As member of the law society, Charles was no less 
 zealous and active. While president, it was part of his of- 
 ficial duty to record his judgment on the questions debat- 
 ed. These records are now preserved, and they afford 
 an honourable testimony to his sagacity, sound judgment 
 and research. They are likewise delivered in a style of gravi- 
 ty, becoming a judge, and widely different from that in which 
 he usually wrote. It has been remarked by a friend, " that 
 the most complicated judgment," recorded by Charles "embrac- 
 ing reported cases of unusual subtlety with his reasons at 
 length on a question by far the most difficult that fell to his 
 province to decide, is delivered with more perspicuity than 
 any of the rest, in a language destitute of all embellishment, 
 and with peculiar nicety of detail. He was in fact," con- 
 tinues the same friend, "a model of the dr}-, grave, and judi- 
 cial st}le of argument. Directly after he had disposed of 
 this question, as appears from his journal, he gave vent to 
 his fancy in a poetical effusion, as much distinguished by itr. 
 wild and excentric brilliance, as the other composition was 
 for its plain sobriety and gravity of style. They are perfect 
 opposites, and any one who perused them, would with diffi- 
 culty be persuaded that so much excentricity, and so much 
 regularity, were the productions of one man ; much less 
 would he believe them to have proceeded from the same 
 source with the interval of a few moments only." 
 
 While thus ostensibly studying law, but in reality indulg- 
 ing himself in every freak, suggested by his love of litera- 
 ture and of fame, he presented himself to the world in the 
 
17 
 
 Columbian Magazine, in the character of a rhapsodist. The 
 first number of this series was published in the month of 
 August, 1789. Although the title was assumed, the charac- 
 ter was not. Charles in these essays exhibits himself. We 
 behold a young and ardent mind straining after unattaina- 
 ble perfection, always dissatisfied with and struggling to sur- 
 pass its most successful efforts. He tells the world with 
 what rapture he has held communion with his own thoughts 
 amidst the gloom of surrounding woods, where his fancy 
 *' has peopled every object with ideal beings, and the barrier 
 between himself and the world of spirits, seemed burst by 
 the force of meditation. In tliis solitude he feels himself 
 surrounded by a delightful society j but when he is transport- 
 ed from thence, and compelled to listen to the frivolous 
 chat of his fellow beings, he then suffers all the miseries of 
 solitude. xie acknowledges however, that his intercourse 
 and conversation with mankind had wrought a salutary 
 change j that he can now mingle in the concerns of life, per- 
 form his appropriate duties, and reserve that higher species 
 of discourse for the solitude and silence of his study." 
 
 That Charles thus early saw the error of indulging in this 
 romancing vein, and perceived that it unfitted him for the con- 
 versation and duties of real life is here made evident ; but 
 that he had at this time or even much later in life, corrected 
 the evil, was not true. He long after this period loathed the 
 common pursuits and common topics of men, and appeared 
 in society an eccentric, if not an isolated being. 
 
 About this time he published in an Edentown nev/s-paper, 
 a poetical address to Dr. Franklin. " The blundering printer, 
 says Charles in his journal, from his zeal or his ignorance, 
 or pei-haps from both, substituted the name of Washington. 
 Washington therefore stands arrayed in awkward colours. 
 Philosophy smiles to behold her darling son ; she turns with 
 horror and disgust from those who have won the laurel of 
 victory in the field of battle, to this her favourite candidate 
 who had never participated in such bloody glory, and whose 
 fame was derived from the conquest of philosophy alone. 
 The printer by his blundering ingenuity made the subject ri- 
 
 3 ^ 
 
18 
 
 diculous. Every word of this clumsy panegyric was a di- 
 rect slander upon Washington, and so it was regarded at the 
 time." , 
 
 The formation of the literar}^ society or Belles Leltre Club 
 before, was probably the most powerful circumstance in the 
 early life of Brown in deciding his future prospects and des- 
 tiny. As such I will dwell more particularly on some cir- 
 cumstances connected with its formation, especially as they 
 display uncommoft powers of intellect and language in a boy 
 of sixteen. 
 
 Charles had demanded of his friend Davidson, by letter, 
 *' the relatio?h dependa?ice, and connection of the several parts 
 of knoxvledge^'' and his friend, in reply, instead of answering 
 his question, proposes a literary society. Disappointed, Charles 
 undertakes to answer himself thus in his Journal : 
 
 " The relations, dependencies, and connections of the several 
 parts of knowledge, have long been a subject of unavailing in- 
 quiry with me. In my late commenced correspondence with 
 Emelius, this was the question upon which I demanded his opi- 
 nion : he has not yet returned an answer to my letter, though 
 from his expressions at the meeting at Franklin's, I judge he 
 had some serious intentions of answering it. The carrying into 
 effect this scheme of a society, will I am afraid be to him a suf- 
 ficient excuse for omitting it. I now intend to try what my own 
 unassisted capacity can do towards classing and separating the 
 several departments of knowledge. However, to my task. 
 
 " The general, and I believe the true division of science, is 
 into moral and physical. The object of moral science is the 
 mind, the object of physical, matter ; this is sufficiently plain. 
 I understand the distinction between matter and mind, or spirit 
 (for they are synonymous) without the trouble of a definition. 
 
 *' Mind and matter are the two grand divisions of science, 
 but we cannot have any object of moral science, but that portion 
 of spirit witliin ourselves ; while in this life mind perhaps can 
 never be considered in any other way than in conjunction with 
 matter. That science which considers mind in its essence, which 
 considers spirit distinct from, and as much as possible indepen-- 
 
19 
 
 dant of matter, is I think called metaphysics. Is there not a 
 difference between the consideration of the mind in its essence 
 or being, and the consideration of the mind, as it acts with re- 
 lation to something else, just as we consider man in the several 
 lights of a rational creature, and as a member of society ? We 
 know that our minds are continually employed in the exercise 
 of apprehension, reason, and will : but we know that these ope- 
 rations of the mind are employed upon things outward and 
 foreign to itself. When we view it in these operations, I think 
 we do not view as metaphysicians, we must give another name 
 to the science ; perhaps it is logic. Man may be considered in 
 a variety of Hghts; the distinction between physical and moral 
 science take their rise in him ; he is a creature of matter and 
 mind, composed in newly organized matter ; he is superior to 
 the brutes only in degree, and he is equally with them, the ob- 
 ject of physical science ; but in mind he differs from them ori- 
 ginally and in kind. He is therefore the only subject of moral 
 science : as an animal he is the subject of natural history. 
 What is anatomy ? Is it not natural history ? It examines his 
 internal structure and formation : what is this but natural his- 
 tory ? all animals are the subjects of anatomy, perhaps all sub- 
 stances : the dissection of a rabbit and the resolution of a me- 
 tallic substance, are they not equally anatomy, only the instru- 
 ment made use of is fire in one, and the lancet in the other ? 
 However, chemistry is only a more exact and thorough anatomy. 
 Chemistry and anatomy therefore are nearly allied, their object 
 is the same, their difference consists only in the different nature 
 of the things on which they operate, and they are both ranked 
 under the science of natural history. Man as an animal is the 
 subject of the science of medicine, which is nothing more than 
 the art of curing diseases incident to the human body. But 
 there are diseases incident to the mind also ; is the cure of these 
 the province of the physician, when the mind is affected by the 
 disorders of the animal system, or when its diseases may be 
 cured, by application of external remedies ? It is thus the pro- 
 vince of the physician. It is necessary for a physician to be 
 an anatomist, that is, the natural historian of man ; because 
 the knowledge of his interior formations may lead him to the 
 
Bource or cause of the diseases Incident to hinri. It may be a 
 question whether the experimental mode in phA^sic, that is, the 
 theory of disease drawn from anatomy, is equally advantageous 
 to the cause of true science, as the same mode in the other 
 part of natural philosophy. But I am not physician enough to 
 ^now whether I speak properly. 
 
 " Man, as I said before, as an animal, is the object of medi- 
 cine ; but there are other animals besides ; the science of medi- 
 cine therefore is not confined to him only. But why is the cow 
 doctor, the horse doctor considered so meanly of then ? 1 , be- 
 cause the diseases of other animals are less numerous and com- 
 plicated : 2, because the life or health of a brute is of much 
 less importance in the eye of man than the life or health of 
 his fellow creature, and the diseases of men are more new and 
 difficult, because of the connection between his mind and his 
 body, and the mutual influence they have upon each other. 
 
 *'The consideration of the internal structure of man, with 
 reference to the internal structure of other animals, or vice 
 versa, is called comparative anatomy. 
 
 " Man possesses five senses or inlets to his mind. Of these 
 the sight Is the most useful, extensive and delicate in its forma- 
 tion. Optics is that science which explains the theory of light 
 and colours, and describes the manner in which outward objects 
 affect the sight. The science of the occulist consists in the 
 knowledge of the cure of the diseases incident to the eye. The 
 importance of sight to men, and the exquisite organization of 
 that matter in which it Is centered, demand and have a separate 
 theory. The teeth also, though none of the senses, from their 
 usefulness in mastication, but principally from the addition, 
 which when perfect, they are supposed to contribute to the 
 beauty of the human face, employ, though undeservedly, a sepa- 
 rate profession. Man may be considered as one and alone ; or 
 he may be considered as a member of a community, and con- 
 nected with others." 
 
 At the first meeting of the society. Brown, who had been 
 chosen to deliver an address upon the objects of the institution, 
 Tead the following. 
 
21 <iLiMir 
 
 " Amidst the various subjects of disquisition which naturally 
 present themselves upon this occasion, inquiries into the ge- 
 nius and design of this Institution are those, from which most 
 immediate instruction may be derived, and the talents of the 
 writer most beneficially employed. As the laws and constitution 
 of this country will justly claim a principal share of every good 
 citizen's attention, so it is also incumbent on us, who are mem- 
 bers of a smaller community, to acquaint ourselves with the na- 
 ture and reason of that association to which we are united. But 
 although this is a duty from which none of us can suppose him- 
 self entirely exempted, it more peculiarly belongs to him who 
 is destined to begin the career of literary improvement, and 
 to enter immediately upon that theatre which to others still 
 remains in distant and imperfect prospect. With what fear or 
 diffidence he prepares to discharge the duty imposed upon him 
 he need not mention. When his defects in style or sentiment 
 are perceived, his fellow members will forgive the inexperi- 
 ence of the writer, and some apology may be indulged to the 
 circumstances in which he writes. Great will he esteem the 
 honour if he is permitted to appear foremost on the records of 
 this society, though for that distinction he sacrifices every be- 
 nefit to be derived from example and experience. The sub- 
 ject he has chosen will throw some little lustre on his composi- 
 tion, and some of his defects may reasonably be ascribed to 
 the warmth with which he expatiates in a field so congenial with 
 his inclination. 
 
 " In this essay I shall attempt to sketch the leading features of 
 our constitution, and to unfold the most obvious relations be- 
 tween the laws and those whose conduct they are designed to 
 regulate ; the more minute and imperceptible lines in which its 
 specific nature consists may be reserved for future and more ac- 
 curate investigation. To give a general idea of the spirit of 
 laws as they are peculiar to this institution, is a task of no 
 small labour and importance. The time indeed will not admit 
 of that proper and complete discussion which the nature of 
 the subject requires. This society is in its infancy ; the vital 
 principle is scarcely roused into action. At a more advanced pe- 
 riod, when its operations shall have gained some degree of sta- 
 
<■' \ *• ^^ io 22 
 
 bility, when conjecture is tipened into fact, and when the views 
 and reasonings of mistaken foresight have yielded to the certain, 
 and more obvious conclusions of experience, this subject will 
 find employment for abler pens, and deservedly receive a tho- 
 rough investigation. 
 
 " Literary improvement is certainly the object which every 
 one proposes to himself in becoming a member of this society, 
 however uninformed he may be with respect to the manner in 
 which his talents will be called forth. He is already convinced 
 that his mental powers only are the subjects of intended cultiva- 
 tion, but when he has once fixed the boundary in his mind, he 
 is apt to think no farther division is necessary: he gives his im- 
 agination full liberty to range without controul through the whole 
 circle of human knowledge, in the belief that whatever calls for 
 the exertion of his mental faculties is already within his reach, 
 and may reasonably be appropriated to his own use. He con- 
 fides in propects which present an endless gradation of im- 
 provement. The road to knowledge is open before him, the 
 prize of literary excellence is displayed in his sight, and person- 
 al assiduity and attention only are required to remove every 
 impediment between him and the object of his ambition. In 
 short he believes it impossible to form a wish too sanguine for 
 the occasion. That such are really the expectations of some, no 
 one can doubt, whose own feelings are an evidence of the fact 
 with respect to himself. It may seem impossible in those, the 
 poverty of whose imagination confines them to limits even nar- 
 rower than those of matter of fact. But the case is otherwise 
 with those who find an interest in yielding to the persuasions of 
 fancy, even in opposition to the sober dictates of their judgment. 
 Whether the hopes of such be in truth fallacious and extravagant, 
 I sliall not presume to determine. I will not even deny that 
 this society, will fully answer his idea, but I am perfectly convin- 
 ced of the possibility of framing a system which shall gratify 
 <^very propensity to enlarge the circle of his faculties, of which 
 the human mind is capal)le ; a system calculated to employ at once 
 the reason, mcmorv, and imagination of man. 
 
 " Ap idea of perfection incompatible with the present state of 
 
23 
 
 things, is generally the object of contemplation with philoso- 
 phers. In the bosom of retirement and leisure we are apt to pour 
 forth a visionary beauty and proportion upon the scenes around 
 us, which vanish away when we come to examine them more 
 nearly, and to try them by the unfailing test of experience. Hence 
 the faultless pictures of manners and of government so frequent 
 in their writing ; pictures, which it is acknowledged, afford con- 
 spicuous proofs of goodness of heart, and vigour of intellect in 
 the contriver; but it is denied that they contribute any thing to 
 the happiness of society. This in general may be true. But though 
 I am sensible that dreams of absolute perfection, can be realized 
 only in another world ; that plans of government without defect, 
 and men whose spirits have been rendered perfect, can appear 
 only in a future and unknown stage of being ; yet I cannot help 
 thmking but that success in every pursuit will be commensurate 
 to the ideas of perfection which we entertain concerning that pur- 
 suit. When we set before our eyes an object, as the end of our 
 endeavours, however exalted and far beyond our reach, and 
 lend our exertions solely to that object, our continued struggles 
 will at length raise us to that elevated pitch of knowledge or of 
 virtue, in which the imperfection of our nature is capable of sup- 
 porting us. In contemplating the designs of a Raphael or Angelo, 
 it is impossible to produce a picture totally devoid of grandeur or 
 of grace. An attempt to fashion according to an imaginarv 
 standard in our own minds, the habits and dispositions of men, 
 when their faculties have attained their full vigour, and when edu- 
 cation can no longer have any influence over their conduct ; may 
 meet with obstacles not to be surmounted, but by a being of su- 
 perior power and capacity. But education claims an unbounded 
 dominion over the separate provinces of infancy and youth, 
 whether she employs precept and authority as the instruments of 
 her purpose, or eogages the passions of youth on her side by 
 means of example and emulation, she is able to instil into the 
 unmformed minds of her pupils, whatever sentiment or dispo- 
 sition she pleases. 
 
 " Of the noblest species of education, an institution like the 
 present will furnish a complete example. We may justly be d^;* 
 
M 
 
 nominated pupils, since our design is to learn, or at least to im- 
 prove what we have already learned ; but we are pupils to whom 
 the pedantic character of a preceptor, and the servile forms of 
 scholastic discipline are unknown. Reason is the authority which 
 exacts our obedience; and emulation the principle that promotes 
 our improvement. On this subject therefore theory can scarce- 
 ly be exhausted. Here at least the hand can execute what the 
 head is able to contrive. The idea of a perfect commonwealth 
 is not the same extravagant thing in education as in politics. 
 The settled depravity of mankind, will never yield to the gentle 
 admonitions of the wise, and the stubborn and inveterate preju- 
 dices of the vulgar, will be always hostile to the kindly influence 
 of good government. 
 
 *' But the manners of youth are fresh and pliant, their devia- 
 tions from the path of rectitude and duty may more easily be 
 recalled, and it is by no means difficult to accelerate their steps 
 in the pursuit of knowledge. Were it required of me to make 
 the experiment, and to produce a system, simple in its construc- 
 tion, but calculated to answer the purposes of its formation, with 
 the utmost precision and success ; I should demand nothing but 
 that the circumstances of time, and place, should be favourable 
 to my design. A demand which by no means implies an impos- 
 sibility of introducing my system iiito general use. No formed 
 design is always consistentwith the present appearances of things, 
 and little credit is due to his sagacity, who ushers every inven- 
 tion into light at the moment it receives a form in his own con- 
 ception. If he wishes success to his own undertakings he must 
 wait the proper opportunity to disclose them, when the things 
 around him wear a favourable aspect, and are prepared to smile 
 upon his purposes. Though an opportunity may not at present 
 offer, I may safely trust to the natural course of events, and am 
 under no necessity of impressing laws upon matter, or on mind 
 different from those by which they now exist. 
 
 " Such are my sentiments of the possible excellence of literary 
 association among youth. For I must confess this society falls 
 somewhat short of that perfect plan which presents itself to my 
 imagination. A plan for which I cannot help contemplating with 
 
25 
 
 pleasure, though the situation of myself as well as others will 
 not suffer me to indulge a hope of seeing it carried into effect. 
 It is not a matter of serious concern, but a matter of rational 
 amusement only, that we thus associate together. Our die is 
 already cast, the path which his steps are to occupy is already 
 pointed out to each of us ; we are soon to throw aside that sub- 
 ordinate character in which we have hitherto been trained, and to 
 step forth upon the theatre of life, supported only by our own 
 talents and address. It behoves us to make preparation for that 
 awful crisis in choosing our future parts. Due caution and cir- 
 cumspection should undoubtedly be used. But when our choice 
 is made, vigour and celerity alone, are required to demand the 
 applause of our fellow citizens. But though a principal share 
 of our attention is already appropriated, we must not suffer one 
 ofeject to engross the Whole ; various accomplishments are requi- 
 site to make any single character complete ; whatever his profes- 
 sion may be (I speak of those of the liberal kind) he will soon 
 feel the absolute necessity of devoting some of his time to the stu- 
 dy of polite literature. If the native beauty of the liberal arts be 
 found unable to allure him, his interest alone will incite him to 
 the pursuit. Thus he may owe the most valuable of intellectu- 
 al treasure to motives the most sordid and interested. To those, 
 who testify a relish for such studies, no argument is necessary 
 to attach them still closer to their favourite object ; few of them 
 indeed can resist the strong attraction which they feel towards it. 
 Fondly overcome by the bewitching charms of this their favour- 
 ite pursuit, they become regardless of the voice of reason, and 
 are totally immersed in the soothing pleasures of intoxicated fan- 
 cy. The enthusiasm of poetry is no less strong and violent than 
 that of religion ; they flow in separate channels, but are derived 
 from the self same fountain. Abhorring equally the noise and 
 clamour of the forum, they fly to solitude and silence, to mu- 
 sing, and to contemplation, frequenters of the shade, and ac- 
 customed to Indulge the airy flights of a fancy vigorous from 
 use, and bold from the absence of constraint, they are equally 
 governed by imaginary inspiration. They turn their ejes from 
 the insipid scene without, and seek a gayer prospect, and a vi- 
 sionary happiness in a world of their own creation. But those 
 who are superior to the strong attraction of their genius, whose 
 
 4 
 
26 
 
 imagination is awed and corrected by their judgment, will still 
 preserve an intimate acquaintance with the liberal sciences in 
 their passage through life. 
 
 "The whole circle of human knowledge is indeed bound togeth- 
 er by a strong and indissoluble chain ; they mutually receive and 
 impart strength and lustre The several and distinct sciences which 
 are derived from the reason, the memory, and the imagination, 
 are as intimately connected with each other, as those powers are 
 in the human mind. The traits of resemblance for example be- 
 tween moral and physical science are so many, so various, and so 
 complex, that it is a task of no little labour and ingenuity pro- 
 perly to separate them. Philosophy owes its precision to history, 
 and history is enlightened by the beams of rational philosophy. 
 The presence of the muses softens the severer genius of the law, 
 and without their kindly influence, even the study of nature be- 
 comes harsh and unpleusing. The pleasures of taste on the con- 
 trary, are often carried to a vicious extreme, unless corrected by 
 a seasonable mixture of philosophical severity. 
 
 " The connection is not more exquisite between the spiritual 
 and material worlds, tlian between the several provinces of im- 
 agination and reason. As matter separate from mind would be 
 totally devoid of life and motion, so reason deprived of the invi- 
 gorating influence of the fancy, would be a caput mortuum, to 
 the last degree lifeless and insipid. 
 
 " To obviate the inconvenience of such an unnatural separation, 
 to ornament the mind as well as to improve the understanding, 
 is, I think, the business of this society. With this view we have 
 entitled it the society of Belle Lettres, This is a term of very 
 peculiar signification. It does not denote any specific division 
 of the sciences logically arranged j it even comprehends science 
 and art, within the same circle. It has been generally under- 
 stood to signify a combination of the most popular studies, and 
 those which are best suited to the free and easy strain of conver- 
 sation. If this definition be admitted as a good one, fashion alone 
 must be admitted as the standard of decision. Diff'erent parts of 
 the world, as well as diflerent ages of it, may entertain different no- 
 tions concerning the particular objects of study, which should 
 be ranked under this denomination ; one people may be totally 
 absorbed in mathematical inquiries, and the abstrusest spe- 
 
27 
 
 dilation in that science may become the theme of every lite- 
 rary circle. In another country he is the politest man, and 
 most distinguished of the respectable band of the literati, who 
 comes into the company of the learned fraught with profoundest 
 erudition. The standard of taste is with them the dry discri- 
 minating spirit of the metaphysician. An enormous lexicon, 
 or tedious commentary upon an inconsiderable classic, is placed 
 upon a level with the most admired production of genius. 
 Among a third people, a softer genius may prevail, captivated 
 by the melody of sound, and the mimic creation of the pencil. 
 The glory of a Handel or a Rubens, will be the sole subject of 
 their refined conversation. The tribute of applause and admi- 
 ration will be due to him, who best unfolds the hidden soul of 
 harmony, or transfers nature into his pictures without l;lemish or 
 defect. So great a div^ersity of tastes, cannot be conceived to be 
 impossible ; they have even actually appeared at different periods 
 in the same nation. But a moment's reflection will convince us, 
 that nothing is impossible to the restless caprice of fashion. 
 Fashion may affix what stamp she pleases to the term of 
 Belle Lettres, and this stamp must of consequence be in per- 
 petual change. But it is needless to be very curious in defining 
 the exact import of the word. Polite learning sometimes under 
 the name of humanity, and sometimes of Belle Lettres, has long 
 been the subject of academical education in the universities of 
 Europe. Its nature and boundaries therefore must have been 
 long since fixed, and determined with a precision sufficient*=for 
 our purpose. According to my own observation, and in the 
 main agreeably to the method adopted in a celebrated publica- 
 tion* on this subject. Belle Lettres may be generally divided 
 into three great departments — grammar, rhetoric, and poetry. 
 " By grammar, J mean not the prosody of a verse, or the reso- 
 lution of a sentence, but an extensive science, which considers 
 the metaphysical properties and the mechanical formation of lan- 
 guage ; a science whose object is the theoiy of speech, which de- 
 scribes it as general or particular, investigates its origin, deduces 
 its history and progress, and delineates its structure, in all the 
 variety of forms it has assumed in the different regions of the 
 
 » Lectures on Rhetoric and Belle Lettres by Dr. Blah-, of the University 
 «f Edinburijh. 
 
 kjeJ". 
 
28 
 
 globe. It is the doctrine of signs, and its importance and ex- 
 tent is evident from this, that it divides with logic one third part 
 of that immense field of speculation in which the understanding 
 is con\'ersant. 
 
 " The provinces of this extensive empire are many and various. 
 Amidst so boundless a variety, objects may be found suited to 
 the genius and capacity of every one ; the careless or the delin- 
 quent, the profound or the superficial inquirer, may here find 
 employment for his indolence, activity, dullness or sagacity. 
 Should he, for instance, confine his researches within the pale of 
 one language, even this comparativeh' narrow field will supply 
 him with a copious fund of pleasing information. He may ex- 
 amine its etymology, or review the various periods of its his- 
 tory. He may trace the various changes it has undergone to 
 their respective causes, determine whether they have been pro- 
 duced by the lapse of time, the confusion of events, or by fo- 
 reign colonization. He may set forth the variety of its dialects, 
 for the specific, as well as generic difference in languages, point 
 out the difference or resemblance between them, and survey 
 them, accompanied with all their appendages of causes, contrast 
 and consequence. Is the language of its poetry distinct from 
 that of its prose, in what do they severally consist ? Compare 
 its present state with any period past or future, and thereby dis- 
 cover whether it be yet in its progress towards perfection, or 
 stationary, or in its decline. These inquiries when they are 
 confined to our native tongue, are no less useful than amusing. 
 I need not mention the respect paid to the study of their own 
 language by the politest nations of antiquity. The writings of 
 Quintillian and Tully, bear ample testimony to the fact. In 
 modern times, no less attention has Ijeen paid to this favourite 
 branch of study. Witness the societies instituted for that pur- 
 pose in France, Italy, and Spain. Besides the local or provin- 
 cial dialects of a language, another variety must also arise 
 founded upon the difference in manners and education of those 
 who speak it. This distinction can only take place in a living 
 tongue ; in such, a certain elegance of phrase, as well as of 
 manner, is the criterion of politeness. The dialect of the vul- 
 gar, differs as essentially from the mode of speaking among 
 men of letters, as the style of the poet differs from that of the 
 
29 
 
 philosopher. The structure of a language which has ceased 
 to be spoken, is infinitely more uniform and regular than the 
 diversified dialects, and even varied pronunciation of a living 
 tongue. Written monuments are very imperfect vehicles of 
 speech ; they can indeed unfold the orthography of language 
 with great strictness and accuracy ; but experience will teach us, 
 that orthography is a very uncertain guide to the true pronun- 
 ciation of a tongue. A variety of dialects often procet-.ds from 
 a difference of pronunciation, though the same orthography be 
 adhered to ; and differences imperceptible in spelling or arrange- 
 ment, are rendered obvious and remarkable in the utterance. 
 These I cannot but consider as strong motives, why attention 
 should be paid to the study of our own language in preference 
 to that of any other ; I may therefore recommend it as a sub- 
 ject of useful and ingenious disquisition, nearly connected 
 with the common experience of youth, and allowing always an 
 immediate appeal to our own personal judgment and sagacity. 
 
 " Hitherto we have looked no farther than a single language, 
 let us now extend our view to an assemblage of many. Subjects 
 of inquiry will multiply upon us in proportion to the number 
 of distinct idioms which are separately or relatively consi- 
 dered. Besides the consideration just mentioned, their genealo- 
 gy, their comparative excellence, their mutual dependence and 
 relations, are all departments in the immense edifice of grammar 
 worthy of the nicest scrutiny. 
 
 " Knowledge may be considered emblematically as a vast tem- 
 ple ; the avenues to which are guarded by the several languages 
 in use among men. Languages may be valued in proportion as 
 the avenues over which they preside are easy in their entrance, 
 and expeditious in conducting the adventurer to the prize of 
 which he is in quest. Jt may be worth inquiring, at which of these 
 imaginary portals may we gain our purpose with most speed and 
 convenience. Is there hitherto any thing neglected or unknown, 
 which may furnish an easier passage to the foot of the altar of 
 science. May we judge from the grace and beauty of the ar- 
 chitecture, whether the gate which it adorns is preferable to 
 another more rude or unembellished ? Or (to speak without a 
 metaphor) is not the information to be derived from the know- 
 ledge of an unknown tongue, alwaj's proportionate to the strength 
 
30 
 
 and beauty of its idiom ? Imagination revolts at the dialects of 
 barbarians, the pov'erty or hardship of whose sounds suit not 
 with the soft und refined utterance of a civilized people. But 
 cannot reason find a treasure concealed beneath this rude and un- 
 finished curtain, worth the labour of drawing it aside. 
 
 " But let him still enlarge the circle of his studious observation ; 
 let him step from particular to general grammar. Is there not 
 any thing in this new region worthy his attention r Will his rea- 
 son be improved or his fancy gratified, while he occupies his ta- 
 lents with this new object .' The smooth and level path which he 
 has hidierto traversed, was productive of little uneasiness; but 
 that in which he is now about to enter, presents nothing but a 
 rugged prospect. Grammar thus abstractedly considered, lies 
 within the bounds of pure metaphysics. The language of man is 
 the intercourse of spirits ; it is not the feeble and involimtary 
 respirations of pain and pleasure, but the perfect and pathetic 
 picture of every fixed or transient emotion to which his mind is 
 subject. By one happy faculty is man capable of giving form to 
 spirit, and of rendering his soul visible to man. The pictures 
 which words exhibit are even more perfect than those produced 
 by the hands of nature. Things when they act by their own 
 powers, act upon the mind according to laws pre-established by 
 the Deity, in the inviolable observance of which consists the 
 pledge of their existence. But when we would transmit our 
 feelings to the minds of others by means of words, there is 
 submitted to our choice an unlimited variety of modes of doing 
 it. The treasury of language is literally inexhaustible : it will 
 afford sufficient for the purposes of every one. Hence the study 
 of the metaphysical properties of language has been ranked 
 among the number of abstruser sciences. Into this recess, the 
 careless or superficial inquirer must not presume to intrude ; it 
 is sacred to philosophy and contemplation : he may wander in 
 the maze of poetical expression, or ascend the summits of aspir- 
 ing eloquence. He may fix the unstable edifice of language on 
 a firmer basis, he may add grace and dignity to its present 
 structure. These are employments suited to his capacity, they 
 demand not the toil of a vigorous intellect, but yield to the feeble 
 and remitted efforts of imagination. 
 
31 
 
 " But I have too long Imposed upon the patience of my hear- 
 ers ; this subject is extremely diffuse, and though I profess to 
 consider it in a very contracted point of view, it will furnish mat- 
 ter for many future essays. Style and composition with the 
 propriety of the mode adopted to accelerate our improvement 
 therein, will come next under our observation. Eloquence will 
 then be considered not as the object of senseless applause, or the 
 topic of empty declamation ; but as a necessary ingredient in the 
 composition of those characters we are about to assume, to a 
 certain degree of which this society will furnish the means, and 
 every member may improve the opportunity of attaining. With 
 some reflections upon the circumstances which constitute the pe- 
 culiar excellence of this institution, we shall finish a picture 
 possessing the requisite boldness and dignity in the design, how- 
 ever lame or imperfect in the execvition." 
 
 It would be improper as we have commented so largely on ' 
 this society, to pass by the other one in silence. In one instance 
 Charles reported the debates at full length, and were it not 
 mingled with matters of a personal and confidential nature, it 
 would be desirable to give publicity to this record. This would 
 however lead us astray from biography, and involve us in col- 
 lateral matters foreign from our present purpose. To give the 
 reader some conception of the success which Charles made in 
 his legal studies, notwithstanding the perplexing variety of his 
 other avocations, we will extract the following decisions, which 
 he made in the character of judge. 
 
 CASE I. 
 
 *' The case upon which our decision is expected, is as follows : 
 A. advertises a reward for the recovery of goods lost : B. finds 
 them ; can B. retain those goods, until the reward is paid ? On 
 the one hand it is insisted that the finder may detain the goods 
 until he shall receive the reward. On the other hand it is main- 
 tained that by so doing, the finder becomes liable to an action of 
 trover and conversion. This is a question on which I cannot give 
 my opinion without much doubt and hesitation. The case in- 
 deed very frequently occurs to common experience ; but I have 
 
32 
 
 irot discovered that it has ever underwent a judicial examination 
 in the courts of law : and I cannot help thinking that the authori- 
 ties cited to support the opinions respectively advanced, are con- 
 nected with our present subject by a distant and imperfect anal- 
 ogy, rather than by direct implication ; that they are calcula- 
 ted to puzzle and confuse, rather than to aid and confirm the 
 judgment. 
 
 "That the finder is justified in detaining the goods until he re- 
 ceives the reward for finding them, is an opinion supported by 
 natural equity, if not by positive law, and extreinely agreeable to 
 the common sense of mankind, who will always prefer the secu- 
 rity for the owner's compliance with the contract in their own 
 hands, to the dilatory and uncertain remedy of the law ; which 
 the mean and interested have in their power to make no remedy 
 at all. The finder may be intimidated by the threats of the 
 owner, or the consciousness of his inability to hold them, 
 against what he supposes to be the law ; he will deliver them up 
 on demand, but l)v so doing he will justlj- incur the censure of 
 egregious follv, from those Avho are likely ever to be in the same 
 predicament. On every subject of dispute where the natural 
 equity of the thing is in question, the common and uniform sen- 
 timent of mankind is a standard less liable to confusion and 
 uncertainty than any other. I need not remark that every man 
 in the situation of B. the finder of these goods, would act in the 
 manner supposed in the present case, and think himself justi- 
 fied in so doing by every principle of reason and natural equit\-. 
 In this persuasion as an individual I would very fairly acquiesce : 
 and the singularity of this case with respect to those hitherto 
 controverted in the courts of law, would I presume justify a 
 similar decision in the quality of judge. Besides adjudged ca- 
 ses, the advocates for this opinion, that the owner is entitled to 
 an action of trover, I have had recourse to the descriptions 
 given of this action in the books of law ;* these declare in the 
 most explicit terms, that this action lies against him who has the 
 goods of another in possession, and converts them to his own 
 use. Now as it is not the trover that is the means by which 
 the defendant came into possession, but the subsequent conver- 
 
 * 3(1 Black. 152. "SVoocl's lusti. 539. B:ic. Ab. tit. ti-over. See. 
 
35 
 
 iion that constitute the injury for which the remedy is given ; 
 it is clear that sufficient evidence must be brought to prove such 
 conversion in the defendant, or the plaintiff's action is lost. But 
 it is said, a demand made, and a subsequent refusal, is sufficient 
 evidence of a conversion. This case supposes a demand made 
 and a subsequent refusal ; what hinders then that the owner 
 should have his action against the finder. 
 
 *' I am of opinion that the demand and refusal here made, are 
 not sufficient evid ence of a conversion : it is indeed a doctrine 
 generally held, that demand and refusal are sufficient evidence 
 of conversion. But it is by no means the intention of the law, 
 that this rule should prevail in all cases indiscriminately. In the 
 same page wherein Sir William Blackstone tells us that the law 
 will deem the finder's refusal as a conversion : he also tells us, 
 that to support the action a conversion must be fully proved. 
 How many circumstances might the dullest fancy suggest, suf- 
 ficient to justifv a refusal, notwithstanding the demand of the 
 owner. It is expressly said,* that though a demand and a de- 
 nial may be evidence of a conversion, yet that of itself it is not 
 a conversion. Indeed in those cases where the doctrine is laid 
 down in the most positive and unlimited manner, we may as- 
 sent to the justice of the reasoning upon which it is founded ; 
 and at the same time consider it as totally unapplicable to the 
 present case. A rule designed to be general and to comprehend 
 a great varietv of cases, cannot be applied in its full extent to 
 everv particular subject. That the reasonings in 1 Viner. Abr. 
 241, where this suliject is discussed pretty largely, were intend- 
 ed to be confined to such cases wherein the refusal of the find* 
 er is evidentlv suggested bv sinister views, appears both from a 
 case which precedes it in the same page, and from the words 
 subjoined to the case itself, viz. but if it be found specially, it 
 shall not be adjudged a conversion. The meaning of which I 
 apprehend is this ; that M'here certain circumstances appear of 
 a palliating nature, and which lend to show that the detention 
 of the goods proceeded from innocent, though perhaps mista. 
 ken notions of right ; in short whenever it appears that the de- 
 fendant's intention was not to convert those, a conversion shall 
 * 1 Viner. Abr. 24. 
 6 • 
 
34 
 
 not be presumed. The opinion of Holt, Chief Justice, in 2 
 Salk. 654, p. 2, is express, that pei-sons saving goods which had 
 been cast away, might detain them until paid for their pains. 
 
 " I am therefore clearly of opinion, that an action ol trov er 
 and conversion M'ill not lie against the finder of these goods. 
 Of an action of detinue, though now generally disused, the 
 owner may perhaps avail, as the injury nlleged to be done to 
 the plaintiff consists in the detaining, and not the original tak- 
 ing ; although the conformity of the present case to the descrip- 
 tion of detinue to be found in Blackstone may very well he 
 doubted since it is not the mere detainure which entitles the 
 plaintiff to this remedy. But at all events, I consider the pub- 
 lic notification of the owner's intention to reward the ftndt;r ol 
 his goods, as an express assumpsit, by which the fiuder is en- 
 titled to an action on the case." 
 
 CASE 2. 
 
 " A woman upon the supposition of her husband's death, acts, 
 in the capacity of a single woman ; purchases lands in her own 
 name, devises them and dies ; after whose death the husband 
 contrary to expectation, proves to be still living, and returns. 
 The question naturally arising upon these points is, whether the 
 devise, and of consequence all other acts committed during her 
 supposed widowhood, are good in law. A question, our deci- 
 sion upon which must be foimded either upon statute or prece- 
 dent, cannot but be productive of much doubt and uncertainty, 
 when it is found deficient in both these respects. The statute 
 of wills, where the persons disabled to devise are enumerated, 
 is as follows : and it is furt'aer deelared and enaeted by law 
 that wills and testaments made of any man's lands, &c. by any 
 woman covert, or person within the age of twenty-one years, 
 idiot, &c. shall not be taken to be good, and effectual in the law." 
 This statute wherein the disability of the woman to make a de- 
 vise, is particularly laid down, Avill appear less satisfactory when 
 we consider that the very implication our natural reason would 
 prompt us to make upon the words of the statutes, will savour 
 of rashness, unless sanctioned by indisputable authority. That 
 such indispensible authority is wanting, I may very safely affirm. 
 The conduct of the gentlemen respectively upon this question 
 
sufficiently evince it; neither party having produced any ad- 
 judged case, wherein a woman in those particular circumstances 
 is positively declared to be, or not to be within the meaning of 
 the statute. On the one side the gendemen have chosen to ad- 
 here principally to the precise letter of the statute, and have at- 
 tempted to prove from a variety of arguments, the impropriety 
 of indulging fanciful conjecture on the plainest cases, and of 
 framing narrow constructions upon words whose meaning are 
 general and obvious. On the other side the reason of the thing 
 has been principally called in question, and the liberty of fram- 
 ing constructions which accord rather with reason than with law, 
 been strenuously supported. All our reasonings upon this sub- 
 ject must be ultimately founded upon the statute : but in the ap- 
 plication of the general rules there laid down to particular cases, 
 a judgment must be directed by certain laws of construction, 
 universally laid down and established. If his decision be made 
 conformably to these rules, it matters not whether his interpreta- 
 tions be sanctioned or not by positive authority ; if his opinion 
 be drawn from any topic of construction allowed by the law, it 
 is of no consequence that this topic has never been employed by 
 a predecessor in office for the same purpose. " A court of law, 
 says Sir William Blackstone, as well as a court of equity, deter- 
 mines according to the spirit of the rule, and not according to 
 the strictness of the letter." Both for instance ai'e equally bound, 
 and equally profess to interpret statutes according to the true 
 intent of the legislature. -If this liberty of interpretation might 
 therefore be allowed us on this occasion, I should not hesitate to 
 pronounce this case out of the equity, though within the \vords of 
 the act. But we have been repeatedly told that the words of the 
 statute should have their full and unlimited effect In every case 
 not hitherto excepted by the courts. Those who have held forth 
 this opinion with so much vehemence, do not reflect that in so 
 doing they call in question the legality of those very exceptions : 
 since those however agreeable to the true sense, and soiuid in- 
 terpretation of the rule, had not the sanction of any prior deter- 
 mination. I am well aware also, that the natural injustice of a 
 decision in the nt '^"Uive, has been as confidently asserted, as its 
 supposed legal impropriety. But notwithstanding such asser- 
 tions, the dangerous consequences of a contrary determination 
 
36 
 
 to the security of private property, and the rights of individuals, 
 appear to me in the strongest light ; and must appear to every 
 rational and unprejudiced inquirer. 
 
 ** But this it is not my design to prove ; to most I trust it is 
 already evident. It is sufficient that I have shown the proprie- 
 ty of acting independent of any precise authority ; or even in 
 contradiction to it, when authorised by the known and establish- 
 ed rules of construction. By these rules therefore, as far as I 
 have been able to discover the intentions of the legislature in 
 making this act, I am clearly of opinion that they did not intend 
 to include a woman in those particular circumstances, within 
 the general rule. I am also of opinion that among those cases 
 wherein a married woman has been declared to be without the 
 meaning of the statute, and adjudged by the particular excep- 
 tions to this rule, otherwise general, none can be found altogether 
 similar to the case under consideration." 
 
 CASE 3. 
 
 ** A merchant in England consigns goods to a merchant in 
 America, he afterwards draws bills of exchange which are en- 
 dorsed by a third person, he then becomes bankrupt. But prior 
 to his bankruptcy he assigns the goods in America to another in 
 England : the goods in America are attached by the endorser, 
 as the property of the drawer. We are to pronounce upon the 
 validity of the attachment. 
 
 *' I shall make no observations upon the propriety of the cir- 
 cumstances here alledged, what measure of probability they pos- 
 sess, or whether viewed in a real or fictitious light, any ques- 
 tion can arise from them worthy of serious discussion. It is I 
 own in general, incumbent upon those who decide to assign the 
 reasons of their decision. But every general rule is liable to 
 some exceptions. That the present case may reasonably be deem- 
 ed an exception, is the firm persuasion of him whose duty it is 
 to decide concerning it. If such is my opinion, it matters not 
 what the sentiments of others xnay be. The peculiar right of de- 
 cision in such cases is a privilege annexed to my station, which 
 notwithstanding the endeavours of the selfish and opinionated, 
 I will not suffer to be weakened by a formal appeal to the 
 common sense of othf rs ; I am content to wave the privilege 
 
37 
 
 of mv seat no otherwise than by abdicating the seat itseli ; and 
 though in opposition to violence and clamour, I am tenacious 
 of my right as judge, yet as a member I am content to yield 
 to an opinion, which however unwarrantably urged, is avow- 
 ed by a majority of my fellow members. Thus much I think 
 it my duty publicly to declare, in order to ascertain the privilege 
 annexed by law, as well as reasons, to the office of judge of this 
 society; and by explainingthe reason, why I have dispensed with 
 my privilege on this occasion, thereby to remove the danger of 
 its growing into a precedent. For I am well aware tliathad I not 
 made this public declaration, length of time and the confusion of 
 events would have rendered my conduct in this!particular, an in- 
 disputable evidence of what is or is not a privilege : but I even 
 blame myself for the sacrifice I have already made, and as long 
 as I have the honour to preside in this chair, will be cautious 
 again of furnishing the like pernicious example to a predecessor, 
 of sacrificing the dignity of his office to the unwarrantable views 
 of a i"aciious and imperious member. Part}- and division in this 
 society shall in future meet with my discouragement, and I will 
 no longer countenance the exertions of one who is perpetually 
 usurping an undue authority over those who are his equals by 
 membership, as well as those whom their station has for a time 
 rendered his superiors. If the question is void of doubt or bar- 
 ren of argument with respect to the advocates, it is certainly so 
 with respect to the judge. With the same ease and facility 
 therefore, with Avhich the case before us was argued, I deter- 
 mine that the attachment cannot be mainiained." 
 
 C^Sii* 4. 
 
 Is falsehood necessary to constitute a libel against the chief 
 magistrate of a state ? The rules of law, in whatever upon exami- 
 nation they may be found to consist, will not apply with entire 
 certainty and precision to this question j unless it were first de- 
 termined whether the libeller be prosecuted by way of indictment 
 <jr information at the suit of the tominonwealth, or merel)' in a 
 civil action. The stati<jn or dignity of either the oifendcd or of- 
 fending party, does not necessarily determine the mode in which 
 his offence becomes cogniziblc by the courts of justice. The 
 libeller has commi'tted a double in-tn-v. He has opened the nar- 
 
$, 38 
 
 rative, and endangered the reputation oi a private citizen, and 
 hazarded a violation of the public peace. In the first place, the 
 plaintiff shall receive a recompense in damages, if the charge 
 brought against him be false ; but if the defendant be able to sup- 
 port his assertions by matter of fact, if the libel contain nothing 
 but what IS strictly agreeable to truth, he may indeed have 
 incurred, " damnum," but this " damnum absque injuria" for 
 which he is not entitled to any action. In the second place he is 
 guilty of a misdemeanour, and is thereupon liable to the more 
 solemn process of indictment. He is in some measure looked 
 upon in the light of a criminal, and in this character will not be 
 permitted to justify, but only to deny the fact. His detcstablt; ma- 
 lice in uttering a falsehood, or his bold integrity in publishing 
 the truth, will certainly in all cases colour his oiTence witii a 
 greater or less degree of enormity. But the malice and falsehood 
 of an unprovoked attack upon the character of a ftilow citizen, 
 may prompt the dispenser of justice to severer vengeance; and 
 excite him to denounce an heavier and more adequate punish- 
 ment against the ofiender; yet the truth or justice ot his animad- 
 versions, or a universal assent to their propriety will not heal 
 the wound, which the peace and good order of society have 
 tlfereby received. My opinion is founded upon several unde- 
 niable authorities, 5 report, 125, Moor 627 : 11 Modern 99-4: 
 Black. Commen. 150. Some of these cases are posterior in point 
 of time to others, but they are all equally decisive. An objection 
 has been made, that these are the decrees of the court of Star 
 Chamber. This objection if in reality it possess any weight, 
 can affect only a few of these, and can by no means invalidate 
 the whole. It may however be necessary to remark that the 
 court of Star Chamber was a court of record of high antiquity, 
 and long duration. That the justice or validity of its proceed- 
 ings were not called in question, nor even suspected, until a long 
 period had elapsed after this determination was made; even then 
 the enormities of which it was guilty respected rather the impo- 
 sition of penalties, and the rigour of punishment, than the inter- 
 pretation of the laws. In proportion as it drew nearer the period 
 of its dissolution, its edicts became excessively harsh and severe. 
 Instead of watching over the liberties of the people, and guard- 
 ing carefully against the encroachments of the king, it became 
 
39 
 
 the champion of the royal prerogative, and the most audacious 
 asserter of the antiquated rights of the crown. No wonder 
 then that its minister became arbitrary and tyrannical, and 
 its exactions intolerable to the people. But this decision was 
 the fruit of earlier times, and of a milder policy. It is exactly con- 
 sonant to law and to equity ; but independent of this and of eve- 
 ry other consideration, it is sufficient evidence of its authority, 
 that it was recorded by lord Hobart and Sir Edward Coke, and 
 has since been quoted and confirmed by Sir William Blackstone. 
 " Its contradiction to the principles of equity and the max- 
 ims of a liberal policy, are equally iil-founded and unreason- 
 able. An idea of necessity must ever mingle with any ra- 
 tipn:d conception we entertain of justice; for by this will many 
 circuivibuiuces be justified in the administration of laws, whether 
 of human or divine original, otherwise inreconcilable to the 
 common standard of equity which every man believes himself 
 entitled to erect in his own imagination. The liberty of up- 
 braiding another with his crimes, and of exposing him to the ri- 
 dicule and detestation of his fellow, citizens, is always consider- 
 ed as imposing a powerful restraint upon his vicious inclina- 
 tions. That the unlimited use of a remedy so fatal to the inter- 
 ests of vice, so simple and efficacious in preventing the growth 
 of corruption or checking its contagious progress, in circum- 
 scribing the views, and defeating the pernicious efforts of a 
 restless and depraved ambition, should be prohibited by public 
 authority, will undoubtedly excite the surprise and undissembled 
 indignation of the honest but ill informed mind. But as soon as 
 he extends his views beyond the evil and convenience of a sin- 
 gle individual, and surveys the enlarged prospect of the whole , 
 community, with its separate company of rights, necessities and 
 evils ; when he withdraws his eye from the contemplation of 
 the present and imperfect advantage, and pierces into future 
 and more remote contingencies, he will quietly suppress his 
 murmurs and rejoicing in himself, acknowledge the admirable 
 wisdom of the law in thus securing the bonds of government, 
 the harmony of society, from the baneful influence of secret 
 malignity and open revenge." 
 
40 
 
 This rainiic pructlce of the law cithT as pleader or judge, 
 was the only practice of the science W'hich Charles Avas doom- 
 ed to undertake. As the time approached which rendered it 
 necessary for him to pass from the office of his master to one 
 of his ov/n, to consider real instead of fictitious cases, and 
 minpjle in real debate as the champion of the really oppressed, 
 the mind of Brown shrunk from the scenes he saw prej)aring 
 for him, and conceived an antipathy to the profession which hf 
 had voluntarily;: hosen, which neither the persuasions and argu- 
 ments of his friends, nor his OM'n sense of duty were sufficient 
 to cvercome. 
 
 Of the nrimbcrs vho are educated for the profession of the 
 lav/ very many in this country turn aside to some other pursuit, 
 which appears to them more profitalile or less arduous. Many 
 who have dissi;KUed that time in idleness or licentious plea- 
 sures which should have been devoted to study, shrink from 
 the practice oT their intended profession from a consciousness 
 of igno ■ M'ct , and a reluctance to encounter the laborious appli- 
 cat on known to be necessary. But none of these causes for 
 reiin uishing a chosen profession will apply to Charles Brock- 
 den Brown. The acquisition of wealth by another pursuit was 
 not his inJucemcnt. Riches were not objects of desire with 
 hin^i at this period of his life, and by relinquishing his pros- 
 pects oi emo ument lVon\ his profession, he threw himself as a 
 helpless d'pcndant upon his relatives. The fear of encounter- 
 ing arduous study did not deter him. The labour of thought 
 and investigation, or of the ap]:)lication of the pen, had no ter- 
 rors for him. Ever\- sj)ccies of riotous or licentious pleasure 
 vv-as his abhon-'mcc. I'or the cause of that bitter regret and dis- 
 appointment which he inflicted upon his family, we must look 
 to some other source ; and in the rhapsodist already quoted, we 
 find it. He had formed a world of his own in which he delight- 
 ed to dwell, and with whose inhabitants he was habituated to 
 commune to the exclusion of the dull or sordid beings of real 
 life. The conversation which he heard passing among his fel- 
 low beings relative to those objects which constituted the 
 sources of their jo}s and sorrows, appeared " frivolous chat," 
 or, as doubtless it often was, the offspring of folly, ignorance, 
 and cupidity. Society was to him solitude, and in solitude he 
 
41 
 
 found delightful converse. It was this shrinking from society ; 
 this solitude ; this wrong estimate of the views, motives and 
 characters of mankind, which wrought so powerfully upon the 
 mind of Browp, as to make him turn aside from the obvi- 
 ous path which led to competence, honour and self-approba- 
 tion. 
 
 Charles on this occasion persuaded himself that he acted 
 rightly, or he would not so have acted. Yet this conviction 
 being grounded on error, like all erroneous opinions, was sub- 
 ject to doubts and misgivings, which preyed upon his happiness 
 and undermined his health. He had three brothers older than 
 himself, all actively engaged in the pursuit of happiness and 
 fortune according to the usual fashion of the world ; of these, 
 and of his aged parents, Charles was the distinguished favour- 
 ite ; he was justly looked upon as the most highly gifted mem- 
 ber of the family, and as destined for their happiness and honour j 
 his abandonment of ihe path chosen for him, was to them a 
 serious disappointment and affliction, and this to Charles, who 
 loved them with the purest fraternal and filial affection, was a 
 cause of sorrow and unutterable regret. 
 
 To support himself against the persuasions and arguments 
 of his friends, and against the suggestions of his own better 
 judgment, he resorted to all the sophisms and paradoxes with 
 which ignorance and ingenious prejudice had assailed the sci- 
 ence or the practice of the law. He professed that he could not 
 reconcile it with his ideas of morality to become indiscriminate- 
 ly the defender of right or wrong ; thereby intimating, if not 
 asserting, that a man must, in the practice of the law, not only 
 deviate from morality, but become the champion of injustice. 
 He would demand, what must be the feelings of a lawyer if he 
 had become an auxiliary in the cause of wrong and ra^oine ? If 
 the widow and the orphan were thus by a legal robbery depriv- 
 ed of their just and righteous claims through the superior arti- 
 fice or eloquence of the advocate, was he not as criminal as 
 the man who committed such felony without the sanction of a 
 court of justice, and for which the same court would pronounce 
 the severest punishment ? He endeavoured to persuade himself 
 
 ft * 
 
42 
 
 and his hearers, that unless a lawyer could reconcile his mind 
 to the practice of all this iniquity, there was little prospect of 
 his succeeding in his profession, and of course that the acqui- 
 sition of fame and fortune were only to be considered as proofs 
 of the wrongs done, and the miseries inflicted upon his fellow 
 men. 
 
 The friends of Brown did not easily relinquish the object of 
 their wishes, or cease to urge arguments founded in truth, with 
 all the eloquence of thorough conviction. They represented to 
 him that men of irreproachable characters, who stood in the 
 front ranks of honour, had acquired all their celebrity at the 
 bar. His answer was, that the opinion of the world was al- 
 ways equivocal, sometimes suspicious, and often beyond all 
 question wrong. The favourable regards of the world were con- 
 ferred indiscriminately on virtue or vice, innocence or guilt, as 
 all history evinces. Would this, or did it ever in a single soli- 
 tary instance counterbalance the remorse of their own consci- 
 ences when such good opinions were paid for services which 
 thev never did, or to merit which they had no pretensions ? 
 Was it not rather the severest of all satires, when we were ap- 
 plauded for virtues which Ave never possessed, and as un- 
 just as it would be to violate a neighbour's property and to 
 claim it as our own ? Did not the evil extend even further than 
 this, and was it not productive of more moral injury by appro- 
 priating the rewards of virtue, the good opinion of the world, 
 to vice, and thus make a common property of what ought to 
 belong exclusively to one, and confound all distinctions between 
 right and wrong ? In the present case he denied the validity of 
 the evidence produced, and contended that whether these men 
 were justly entitled to such celebrity could only be known by 
 themselves. Their motives to conceal their real characters 
 from the world were obvious and palpable, and if they were 
 monopolizers of the fame of better and more deserving men, 
 this Avas of itself an argument why he should not add another 
 name to their list. The universality of such an evil might be 
 a consideration to reform such abuses by stronger and more 
 incessant exertions ; but was clearly none why it should be ren- 
 
43 
 
 dered more diffusive, inveterate, and consequently more alarm* 
 ing by his individual participation in the guilt. 
 
 These erroneous opinions which governed Charles in this im- 
 portant decision, he had good cause to renounce when too late 
 for the change to remedy the evil. I shall have to record his 
 intimate knowledge of men who in the practice of the law have 
 invariably practised the biddings of justice and of honour, one 
 of whom was among the most valued, tried and best known of 
 his friends. 
 
 His opinions respecting the practice of the law at a subsequent 
 period, may be known by the following extract from a letter 
 written in answer to one from a student who was impatient to 
 be admitted to the bar. 
 
 " Your letter has indeed a very singular appearance, and I 
 congratulate myself more than ever on the enjoyment of your 
 friendship ! What ! Is all this wisdom from a youth ? Whose 
 passions are impetuous ? Who has been exposed to all the se- 
 ductions of pleasures, with no other security than his o^vn pru- 
 dence and reflection? And is his conduct agreeable to those 
 maxims ? Justly then may he indulge the impulse of virtuous 
 ambition, and please himself with the prospect of affluence and 
 honours. Go on, amiable and ingenious youth, and mayest thou 
 speedily attain what thou so laudably aspirest after — the fair 
 fame of integrity and the peace of virtue. These are purposes 
 that are truly worthy of a rational being ; purposes that are 
 almost peculiar to thyself, which few men of whatever age make 
 the object of their wishes, or prosecute with equal steadiness 
 and diligence, and which is still more rarely to be found in the 
 mind of those of the same age. 
 
 ** May the hour in which you expect to be admitted speedily 
 arrive. Impatience is certainly unnecessar}' : that there are 
 many things beside a knowledge of law requisite to form an 
 advocate, is very obvious, and though your legal knowledge may 
 qualify you long before April for admission, yet, my friend, there 
 are other accomplishments which, whatever should be your dili- 
 gence or resolution, you will scarcely have attained in the seventh 
 
44 
 
 April after the next. But if legal knowledge were the only re- 
 quisite, yet your impatience is unreasonable, since while their re- 
 mains any thing to be known, you cannot be esteemed perfect; 
 since it is impossible for you to know too much, and since after 
 twenty or thirty years study there will still be a legal something 
 of which you are ignorant. 
 
 " It is true that success in all the learned professions is too 
 frequently the consequence of accident, and that men are not 
 always rewarded exactly agreeably to their merits ; but there are 
 particular exceptions, and as a general observation it is undoubt- 
 edly true, that men of all professions, and particularly lawyers^ 
 are successful in proportion to their skill. 
 
 " I need not tell 3'ou what, in my opinion, are the necessary 
 accomplishments of a lawyer. Our sentiments, I believe, are 
 somewhat different on this subject, but, however few and sim- 
 ple they may be, I cannot but still discover the necessity of 
 time and patience, diligence, and the unreasonableness of your 
 impatience for admission. Whatever be the qualifications of an 
 accomplished lawyer, yet there are different degrees of excel- 
 lence in them. This undoubtedly is his employment, to think, 
 to write, and to speak. The certainty and facility with which 
 he- shall answer questions that come before him, will unques- 
 tionably depend on the degree of knowledge which he has ac- 
 quired, and of the sagacity which he possesses. Study and re- 
 flection are the sources of legal knowledge, as of every other 
 kind, and tiiese sources are inexhaustible. From these fountains, 
 therefore, whatever we possess must be drawn. But we can- 
 nbt draw too much, and every possible accession to our store, 
 must be not only not useless, but highly advantageous to us, 
 whether we be eager for wealth or for reputation. 
 
 ^' As a writer, both his style and his penmanship are improv- 
 able by practice. How far the qualities of style are entitled to 
 his attention, may perhaps be a question ; but that he has numer- 
 ous occasions for the ex:>rciseof penmanship is indisputable; and 
 that it is highly his int. re-: t to become master of an expeditious 
 mode of writing. A lav.yer, whether at court or in his own 
 closet, has perpetual use for his pen j and is it necessary to ex- 
 
45 
 
 patiate on the advantages of writing with as much rapidity as 
 any man can articulate ? or can you doubt either that you have 
 not attained this, or that it is attainable. 
 
 " With respect to speech, it may not be incumbent on my 
 friend to make himself an orator in the genuine sense. The 
 talents of Cicero could not, perhaps, with propriety be dis- 
 played in their full extent in any American court; but what is 
 more necessary or desirable than to deliver one's self with flu- 
 ency and correctness ? There are no ears to whom the utmost 
 degree of accuracy of reasoning and language is unsuitable, 
 which cannot relish the utmost degree of perspicuity both of ex- 
 pression and of argument. But have you already attained these 
 qualifications? In short, can you on all occasions, conceive and 
 express clearly, forcibly, and gracefully, to which I may add, 
 rapidly ? These are attainments within your power. The end 
 is not unworthy of the means. The more you acquire before 
 admission to the bar, the less will be to be acquired after. So 
 far are any of your pursuits, merely as a lawyer, obstructed by 
 the delay of your admission, that it will in reality be favourable 
 to them. There is a goal which you are desirous of reaching, 
 and between which and yourself there is an ample space. Now 
 if your strength is at all times equal, if whenever you begin 
 this career, exactly the same space of time will be required to 
 finish it, it is doubtless, proper to begin as soon as possible, be- 
 cause the sooner you begin the sooner you will end ; but if by 
 delaying to begin for a reasonable time (two, three, or four years) 
 you do not set the gaol at a greater distance ; if supposing 
 you should begin now, you would reach it in seven years ; yet 
 that, if you should delay your enterprize for two years, and be- 
 gin then, your strength and vigour would be augmented in the 
 interval, so as to enable you to reach it as soon as another who 
 began at this time, would not the delay be rather advantage- 
 ous than otherwise ? At least is the advantage greater on one side 
 than on the other ? And are not these your circumstances my 
 dear W. ? The longer j^ou delay your admission will you not 
 be better qualified for practice ? I have heard a gentleman ob- 
 serve that were he a student of law. he would not begin to prac- 
 
46 
 
 tice till he was twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age. But, 
 my friend, perhaps your domestic circumstances would not 
 suffer you to delay your admission so long, and I am sure that 
 your present attainments would not justify so long a delay. 
 You are very young, and though it would perhaps be impos- 
 sible, or if possible, by no means necessary to continue a stu- 
 dent for seven or eight years longer, yet to preserve that 
 character for one or two years more would neither be impossi- 
 ble, or improper. However you should think proper to deter- 
 mine, were it in your power to hasten or procrastinate your ad- 
 mission, yet these considerations ought at least to make you 
 patient under unavoidable delays." 
 
 One of the earliest friends of Charles Brockden Brown was 
 a young man of singular beauty and animation, combined with 
 talents and wit of a most extraordinary and fascinating quality. 
 The writer became acquainted with him through the introduc- 
 tion of Brown, and never has ceased to regret his premature 
 .death. The characters of Brown and W. were in most points 
 essentially different, but composed of such contrarieties as ne- 
 ver came into serious and repulsive collision. In depth and 
 extent of inquiry, various and accurate knowledge, even on 
 those points with v/hich W. himself Avas most familiar, Brown 
 was pre-eminent. W. had a ready, persuasive and fascinating 
 eloquence always at command ; a fancy prompt and vigor- 
 ous, with a wit which delighted even those at whose expense it 
 was exerted. Such talents rendered him a valuable acquisition 
 to the law society, for he too was a student preparing for the 
 bar. If too careless or indolent to investigate his subject, he 
 was ever able to adorn it, and was heard with delight if not 
 with conviction. Possessing a warm and susceptible heart, he 
 early attached himself to Charles, and an acquaintance formed 
 in the first instance by the casual meetings of the societv, soon 
 consolidated into a permanent friendship ; a friendship which 
 in fact existed until the death of W. When W. was present 
 they were almost inseparable companions ; when absent they 
 punctually corresponded. Amidst these testimonies of affec- 
 
47 
 
 tion, some may be selected characteristic. In one of these 
 Charles remarks, that the most perfect and refined misery is 
 the price at which we buy just conceptions of propriety and 
 duty, by acting in opposition to them. The miseries of vice 
 and the blessedness of well doing, are attestations equally strong 
 of the value and dignity of virtue, but the sense of this persua- 
 sion is proportioned to the extent of those opposite consequen- 
 ces. Actions he continues are not the just criterion of senti- 
 ments. He proceeds to set before his correspondent the plea- 
 sures derived from the indulgence of virtuous love, a smiling 
 family, and all the tender delights of honourable intercourse, 
 the acquisition of riches and honours. He goes on to assert 
 that his friend will hereafter realize the scene which his fancy 
 is painting now ; that he himself is only acting the character of 
 the prophet, and dwells with peculiar delight in the indulgence 
 of the visions, which fact and not fancy discloses. The ele- 
 gance of this reproof will be better understood, if we resort to 
 the character of W. as it was drawn by Charles himself after 
 the death of that gentleman. 
 
 " I am led to these remarks, he continues, by reading over 
 the letters of my deceased friend W. What a contrast between 
 his actual deportment, and any notion of that deportment to be 
 collected by a stranger from his letters. His letters to me are 
 as confidential as letters can be, yet they form a picture totally 
 the reverse of his conversation and his conduct. He had no 
 small portion of wit, and this power was in part exercised in 
 company ; but the moment he took up his pen to write a letter 
 or an essay, he forgot all his mirth, became pensive, sentimen- 
 tal and poetical. To hear him talk one would think that he never 
 had a serious moment in his life. He literally sung himself to 
 sleep, and awakened in a burst of laughter. To see the effu- 
 sions of his pen, one would imagine that he was a stranger to 
 smiles, that he was forever steeped in tears and wrapped in 
 melancholy. In this there was nothing that deserved to be call- 
 ed affectation and hypocrisy, since he corresponded only with 
 those with whom he was occasionally in the habit of conversing ; 
 
48 
 
 and his tongue regaled them with unceasnig jests, with just aj, 
 much sincerity as his pen saddened them with its austerity, or 
 mehed them with its pathos. Hh aonnets and letters talk al- 
 most altogether of love^ and on this topic no Petrarch was ever 
 more tender^ refined and pathetic. The youth was forever in 
 iove., and was all impassioned eloquence at the feet of an adored 
 fair one ; hut his loine was merely the exuberance of healthy and 
 an ardent constitution. Consequently his love zvas always be- 
 stowed upon the present object, and never stood in the tvay of the 
 most licentious indulgences. After receiving a letter, full of the 
 most doleful eulogies of some divine but refractory creature, 
 and hinting his resolution to shake off the yoke of his inauspi- 
 cious stars, I have hastened to his chamber to console him, and 
 found him at a table presiding with marks of infinite satisfaction, 
 and keeping the worthy crew that surrounded him in a constant 
 roar. Such was my friend, and such were his letters. His 
 tongue and his pen, his actions and his written speculations 
 were as opposite to each other as the poles." 
 
 In one of the letters of Charles to W. may be found a sen- 
 timent of a very singular nature, as it shows his propensity to 
 extract felicity from a subject which is commonly regarded as 
 unfortunate. He had discovered by accident, that he was af- 
 flicted with a myopism, by having accidentally put on spectacles 
 accommodated to such vision. He discovers that he possesses 
 a vision superior to that of ordinary men. He had only to ap- 
 ply to his eyes, what Dr. Rush calls the aid of declining vision, 
 and he is ushered into a new and beautiful creation. He observes 
 that it is in his power to make the sun, the stars, and all sur- 
 rounding creation sparkle upon his view with renovated lustre 
 and beauty. Not satisfied with this, he goes on to compare his 
 situation with the situation of those who had ever beheld the 
 sun in all his majesty and effulgence. To him he was in all 
 his glories, a stranger : he had never been familiarly acquaint- 
 ed with so glorious a personage. 
 
 On the other hand to those who had always revelled in the 
 magnificence of nature, they had become satiuted with his glo- 
 
49 
 
 ly. Creation to them could unfold no new beauty ; a glance 
 of the eye satisfied them, and it was a glory that palled upon 
 the sense. To him all this was a territory unseen, and it seem- 
 ed as if nature had veiled her radiance from his view, to the 
 end that he might when he pleased, indulge himself in the en- 
 joyment of her bounties. He was able to discern light enough 
 to guide his footsteps, and to answer all the purposes of social 
 mtercourse ; all beyond this was novelty, was exquisite enjoy- 
 ment. To those who were surrounded with more expanse of 
 vision, all tiiese blessings were denied. He therefore felicitated 
 himself on the thought that he had not the optics of ordinary 
 men. 
 
 It has been already remarked, that he inherited from nature 
 a frail, delicate, and a sickly constitution ; a constitution which 
 incapacitated him from athletic exercise. In another letter to 
 one of his correspondents, he congratulates himself on this in- 
 firmity. He is by the benevolence of nature rendered in a man- 
 ner an exile from many of the temptations that infest the minds 
 of ardent youth. Possessing such a constitutional infirmity, he 
 had nothing to apprehend from those enticements which usual- 
 ly sway the minds of young men. He had by nature been de- 
 voted to contemplation. Whatever his wishes might have been, 
 his benevolent destiny had prevented him from running into the 
 frivolities of youth. He ascribes to this cause his love of letters 
 and his predominant anxiety to excel in whatever was a glori- 
 ous subject of competition. Had he been furnished with the 
 nerves and muscles of his comrades, it was very far from be- 
 ing impossible that he might have relinquished intellectual plea- 
 sures. Nature had benevolently rendered him incapable of en- 
 countering such severe trials. 
 
 From hence a question arose \\ hether it was virtue in him. to 
 refrain from those pleasures for which he felt no appetite to in- 
 dulge. He gravely dismisses the argument with his opinion 
 that there was not. Far from repining, however, he earnestly 
 prays that he may never be allowed a constitution sufficient to 
 enable him to stand a trial so severe ; that if his virtue must 
 be plriced under the patronage of natur*^, he mav n^ver be de- 
 
50 
 
 serted by his guardian ; that his constitutional imbecility may 
 prevent his falling a victim to those temptations which he has 
 not virtue enough to avoid. 
 
 That Charles was dissatisfied witTi his own conduct in relin- 
 quishing his profession, and that tl>e disappointment ef his 
 friends, and their anxiety for his future welfare preyed upon 
 his spirits, is by no means doubtful with me. I will here give 
 fwo extracts from his letters which develope his character, 
 and show the gloom of his mind in this early period of his 
 life. 
 
 '' As for me, I lon^ ago discovered that nature had not qua- 
 lified me for an actor on this stage. The nature of my educa- 
 tion only added to these disqualifications, and I experienced all 
 those deviations from the center, which arise when all our les- 
 sons are taken from books, and the scholar makes his own cha- 
 racter the comment. A happy destiny indeed brought me to 
 the knowledge of two or three minds which nature had fashion- 
 ed in the same mould with my own, but these are gone. And, 
 
 God ! enable me to wait the raom'ent when it is thy will that 
 
 1 should follow them." 
 
 " What, my friend, art thou certainly awake ? Or is it that I 
 am dreaming ? No, I believe you incapable of adulation : and 
 yet there are some parts of your acceptable epistle, which are ex- 
 tremely supicious. But your motives do not only excuse, but 
 justify you ; when a friend is sinking into a quicksand or strug- 
 gling with a suffocating stream, there is nothing can betide him 
 which is so dangerous as despair ; and one, who, though near at 
 hand, is unable to afford him any personal assistance, cannot be 
 more serviceable to- him, than by cherishing his hopes, and keep- 
 ing him from yielding to despair ; and if in the ardour of our 
 exhortations, and the precipitancy of our zeal, we chance to de- 
 viate from rigid truth, and facilitate his escape, by invigorating 
 his efforts with flattering representations of his power, and delu- 
 sive promises of triumph, is it not more to be commended than 
 censured ? 
 
" I have not been deficient in the pursjuit of that necessary 
 branch of knowledge ; the study of myself. I will not ex- 
 plain the result, for have I not already sufficient!)' endeavoured 
 to make my friends unhappy by communications, which though 
 they might easily be injurious, could not be of any possible ad- 
 vantage. I really, dear W. regret that period when your pity 
 was first excited in my favour. I sincerely lament that I ever 
 gave you reason to imagine that I was not so happy, as a gay 
 indifference with regard to the present, stubborn forgetfulness 
 with respect to the uneasy past, and excursions into light- 
 some futurity could make me : for what end, what useful 
 purposes were promoted by the discovery ? It could not take 
 away from the number of the unhappy, but only add to it, by 
 making those who loved me participate in my uneasiness, 
 which each participation so far from tending to dimmish, would 
 in reality increase, by adding those regrets of which I had been 
 the author in them, to my own original stock. 
 
 *"■ I have a brother, whom I am bound by innumerable ties to 
 revere and love. I have not seen him except for a few days, 
 these eight years. He has gained wisdom by experience, a bit- 
 ter series of experiments ; but though there has subsisted n,o 
 personal intercourse between us for so long a time, we have 
 talked frequently and copiously to each other by the assistance of 
 tjhe pen. His letters are lessons, are lessons of prudence, 
 and there are no maxims which he has so frequently in,- 
 culcated, as that of covering from the eyes of others with an 
 impenetrable mask, whatever fears or anxieties may agi- 
 tate us. 
 
 " This precept I have broken only with regard to you and B. 
 The propriety of this rule, I have frequently experienced from 
 the advantages resulting from adhering to It; and may I not add 
 that its propriety has also been evinced by the inconveniences 
 which I have felt by deviating from it ? For no man ought to 
 act, but in pursuance of some rational motive, and what useful 
 purpose could be answered by making C. B. B. better known to 
 his friend* ? What but their unhapplness could be produced by- 
 it? 
 
52 
 
 " Forget me, my friend, as soon as possible. At least, forget 
 that any latent anguish or corroding sorrow, is concealed under 
 that aspect of indifference which has became habitual. Why 
 should I any longer talk to you of myself ? Why should my let- 
 ters be the busy and malicious witnesses of my faults and folr 
 lies ? You are too young to be my father confessor. I wonder 
 you have not declared your disapprobation of the usual strain 
 of my epistles. I smile (though it must be owned, with less 
 gaiety than seriousness) at the foolish part which I have acted 
 so long, unreasonably and unnecessarily imparting sorrow to 
 those whom I must wish happy in proportion as I love them, 
 and calling out for consolations, which I know to be impossible 
 to be obtained. 
 
 " For shame, thou idiot or thou madman ! cease th)'- lamen- 
 table croakings. Reserve gloomy meditations and useless 
 complaining for thy chamber, and show at least thy magnan- 
 imity by concealing that whi,ch thou canst not cure. Here 
 drops the curtain. The catastrophe of the drama if acted 
 openly, will only diffuse a melancholy gloom qver the audience. 
 All that remains shall be transacted in secret, and behind the 
 scenes. 
 
 " Had I never had friends and relations, I am convinced that 
 before this time I had ceased either to exist, or to exist as an in- 
 habitant of America. I know from experience the strength of 
 that obstacle to the direful schemes of despair, which results 
 from possessing friends who would be, at least for a time, incon- 
 solably afRicted by the loss of the sufferer. It is indeed my in- 
 terest perliaps to add to the number of my friends, because in 
 proportion to their number, will be the obstacles to any rash 
 design. 
 
 " I have indeed sincerely lamented — I must lay down mr 
 pen till my thoughts flow in a less uneasy channel. Your 
 letter has made me extremely serious. Why did you not 
 comply with my request, and forbear to expatiate on this 
 theme ? but I flatter'^ myself that you will pay more regard to it 
 in future. * 
 
 " I expected that I should give vou pleasure by the infor- 
 
5 a 
 
 mation relating to your father ; that good, worthy, hospitable 
 man, whom I shall always remember with affection and res- 
 pect both for his own sake, and that of his son. You can- 
 not imagine how highly I am pleased with myself for my rea- 
 sonable recollection of this interview, and my reiisonable rela- 
 tion of it. i 
 
 *' It was my vanity, perhaps, that was pleased in your father's 
 approbation of the friends which his son had chosen : and yet 
 may I not reasonably believe that my friendship was useful to 
 him. Will any one be made worse, will his understanding be 
 depraved, or his heart be corrupted, by associating with me ? 
 Will his love of learning and of virtue he impaired ? I think not ; 
 for I am neither incorrigibly stupid, nor remorselessly wicked. 
 I am a lover and admirer of all that is good and fair in the phy- 
 sical and moral universe. No one gazes at genius with more 
 enthusiastic delight and admiration, or at virtue with greater 
 love and reverence. No, I am determined to believe that W. 
 might have chosen a more pernicious and unprofitable friend. 
 
 " This part of my letter will require no answer. I know not 
 indeed why it was written. I indeed find as much reason to cen- 
 sure and despise myself, that I expatiate with more pleasure, and 
 consequently at greater length, on any circumstance of self-ap- 
 plause. I seize any thing however weak and dubious, by which 
 I can hope to raise myself from that profound abyss of ignominy 
 and debasement, into which I am sunk by my own reflections. 
 And that a man of so much experience and discernment as your 
 father, approves in the choice of his son of me as a friend, is 
 too pleasing an idea to be easily relinquiished, and is a coun- 
 terbalance for many anxieties. 
 
 " Do you read the books which you mention ? Is your read- 
 ing altogether legal ? Surely such constant and invariable legali- 
 ty is not indispensably necessary. I indeed, am inclined to think 
 that, so far from being necessary to adhere so strictlj' to the case, 
 it is absolutely necessary sometimes to deviate from it; but it is 
 likely that I am mistaken. If my own experience were to deter- 
 mine my opinion, I should rather think that he only can derive 
 pleasure, and consequently improvement, from the study of the 
 
54 
 
 law, Who knows and wishes to kno»v nothing eJse. As a student 
 I believe you have always acted in the most prudent and reason- 
 able manner, and a method (of which abstractedly considered) 
 the propriety should appear dubious to me, would be sufficient- 
 ly vindicated by your practice." 
 
 A friend who had read the letters and journals of Mr. Brown 
 makes the following remarks. He taxed his correspondents al* 
 ways to make themselves the heroes of their own letters : no- 
 thing he said was productive of so much delight as to hear of 
 their welfare, to share their joys, and their, sorrows. On the 
 other hand in his own letters he sedulously avoided the men- 
 tion of himself, on the ground that he had nothing personally 
 to communicate, which would give his correspondents pleasure ; 
 and his native delicacy forbade him to excite unnecessary pain. 
 His correspondence therefoi'e with his most intimate friends, 
 wears a curious cast. On their side is the utmost frankness in 
 the disclosure of all the little circumstances affording them de- 
 light ; on his part he joins in their joy, and revels in their in- 
 tellectual hilarity ; presents these circumstances again in a more 
 fascinating shape, and makes his page the depository of all the 
 benevolent sympathies in which he so munificently indulges. 
 We should be led to suppose him entirely happy; that his 
 heart was perfectly at ease. Now in requital for all this frank- 
 ness and confidence, what is communicated on his part ? Lite- 
 rally nothing. When pressed on this subject, he declares that 
 his own heart shall be the depository of its own gloomy sensa- 
 tions, and that when he cannot communicate pleasure, he will 
 communicate nothing. He represents his afflictions beyond the 
 power of friendship to redress ; and that it would be mean in 
 him to excite sympathy so unavailing. Do I wish the friend- 
 ship of such men, he would say, only to make myself a burthen 
 to them ? Must not they themselves despise me if I thus abuse 
 their confidence, and endeavour to load them with the miseries 
 which my unhappy fate has destined me to endure ? Have I no 
 other pleasures in friendship than what is derived from the mi- 
 series of my friends f JS^o, he would say, let me participate in.iill 
 
55 
 
 tkeir joys and sorrows, but let all my misfortunes be borne by 
 myself. Thus does his private journal often furnish a most 
 striking contrast to his familiar letters. By the former we dis- 
 cover his heart to be oppressed with gloom and dejection ; while 
 if we cast our eyes on a letter of the same date, we shall find 
 him entering into all the gay and cheerful feelings of his friends, 
 abandoning the contemplation of his own sorrows for a moment, 
 to assist in the prolongation of their hilarity. His earliest char- 
 acter was formed on this ron*antic standard, nor did he ever 
 renounce it afterwards. Not only in his epistolary, but in his 
 personal intercourse with his frieuds he acted on this principle, 
 and if at any time he departed from this resolution by accident, 
 he severely censures himself in his journal ; taxes himself with 
 pusillanimity, and makes the most ardent protestations that he 
 will endeavour to amend. As an instance of his inflexible 
 perseverance, he was once at the house of a friend afflicted 
 with a malady by which his life was put in the most imminent 
 jeopardy. All the anxiety that he testified was, that he should 
 become burthensome to his friends : a reflection which seemed 
 to give him much more uneasiness than the pains with which he 
 was afflicted. 
 
 Dissatisfied with Iiimself, and with the most gloomy pros- 
 pects of the future scenes destined for his lot in life, Charles, 
 as if to avoid the presence of his disappointed friends, ra«ibled 
 from home without any apparently defined object. At New 
 York he was introduced to the acquaintance of the writer, by 
 Doctor Elihu Hubbard Smith. 
 
 E. H. Smith, was a native of Lichfield Connecticut, and only 
 son of Doctor Reuben Smith, of that place. From his infancy 
 attached to books, Eliliu was at a very early period qualified 
 to enter college, and was accordingly placed at Yale, then 
 under the presidency of Doctor Styles. After passing through 
 college with reputation, he was still a boy, and his father very 
 j udiciously placed him under the care and tuition of Doctor 
 Dwight, now president of Yale College, then minister of Green- 
 field, Connecticut, and principal of an academy of high reputa- 
 tion in that village. After due preparation in medical studies 
 
5j5 
 
 under his father, Elihu was sent to Philadelphia for the pur- 
 pose of completing his education as a physician, and in that 
 city became an associate of Brown's. Being qualified for prac- 
 tice, Doctor Smith fixed upon the city of New York for the 
 place of his residence, and became the intimate associate and 
 friend of the writer, so continuing until his death. To this in- 
 estimable young man I owed the friendship of Brown. 
 
 The first visit of Charles to New York was not of long du- 
 ration, but he found himself so cordially adopted into a so- 
 ciety so well suited to his taste and pursuits, that the visit was 
 soon repeated, and for years succeeding, New York became al- 
 most the home of Brown. For several years it was my good 
 fortune to have him as an inmate with my family, on these 
 visits, sometimes at New York, and sometimes at Perth Am- 
 boy, but upon an establishment being formed in a commodious 
 house in New York, by Doctor Smith and Wm. Johnson, esqr. 
 Brown at their invitation joined them, and thenceforward only 
 resided with me when my family was at Perth Amboy. 
 
 No two men were ever more sincerely attached to each 
 other, than Charles Brockden Brown and Elihu Hubbard 
 Smith, yet in many particulars no two men were ever more 
 different. Both under the necessity of being economists, 
 Brown acted as if he had no use for money; while Smith 
 systematically calculated his resources, and contracted his 
 wants rigidly within the reach of his means. Brown was 
 without system in every thing ; Smith did nothing but by rule, ^ 
 and was as strict an economist of his time as of his money. 
 Brown was negligent of personal appearance, even to sloven- 
 liness, while Smith was in cleanliness, neatness and attention 
 to the proprieties of dress, a perfect model, and seCjmed to 
 make the purity of his person, and even of his clothing, an in- 
 dex of the purity of his mind. Brown was in mixed compa- 
 ny often silent and absent ; Smith entered readily into the 
 views and conversation of those around him with the ease of 
 a man of the world. Their long and intimate intercourse 
 tended to assimilate them in some of these particulars, and in 
 none more than in the necessary attention to personal appear- 
 
57 
 
 ance and propriety of dress. They were both joumalizers, or 
 recorders of the passing events of their lives, their studies, 
 their thoughts and their actions ; but in this as in other things, 
 Brown was fitful and irregular, while Smith was uniform, dili' 
 gent and orderly. 
 
 A great source of pleasure and improvement to Charles 
 during his residence in Nev/ York was a literary society, 
 formed before his first visit, which under the humble appella- 
 tion of* the Friendly Club," continued for several years to meet 
 weekly at the house of one or other of the members, discuss 
 literary or other subjects, and part of the time in conducting 
 a review. The members of this club were Wm. Johnson, 
 esq. ; Doctor Edward Miller; the Rev. Doctor Samuel Miller'; 
 Doctor S. L. Mitchill ; James Kent, esq. Anthony Bleecher, 
 esq. Doctor E. H. Smith ; Charles Adams, esq. John Wells, 
 esq. W. W. Woolsey, esq. C. B. Brown, and the writer. 
 With most of the members of the Friendly CUib, Brown was 
 in the habits of the strictest intimacy, and enjoyed their so- 
 ciety unreservedly at other, as well as the stated times of pe- 
 riodical meeting. 
 
 In his journals. Brown frequently mentions the meetings of 
 the club. On one occasion he has these words : " Last even- 
 ing spent with the clubists at K.'s. Received from the candour 
 of K. a severe castigation for the crimes of disputatiousness 
 and dogmatism. Hope to profit by the lesson that he taught 
 me." 
 
 His journals of this time are interspersed with plans and 
 scraps of Eutopias, which are left in so unfinished a situation 
 as to be unintelligible. In common with many ardent minds 
 filled with a love of their fellow creatures, he sought for some 
 plan by which to improve and secure humait happiness. 
 Many delightful visions floated in his imagination, and their 
 traces will be perceived in the portions of his early writings 
 now presented to the public ; but these schemes were none of 
 them ever so arranged as to produce a complete or finished 
 work. 
 
 Previous to my becoming acquainted with Brown, he had 
 
 8 * 
 
58 
 
 visited Bethlehem and Nazareth, and rambled on foot over the 
 adjacent country. He had likewise visited Connecticut, and 
 made acquaintance with many of the friends of his beloved 
 Elihu H. Smith. Of these journeys I have no memorials ex- 
 cept scanty and unsatisfactory notices, which will be the more 
 regretted by the reader, after perusing the following account 
 of an excursion to Rockaway with two friends, written in the 
 form of a letter, and first published in the Literary Magazine. 
 
 "Dear R. 
 
 *' What possible amusement can you expect from my recital 
 of a jaunt to Rockaway ? I cannot dignify trifles, or give to vul- 
 gar sights a novelty, by making them pass through my fancy. 
 That fancy, you v/ell know, has no particle of kindred to that of 
 poet or painter, and nobody should pretend to describe, who 
 does not look through the optics of either painter or poet. 
 Besides, my %norance circumscribes my curiosity. I have 
 few objects of remembrance with which to compare the ob- 
 jects that I meet with. Hence, as the carriage whirls along, 
 faces, fences, houses, barns, cultivated fields, pass rapidly 
 across my eye, without leaving a vestige behind them. You 
 will of course ask me, how the fields are inclosed ? How they 
 are planted ? What portion is tilled ? what is wood, and what 
 is waste ? Of what number, materials, dimensions, and form, 
 are the dwellings, the granaries, the churches, the bridges, the 
 carriages ? What is the countenance, the dress, the deport- 
 ment of the passengers, and so forth ? through an endless 
 catalogue of interrogatories. 
 
 " Now I cannot answer a word to all these questions. Tour 
 attention, on the contrary, during such a journey would be in- 
 cessantly alive : you would take exact note of all these particu- 
 lars, and draw from them a thousand inferences as to the na- 
 ture of the soil, the state of agriculture, and the condition 
 of the people. While your companions were beguiling the 
 time by a map : by looking eagerly forward to the baiting 
 place, and asking the driver now and then, how many miles 
 he had to go to dinner, or cursing the dust, the heat, the^ 
 
59 
 
 jolting, and the hard benches, or conversing with each other, 
 all your senses, and your whole soul would be chained to pass- 
 ing objects. Not a stone would you meet with, but should 
 instantly pass through your crucible ; not a tree or a post, but 
 would serve as a clue to the knowledge of the soil, climate, 
 and the industry of the island. You would count the passen- 
 gers, take an inventory of their dress., mark their looks and 
 their steps; you would calculate the length, breadth, and 
 height of all the buildings ; and compare every thing you 
 saw, from the church to the pig-pen, and from the parson to 
 the plough-boy, with all that you had seen elsewhere. 
 
 " Such is the traveller, my friend, that you would have 
 made ; and you would have known more of Long-Islandjin a few 
 hours, than many who have lived within sight of it these fifty 
 years : I, alas ! am one of those whom fifty years of obser- 
 vation would leave in the same ignorance in which they found 
 me. 
 
 " 'Tis true, as you say, that such an unobservant wretch 
 as I represent myself to be, may yet amuse by relating his 
 own sensations, and his narrative, if it give no account of 
 the scene of his journey, will, at least, comprise a picture of 
 his own character. An accurate history of the thoughts and 
 feelings of any man, for one hour, is more valuable to some 
 minds, than a system of geography ; and you, you tell me, 
 are one of those who would rather travel into the mind of a 
 ploughman, than into the interior of Africa. I confess myself 
 of your way of thinking ,• but from very different motives. 
 I must needs say I would rather consort forever with a plough- 
 man, or even with an old Bergen market woman, than expose 
 myself to an hundredth part of the perils which beset the heels 
 of a Ledyard or a Parke. 
 
 " You see how ingeniously I put off this unpleasant task : 
 but since you will not let me off, I must begin. Remember, it 
 is a picture of myself, and not of the island, that you want : and 
 such, how disreputable soever it may be to the painter, you shall 
 have. I have some comfort in thinking, that most of the tra- 
 vellers to Rockaway, are b\it little wiser and more inquisitive 
 than mvself. 
 
60 
 
 *' In th« fifSt place, then, we left I.'s at one o'clock. The 
 day was extremely fine, and promised a most pleasant ride. 
 You may suppose that we were most agreeably occupied in the 
 frospect of a journey which neither of the three had ever made 
 bfefore : but no such thing. We thought and talked of nothing 
 but the uncertainty of getting seats in the stage, which goes at 
 that hour from Brooklynn, and the reasonable apprehension of 
 being miserably crowded, even if we could get seats. Such is 
 iny aversion to being wedged with ten or twelve in a stage 
 toach, that I had previously resolved to return, in case of any 
 such misfortune. So I told my friends, but in this I fibbed a 
 little, for the naked truth was, that I wanted a pretext for stay- 
 ing behind ; having left society in New York, the loss of which 
 all the pleasures of Rockaway would poorlj'" compensate. 
 
 " We passed the river, and after dining at the inn, were seat- 
 fed in the coach much more at our ease than we had any reason 
 to expect. We rode through a country altogether new to me, 
 twelve or fourteen miles (I forgot which) to Jamaica. Shall 
 I give you a peep into my thoughts ? I am half ashamed to 
 admit you, but I will deal sincerely with you. Still, say I, my 
 consolation is, that few travellers, if their minds were laid as 
 completely open to inspection, would come off from their trial 
 with more credit than myself. 
 
 " I confess to you then that my mind was much more busily 
 engaged in reflecting on the possible consequences of coming 
 off without several changes of clothes in my handkerchief, and 
 without an umbrella to shelter me from sunshine and rain, than 
 with the fields and woods which I passed through. My um- 
 brella I had the ill luck to break as we crossed the river, and 
 as to clothes, I had the folly, as usual, to forget that Rockaway 
 was a place of fashionable resort, and that many accidents might 
 happen to prolong our stay there four or five days, instead of a 
 single day ; and yet think not that I was totally insensible to 
 passing objects. The sweet pure country air, which was brisk, 
 cool and fresh enough to make supportable the noon-tide rays 
 of a July sun, to the whole force of which mv seat beside the 
 driver exposed me, I inhaled with delight. I remember little. 
 
61 
 
 however, but a couptry, pretty much denuded of its xvoodsy (as 
 Sam. Johnson would say) a sandy soil ; stubble fields, houses 
 fifty years old, a couple of miles from each other, and most of 
 them, especially those furthest on the road, exact counterparts 
 of such as we see in Dutch and Flemish landscapes j four- 
 wheeled rustic carriages, of a most disproportioned length, cra- 
 zy and uncouth, without springs, entered from behind, and 
 loaded with women and children, pigs and chickens j not a sin- 
 gle carriage of elegance or pleasure to be met with, though 
 overtaken by half a dozen gigs, going to the same place with 
 ourselves. 
 
 " We reached Jamaica at five o'clock, and here we staid one 
 hour. A glass of lemonade, a plentiful ablution in cold water, 
 and a walk with B. in a church-yard opposite the inn, were 
 all the surprising events which distinguished this hour. This 
 island is one of the oldest of European settlements in North 
 America, and we therefore expected to find in this church- 
 yard some memorial of ancient days, but we were disappoint- 
 ed. There were many grave-stones, broken or half sunken, 
 or blackened by age, but the oldest date was within forty years. 
 The church, though painted anew and furbished up lately, was 
 about seventy years old, as an inscription on the front informed 
 us. There was another of a much more antique cast within 
 view, but we did not approach it. 
 
 <' I hope you will be sparing of your questions respecting Ja- 
 maica, for I can answer none of them. I asked not a single 
 question statistical or topographical of our hostess. I did not 
 count the houses, and therefore can form no notion of the popu- 
 lation. It is a spacious, well-looking village, many of whose 
 houses appear to be built as summer retreats for wealthy citi- 
 zens, and that is all I can say of it. 
 
 *' During our second stage, I was placed much more at my ease 
 than during the first. I v/as seated beside a pretty little girl, 
 whom ail the company took care to inform, that they thought 
 her pretty. For my part, her attractions made little impression 
 on my fancy. To be infirmly delicate in form, to have a baby- 
 like innocence of aspect, and a vcine so very soft that it can 
 
62 
 
 scarcely be heard} arc no recommendations to me. She prat- 
 tled a good deal about a squirrel and canary-bird which she had 
 at home, and that respectful attention was paid to a pair of very 
 sweet llps^ which the xvords that fell from them would never 
 have obtained. The rest of our company were men, and I 
 have not wit enough to extract any oddity or singularity from 
 their conversation or appearance. Two of them, you know, 
 were my companions, and the other two cheerful and well-bred 
 strangers. 
 
 " I, for the most part, was mute, as I usually am, in a stage- 
 coach and among strangers. Not so my two friends. B. finds 
 a topic of talk and good humour in every thing, and J's 
 amenity is always ready to pursue the other's lead. I forget 
 all their topics, except a very earnest discussion of the merits 
 of dijfferent lodging-houses , at the sea side, and many sympa- 
 thetic effusions, drawn forth by the shipwreck of another coach. 
 On the first head VvC concluded to go to the house nearest the 
 sea, one Beu Cornwall's, our purpose being as much to gratify 
 the eye as the touch, and there we accordingly arrived, pretty 
 late on a chill, moist and cloudy evening. 
 
 " There are few men who are always masters of their spirits, 
 and mine, which had not been high dirough the day, fell sud- 
 denly some degrees lower, on stepping out of the carriage into 
 the piazza of the liouse. This place appeared, at the first glance, 
 to want at the same time the comforts and seclusion of a private 
 house, and the order and plent}- of a public one. The scene 
 without was extremely dreary, and the vicinity of the sea, not 
 being a quarter of a mile distant, gave us very distinctly the 
 music of his multitudinous waves. 
 
 " Our curiosity would not allow us to go to bed, till we had 
 touched the ocean-wave. We, therefore, after a poor repast, 
 hastened down to the beach. Between the house and the water, 
 is a wide and level expanse of loose white sand, which is a 
 pretty good sample of Arabia or Ziiara, as I have heard them 
 described. Tell me, } ou who have travelled, whether ever}' 
 country, in the temperate zone, of moderate extent and some- 
 what diversified, contains not samples of every quarter of the 
 globe ? 
 
63 
 
 " The air was wet to the touch and saline to the taste, but the 
 novelty of the scene, to which a canopy of dark clouds, with a 
 pale star gleaming now and then through the crevices, tended 
 to increase, buoyed up my spirits to their usual pitch. To my 
 friend B. this novelty was absolute. He never before saw the 
 ocean ; but to me it was new only as I now saAv it, at night. 
 Seven years ago I found my way to the margent of the sea, 
 between Sandyhook and the mouth of the Raritan. I took a 
 long peregrination on foot, in company with two friends, and 
 shall never forget the impression which the boundless and trou- 
 bled ocean, seen for the first time, from an open beach, in a 
 clear day, and with a strong wind blowing landward, made upon 
 ine. It was flood-tide, and the sandy margin formed a pretty 
 steep shelf. The billows, therefore, rose to a considerable 
 height, and broke with great fury against it; and my soul was 
 suspended for half an hour, with an awe, a rapture which I never 
 felt before. Far different were my feelings on this occasion, for 
 the scene was no longer new to me, and the scene itself was far 
 less magnificent. There was scarcely any wind, the tide 
 was ebb, and the shore declined almost imperceptibly. 
 
 " As we came to this place for the purpose of bathing, and had 
 so short a time to stay, we thought we could not begin too early, 
 and therefore stripe immediately, notwithstanding the freshness 
 of the air, and what is of greater moment, our ignorance of the 
 shore. 
 
 " Up, pretty high upon the shore, is an house, no better than a 
 fisherman's hut. 'Tis a mere frame of v/ood, boarded at the 
 sides and top, with no window, and a door-way. The floor is 
 sand, and there are pegs against the wall to hang clothes upon. 
 There is a tub provided for cleansing the feet from the sand 
 which when wet clings to the skin like bird-lime. Towels, 
 v»hich are furnished at the house, we brought not with us. 
 
 " Is there any thing, the advanta:,"s of which are more univer- 
 sally and constantly manifested, than order ? Its value is seen 
 in the most trivial matters, as in the most momentous. This 
 room v/as pitch-dark, and v.-e were wholly unacquainted with it : 
 and yet by the simple process of hanging our clothes, as we take 
 
64 
 
 them off, on a peg, and putting them on in the same order rc- 
 versedj there is no difficulty. Some of us were not so wise as 
 to practise this order, and, of consequence, were condemned to 
 grope about half an hour longer than others, in the dark, for 
 stockings, sleeve-buttons, hats, and handkerchiefs. 
 
 " What would physicians say to standing naked on a bleak 
 night, with the wind at east, while the billows broke over you 
 for ten minutes ? There is an agreeable trepidation felt, while 
 the scene is new, and the sudden effusion of cold water must^ 
 methinks, produce powerful effects of some kind or another. 
 
 ** As we were early comers to this house, we were honoured 
 each with a room to himself. There were twenty or thirty per- 
 sons to be accommodated, besides a numerous family, in a 
 wooden house of two stories ; so that we could not but con- 
 gratulate ourselves on the privilege thus secured to us. The 
 chamber, however, allotted to me was a little nook, about se- 
 ven feet long and three wide, only large enough to admit the 
 bedstead and him that slept in it. In such excursions as these, 
 however, hardships and privations, are preferable to ease and 
 luxury. There is something like consciousness of merit in en- 
 countering them voluntarily and with cheerfulness. There is a 
 rivalship in hardihood and good humour, more pleasurable than 
 any delights of the senses. A splenetic or fastidious traveller is 
 a great burden to himself and to his company, and ought, 
 through mere generosity, to keep himself at home. In saying 
 this, I am conscious, that in some degree, I pronounce my owa 
 condemnation, but I hope I aiu not very culpable. 
 
 *' My friends rose at day-light next morning, and went to 
 bathe. They gave me warning, but I heeded it not. My little 
 nook had half melted me with heat, and I felt as if unqualified 
 for the least exertion. I was sorry to have lost the opportunity, 
 and rose, when the sun was high in the heavens, with some de- 
 gree of regret. But more Jacky than I deserved to be, I found 
 a countiy waggon at the door, ready to cany down any one that 
 chose, to the strand. I went down with anotiier. 
 
 " This was a far different bathing from that of the night before. 
 The waggon carries u? to the Vr'aier'.'? edge, and there we may 
 
65 
 
 undress at our leisure amidst a footing of clean straw, con- 
 venient seats and plenty of napkins. The wagon receives us 
 directlv from the water and carries us home, without trouble or 
 delay. On this occasion the sun was just warm enough to be 
 comfortable, and the time o'day exactly suited to the bath. 
 Such is my notion of the matter, but I doubt whether any body 
 else will agree with me. Sunrise and sun-set are the usual bath- 
 ing-times. 
 
 After breakfast, we took a walk along the strand. My pas= 
 time consisted in picking up shells ; in sifting and examining 
 the fine white sand ; in treading on the heels and toes of the 
 wave, as it fell and rose, and in trying to find some music in 
 its eternal murmur. Here could I give you long descants on all 
 these topics, but my vague and crude reveries would only make 
 my dull epistle still more dull. The sun at last broke out with 
 the full force of midsummer, and we panted and waded 
 through the sand, homeward, with no small regret that we had 
 ventured so far. We Americans in general have feeble heads t 
 those of us, I mean, who were not born to dig ditches and make 
 hay. A white hat, broad-brimmed, and light as a straw, is an 
 insufficient shelter against the direct beams of the sun. What 
 must we have suffered on this occasion when the vertical rays 
 fell on a surface of smooth white sand ? We were almost lique- 
 fied before we reached the house* 
 
 " The company, at this house, was numerous, and afforded^ 
 as usual, abundant topics of speculation. Some were young 
 men, in the hey day of spirits, rattling, restless, and noisy. 
 Some were solid and conversible, and some awkward and re- 
 served. Three ladies, married women, belonged to the com- 
 pany : one of whom said nothing, but was as dignified and cour- 
 teous in demeanor as silence would let her be : another talked 
 much, and a third hit the true medium pretty well. I did not 
 fail to make a great many reflections on the passing scene, which, 
 together with a volume of Cecilia, made the day pase not very 
 tediously. 
 
 *' My friends aWays carry books with them, even when they 
 go abroad for a few hours. One of them to day produced the5 
 
 9 * 
 
65 
 
 Maxims of La Bruyere, the other those of Rouchefoucauld, 
 and some minutes were consumed in dec}^hering and com- 
 menting on these. But the subject which engrossed most at- 
 tention in the morning, was a plan for procuring a dozen of 
 claret for the embellishment of dinner ; and the return of man 
 and chaise, without the claret for which he had been sent to a 
 distant tavern, cast a great damp upon the spirits of most of 
 us. We got rid of the afternoon pretty easily, by giving an 
 hour or two to the bottle, and the rest to the siesta. As to our 
 talk at dinner, there was pierfect good humour, and a good deal 
 of inclination to be witty, but I do not recollect a single good 
 thing that deserves to be recorded ; and m.y powers do not en- 
 able me to place the commou place characters around me in 
 an interesting or amusing. point of view. As to myself, I am 
 never at home^ never in my element at such a place as this. 
 A thousand nameless restraints incumber my speech and my 
 limbs, and I cannot even listen to others with a gay, unembar- 
 rassed mind. Towards evening it began to rain, and not only 
 imprisoned us for the present, but gave us some apprehensions 
 of a detention here for a week. A detention, which, for many 
 reasons, one of which I have already mentioned, would have 
 proved extremely disagreeable to me. 
 
 " My friend, I have grown very tired of my story. I be- 
 lieve I will cut short the rest, and carry you back with me 
 next morning, to New York, in a couple of sentences. The 
 weather on the morrow was damp and lowering, but it cleared 
 up early. We were again agreeably disappointed in our ex- 
 pectations of a crowded stage, and arfter breakfasting at Jamai- 
 ca, reached town at one o'clock. On my return, I was just as 
 unobservant of the passing scene as before, and took as little 
 note of the geography of the isle. Set me out on the same 
 journey again, and I should scarcely recognize a foot of the 
 way. I saw trees and shrubs and grasses, but I could not 
 name them, being as horv I am no botanist. 
 
 "Perhaps, however, I mistake the purpose of suchjournies, 
 which is not to exercise the reasoning faculties, or to add to 
 knowledge, but to unbend, to dissipate thought and care, and 
 
to strengthea the frame and refresh the spirits, by mere motion, 
 and variety. This is the language which my friends hold ; but 
 I confess, mere mental vacuity gives me neither health nor 
 pleasure. To give time wings, my attention must be fixed on 
 something : I must look about me in pursuit of some expected 
 object ," I must converse with my companion on some reason- 
 able topic ; I must find some image in my own fancy to exa- 
 mine, or the way is painfully tedious. This jaunt to Rockaway 
 has left few agreeable traces behind it. All I remember with 
 any pleasure, are the appearance of the wide ocean, and the 
 incidents of bathing in its surges. Had I been a botanist, and 
 lighted upon some new plant ; a mineralogist, and found an 
 agate or a petrifaction ; a naturalist, and caught such a butter- 
 fly as I never saw before, I should have reflected on the jour- 
 ney with no little satisfaction. As it was, I set my foot in the 
 city with no other sentiment, but that of regret, for not having 
 employed these two days in a very different manner," 
 
 The incidents here so pleasantly recorded are extremely tri- 
 vial, but the whole serves to develope the character of the man, 
 and as is observed by a friend when writing on the subject 
 which now occupies me, '* in the life of a literary man charac- 
 ter is biography." The same friend thus pursues the subject :. 
 *' How can it be expected that the life can be embellished by 
 splendid incident, when the very profession of the man allows 
 of no other than what passes while seated in solitude at his 
 writing desk. When existence is devoted to pensive musing, 
 are we called upon to create incidents, or must it be what it 
 professes to be, a biography of intellect merely ? If we exa- 
 mine this subject more rigidly, it will be found that these em- 
 ployments, the reception, and the answering of letters, the reci- 
 tal of friendship and antipathies, and the thousand nameless 
 anxieties which a solitary being enjoys, or suffers, are them- 
 selves the incidents in the life of a literary man. In compari- 
 son with these, the time when a book was published of. which 
 he was the author, the profits of the bookseller on the publica- 
 tion of the work, how heavily the first edition went off, and the 
 
68 
 
 irapidity with which it was succeeded by the remainder are no- 
 thing, literally nothing. Incidents themselves, and those of the 
 most extraordinary cast, do not always point to character. An 
 artificial character is often assumed, and incidents favourable 
 to its establishment are employed, when, if the life of a man 
 was determined by this standard, a coward would appear in 
 the habiliments of heroism, and a knave in the garb of honesty. 
 It is only when life appears, in what may be denomina- 
 ted its undress, when there is no motive to wear a mask, 
 that the genuine character of man can be discerned. The in- 
 icidents of a literary existence must be such as are connected 
 with that mode of being. If the life of such a man passes iqi 
 the solitude of his closet, and is no otherwise diminished than 
 by variegated studies, we say nothing more in fact, than that 
 he was a literary man. Why should we annex the word in- 
 cident, merely to some marvellous occurrence such only as the 
 traveller, or the warrior encounters ? It is impossible that life 
 can pass without incident with any being who inherits common 
 sense. There must be a change of thought, what Johnson 
 pompously calls a cession, and retrocession of intellect. These 
 are incidents ; these are the means by which this solitary being 
 is enabled to build a name for the admiration of future ages. 
 They constitute the very materials with which his works are 
 constructed, and those, if the above objection has any validity, 
 are led to expect that a man would write a novel, or compose 
 a poem in the same manner in which he would win a battle* 
 That portion of time detached from what the world vulgarly 
 denominates incident^ is therefore the precise period which it 
 is the duty of a biographer to display. Had his hero been en- 
 gaged in the contests of the field, or of the bar, then indeed 
 can the public look with propriety for incidents of another sort. 
 But such is not the employment of a writer,; solitude alone fur- 
 nishes him with appropriate incident. Whatever other adven- 
 tures might befal him if he should mingle in a battle, or the 
 bustling avocations of life, so far would the relation of such 
 circumstances lead the public astray, as to his reputation as a 
 writer. The incidents of an author, are his ideas, and those 
 who look for more than these in the history of an author, must 
 
69 
 
 expect to find what they deserve— «disappomtinent. I know it- 
 has been often triumphantly said, even by those who admire 
 an author's work, what can the life of such a man afford us ? 
 It is merely a life barren of incident, as his own works from 
 the labour with which they are constructed, will abundantly tes- 
 tify. Now had this intellectual labour eventuated in the erec- 
 tion of a pyramid, or in the accomplishment of a victory, they 
 would expect to derive amusement from the biography of such 
 a man ; but still as he has only produced a book which they them- 
 selves admire more than they would do either the one or the 
 other, his life, or more properly the history of the means by 
 which another was able to execute a work so important, be- 
 comes entirely insignificant. And why is this difference ? Be- 
 cause the one is perhaps accomplished by manual labour merely — 
 the brute labour and perhaps the predominant mind which direct- 
 ed the work in every stage of its progress, had not been en- 
 gaged in the erection of the massy mai'ble. Yet allow that the 
 man who had planned the pyramid, or the victory, should him- 
 self have mingled with the labours, the probability is that he 
 would have been able to have executed what he had so muni- 
 ficently designed. What mankind can see and feel, when the 
 minds of others in the hands of an architect begin to assume a 
 visible, tangible and permanent shape, this they are disposed to 
 admire ; but had these very persons read how such a pyramid 
 could be erected, or such a battle achieved, they would pro- 
 bably have laughed at the author as an idle visionary, unwor- 
 thy of regard. And yet this very pyramid, or this very bat- 
 tle, would have been a practical comment on the justice of 
 this despised author's remarks. Incident then so far as it is 
 connected with our present purpose, means fairly this, a dis- 
 passionate recital of the thoughts which passed in the mind of 
 C. B..B. It does not mean, and it cannot mean, that he should 
 have been personally engaged in those marvellous adventures 
 which his pen afterwards describes ; for had he acted in those 
 characters, he never would have been the author of such 
 works." 
 
 Ever fond of analysis, Charles, even in very early life, would 
 take no opinion upon trust. He found in his own mind abun- 
 
70 
 
 dant reason to reject many of the received opinions of mankind, 
 and to doubt the reality of many facts upon which those opini- 
 ons are founded. Much of his reading at this time tended to 
 bewilder rather than enlighten and to confirm his predisposition 
 to scepticism. In common with many others, he imputed to 
 wrong causes the defects which are but too apparent in exist- 
 ing systems. He saw the wrong and injustice and evil which 
 exist, and instead of attributing them to the ignorance and 
 selfishness of individuals, he assigned as the cause the errors 
 or inefficiency of those codes which are intended to enlighten 
 or to restrain. 
 
 The gentleman who first undertook to fulfil the engagements 
 entered into by those who published proposals, and received 
 sul)scriptions for these volumes, selected for republication, ex- 
 tracts from a work written in the fall and winter of the year 
 1 797, and which, with the greater part of the selections for the 
 first volume were printed before the present writer was engag- 
 ed for the work. The extracts he thus introduces : " A princi- 
 ple with him was sacred in proportion as it accorded with his 
 preconceived sensations, and these sensations as has been alrea- 
 dy abundantly seen, were ardently romantic. Whatever of de- 
 lect was discernible in existing systems, he imputed to the wrong 
 cause, which was to some inherent ineffectiveness in the sys- 
 tem itself, and not to the depravity of our common nature, so ca- 
 pable of perverting the best systems to the worst of purposes. 
 That all human systems are fallible, is saying nothing more than 
 that they were not all the workmanship of our munificent Cre- 
 ator. But Charles took other ground ; in the overflowing 
 philanthropy of his heart, he was prone to believe that all these 
 injurious consequences were imputable to the laws of the land. 
 Finding a defect in the law when vigorously analyzed, and that 
 man continued to perpetrate outrages against it, he thought too 
 often that these were imputable to the law itself. Hence in 
 many of his earlier speculations, he reasons upon what mankind 
 would not do, had not such authority interposed its injunction. 
 His feelings, warmed as they always were by human sufferings, 
 aided this deception, until he imputes to the law itself the crea- 
 tion of those v^ivy evils which it was designed most assiduously 
 
71 
 
 to guard against. To this he might probably have been led by 
 the perusal of history. Tyrants have existed undoubtedly, and all 
 authority may be called tyranny if the dreams of a visionary 
 are allowed the force and authority of law. 
 
 Hence the ardour with which he speaks, unless the peculiarity 
 of his character is known, unless his warm and sublimated fancy, 
 his intense feelings are taken into consideration, will need an 
 apology. Fortunately it may be found, as has been proved hy 
 the letters already given, in the excellence of his heart. And it 
 is not an uninteresting speculation to observe how those plun- 
 ging tenets and dangerous doctrines which he advanced in his 
 first entry into public life, become gradually contracted as he 
 mingles with men and observes human manners. Subtleties 
 that may be defended by an able logician in a thousand different 
 ways are abandoned when he sees them brought to the touch 
 of experiment and fail. 
 
 To give the reader a more detailed account, we will refer 
 him to copious extracts from a work written in the fall and 
 winter of the year 1797, entitled Alcuin. He will observe that 
 it is composed in the form of a dialogue." 
 
 " I called last evening on Mrs. Carter. I had no previous 
 acquaintance with her. Her brother is a man of letters, who, 
 nevertheless, finds little leisure from the engagements of a toil- 
 some profession. He scarcely spends an evening at home, yet 
 takes care to invite, specially and generally, to his house, every 
 one who enjoys the reputation of learning and probity. His 
 sister became, on the death of her husband, his housekeeper. 
 She was always at home. The guests who came in search of 
 the man, finding him abroad, lingered a little as politeness en- 
 joined, but soon found something in the features and accents of 
 the lady, that induced them to prolong their stay, for their own 
 sake : nay, without any well-defined expectation of meeting 
 their inviter, they felt themselves disposed to repeat their visit. 
 We must suppose the conversation of the lady not destitute of 
 attractions; but an additional, and, perhaps, the strongest induce- 
 ment, was the society of other visitants. The house became, 
 at length, a sort of rendezvous of, persons of different ages and 
 
72 
 
 conctltlons, but respectable for talents or virtues. A corti* 
 iriodious apartment, excellent tea, lemonade, and ice — and whole- 
 some fruits — were added to the pleasures of instructive society : 
 no wonder that Mrs. Carter's coterie became the favourite 
 resort of the liberal and ingenious. 
 
 " These things did not necessarily imply any uncommon me- 
 rit in the lady. Skill in the superintendance of a tea-table, affa- 
 bility and modesty, promptness to inquire, and docility to listen, 
 were all that were absolutely requisite in the mistress of the 
 ceremonies. Her apartment was nothing, perhaps, but a 
 Lyceum open at stated hours, and to particular persons, who 
 enjoyed gratis, the benefits of rational discourse, and agreeable 
 repasts. Some one was required to serve the guests, direct the 
 menials, and maintain, with suitable vigilance, the empire of 
 cleanliness and order. This office might not be servile, merely 
 because it was voluntary. The influence of an unbribed inclina- 
 tion might constitute the whole difference between her and a 
 waiter at an inn, or the porter of a theatre. 
 
 " Books are too often insipid. In reading, the senses are in- 
 ert and sluggish, or they are solicited by foreign objects. To 
 spur up the flagging attention, or check the rapidity of its flights 
 and wildness of its excursions, are often found to be imprac- 
 ticable. It is only on extraordinary occasions that this faculty 
 is at once sober and vigorous, active and obedient. The rev- 
 olutions of our minds may be watched and noted, but can sel- 
 dom be explained to the satisfaction of the inquisitive. All 
 that the caprice of nature has left us, is to profit by the casual 
 presence of that which can, by no spell, be summoned or detained. 
 
 <* I hate a lecturer. I find little or no benefit in listening to a 
 man who does not occasionally call upon me for my opinion, and 
 allow me to canvass ever)'- step in his argument. I cannot, with 
 any satisfaction, survey a column, how costly soever its materials, 
 and classical its ornaments, when I am convinced that its foun- 
 dation is sand which the next tide will wash away. I equally 
 dislike formal debate, where each man, however few his ideas, 
 is subjected to the necessity of drawing them out to the length 
 of a speech. A single proof, or question, or hint, may be all 
 that the state of the controversy, or the reflections of the speak- 
 
73 
 
 cr, suggest: but this must be amplified and iterated, till the 
 sense, perhaps, is lost or enfeebled, that he may not fall below 
 the dignity of an orator. Conversation, careless, and unfet- 
 tered, that is sometimes abrupt and sentemious, sometimes fu- 
 gitive and brilliant, and sometimes copious and declamatory, is 
 a scene for which, without being much accustomed to it, I en- 
 tertain great affection. It blends, more happily than any other 
 method of instruction, utility and pleasure. No wonder I was 
 desirous of knowing, long before the opportunity was afforded 
 me, how far these valuable purposes were accomplished by the 
 frequenters of Mrs. Carter's lyceum. 
 
 " In the morning I had met the doctor at the bed-side of a 
 sick friend, who had strength enough to introduce us to each 
 other. At parting I received a special invitation for the even- 
 ing, and a general one to be in force at all other times. At five 
 o'clock I shut up my little school, and changed an alley in the 
 city — dark, dirty, and narrow, as all alleys are — for the fresh 
 air and smooth footing of the fields. I had not forgotten the 
 doctor and his lyceum. Shall I go (said I to myself) or shall I 
 not ? No, said the pride of poverty, and the bashfulness of in- 
 experience. I looked at my unpowdered locks, my worsted 
 stockings, and my pewter buckles. 1 bethought me of my em- 
 barrassed air, and my uncouth gait. I pondered on the super- 
 ciliousness of wealth and talents, the awfulness of flowing mus- 
 lin, the mighty task of hitting on a right movement at entrance, 
 and a right posture in sitting, and on the perplexing mysteries 
 of tea-table decorum : but, though confused and panic-struck, 
 I was not vanquished. 
 
 *' I had some leisure, particularly in the evening. Could it be 
 employed more agreeably or usefully ? To read, to write, to 
 meditate ; to watch a declining moon, and the varying firma- 
 ment with the emotions of poetry or piety — with the optics of 
 Dr". Young, or of De la Lande — were delightful occupations, 
 and all at my command. Eight hours of the twenty-four v/ere 
 consumed in repeating the names and scrawling the forms of the 
 alphabet, or in engraving on infantile memori 3 that twice three 
 make six ; the rest was employed in supplying an exhausted, 
 rather than craving, stomach ; in sleep, that never knew, nor de- 
 sired to know, the luxury of down, and the pomp of tissue ; in 
 
 10 
 
74 
 
 unravelling the mazes of Dr. Waring ; or in amplifying the se- 
 ducing , suppositions of, ' if I were a king,' or, * if I were a lov- 
 er.' Few, indeed, are as happy as Alcuin. What is requisite 
 to perfect my felicity, but the blessings of health, which is in- 
 compatible with periodical head-aches, and the visits of rheuma- 
 tism ; — of peace, which cannot maintain its post against the hum 
 of a school, the discord of cart-wheels, and the rhetoric of a 
 notable landlady ; — of competence — my trade preserves me from 
 starving and nakedness, but not from the discomforts of scar- 
 city, or the disgrace of shabbiness. Money, to give me leisure ; 
 and exercise, to give me health ; these are all my lot denies : in 
 all other respects I ^^m the happiest of mortals. The pleasures 
 of society, indeed, I seldom taste : that is, I have £ew opportu- 
 nities of actual intercourse with that part of mankind whose 
 ideas extend beyond the occurrences of the neighbourhood, or 
 the arrangements of their household. Not but that, when I 
 want company, it is always at hand. My solitude is populous, 
 whenever my fancy thinks proper to people it, and with the 
 very beings that best suit my taste. These beings are, perhaps, 
 on account of my slender experience, too uniform, and some- 
 what grotesque. Like some other dealers in fiction, I find it 
 easier to give new names to my visionary friends, and vary their 
 condition, than to introduce a genuine diversity into their cha- 
 racters. No one can work without materials. My stock is 
 slender. There are times when I feel a moment's regret that I 
 do not enjoy the means of enlarging it. But this detail, it must 
 be owned, is a little beside the purpose. I merely intended to 
 have repeated mj- conversation with Mrs. Carter, but have wan- 
 dered, unawares, into a dissertation on my own character. I 
 shall now return, and mention that I cut short my evening ex- 
 cursion, speeded homeward, and, after japanning anew my 
 shoes, brushing my hat, and equipping my body in its best geer, 
 proceeded to the doctor's house. 
 
 *' I shall not stop to describe the company, or to dwell on those 
 embarrassments and awkwardness always incident to an unpo- 
 lished wight like me. Suffice it to say, that I was in a few 
 minutes respectfully withdrawn into a corner, and fortunately a 
 near neighbour of the lady. 
 
75 
 
 " A week elapsed and I repeated my visit to Mrs. Carter. 
 She greeted me in a friendly manner. 1 have often, said she, 
 since I saw you, reflected on the subject of our former conversa- 
 tion. I have meditated more deeply than common, and 1 be- 
 lieve to more advantage. The hints that you gave me 1 have 
 found useful guides. 
 
 " And I, said I, have travelled farther than common, incited by 
 a laudable desire of knowledge. 
 
 "Travelled? 
 
 *' Yes, I have visited since I saw you, the paradise of women ; 
 and 1 assure you have longed for an opportunity to communi- 
 cate the information that I have collected. 
 
 "Well: you now enjoy the opportunity; you have engaged 
 it every day in the week. Whenever you had thought proper 
 to come, I could have promised you a welcome. 
 
 " I thank you. I should have claimed your welcome sooner^ 
 but only returned this evening. 
 
 " Returned ! Whence, I pry'thee ? 
 
 " From the journey that I spoke of. Have I not told yoti 
 that I have visited the paradise of women f The region, indeed 
 is far distant, but a twinkling is sufficient for the longest of my 
 journey?. 
 
 "You are somewhat mysterious, and mystery is one of the. 
 many things that abound in the world, for which I have an hear- 
 ty aversion. 
 
 " I cannot help it. It is plain enough to me and to my good 
 genius, who when I am anxious to change the scene, and am 
 unable to perform it by the usual means, is kindly present to my 
 prayers, and saves me from three inconveniences, of travelling 
 toil, delay and expense. What sort of vehicle it is that he pro- 
 vides for me, what intervals of space I have overpassed, and 
 what is the situation of the inn where I repose, relatively to this 
 city or this orb, such is the rapidity with which I move that I 
 cannot collect from my own observation. I may sometimes re- 
 medy my ignorance in this respect by a comparison of circum- 
 stances ; for example, the language of the people with whom I 
 passed most of the last week, was English. This was a strong 
 symptom of affinity. In other respects the resemblance was 
 sufficiently obscure. Methought I could trace in their buildings 
 
76 
 
 the knowledge of Greek and Roman models: but who can tell 
 that the same images and combinations may not occur to minds 
 distant and unacquainted with each other, but which have been 
 subject to the same enlightened discipline ? In manners and sen- 
 timents they possessed little in common with us. Here I con- 
 fess my wonder was most excited, I should have been apt to 
 suspect that they were people of some other planet, especially as 
 I had never met in my reading with any intimations of the ex- 
 istence of such a people on our own. But on looking around me 
 the earth and sky exhibited the same appearances as with us. 
 It once occurred to me, that I had passed the bourne which we 
 are all doomed to pass, and had reached that spot from which, 
 as the poet assures us, no traveller returns. But since I have 
 returned, I must discard that supposition. You will say perhaps 
 when you are acquainted with particulars that it was no more 
 than a sick man's dream, or a poet*s reverie. Though I myself 
 cannot adopt this opinion, for who can discredit the testimony of 
 his senses, yet it must be owned that it would most naturally 
 suggest itself to another, and therefore I shall leave you in pos- 
 session of it. 
 
 *' So, you would persuade me, said the lady, that the journey you 
 meant to relate, is in your own opinion real, though }ou are con- 
 scious that its improbability will hinder others from believing it. 
 
 " If my statement answer that end be it so. The worst judge 
 of the nature of his own conceptions^ is the enthusiast : I have 
 my portion of ardour which solitude seldom fails to kindle into 
 blaze. It has drawn vigour and activity from exercise. Whe- 
 ther it transgress the limits which a correct judgment prescribes 
 it would be absurd to inquire of the enthusiast himself. If the 
 perceptions of the poet be as lively as those of sense, it is a su- 
 perfluous inquiry whether their objects exist really, and exter- 
 nally. This is a question which cannot be decided, even with 
 respect to those perceptions which have most seeming and most 
 congruity. We have no direct proof that the ordinary objects 
 of sight and touch have a being independent of these senses. 
 When there is no ground for believing that those chairs and 
 tables have any existence but in my own sensorium, it would be 
 rash to affirm the reality of the objects which I met, or seemed 
 to meet with in my late journey. I see and hear is the utmost 
 
77 
 
 that can be tinily said at any time, all that I can say is, that I 
 saw and heard. 
 
 " Well, returned the lady, that as you say, is a point of small 
 importance. Let me know what you saw and heard without 
 further ceremony. 
 
 " 1 was witness to the transactions of a people, who would 
 probably gain more of your approbation than those around you 
 can hope for. Yet this is perhaps to build too largely on my 
 imperfect knowledge of your sentiments : however that be, few 
 things offered themselves to my observation, which I did not see 
 reason to applaud, and to wonder at. 
 
 " My curiosity embraced an ample field. It did not overlook 
 the condition of women. That negligence had been equally un- 
 worthy of my understanding and my heart. It was evening and 
 the moon was present when I lighted, I know not how or 
 whence, on a smooth pavement encompassed by structures that 
 appeared intended for the ai ommodation of those whose taste 
 led them either to studious retirement or to cheerful conversation. 
 I shall not describe the first transports of my amazement, or 
 dwell on the reflections that were suggested by a transition so 
 new and uncommon, or the means that I employed to penetrate 
 the mysteriousness that hung around every object, and my va- 
 rious conjectures as to the position of the Isle, or the condition 
 of the people among whom I had fallen. 1 need not tell how 
 in wandering from this spot, I encountered many of both sexes 
 who were employed in awakening by their notes, the neighbouring 
 echoes, or absorbed in musing silence, or engaged in sprightly 
 debate ; how one of them remarking as I suppose, the perplexity 
 of my looks, and the uncouthness of my garb, accosted me and 
 condescended to be my guide in a devious tract, which conduct- 
 ed me from one scene of enchantment to another. I need not 
 tell how by the aid of this benevolent conductor, I passed through 
 halls whose pendent lustres exhibited sometimes a groupe of 
 musicians and dancers, sometimes assemblies where state affairs 
 were the theme of sonorous rhetoric, where the claims of ancient 
 patriots and heroes to the veneration of posterity were examin- 
 ed, and the sources of memorable revolutions scrutinized, or 
 which listened to the rehearsals of annalist or poet, or surveyed 
 the labours of the chemist, or inspected the performances of the 
 
78 
 
 mechanical inventor. Need I expatiate on the felicity of that 
 plan, which blended the umbrage of poplars with the murmur 
 of fountains, enhanced by the gracefulness of architecture. 
 
 " Come, come, interrupted the lady, this perhaps, may be 
 poetry, but though pleasing it had better be dispensed with. I 
 give you leave to pass over tlitoe incidents in silence : I desire 
 merely to obtain the sum of your information, disembarrassed 
 from details of the mode in which you acquired it, and of the 
 mistakes and conjectures to which your ignorance subjected 
 you. 
 
 " Well, said I, these restraints it must be owned are a little 
 hard, but since you are pleased to impose them I must conform 
 to your pleasure. After my curiosity was sufficiently gratified 
 by what was to be seen, I retired with my guide to his apartment. 
 It was. situated on a terrace which overlooked a mixed scene 
 of groves and edifices, which the light of the moon that had now 
 ascended the meridian, had rendered distinctly visible. After 
 considerable discourse, in which satisfactory answers had been 
 made to all the inquiries which I had thought proper to make, 
 I ventured to ask, I pray thee my good friend, what is the con- 
 dition of the female sex among you? In this evening's excursion 
 I have met with those, whose faces and voices seemed to be- 
 speak them women, though as far as I could discover they were 
 distinguished by no peculiarities of manners or dress. In those 
 assemblies to which you conducted me, I did not fail to observe 
 that whatever was the business of the hour, both sexes seemed 
 equally engaged in it. Was the spectacle theatrical? The 
 stage was occupied sometimes by men, sometimes by wo- 
 men, and sometimes by a company of each. The tenor of the 
 drama seemed to be followed as implicitly as if custom had 
 enacted no laws upon this subject. Their voices were mingled 
 in the chorusscs : I admired the order in which the spectators 
 were arranged. Women were, to a certain degree, associated 
 with women, and men with men ; but it seemed as if magnifi- 
 cence and symmetry had been consulted, rather than a scrupu- 
 lous decorum. Here no distinction in dress was oljservable, but 
 I suppose the occasion dictated it. Was science or poetry, or 
 art, the topic of discussion ? The two sexes mingled their in- 
 quiries and opinions. The debate was managed with ardour 
 
79 
 
 and freedom, and all present were admitted to a share in the 
 controversy, without particular exceptions or compliances of 
 any sort. Were shadows and recesses sought by the studious 
 few ? As far as their faces were distinguishable, meditation had 
 selected her votaries indiscriminately. I am not unaccustomed 
 to some degree of this equality among my own countiymen, but 
 it appears to be far more absolute and general among you ; pray 
 what are your customs and institutions on this head ? 
 
 " Perhaps, replied my friend, I do not see whither your ques- 
 tion tends. What are our customs respecting women r You are 
 doubtless apprised of the difference that subsists between the 
 sexes. That physical constitution which entides some of us to 
 the appellation of male, and others to that of female you must 
 know. You know its consequences. With these our customs 
 and institutions have no concern ; they result from the order of 
 nature, which it is our business merely to investigate. I sup- 
 pose there are physiologists or anatomists in your countiy. To 
 them it belongs to explain this circumstance of animal exist- 
 ence. 
 
 *' The universe consists of individuals. They are perishable. 
 Provision has been made that the place of those that perish 
 should be supplied by new generations. The means by which 
 this end is accomplished, are the same through every tribe of 
 animals. Between contemporary beings the distinction of sex 
 maintains ; but the end of this distinction is that since each indi- 
 vidual must perish, there may be a continual succession of indi- 
 viduals. If you seek to know more than this, I must refer you 
 to books which contain the speculations of the anatomist, or to 
 the hall Avhere he publicly communicates his doctrines. 
 
 "It is evident, answered I, that I have not made myself un- 
 derstood. I did not inquire into the structure of the human bo- 
 dy, but into these moral or political maxims which are founded 
 on the difference in this structure between the sexes. 
 
 " Need I repeat, said my friend, what I have told you of the 
 principles by which we are governed. I am aware that there 
 are nations of men universally infected by error, or who at least 
 entertain opinions different from ours. It is hard to trace all 
 the effects of a particular belief, which chances to be current 
 among a whole people. I have entered into a pretty copious 
 
80 ^ 
 
 explanation of the rules to which we conform in our intercourse 
 with each other, but still perhaps have been deficient. 
 
 " No, I cannot complain of your brevity ; perhaps my doubts 
 would be solved by reflecting attentively on the information that 
 I have already received. For that, leisure is requisite ; mean- 
 while I cannot but confess my surprise that I find among you 
 none of those exterior differences by which the sexes are dis- 
 tinguished by all other nations. 
 
 " Give me a specimen if you please, of those differences with 
 which you have been familiar. 
 
 *' One of them, said I, is dress. Each sex has a garb peculiar 
 to itself. The men and women of our country are more differ- 
 ent from each other in this respect, than the natives of remotest 
 countries. 
 
 ** That is strange, said my friend, why is it so ? 
 
 " I know not. Each one dresses as custom prescribes. He 
 has no other criterion. If he selects his garb because it is beau- 
 tiful or convenient, it is beautiful and commodious in his eyes 
 merely because it is customary. 
 
 " But wherefore does custom prescribe a different dress to 
 each sex ? 
 
 " I confess I cannot tell, but most certainly it is so. I must 
 likewise acknowledge that nothing in your manners more ex- 
 cites my surprise than your uniformity in this particular. 
 
 " Why should it be inexplicable ? For what end do we dress ? 
 Is it for the sake of ornament ? Is it in compliance w^ith our 
 perceptions of the beautiful ? These perceptions cannot be sup- 
 posed to be the same in all. But since the standard of beauty 
 whatever it be, must be one and the same : since our notions 
 on this head are considerably affected by custom and example, 
 and since all have nearly the same opportunities and materials of 
 judgment, if beauty only were regarded, the differences among 
 us would be trivial. Differences, perhaps, there would be. The 
 garU of one being would, in some degree, however small, 
 vary from that of another. But what causes there are that 
 should make all women agree in their preference of one dress, 
 and all men in that of another, is utterly incomprehensible ; no 
 less than that the difference resulting from this choice should 
 be essential and conspicuous. 
 
81 
 
 '' But ornament obtains no regard from us but in subser- 
 vience to utility. We find it hard to distinguish between the 
 useful and beautiful. When they appear to differ, we cannot 
 hesitate to prefer the former. To us that instrument possesses 
 an invincible superiority to every other which is best adapted to 
 our purpose. Convince me that this garment is of more use 
 than that, and you have determined my choice. We may af- 
 terwards inquire, which has the highest pretensions to beauty. 
 Strange if utility and beauty fail to coincide. Stranger still, if 
 having found them in any instance compatible, I sacrifice the 
 former to the latter. But the elements of beauty, though per- 
 haps they have a real existence, are fleeting and inconstant. 
 Not so those principles which enable us to discover what is use- 
 ful. These are uniform and permanent. So must be the results. 
 Among us, what is useful to one, must be equally so to another. 
 The condition of all is so much alike, that a stuff which deserves 
 the preference of one, because it is obtained with least labour, be- 
 cause its texture is most durable, or most easily renewed or 
 cleansed, is for similar reasons, preferable to all. 
 
 " But, said I, you have various occupations. One kind of 
 stuff or one fashion is not equally suitr'ble to every employ- 
 ment. This must produce a variety among you, as it does among 
 us. 
 
 " It does so. We find that our tools must vary with our 
 designs. If the task requires a peculiar dress, we assume it. 
 But as we take it up when we enter the workshop, we of course 
 lay it aside when we change the scene. It is not to be imagin- 
 ed that we wear the same garb at all times. No man enters so- 
 ciety laden with the implements of his art. He does not visit 
 the council hall or the theatre with his spade upon his shoulder. 
 As little does he think of bringing thither the garb which he 
 wore in the field. There are no such peculiarities of attitude or 
 gesture among us, that the vesture that has proved most conve- 
 nient to one in walking or sitting, should be found unsuitable to 
 others. Do the differences of this kind prevalent among vou, 
 conform to these rules ? Since every one has his stated emplov- 
 ment, no doubt each one has a dress peculiar to himself or to 
 those of his o^vn profession. 
 
 11 
 
82 
 
 " No. I cannot say that among us this principle has any 
 extensive influence. The chief difference consists in degrees of 
 expensiveness. By inspecting the garb of a passenger, we dis- 
 cov^er not so much the trade that he pursues, as the amount of 
 his property. Few labour whose wealth allows them to dis- 
 perse with it. The garb of each is far from varying with the 
 hours of the day. He need only conform to the changes of the 
 seasons, and model his appearance by the laws of ostentation, in 
 public, and by those of ease in the intervals of solitude. These 
 principles are common to both sexes. Small is the portion of 
 morality or taste, that is displayed by either, but in this, as in 
 most other cases, the conduct of the females is the least faulty. 
 But of all infractions of decorum, we should deem the assum- 
 ing of the dress of one sex by those of the other, as the most 
 flagrant. It so rarely happens, that I do not remember to have 
 witnessed a single metamorphosis, except perhaps on the stage, 
 and even there a female cannot evince a more egregious negli- 
 gence of reputation than by personating a man. 
 
 " All this, replied my friend, is so strange as to be almost 
 incredible. Why beings of the same nature, inhabiting the 
 same spot, and accessible to the same influences, should exhibit 
 such preposterous differences is wonderful. It is not possible 
 that these modes should be equally commodious or graceful. 
 Custom may account for the continuance, but not for the origin 
 of manners. 
 
 " The wonder that you express, said I, is in its turn a sub- 
 ject of surprise to me. What you now say, induces me to ex- 
 pect that among you, women and men are more similarly treat- 
 ed than elsewhere. But this to me, is so singular a spectacle, 
 that I long to hear it more minutely described by you, and to 
 witness it myself. 
 
 " If you remain long enough among us you will not want 
 the opportunity. I hope you will find that every one receives 
 that portion which is due to him, and since a diversity of sex 
 cannot possibly make any essential difference in the claims and 
 duties of reasonable beings, this difterence will never be found. 
 But you call upon me for descriptions. With what hues shall I 
 delineate the scene ? I have exhibited as distinctly as possible 
 the equity that governs us. Its maxims are of various appli- 
 
83 
 
 cation. They regulate our conduct, not only to each other, but 
 to the tribes of insects and birds. Every thing is to be treated 
 as capable of happiness itself, or as instrumental to the happiness 
 of others. 
 
 " But since the sexual differences is something, said I, and 
 since you are not guilty of the error of treating different things 
 as if they were the same, doubtless in your conduct towards 
 each other, the consideration of sex is of some weight. 
 
 *' Undoubtedly. A species of conduct is incumbent upon men 
 and women towards each other on certain occasions, that can- 
 not take place between man and man ; or between women and 
 women. I may properly supply my son with a razor to re- 
 move superfluous hairs from his chin, but I may with no less 
 propriety forbear to furnish my daughter with this impliment, be- 
 cause nature has denied her a beard ; but all this is so evident 
 that I cannot but indulge a smile at the formality with which 
 you state it. 
 
 " But, said I, it is the nature and extent of this difference of 
 treatment that I want to knoAv. 
 
 " Be explicit my good friend. Do you want a physiological 
 dissertation on this subject or not .'' If you do, excuse me from 
 performing the task, I am unequal to it. 
 
 " No. But I will try to explain myself, what for example is 
 the difference which takes place in the education of the two 
 sexes ? 
 
 " There is no possible ground for difference. Nourishment 
 is imparted and received in the same way. Their organs of 
 digestion and secretion are the same. There is one diet, one 
 regimen, one mode and degree of exercise, best adapted to un- 
 fold the powers of the human body, and maintain them for the 
 longest time in full vigour. One individual may be affected by 
 some casualty or disease, so as to claim to be treated in a man- 
 ner different from another individual, but this difference is not 
 necessarily connected with sex. Neither sex is exempt from in- 
 jury, contracted through their own ignorance, or that of others. 
 Doubtless the sound woman and the sick man it would be mad- 
 ness to subject to the same tasks, or the same regimen. But this 
 is no less true if both be of the same sex. Diseases, on which- 
 soever they fall, are curable by the same meians. 
 
84 
 
 " Human beings in their infancy, continued my friend, require 
 the same tendance and instruction : but does one sex require 
 more or less, or a different sort of tendance or instruction than 
 the other ? Certainly not. If by any fatal delusion, one sex 
 should imagine its interest to consist in the ill treatment of the 
 other, time would soon detect their mistake. For how is the 
 species to be continued ? How is a woman, for example, to ob- 
 tain a sound body, and impart it to her offspring, but, among 
 other sources, from the perfect constitution of both her parents ? 
 But it is needless to argue on a supposition so incredible as that 
 mankind can be benefitted by injustice and oppression. 
 
 " Would we render the limbs supple, vigorous and active ? 
 And are there two modes equally efficacious of attaining this 
 end ? Must we suppose that one sex will find this end of less 
 value than the other, or the means suitable to its attainment dif- 
 ferent ? It cannot be supposed. 
 
 " We are born with faculties that enable us to impart and re- 
 ceive happiness. There is one species of discipline, better 
 adapted than any other to open and improve those faculties. 
 This mode is to be practised. All are to be furnished with 
 the means of instruction, whether these consist in the direct 
 commerce of the senses with the material universe, or in inter- 
 course with other intelligent beings. It is requisite to know the 
 reasonings, actions and opinions of others, if we seek the im- 
 provement of our own understanding. For this end we must 
 see them, and talk widi them if present, or if distant or dead, 
 we must consult these memorials which have been contrived by 
 themselves or others. These are simple and intelligible max- 
 ims proper to regulate our treatment of rational beings. The 
 onlv circumstance to which we are bound to attend is that the 
 subjects of instruction be rational. If any one observe that the 
 consideration of sex is of some moment, how must his remark 
 be understood. Would he insinuate that because niy sex is 
 different from yours, one of us only can be treated as rational, 
 or that though reason be a property of both, one of us possesses 
 less of it than the other. I am not born among a people who can 
 countenance so monstrous a doctrine. 
 
 " No two persons are entitled in the strictest sense, to the 
 same treatment, because «o two can be precisely alike. All 
 
85 
 
 the possibilities and shades of difference, no human capacity can 
 estimate. Observation will point out some of the more consi- 
 derable sources of variety. Man is a progressive being, he is 
 wise in proportion to the number of his ideas, and to the accura- 
 cy with which he compares and arranges them. These ideas are 
 received through the inlets of his senses. They must be suc- 
 cessively received. The objects which suggest them, must be 
 present. There must be time for observation. Hence the dif- 
 ference is, in some degree, uniform between the old and the 
 young. Between those, the sphere of whose observation has 
 been limited, and those whose circle is extensive. Such causes 
 as these of difference are no less incident to one sex than to 
 the other. The career of both commences in childhood and 
 ignorance. How far and how swiftly they may proceed before 
 their steps are arrested by disease, or death, is to be inferred 
 from a knowledge of their circumstances : such as betide them 
 simply as individuals. 
 
 " It would, perhaps, be unreasonable to affirm that the circum- 
 stance of sex affects in no degree the train of ideas in the mind. 
 It is not possible that any circumstance, however trivial, should 
 be totally without mental influence ; but we may safely affirm that 
 this circumstance is indeed trivial, and its consequences, there- 
 fore, unimportant. It is inferior to most other incidents of hu- 
 man existence, and to those which are necessarily incident to 
 both sexes. He that resides among hills, is a different mortal 
 from him that dwells on a plain. Subterranean darkness, or the 
 seclusion of a valley, suggest ideas of a kind different from those 
 that occur to us on the airy verge of a promontory, and in the 
 neighbourhood of roaring waters. The influence on my cha- 
 racter which flows from my age, from the number and quality 
 of my associates, from the nature of my dwelling place, as sultry 
 or cold, fertile or barren, level or diversified, the art that I cul- 
 tivate, the extent or frequency of my excursions cannot be of 
 small moment. In comparison with this, the qualities which are 
 to be ascribed to my sex are unworthy of being mentioned. No 
 doubt my character is in some degree tinged by it, but the tinge 
 is inexpressibly small. 
 
 " You give me leave to conclude then, said I, that the sante 
 method of education is pursued with regard to both sexes ? 
 
86 
 
 " Certainly, returned my jjhilosophcr. Men possess powers 
 that may be drawn forth and improved by exercise and discipline. 
 Let them be so, says om' system. It contents itself with pre- 
 scribing certain general rules to all that bear the appellation of hu- 
 man. It permits all to refresh and invigorate their frames by 
 frequenting the purest streams and the pleasantest fields, and by 
 practising those gestures and evolutions that tend to make us ro- 
 bust and agile. It admits the young to the assemblies of their 
 elders, and exhorts the elder to instruct the young. It multi- 
 plies the avenues, and facilitates the access to knowledge. Con- 
 versations, books, instruments, specimens of the productions of 
 art and nature, haunts of meditation, and public halls, liberal 
 propensities and leisure, it is the genius of our system to create, 
 multiply, and place within the reach of all. It is far from crea- 
 tion, and debasing its views, by distinguishing those who dwell 
 on the shore from those that inhabit the hills ; the beings whom 
 a cold temperature has bleached, from those that are embrowned 
 by an hot. 
 
 " But different persons, said I, have different employments. 
 Skill cannot be obtained in them without a regular course of 
 instruction. Each sex has, I doubt not, paths of its own into 
 which the others must not intrude. Hence must arise a differ- 
 ence in their education. 
 
 " Who has taught you, replied he, that each sex must have pe- 
 culiar employments ? Your doubts and your conjectures are 
 equally amazing. One would imagine that among you, one sex 
 nad more arms, or legs, or senses than the other. 'Among us 
 there is no such inequality. The principles that direct us in the 
 choice of occupations are common to all. 
 
 " Pray tell me, said I, what these principles are. 
 
 " They are abundantly obvious. There are some tasks which 
 are equally incumbent upon all. These demand no more skill 
 and strength than is possessed by all. Men must provide them- 
 selves by their own eflbrts with food, clothing and shelter. As 
 long as they live together there is a duty obliging them to join 
 their skill and their exertions for the common benefit. A cer- 
 tain portion of labour will suppl)' the needs of all. This portion 
 then must be divided among all. Each one must acquire and 
 exert the skill which this portion requires. But this skill and 
 
87 
 
 this strength are found by experience to be moderate and easily 
 attained. To plant maize, to construct an arch, to weave a gar- 
 ment, are no such arduous employments but that all who have 
 emerged from the infirmity and ignorance of childhood, may con- 
 tribute their efforts to the performance. 
 
 " But besides occupations which are thus of immediate and 
 universal utilit}-, there is an infinite variety of' others. The 
 most exquisite of all calamities, results from a vacant mind and 
 unoccupied limbs. The highest pleasure demands the cease- 
 less activity of both. To enjov this pleasure it is requisite to 
 find some other occupation of our time, beside those which are 
 enjoined by the physical necessities of our nature. Among 
 these there is ample room for choice. The motives that may 
 influence us in this choice, are endless. I shall not undertake 
 to enumerate them. You can be at no loss to conceive them 
 without my assistance : but whether they be solitary or social, 
 whether speech or books, or observation, or experiment be the 
 medium of instruction, there can be nothing in the distinction 
 of sex to influence our determinations, or this influence is so in- 
 considerable as not to be worth mention. 
 
 " What, cried I, are all obliged to partake of all the labours 
 of tilling the ground, without distinction of rank and sex ? 
 
 " Certainly. There are none that fail to consume some por- 
 tion of the product of the ground. To exempt any from a share 
 in the cultivation, would be an inexpiable injustice, both to those 
 who are exempted and those who are not exempted. The ex- 
 ercise is cheerful and wholesome. Its purpose is just and ne- 
 cessan,-. Who shall dare to deny me a p?»rt in it? But we 
 know full well that the task, which, if divided among many, is 
 easy and salubrious, is converted into painful and unwholesome 
 drudgery, by being confined to a sex, what phrenzy must that 
 be which should prompt us to introduce a change in this respect ? 
 I cannot even imagine so great a perversion of the understand- 
 ing. Common madness is unequal to so monstrous a concep- 
 tion. We must first not only cease to be reasonable, but cease 
 to be men. Even that supposition is insufficient, for into what 
 class of animals must we sink, before this injustice could be rea- 
 lized r Among beasts there are none who do not owe their ac- 
 commodations to their own exertions. 
 
88 
 
 " Food is no less requisite to one sex than to the other. As 
 the necessity of food, so the duty of providing it is common. 
 15 ut the reason why I am to share in the labour, is not merely 
 because I am to share in the fruits. I am a being guided by 
 reason and susceptible of happiness. So are other men. It is 
 therefore a privilege that I cannot relinquish, to promote and 
 contemplate the happiness of others. After the cravings of ne- 
 cessity are satisfied, it remains for me, by a new application of 
 mv powers, to enlarge the pleasures of existence. The inlets to 
 this pleasure are numberless. What can prompt us to take from 
 any the power of choosing among these, or to incapacitate him 
 from choosing with judgment. The greater the number of 
 those who are employed in administering to pleasure, the greater 
 will be the product. Since both sexes partake of this capacity, 
 what possible reasons can there be for limiting or precluding the 
 efforts of either ? 
 
 "What I conceive to be unjust, may yet be otherwise; but 
 my actions will conform to my opinions. If j'ou would alter 
 the former, you must previously introduce a change into the lat- 
 ter. I know the opiaions of my countrymen. The tenor of 
 their actions will conform to their notions of right. Can the 
 tim.e ever come, will the power ever arise, that shall teach them 
 to endure the oppression of Injustice themselves, or inflict it upon 
 others? No. 
 
 " But in my opinion, said I, the frame of women is too deli- 
 cate, their limbs too minute for rough and toilsome occupations. 
 I would rather confme them to employments more congenial to 
 the female elements of softness and beauty. 
 
 "You would rather, would you? I will suppose you sincere, 
 and inquire how you would expect to obtain their consent to 
 your scheme. 
 
 "The sentiments, said I, of a single individual, would avail 
 nothing. But if all the males should agree to prescribe their 
 cmplo\ments to women — 
 
 " What then ? interrupted my friend. There are but two me- 
 thods of effecting this end — by force or by persuasion. With re- 
 spect to force we cannot suppose human beings capable of it, for 
 any moral purpose ; but supposing them capable, we would 
 scarcclv resort to force, while our opponents are equal in num- 
 
89 
 
 ber, strength and skill to ourselves. The efficacy of persuasion 
 is equally chimerical. That frailty of mind which should make 
 a part of mankind willing to take upon themselves a double por- 
 tion of the labour, and to convert what is pleasurable exercise to 
 all, into a source of pain and misery to. a tew. But these are vain 
 speculations, let us dismiss them from our notice. 
 
 " Willingly, said I, we will dismiss these topics for the sake 
 of one more important. 
 
 " 1 presume then, said I, there is such a thing as marriage 
 among you. 
 
 " I do not understand the term. 
 
 *' I use it to express that relation which subsists between two 
 human beings in consequence of difference of sex. 
 
 " You puzzle me exceedingly, returned he. You question me 
 as to the existence of that concerning v/hich it is impossible for 
 you to be ignorant. You cannot at this age be a stranger to the 
 origin of human existence. 
 
 "When I had gotten thus far in my narrative, I paused. 
 Mrs. Carter still continued to favour me with her attention. 
 On observing mj' silence she desired me to proceed. 
 
 " I presume, said she, your supernatural conductor allowed 
 you to finish the conversation. To snatch you away just now, 
 in the very midst of your subject, would be doing you and me 
 likewise a very unacceptable office. 1 beseech you go on with 
 the discourse. 
 
 " It may not be proper, answered I. This is a topic on which, 
 strange to tell, we cannot discourse in the same terms before eve- 
 ry audience. The remainder of our conversation decorum 
 would not perhaps forbid you to read, but it prohibits you from 
 hearing. If you wish it, I will give you the substance of the 
 information I collected on this topic in writing. 
 
 " What is improper to be said in mv hearing, said the lady, 
 it should seem was no less improper to be knowingly addressed 
 to me by the pen. 
 
 "Then, said I, you do not assent to my offer. 
 
 " Nay, I do not refuse my assent. I merely object to the dis- 
 tinction, that you have raised. There are many things impro- 
 per to be uttered, or written, or to be read, or listened to, out 
 the impropriety methinks must adhere to the sentiments them- 
 
 12 
 
90 
 
 selves, and not result from the condition of the author or his 
 audience. 
 
 " Are these your real sentiments ? 
 
 "Without doubt. But they appear not to be yours. How- 
 ever write what you please, I promise you to read it, and to in- 
 form you of my opinion respecting it. Your scheme, I suspect, 
 will not be what is commonly called marriage, but something in 
 your opinion, better. This footing is a dubious one. Take 
 care, it is difficult to touch without overstepping the verge. 
 
 *' Your caution is reasonable. I believe silence will be the 
 safest. You will excuse me therefore from taking up the pen 
 on this occasion. The ground you say, and I believe, is peri- 
 lous. It will be most prudent to avoid it. 
 
 " As you please, but remember that though I may not ap- 
 prove of what you write, j-our silence I shall approve still less. 
 If it be false, it will enable me at least to know you, and I shall 
 thereby obtain an opportunity of correcting your mistakes. 
 Neither of these purposes are trivial. Are you not aware that 
 no future declaration of yours will be more unfavourable than 
 what you have just said, that silence will be most safe. You 
 are afraid no doubt, of shocking too greatly my prejudices j but 
 you err. I am certainly prepossessed in favour of the system of 
 marriage, but the strength of this prepossession will appear only 
 in the ardour of my compassion for contrary opinions, and the 
 eagerness of my endeavours to remove them. 
 
 " You would condescend then, said I, to reason on the sub- 
 ject, as if it were possible that marriage was an erroneous in- 
 stitution ; as if it were possible that any one could seriously 
 maintain it to be, without entitling himself to the imputation of 
 the lowest profligacy. Most women would think that the op- 
 ponent of marriage, either assumed the character for the most 
 odious and selfish purposes, and could therefore only deserve to 
 be treated as an assassin : to be detested and shunned, or if he 
 were sincere in his monstrous faith, that all efforts to correct his 
 mistakes would avail nothing with respect to the patient, but 
 might endanger the physician by exposing her to the illusions oi 
 sophistry or the contagion of passion. 
 
 " I am not one of these, said the lady. The lowest stupidit} 
 only can seek its safety in shutting its ears. We may call that 
 
91 
 
 sophistry, which having previously heard, it fails to produce 
 conviction. Yet sophistry perhaps implies not merely fallacious 
 reasoning, but a fallaciousness of which the reasoner himself is 
 apprised. If so, few charges ought to be made with more cau- 
 tion. But nothing can exceed the weakness that prevents us 
 from attending to what is going to be urged against our opi- 
 nions, merely from the persuasion that what is adverse to our 
 preconceptions must be false. Yet there are examples of this 
 folly among Our acquaintance. You are wrong, said I lately to 
 one of these, if you will suffer me, I will convince you of your 
 error. You may save yourself the trouble, she answered. You 
 may torment me with doubts, but why, when I see the truth 
 clearly already, should I risque the involving of it in obscurity ? 
 I repeat, I am not of this class. Force is to be resisted by force, 
 or eluded by flight : but he that argues, whatever be his motives, 
 should be encountered with argument. He cannot commit a 
 greater error than to urge topics, the insufiiciency of which is 
 known to himself. To demonstrate this error is as worthy of 
 truth as any other province. To sophistry, in any sense of the 
 term, the proper antidote is argument. Give me leave to take 
 so much interest in your welfare, as to desire to see your er- 
 rors corrected, and to contribute what is in my power to that 
 end. If I know myself so well as sometimes to listen to others 
 in the hope of profiting by their superior knowledge or sagacity, 
 permit me likewise to be just to myself in other respects, and to 
 believe myself capable sometimes of pointing out his mistakes to 
 another. 
 
 " You seem, said I, to think it certain that we differ in opinion 
 upon this topic. 
 
 " No. I merely suspect that we do. A class of reasoners 
 has lately arisen, who aim at the deepest foundation of civil so- 
 ciety. Their addresses to the understanding have been urged 
 with no despicable skill. But this was insufficient, it was neces- 
 sary to subdue our incredulity, as to the effects of their new max- 
 ims, by exhibiting those effects in detail, and winning our assent 
 to their truth by engrossing the fancy and charming the affections. 
 The journey that you have lately made, I merely regard as an 
 excursion into their visionary world. I can trace the argument 
 of the parts which you have unfolded, with those which are yet 
 
92 
 
 to come, and can pretty well conjecture of what hues, and lines, 
 and figures, the remainder of tiie picture is intended to consist. 
 
 "'[hen, said I, the task that I enjoined on myself is superflu- 
 ous. You are apprised of all that I mean to sav on the topic of 
 marriage, and have already laid in an ample stock of disappro- 
 bation for my service. 
 
 " I frankly confess that I expect not to approve the matter of 
 vour narrative, however pleased I may be with the manner. 
 Nevertheless I wish you to execute your first design, that I may 
 be able to unveil the fallacv of your opinions, and rescue one 
 whom I have no reason to disrespect, from specious but fatal il- 
 lusions. 
 
 " Your purpose is kind. It entitles you at least to my thanks. 
 Yet to say truth, I did' not at first despair of your confidence with 
 me in some of mv opinions. I imagined that some of the evils 
 of marriage had not escaped you. I recollect that during our 
 last conversation, you arraigned with great earnestness the in- 
 justice of condemning women to obey the will, and depend upon 
 the bounty of father or husband. 
 
 " Come, come, interrupted the lady, with a severer aspect, if 
 you mean to preserve my good opinion, you must tread on this 
 ground with more caution. Remember the atrociousness of the 
 charge you would insinuate. What! Because a just indignation 
 at the iniquities that are hourly committed on one half of the 
 human species rises in my heart, because I vindicate the plain- 
 est dictates of justice, and am willing to rescue so large a portion 
 of human-kind, from so destructive a bondage: a bondage not 
 only of the hands, but of the understanding ; which divests them 
 of all those energies which distinguish men from the basest ani- 
 mals, destroys all perception of moral rectitude, and reduces its 
 subjects to so calamitous a state, that thev adore the tyranny 
 that rears its crest over them, and kiss the hand that loads them 
 with ignominy ! When I demand an equality of conditions 
 among beings that equally partake of the same divine reason, 
 would you rashly infer that I was an enemy to the institution of 
 marriage itself? Where shall we look for human beings who 
 svirpass all others in depravity and wretchedness? Are they not 
 to be found in the haunts of female licentiousness. If their vice 
 admits of a darker hue, it would recei^■e it from the circumstance 
 
95 
 
 of their being dissolute by theoiy ; of their modelling voluptu- 
 ousness into a speculative system. Yet this is the charge you 
 would make upon me. You would brand me as an enemy to 
 marriage, not in the sense that a vestal, or widow, or chaste, but 
 deserted maid is an enemy ; not even in that sense in which the 
 abandoned victims of poverty and temptation are enemies, but 
 in the sense of that detestable philosophy which scoffs at the ma- 
 trimonial institution itself, which denies all its pretensions to 
 sanctit}', which consigns us to the guidance of a sensual impulse, 
 and treats as phantastic or chimericui, the sacred charities of 
 husband, son, and brother. Beware. Imputations of this kind 
 are more fatal in the consequences than you may be able to con- 
 ceive. They cannot be indifferent to me. In drawing such in- 
 ferences, you would hardly be justified by the most disinterested 
 intentions. 
 
 " Such inferences, my dear Madam, it is far from my inten- 
 tion to draw. I cannot but think your alarms unnecessary. II I 
 am an enemy to marriage far be it from me to be the champion 
 of sensuality. I know the sacredness of this word in the opinions 
 of mankind; I know how liable to be misunderstood are the ef- 
 forts of him who should labour to explode it. But still, is it not 
 possible to define with so much perspicuity, and distinguish with 
 so much accuracy as to preclude all possibility of mistake : I be- 
 lieve this possible. I deem it easy to justify the insinuation that 
 you yourself are desirous of subverting the marriage state. 
 
 " Proceed, said the lady. Men are at liberty to annex to words 
 what meaning they think proper. What should hinder you, if you 
 so please, from saying that snow is of the deepest black ? Words 
 are arbitrary. The idea that others annex to the word black, you 
 are at liberty to transfer to the word white. But in the use of this 
 privilege you must make your account in not being understood, 
 and in reversing all the purposes of language. 
 
 " Well, said I, that is yet to appear. Meanwhile, I pray you, 
 what are your objections to the present system ? 
 
 '' My objections are weighty ones. I disapprove of it, in the 
 first place, because it renders the female a slave to the man. It 
 enjoins and enforces submission on her part to the will of her hus- 
 band. It includes a promise of implicit obedience and unaltera- 
 ble affection. Secondly, it leaves the woman destitute of proper- 
 
94 
 
 ty. Whatever she previously possesses, belongs absolutely to the 
 man. 
 
 " This representation seems not to be a faithful one, said I, 
 Marriage leaves the wife without property, you say. How comes 
 it then that she is able to subsist ? You will answer, perhaps, that 
 her sole dependence is placed upon the bounty of her husband. 
 But this is surely an error. It is by virtue of express laws that all 
 property subsists. But the same laws sanction the title of a wife 
 to a subsistence proportioned to the estate of her husband. But if 
 law were silent, custom would enforce this claim. The husband 
 is in reality nothing but a steward. He is bound to make provi- 
 sion for his wife, proportionately to the extent of his own reve- 
 nue. This is a practical truth, of which every woman is sensible. 
 It is this that renders the riches of an husband a consideration of 
 so much moment in the eye of a prudent woman. To select a 
 wealthy partner is universally considered as the certain means of 
 enriching ourselves, not less when the object of our choice is an 
 husband than when it is a wife. 
 
 ** Notwithstanding all this, said the lady, you will not pretend 
 to affirm that marriage renders the property common. 
 
 " May 1 not truly assert, rejoined I, that the wife is legally en- 
 titled to her maintenance ? 
 
 Yes, she is entitled to food, raiment, and shelter, if her hus- 
 band can supply them. Suppose a man in possession of five thou- 
 sand pounds a year : from this the wife is entitled to mainte- 
 nance : but how shall the remainder be administered ? Is not the 
 power of the husband, over this, absolute ? Cannot he reduce 
 himself to poverty to-morrow ? She may claim a certain portion 
 of what she has, but he may, at his own pleasure, divest himself 
 of all that he has. He may expend it on what purposes he pleas- 
 es. It is his own, and, for the use of it, he is responsible to no 
 tribunal ; but in reality, this pompous claim of his wife amounts, 
 in most cases, to nothing. It is the discretion of the husband that 
 must decide, as to the kind and quantity of that provision. He 
 may be niggardly or prodigal, according to the suggestions of his 
 own caprice. He may hasten to poverty himself, or he may live, 
 and compel his partner to live, in the midst of wealth as if he 
 were labouring under extreme indigence. In neither case has the 
 wife anv rcmedv. 
 
95 
 
 " But recollect, my good friend, the husband Is commonly the 
 original proprietor. Has the wife a just claim to that which, be- 
 fore marriage, belonged to her spouse ? 
 
 " Certainly not. Nor is it less true that the husband has no 
 just claim to that which, previously to marriage, belonged to the 
 wife. If property were, in all respects, justly administered, if 
 patrimonies were equally divided among offspring, and if the va- 
 rious avenues that lead to the possession of property were equal- 
 ly accessible to both sexes, it would be found as frequently and 
 extensively vested in one son as in the other. Marriage is pro- 
 ductive of no consequences which justify the transfer of what ei- 
 ther previously possessed to the other. The idea of common pro- 
 perty is absurd and pernicious ; but even this is better than po- 
 verty and dependence to which the present system subjects the 
 female. 
 
 " But, said I, it is not to be forgotten that the household is 
 common. One dwelling, one table, one set of servants mayjustly 
 be sustained by a single fund. This fund may be managed by 
 common consent. No particle of expense may accrue without the 
 concurrence of both parties, but if there be a difference of opini- 
 on, some one must ultimately decide. Why should not this be 
 the husband ? You will say that this would be unjust. I answer 
 that, since it is necessary that power should be vested in one or 
 the other the injustice is inevitable. An opposite procedure 
 would not diminish it. If this necessary power of deciding in 
 cases of disagreement were lodged in the wife, the injustice 
 would remain. 
 
 " But a common fund and a common dwelling is superfluous. 
 Why is marriage to condemn two human beings to dwell under 
 the same roof and to eat at the same table, and to be served by 
 the same domestics ? This circumstance alone is the source of in- 
 numerable ills. Familiarity is the sure destroyer of reverence. 
 All the bickerings and dissentions of a married life flow from no 
 other source than that of too frequent communication. How dif- 
 ficult is it to introduce harmony of sentiment, even on topics of 
 importance, between two persons ? But this difficulty is increased 
 in proportion to the number and frequency, and the connection 
 with our private and personal deportment of those topics. 
 
96 
 
 " If two persons are condemned to cohabitation, there must 
 doubtless be mutual accommodation. But let us understand this 
 term. No one can sacrifice his opinions. What is incumbent up- 
 on him, in certain cases, is only to forbear doing what he esteems 
 to be right. Now that situation is most eligible in which we are 
 at libei-ty to conform to the dictates of our judgment. Situations 
 of a different kind will frequently occur in human life. INIany of 
 them exist without any necessity. Such, in its present state, i* 
 matrimony. 
 
 " Since an exact agreement of opinions is impossible, and since 
 the intimate and constant intercourse of a married life requires 
 either that the parties should agree in their opinions, or that one 
 should forego his own resolutions, what is the consequence ? 
 Controversies will incessantly arise, and must be decided. If ar- 
 gument be insufficient, recourse must be had to legal authoritv, 
 to brute force, or servile artifices, or to that supez'stition that has 
 bound itself by a promise to obey. These might be endured if 
 tliey were the necessary attendants of marriage ; but they are 
 spurious additions. Marriage is a sacred institution, but it would 
 argue the most pitiful stupidity to imagine that all those circum- 
 stances which accident and custom have annexed to it are like- 
 wise sacred. Marriage is sacred, but iniquitous laws, by making 
 ita compact of slavery, by imposing impracticable conditions and 
 extorting impious promises have, in most countries, converted it 
 into something flagitious and hateful. 
 
 " But the marriage promises, said I, amount to this, that the 
 parties shall love each other till deatli. Would you impose no re- 
 straint on wayward inclinations ? Shall this contract subsist no 
 longer than suits the wishes of either party ? Would you grant, 
 supposing you exalted into a law-giver, an unlimited power of 
 divorces ? 
 
 " Without the least doubt. What shadow of justice is there in 
 restraining mankind in this particular. My liberty is precious, 
 but of all the ways in which my lil)erty can be infringed, and my 
 actions be subjected to force, heaven deliver me from this species 
 of constraint. It is impossible to do justice to mv feelings on this 
 occasion. Olferme any alternative, condemn me to the workshop 
 of an Egyptian task-master, imprison me in chains of darkness, 
 tear mc into pieces, subject me to the endless repetition of toil and 
 
97 
 
 ♦tripes and contumelies, but allow me, I beseech you, the liberty, 
 at least, of conjugal choice. If you prohibit my intercourse with 
 one on whom my heart dotes, I shall not repine, the injury is in- 
 expressibly trivial. There is scarcely an inconvenience that will 
 be worth enduring for the sake of this prohibited good. My 
 resources must be few, indeed, if they do not afford me consola- 
 tion under this injustice. But if you subject me to the controul 
 and the nauseous caresses of one whom I hate, or despise, you 
 indeed inflict a calamity which nothing can compensate. There 
 is no form which your injustice can assume more detestable and 
 ugly than this. 
 
 " According to present modes, the servitude of wives is the 
 most entire and unremitting. She lays aside her fetters not for a 
 moment. Thei-e is not an action, however minute, in which her 
 tyrant does not assume the power of prescribing. His eyes are 
 eternally upon her. There is no period, however short, in which 
 she is exempt from his cognizance ; no recess, however sacred 
 or mysterious, into which he does not intrude. She cannot che- 
 rish the friendship of a human being without his consent. She 
 cannot dispense a charitable farthing without his connivance. 
 The beings who owe their existence to her, are fashioned by his 
 sole and despotic will. All their dignity and happiness is lodged 
 in the hands that superintend their education and prescribe their 
 conduct during the important periods of infancy and youth. But 
 how they shall exist, what shall be taught, and what shall be 
 withholden from them, what precepts they shall hear, and what 
 examples they shall contemplate, it is his province to decide. 
 
 " An husband is proposed to me. I ruminate on these facts. 
 I ponder on this great question. Shall I retain my liberty or 
 not ? Perhaps the evils of my present situation, the pressure of 
 poverty, the misjudging rule of a father, or the rare qualities of 
 him who is proposed to me, the advantages of change of place or 
 increase of fortune, may outweigh the evils of this state. Perhaps 
 I rely on the wisdom of my partner. I am assured that he jvill, 
 in all cases, trust to nothing but the force of reason ; that his ar- 
 guments will always convince, or his candour be accessible to con- 
 viction ; that he will never make his appeal to personal or legal 
 coersion, but allow me the dominion of my own conduct when he 
 
 ir> 
 
98 
 
 cannot persuade me to compliance with his wishes. These conjr 
 s.iderations may induce me to embrace the offer, 
 
 " If I am not deceived ; if no inauspicious revolution take 
 place in his character ; if circumstances undergo no material al- 
 teration J if I continue to love and to confide as at the first, it is 
 well. I cannot object to a perpetual alliance, provided it be vo- 
 lontary. There is nothing, in a choice of this kind, that shall ne- 
 cessarily cause it to expire. This alliance will be durable in pro- 
 portion to the wisdom with which it was formed, and the fore- 
 sight that was exerted. 
 
 " But if a change take place, if I were deceived, and find inso- 
 lence and peevishness, rigour and command, where I expected 
 nothing but sweet equality and unalterable complaisance ; or if 
 the character be changed, if time introduce new modes of think- 
 ing and new systems of action to which my understanding refuses 
 to assimilate, what is the consequence ? Shall I not revoke my 
 choice ? 
 
 "The hardships of constraint in this respect are peculiarly se- 
 vere upon the female. Her's is the task of submission. In every 
 case of disagreement it is she that must yield. The man still re- 
 tains, in a great degree, his independence. In the choice of his 
 abode, his occupations, his associates, his tasks and his pleasures, 
 he is guided by his own judgment. The conduct of his wife, the 
 treatment of her offspring, and the administration of her property 
 are consigned to him. All the evils of constraint are aggravated 
 by the present system. But if the system were reformed, if the 
 duties of marriage extended to nothing but occasional interviews 
 and personal fidelity, if each retained power over their own ac- 
 tions in all cases not immediatel\' connected with the sensual in- 
 tercourse, the obligation to maintain this intercourse, after prcfei*- 
 cnce had ceased, would be eminently evil. Less so, indeed, than 
 in the present state of marriage, but still it would be fertile in mi- 
 sery. Have you any objections to this conclusion ? 
 
 " I cannot say that I have many. You know what is common- 
 ly urged in questions of this kind. Men, in civil society are, in 
 most cases, subjected to a choice of evils. That which is injuri- 
 ous to one, or a few individuals, may yet be beneficial to the 
 whole. In an estimate, sufficiently comprehensive, the good may 
 overweigh the ill. You have drawn a forcible picture of the in- 
 
99 
 
 conveniences attending the prohibition of divorces. Perhr.ps it 
 entire hberty in this respect were granted, the effects might con- 
 stitute a scene unspeakably more disastrous than any thing hi- 
 therto conceived. 
 
 *' As how, I pray you ? 
 
 *' Men endeavour to adhere with a good grace to a contract 
 which they cannot infringe. That which is commonly termed 
 love is a vagrant and wayward principle. It pretends to spurn 
 at those bounds which decorum and necessity prescribe to it, 
 and yet, at the same time, is tamely and rigidly observant of 
 those bounds. Phis passion commonly betides us when we have 
 previously reasoned ourselves into the belief of the propriety of 
 entertaining it. It seldom visits us but at the sober invitation of 
 our judgment. It speedily takes its leave when its presence be- 
 comes uneasy, and its gratification ineligible or impossible. Youth 
 and beauty, it is said, have a tendency to excite this passion, but 
 suppose those qualities are discovered in a sister, what becomes 
 of this tendency ? Suppose the possession to be already a wife. 
 If chance place us near an object of uncommon loveliness and 
 we are impressed with a notion that she is single and disenga- 
 ged, our hearts may be in some danger. But suppose better in- 
 formation has precluded this mistake, or that it is immediately 
 rectified, the danger in most cases, is at an end. I am married 
 and have no power to dissolve the contract. Will this considera- 
 tion have no power over my sensations in the presence of a stran- 
 ger ? If care, accomplishments, and inimitable loveliness attract 
 my notice, after my lot is decided, and chained me to one, with 
 whom the comparison is disadvantageous, I may indulge a faint 
 wish that my destiny had otherwise decreed ; a momentary sigh 
 at the irrevocableness of my choice, but my regrets will instantly 
 vanish. Recollecting that my fate is indeed decided, and my lot 
 truly irrevocable, I become cheerful and calm. 
 
 " It is true that harmony cannot be expected to subsist for ever 
 and in every minute instance between two persons, but how far 
 will the consciousness that the ill is without remedy, and the con- 
 dition of affairs unchangeable, tend to foster affection and gene- 
 rate mutual compliance. Human beings are distinguished by no- 
 thing more than by a propensity to imitation. They contract af- 
 fection and resemblance with those persons or objects that arc 
 
100 
 
 placed near them. I'he force of habit, in this respect, is admira- 
 ble. Even inanimate objects become, through the influence of 
 this principle, necessary to our happiness. They that are constant 
 companions fail not to become, in most respects, alike, and to be 
 linked together by the perception of this likeness. Their modes 
 of acting and thinking might, at first, have jarred, but these modes 
 are not in their own nature, immutable. The benefits of concur- 
 rence, the inconveniences of opposition, and the opportunities of 
 comparing and weighing the grounds of their differences cannot 
 be supposed to be without some tendency to produce resemblance 
 and sympathy. 
 
 " This is plausible, said the lady, but what is your aim in sta- 
 ting these remarks ? Do you mean by them to extenuate the evils 
 that arise from restraining divorces ? 
 
 " If they contribute to that end, answered I, it is proper to 
 urge them. They promote a good purpose. Your picture was 
 so terrible that I am willing to employ any expedient for soften- 
 ing its hues. 
 
 " If it were just, you ought to have admitted its justice. We 
 sec the causes of these evils. They admit of an obvious remedy. 
 A change in the opinions of a nation is all that is requisite for 
 this end. But let us excunine your pleas, or rather, instead of 
 reasoning on the subject, let us turn our ejes on the world and 
 its scenes, and mark the eflfect of this spirit by which human be- 
 ings arc prompted to adopt the opinions, and dote upon the pre- 
 sence of those whom accident has placed beside them. It would 
 be absurd to deny all influence to habit and all force to reflections 
 upon the incurableness of the evil, but what is the"efl"ect they 
 produce .' In numberless cases the married life is a scene of 
 perpetual contention and strife. A transient observer frequent- 
 ly perceives this, but in cases where appearances are more spe- 
 cious, he that has an opportunity to penetrate the veil which 
 bangs over the domestic scene, is often disgusted with a specta- 
 cle j^f varied an'd exquisite misery. Nothing is to be found but 
 a disgusting train of mean compliances, despicable artifices, pe- 
 vishness, recriminations and falsehood. It is rare that fortitude 
 and consideration are exercised by either party. Their misery 
 is heightened by impatience and tprmenting recollections, but 
 the few whose minds are capable of fortitude, who estimate the 
 
101 
 
 evil at its just value, and profit by the portion of good, whatever 
 it be, that remains to thein, experience indeed, sensations less 
 acute, and pass fewer moments of bitterness ; but it is from the 
 imhappy that patience is demanded. This virtue does not anni- 
 hilate the evil that oppresses us, but lightens it. It does not de- 
 stroy in us the consciousness of privileges of which we are desti- 
 tute, or of joys which have taken their flight. Its office is to pre- 
 vent these reflections from leading us to rage and despair ; to 
 make us look upon lost happiness without relapsing into phrenzy; 
 to establish in our bosoms the empire of cold and solemn indif- 
 ference. 
 
 " If the exercise of reason and the enjoyment of liberty be va- 
 luable ; if the eff'usions of genuine sympathy and the adherence 
 to an unbiassed and enlightened choice, be the true element of 
 man, what shall we think of that harmony which is the result of 
 narrow views and that sympathy which is the ofl'spring of con- 
 straint ? 
 
 " I know that love, as it is commonly understood, is an empty 
 and capricious passion. It is a sensual attachment which, when 
 unaccompanied with higher regards, is truly contemptible. Tt> 
 thwart it is often to destroy it, and sometimes, to qualify the vic- 
 tims of its delusions for Bedlam. In the majority of cases it is 
 nothing but a miserable project of affectation. The hmguishing 
 and sighing lover is an object to which the errors of mankind 
 have annexed a certain degree of reverence. Misery is our title 
 to compassion, and to men of limited capacities the most deli- 
 cious potion that can be administered is pity. For the sake of 
 this, hundreds are annually metamorphosed into lovers. It is 
 graceful to languish with an hopeless passion ; to court the mu- 
 sic of sighs and the secrecy of groves. But it is to be hoped that 
 these chimeras will, at length, take their leaVe of us. 
 
 *' In proportion as men become wise, their pursuits will be 
 judiciously selected, and that which they have wisely chosen will 
 continue for a certain period, to be the objects of their choice. 
 Conjugal fidelity and constancy will characteri/.e the wise. But 
 constancy is meritorious only within certain limits. What re- 
 verence is due to groundless and obstinate attachments ? It be- 
 comes me to make the best choice that circumstances will ad- 
 mit, but human affairs will never be reduced to that state in 
 
102 ■ 
 
 which the decisions of the wisest man will be immutable. Al- 
 lowance must be made for inevitable changes of situation, and 
 for the nature of man, which is essentially progressive : That is 
 evil which hinders him from conforming to these changes, and 
 restrains him from the exercise of his judgment. 
 
 *' Let it be admitted that love is easily extinguished by re- 
 flection. Does it follow that he ought to be controuled in the 
 choice of his companion ? Your observations imply, that he that 
 is now married to one woman, would attach himself to 
 another, if the law did not interpose. Where are the benefits 
 of interposition ? Does it increase the happiness of him that is 
 affected by it ? Will its succour be invoked by his present con- 
 sort? That a man continues to associate with me contrary to his 
 judgment and inclination is no subject of congratulation. If law 
 or force obliged him to endure my society, it does not compel 
 him to feig-n esteem, or dissemble hatred or indifference. If the 
 heart of my husband be estranged from me, I may possibly re- 
 gard it as an evil. If in consequence of this estrangement, 
 we separate our persons and interests, this is a desirable conse- 
 quence. This is the only palliation of which the evil is sus- 
 ceptible. 
 
 " It cannot be denied that certain inconveniences result 
 from the disunion of a married pair, according to the present 
 system. You have justly observed that men are reduced, in 
 most cases, to a choice of evils. Some evils are unavoidable. 
 Others are gratuitous and wantonly incurred. The chief evils 
 flowing from the dissolution of marriage, are incident to the 
 female. This happens in consequence of the iniquitous and 
 partial treatment to which women in general are subjected. If 
 marriage were freed from all spurious obligations, the inconve- 
 niences, attending the dissolution of it, would be reduced to 
 nothing. 
 
 " What tliink you, said I, of the duty we owe to our children. 
 Is not their happiness materially affected by this species of liberty ? 
 
 "I cannot perceive how. I would, however, be rightly un- 
 derstood. I confess that, according to the present system, it 
 would, and hence arises a new objection to this system. The 
 children suffer, but do their sufferings, even in the present state 
 of things, outweigh the evils resulting from the impossibility of 
 
103 
 
 separation ? The evil that the parents endure, and tlie evils ac- 
 cruing to the offspring themselves ? 
 
 *' If children stand in need of the guidance and protection of 
 their elders, and particularly of their parents, it ought to be 
 granted. The parental relation continues notwithstanding a di- 
 vorce. Though they have ceased to be husband and wife to each 
 other, they have not ceased to be father and mother to me. 
 My claims on them are the same, and as forcible as ever. The 
 ties by which they are bound to me, are not diminished by this 
 event. My claim for subsistence is made upon their property. 
 But this accident does not annihilate their property. If it im- 
 poverish one, the other is proportionably enriched. There is the 
 same inclination and power to answer my claim: The judgment 
 that consulted for my happiness and decided for me, before their 
 separation, is no whit altered or lessened. On the contrary, it is 
 most likely to be improved. When relieved from the task of 
 tormenting each other, and no longer exposed to bickerings and 
 disappointment, they become better qualified for any disinterested 
 or arduous office. 
 
 " But what effects, said I, may be expected from the removal 
 of this restraint, upon the morals of the people ? It seems to open 
 a door to licentiousness and profligacy. If marriages can be dis- 
 solved and contracted at pleasure, will not every one deliver 
 himself up to the impulse of a lawless appetite ? Would not changes 
 be incessant? All chastity of mind perhaps, would perish. A ge- 
 neral corruption of manners would ensue, and this vice would 
 pave the way for the admission of a thousand others, till the 
 whole nation were sunk into a state of the lowest degeneracy. 
 
 " Pray thee, cried the lady, leave this topic of declamation to 
 the school boys — Liberty, in this respect, would eminently con- 
 duce to the happiness of mankind. A partial reformation would 
 be insufficient. Set marriage on a right basis, and the pest that 
 has hitherto made itself an inmate of every house, and ravaged 
 every man's peace, will be exterminated. The servitude that has 
 debased one half of the tyranny that has depraved the other half 
 of the human species will be at an end. 
 
 " And with all those objections to the present regulations on 
 this subject, you will still maintain that you are an advocate of 
 marriage i i 
 
104 
 
 " Undoubtedly I retain the term, and am justified by common 
 usage in retaining it. No one imagines that the lorais which law 
 or custom, in a particular age or nation, may happen to annex to 
 marriage are essential to it, if lawgivers should enlarge the pri- 
 vilege of divorce, and new modify the; rights of property, as they 
 are affected by marriage. Should they ordain that henceforth 
 the husband should vow obedience to the wife, in place of the 
 former vow which the wife made to the husliand, or entirely 
 prohibit promises of any kind ; should they expunge from the 
 catalogue of conjugal duties that which confines them to the same 
 dwelling, who would imagine that the institution itself were sub- 
 verted ? In the east, conjugal servitude has ever been more abso- 
 lute than with us, and polygam}' legally established. Yet, who 
 will affirm that marriage is unknown in the east. Every one 
 knows that regulations respecting property, domestic govern- 
 ment, and the causes of divorce are incident to this state, and do 
 not constitute its essence. 
 
 " I shall assent, said I, to the truth of this statement. Per- 
 haps i may be disposed to adventure a few steps further than you. 
 It appears to me that marriage has no ether criterion than custoin. 
 This term is descriptive of that mode of sexual intercourse, 
 whatever it mav be, which custom or law has established in 
 any coimtry. All the modifications of this intercourse that have 
 ever existed, or can be supposed to exist, are so many species 
 included in the general term. The question that we have been 
 discussing is no other than this : what species of marriage is most 
 agreeable to justice — Or, in other words, what are the princi- 
 ples that ought to regulate the sexual intercourse ? It is not likely 
 that any portion of mankind have reduced these principles to 
 practice. Hence arises a second question of the highest mo- 
 ment: what conduct is incumbent upon me, when the species of 
 marriage established among my countrymen, does not conform 
 to my notions of duty. 
 
 " That indeed, returned she, is going further then I am wil- 
 ling to accompany you. There are many conceivable modes of 
 sexual intercourse on which I cannot bestow the appellation of 
 mhrriage. There is something which inseparably belongs to it. 
 It is not imallowable to call by this name a state which compre- 
 hends, together with these ingredients, any number of append- 
 
105 
 
 • 
 ages. But to call a state which wants these Ingredients mar- 
 riage, appears to me a perversion of language. 
 
 *' I pry'thee, said I, what are these ingredients ? You have 
 largely expatiated on the non-essentials of matrimony : Be good 
 enough to say what truly belongs to this state ? 
 
 " Willingly, answered she. Marriage is an unioti founded 
 on free and mutual consent. It cannot exist without friend- 
 ship. It cannot exist without personal fidelity. As soon as 
 the union ceases to be spontaneoas it ceases to be just. This 
 is the sum. If I were to talk for months, I could add nothing 
 to the completeness of this definitionr" 
 
 The gentleman before mentioned remarks thus on the above 
 dialogue : It was deemed proper to give a full and front view 
 of such speculations, to show the arguments which ingenious 
 sophistrj' might urge against any existing establishment, and at 
 the same time, how little mankind will be benefitted by the 
 substitute recommended as a cure for such evils. That imper- 
 fection is written on the features of humanity is certainly a dis- 
 covery which has no claim to novelty. If we consider the ope- 
 ration of a law merely to discover what instances of partial in- 
 justice may arise, and overlook all the benefits resulting from 
 its adoption, nothing is easier than to point out such defects. 
 With the aid of eloquence nothing is easier than to represent 
 such defects of gigantic magnitude, and sufficiently forcible 
 the)' may be thought to warrant the repeal of such a law. But 
 when such ingenuity is pressed upon this point to provide a 
 substitute for what it demolishes, it commonly terminates in an 
 evil tenfold more alarming than what has been so violently de- 
 claimed against. The misery of such speculations is, that their 
 projectors do not see the end of their own arguments. The 
 sanctity of the matrimonial tie, may give rise to instances of 
 partial injustice and oppression for which the law has provided 
 a remedy. If these instances are urged as valid objections 
 against matrimony, they may be made to appear formidable and 
 convincing ; but the alternative proposed is, indiscriminate in- 
 tercourse. It is made dependent on the will of the parties, 
 their caprices, their jealousies and their antipathies, pea'^onable 
 
 14 * 
 
106 
 • 
 
 or unreasonable, which they themselves would be the first to 
 
 condemn afterwards, when they shall unite and when they shall 
 
 sep.'rafe. 
 
 Had the proposition thus advanced by this writer been stated 
 to him as a substitute for the ceremonial solemnities now in use, 
 he would have been the first to have anathematized the introduc- 
 tion of such dangerous novelties. He would have rejected the 
 amendment to the matrimonial code at once, for none entertained 
 higher ideas of the sanctity of such obligations, than this very 
 author. But following his own speculations, intent only on find- 
 ing fault with existing establishments, in order to make himself 
 consistent in the sequel, he is compelled to plunge headlong 
 into the very difficulty he Avould have wished most sedulously to 
 avoid. Such is the fate of those who let speculation loose with- 
 out discretion. They are compelled to justify what in heart 
 they tibhor, and to defend enormities that shock their moral 
 sense, before they are conscious of their being pressed into such 
 service. It is now too late to retreat, and the error must be 
 fairly brazened out, or what is still worse, it must be - 
 admitted by the speculatists themselves, that they harboured 
 wrong ideas on the subject. It is curious to observe how the 
 zeal of Charles in this inquiry relaxes, as soon as he states the 
 substitute. He feels the press of the difficulty, and not knowing 
 how to abandon the subject in the first place, or to maintain it in 
 the next, abruptly concludes his argument altogether. 
 
 This silence, this guardedness, this expressive caution, intro- 
 duced at the very moment that the author is about substituting 
 a remedy for all the evils, which he declaims so eloquently 
 against, is perhaps the best comment on the impracticability of his 
 amendment. The author seems to abandon his own project in 
 disgust, and while he is, when writing, forcibly impressed with 
 the miseries attending our present mode of solemnizing the 
 matrimonial rite, he seems equally convinced that it is better to 
 tolerate than to adopt the alternative, which he himself proposes. 
 On this subject, where it might be supposed he should lay out 
 his whole strength, he shrinks from the investigation, and dreads 
 the consequences that result. The substitute which he did thus 
 propose, in all probability convinced the author himself of the 
 sophistry of his own arguments. 
 
107 
 
 Of this treatise Mr. Brown remarks in his journal, " I have 
 completed a third and fourth parts of the dialogue of Alcuin, 
 in which the topic of marriage is discussed with some degree 
 of subtlety at least." 
 
 He then goes on to speak of a romance which he began at 
 this time, but never finished. 
 
 " When this was finished, I commenced something in the 
 form of a Romance. I had at first no definitive conceptions of 
 my design. As my pen proceeded forward, my invention was 
 tasked, and the materials that it afforded were arranged and 
 digested. Fortunately I continued to view this scheme in the 
 same light in which it had at first presented itself. Time there- 
 fore did not diminish its attractions. The facility I experienc- 
 ed in composition, and the perception of daily progress en- 
 couraged me, and my task was finished on the last day of De- 
 cember. 
 
 , *' I hardly know how to regard this exploit. Is it a resptec- 
 table proof of perseverance or not ? Considering my character 
 in its former appearances, this steadiness of application might 
 not have been expected. What is the nature or merit of my 
 performance ? This question is not for me to answer. My de- 
 cision is favourable or otherwise, according to the views which 
 I take of the subject. When a mental comparison is made 
 between this and the mass of novels, 1 am inclined to be pleas- 
 ed with my own production. But when the objects of compa- 
 rison are changed, and I revolve the transcendant merits of 
 Caleb Williams, my pleasure is diminished, and is preserved 
 from a total extinction only by the reflection that thisjerform- 
 ance is the first. That every new attempt will be better than 
 the last, and that considered in the light of a prelude or first 
 link, it may merit that praise to which it may possess no claim, 
 considered as a last best creation. 
 
 *' It was at first written in an hasty and inaccurate way. Be- 
 fore I can submit it to a printer, or even satifactorily rehearse it 
 to a friend, it must be wholly transcribed. I am at present en- 
 gaged in this employment. I am afraid, as much time will be 
 required by it, as was necessary to the original composition. I 
 
108 
 
 do not fear but that I shall finish my labour, barring all extra- 
 ordinary accidents." 
 
 This work, of which the author speaks so slightingly, now 
 remains in an unfinished state, and has never seen the press. 
 The reader may be gratified by extracts. It is done in the 
 mode of familar correspondence between two feigned characters. 
 
 *' Cannot you come to me Jessy ? I want you much. I long 
 for you. Nay, I cannot do without you ; so, at all events, you 
 must come. That is no objection, my dear, for methinks I hear 
 you plead, good glrl,;as you are, your mother's infirmities. I tell 
 you that is no objection; she can spare you for a week or two 
 surely : at least, a day or two. She will not miss you for so short 
 a time. Besides, Jessy, do not be partial. Recollect you have 
 a friend as well as a mother, and some attention is due to the first 
 as well as the last ; and I want you more than your mother can 
 want you. You will be of more service to me than to her ; quite 
 as much, at any rate. 1 have a better, or an equal claim to have 
 you with me altogether ; but you see I urge not my claim, and I 
 hope you will give me some credit for moderation. I do not ask 
 you to come and sta}' with me constantly, but a week or two, at 
 this delightful season, I must have. 
 
 " And this I ask for your sake, as well as my own : Nay, for 
 your mother's sake I ask it ; for has she no interest in your gra- 
 tification ? Has she not a direct, and even a selfish interest in 
 your health ; and does not your health as well as your pleasure 
 CiJl for some respite from household and chamber duties? These 
 sweet airs, and this lively green, a twilight walk with me under 
 these tall elms ; a cessation of all your cares and trials for a week 
 or fortnight, or month — your health would be Improved; your 
 spirits recruited, and you would return to her bed-side ten time9 
 more able than you now are to nurse and amuse her. 
 
 " It must be so, Jessy ; and now, that point being settled, when 
 will you come ? Name the hour, and Tom shall call for you. 
 
 " Would it were so, sweet Jessy, but for all I am so peremp- 
 tory and positive, I fear that I shall not prevail on you to give me 
 a single hour of your company here. Have I not, before now, 
 besought you to come ; have I not called on you, on purpose, 
 and, with the carriage at the door, with footman by, and steps 
 
109 
 
 down, ready to receive you, argued and intreated in vain ? In 
 truth, Jessy, thou art an obstinate girl. More than once has 
 your strange attachment to home made me half angry with you; 
 and more than half displeased, if you now refuse, shall I be. I 
 shall quarrel with you outright — I believe. 
 
 " To no purpose, I fear, shall I reason with you ; yet, upon 
 my life, Jessy, I think I have the better cause. Your friend 
 stands quite as much in need of your fostering kindness and your 
 wisdom as your mother. Nay, I firmly believe, that if there 
 were scales to weigh your usefulness respectively to her and to 
 me, my scale would prove the heavier. Can I not convince you 
 of it ? Conviction is all you want, and if I could but convince 
 you I should have you here in a trice. Shall I try ? I xvilly but 
 no. I w'lWnot. Have I not already tried ; ineffectually tried ? 
 
 *' You do not love me, Jessy. That is the secret cause of your 
 reluctance. You are not just to me : you are not — gratefuL 
 Forgive me, sweet girl. 1 have not forgotten how this imputa- 
 tion once affected you. What excuse then can I make for repeat- 
 ing it now ? Why do I ask your pardon ? Yet I know that plac- 
 able spirit will grant my petition for guilt a thousand times worse. 
 
 " If you will come, all shall be well. I will get the summer- 
 house in order, on purpose. You shall dine, sup and sleep with 
 me alone. I will have you all to myself. So come, begs, prays, 
 intreats your 
 
 SOPHIA. 
 
 " I am almost afraid to write you, in my present humour. I 
 would not, methinks, have you know how passionate I can be : 
 yet let sincerity, at least, be my virtue. Let me not pass on vou 
 for better than I am. 
 
 *' You have taught me, indeed, not to be afraid of vou. So 
 prompt as you always are to forgive, to palliate, or overlook mv 
 faults. My own heart reproaches me, but your lips distil no- 
 thing but sweetness. No fount of bitterness is that heart. And 
 hence I suppose my unreserve to you. I cannot bear reproach- 
 es from another. The less can I bear them if I deserve them. 
 Contempt, surely, I deserve, but, nevertheless, I would not be 
 contemned. I cannot bear contempt, Jessy : and so my actions 
 I hide ; my feelings I disguise, to all the world — but you j for 
 
110 
 
 you echo not back my self-censure. INIy frankest avowals call 
 not forth your scorn : nothing but soothing praise do you ever 
 whisper in my ear. 
 
 " Yet how is it ? You do not seem to see my conduct as I see 
 it: you reason and feel in a different manner in relation to my 
 own errors. Yet this difference brings not your sagacity into 
 question with me. It creates no doubt as to your discernment. 
 Nay, so far from weakening, it carries higher my Reverence. I 
 would fain know how all this happens, Jessy. 
 
 ** Your own conduct too ! so unlike my follies and caprices ? 
 conveys so strong, though indirect, a censure of mine ! opensjuy 
 , eyes still wider on my own defects ! makes me still more despise 
 myself! more uneasy in my own reflections. 
 
 *< At times I am angry with you ! I deal in ungenerous re- 
 proaches ! but your gentle heart is never responsive to such dis- 
 cords. My fits of impatience, so absurd, so inexcusable in my 
 own eyes, trouble 30U not. How they lower me in my own 
 estimation ! Yet, strange to tell, by some inconceivable adroit- 
 .ness, you extract from them new motives for tenderness and gra- 
 titude, and yet lower not yourself; only raise yourself higher 
 in the scale of excellence, and in my veneration. 
 
 " Truly, truly, thou art an admirable creature, Jessy, and I 
 love thee, that I do. A friend ! Till this age, and till I knew 
 thee, I never had a friend, and never shall have another, of ei- 
 ther sex ; for surely the world contains not such another crea- 
 ture as thou : at least, in the form of ma7i. Single then, Jessy, 
 shall I ever be ; for he whom I marry must be mof e than lover : 
 he must be my friend. 
 
 " Less perfect thou, less placable ; less unreproachable ; I 
 should not bear thee near me. I should disdainfully and angrily 
 cast thee away. But now that thy words soothe, while thy con- 
 duct only upbraids me : that humiliation, though increased by 
 reviewing thy deportment, is properly my own act. I can love 
 thee with a pure, may I not say with a generous aflection. 
 
 *' But now, what has become of the peevish and reproachful 
 humour in which I began this letter ? Have I talked it, have I 
 reasoned it away ? It is certainly — much abated. Not quite 
 disappeared however. I am yet a little displeased with you. 
 Shall I give way to, or struggle against the impulse — to scold 
 
Ill 
 
 you for— unfriendliness — for ingratitude ? 
 
 *' After such representations, I really think, Jessy, you might 
 have come, for a day or two at least, if merely to evince a dis- 
 position to oblige me. The same disposition on my part, has 
 not been wanting. All I wanted was ability. And that from 
 your perverseness, not the slightest boon from me will you 
 alloAV to contaminate your hand. 
 
 " This refusal is obstinate, is proud in you, Jessy — but my 
 passion is again at work. " I must lay down my pen. I shall 
 only expose myself to your compassion. , 
 
 *' How little am I fit for a world like this. So full of dis- 
 appointment and vicissitude. Two or three hours, when all 
 nature was smiling upon me, have I been the prey of vexation. 
 Resentful, sullen and unhappy! 
 
 " I saw the carriage coming up the avenue empty. I allowed 
 my desires, and not my reason to dictate my expectations. So 
 I set my whole heart upon your coming back v/ith Tom. 
 
 <* Tom brought me the letter. I snatched it from him, and re- 
 solved to disburthen my heart somewhere — What kept you so 
 long, saunterer? Creeping, creeping; were you trying legs with 
 a snail! 
 
 " Why Madam ! a snail, Madam, said the simpleton, confused 
 and at a loss what to say. 
 
 " My conscience rebuked me. Well, well (in a softer accent) 
 go thy ways, and make more haste in future. 
 
 " I read thy letter cursorily. It hushed not my tumultuous 
 feelings. I went to the harpsichord — Let me try, said I, what 
 music will do. But attention was refractory and vagrant, and 
 I dashed both hands upon an half score keys at once — '< Stub- 
 bom things ! never in tune for three minutgs together." 
 
 " I went to my closet. Thomson's Seasons was the volume. 
 Let me try the poet by the only sure test. " Let nae look at na- 
 ture and at him by turns." But it would not answer. No 
 salutary occupation had charms for me, who had planned out 
 walks of conversations with you, for the remainder of the day. 
 
 " I'll walk by myself, and read her letter again "on the bench 
 under the bank." 
 
112 
 
 ** It was an hard struggle, and demanded several readings of 
 
 thy letter, to lull myself into any degree of complacency. Thus 
 
 Jessy, do I lay open before thee, the frail, very frail heart of 
 
 thy friend. Think well of it, think better of it than I do, or 
 
 ' I shall not know how to bear my own reflections. 
 
 *' How is it, with such difference between us, that we are 
 friends ? In what respect am I like you ? In every point we are 
 contrary. In fortune, in external condition, how opposite ! 
 You, just above naked, hungering, unsheltered poverty : but 
 not above the necessity of toiling with your hands for bread. 
 Not exempt from menial, servile offices. I rolling in aflluence, 
 not raising an hand for any other end than my amusement, 
 leaving to others the most trifling personal offices. 
 
 " You, passing your life, under a low roof, in a dirty and 
 obscure suburb, supplying the ceaseless wants of an old, infirm 
 and blind mother, who requires hourly attendance, and will not 
 allow you to consult your recreation or health, by a day's ab- 
 sence from her chamber, once a year. I moving about, in a 
 circuit of a thousand miles, at my own pleasure, as the whim of 
 the moment instigates, always in the enjoyment of lightsome 
 halls, and lofty ceilings, and wide prospects. 
 
 "You, lonely, unobserved, unvisited, untalked about, an object 
 to the hurry of forgetfulness, to the frown of scorn. I with the 
 casual advantages of fortune, and birth, wooed, flattered and 
 caressed by hundreds, placed uppermost at banquets, balls and 
 visits. 
 
 " Thus far the undiscerning and vulgar will suppose that I 
 have the advantage, but let the effects of our different situations 
 in our respective characters be marked, and the advantage will 
 no longer be given to me. 
 
 " With all the means of happiness, I have it not, but whose 
 thoughts are more cheerful, whose days are more serene than 
 those of Jessica. She is a meek, quiet and humble creature, 
 while I am arrogant, restless, captious, always looking foward 
 with despondency, backward with regret. Jessy, in her hum- 
 ble riphere, is constantly promoting the comforts and enjoyments 
 of two beings, and derives happiness herself from the success 
 of her efforts, while I, with all appliances and mcana ta i§»i. 
 
115 
 
 live neither to my own content, nor to the ordinary satisfaction 
 of another. 
 
 " Shall I carry farther the comparison ? In form, in features, 
 in stature, we have nothing in common, our education has been 
 different. All these showy arts and graces which a master can 
 teach are mine. You have none of them. INIy father has en- 
 deavoured to make me a writer and reader. For this end he 
 has furnished me with rules and set before me models, and I 
 believe they have profitted me something, but how little, with 
 my languid resolution, and fickle temper, have they contributed 
 to my happiness. 
 
 " Jessy, on the contrary, is mistress of no elegance, music, 
 elocution, painting, embroidery are none of hers. She knows 
 nothing but the basting and hemming needle, and leaves to 
 others the imitation of flowers and faces, while she accommo- 
 dates her own and her neighbour's wants, with worsted stockings 
 and russet petticoats. 
 
 " Having passed her youth among people nowise bookish, she 
 lias little or nothing of that sort of knowledge that books give 
 us. Reading is a task to her full of tediousness and difficulty. 
 
 " While Sophia is prating in a gay circle, charming an 
 audience by a lesson of Scarlette, reading some descriptive part, 
 lolling on a sopha, or musing in an orange grove, Jessy is plying 
 the laborious needle in her sorry chamber ; kindling sticks be- 
 neath a tea kettle, sweeping cobwebs from a cellar ceiling, or 
 dressing her helpless mother. What a difference ! Yet, that 
 the interval between us should thus, in some sense, have dis- 
 appeared ; that I should have found thee out in thy unpromising 
 obscurit)', and have fallen in love with thy unostentatious merit, 
 and that Jessy should lay those scruples aside, that interfere so 
 much to keep at distance, persons in our situation, and given me 
 her love in return, are all veiy strange things. 
 
 " Ah ! Jessy, since the little ciosses to mv humour that I 
 meet with have such effects upon iny temper, how should I have 
 behaved, if fortune had placed me in thy situation ? I sometimes 
 feign to myself the consequences of such a change, of descending 
 from this ease, this luxury, this homage, this idleness, to such 
 a fixed, absurd, monotonous and servile condition as thine is. 
 In not one particular can I conceive that my conduct, in such 
 
 15 
 
114 
 
 SL change, would resemble thine. Quicklj' would my keen 
 regret, my mortified disdain, my humiliating drudgery kill me, 
 and the contrast between thee and me, at present so complete, 
 would be no less so in the change that I have supposed. 
 
 " I expected, when I sat down to write, to work myself gra- 
 dually into better humour, and it has happened so. I forgive 
 thee, Jessy, for the pain thy refusal of my invitation has given 
 me ; but only on one condition ; that you make me some amends 
 by writing often. There is no duty, I presume, to prevent that. 
 That you will not come, proves indeed, that you love mother 
 better than me, but that you do not write, and write frequently, 
 will prove that you have not the least affection for your 
 
 SOPHIA. 
 
 " 'Tis true, my friend, Courtland offered me his vows, but 
 at a time when my heart was still rent with anguish, when my 
 tears still flowed for the death of my sister. 
 
 " At another time and now perhaps, it is possible ; for he is 
 an excellent man. I could almost love him for his treatment of 
 his mother, and is he not my brother's friend? Besides, his 
 conduct has been uniformly generous. He knew well what a 
 strenuous, what an irresistible advocate he might have had in 
 my brother, but he forbore, at my petition indeed, to intimate 
 his wishes ; and this forbearance, in some sense, served his 
 cause with me. 
 
 I think, Sophia, that I want not generosit}-, I v/ant not power 
 to discern and to value true merit ; Courtland is one whom I 
 always revered, and whom now, that I am somewhat relieved 
 from afflicting recollections, 1 might, perhaps, if his former 
 views should return. 
 
 " From you, Sophia, I will hide no emotion of my heart, I 
 rely upon your honour and your delicac}-. It is impossible that 
 you should make an unwarrantable use of this confession. And 
 yet, I should never have made it, even to you, if I did not know 
 that Courtland's views with regard to me can never revive. His 
 affections have since been disjwscd of to one here far more wor- 
 thy than the humble Jessy. 
 
115 
 
 " Nay, methlnks, I could almost wish him to know my pre- 
 sent thoughts. Surely they are innocent thoughts. Not to have 
 them, how obdurate, how blameably insensible would that prove 
 me to be ? And if I have, and ought to have them, why not own 
 them frankly ? To my brother, to him, to every bodv. 
 
 " Heaven is my witness, that my unacceptance of his offers 
 flowed not from pride, from stupidity, but only from regard to 
 him and you. I am wrong, in the assertion, I believe. It xvas 
 from pride, the pride I took in vieing with him in generosity. 
 For who was I, to be beloved by so noble and enlightened a 
 spirit as Courtland, poor portionless girl as I was, ignorant, 
 illiterate, without any of the gay embellishments and witching 
 graces that conscious merit and an opulent condition bestowed, 
 and which Courtland used to meet with in his places of gay 
 resort, his brilliant circles ? 
 
 " Was I to look down upon this man, so much older and con- 
 sequently so much wiser than I ? Such graceful humanity, so 
 sweet an aspect as he had ! No, I was not worthy of him. I 
 told him so, and wept when I told him so. My grief was no 
 common grief, but sprung only from belief of my unworthiness. 
 
 " But do not mistake me Sophia, I did not love Courdand 
 then, nor do I love him now. It was because I did not love 
 him that I grieved. Love would have made up all deficiencies, 
 but if I married, I should have carried to his arms every thing 
 indeed, gratitude, reverence, but not love ; and what but 
 love could have made me worthy of Courtland? What else 
 could drive from my remembrance the image of my sister ? At 
 least, what else could hinder this from engrossing too much of 
 my thoughts. What else could give me the ability together with 
 the zeal for knowledge, which in time, might bring me nearer to 
 the level, and more entitle me to the respect of such a man ? 
 
 " Mcthinks, Sophia, this passion would work surprising 
 changes in such creatures as thou and I. Yet let me apply the 
 remark only to myself. As to my Sophia, she is already every 
 thing that love could make her. Where my sweet friend, gettest 
 thou thy looks, and thy tones? It is inconceivable how any one 
 can be in your company, and not love. But men in general I 
 suspect, area gi-ovelling, sordid and perverse mod; else they 
 could not, so many of them have seen, have seen my Julia with 
 
116 
 
 indifference ; for you tell me that no one ever loved you, but 
 that by the way, I do not quite believe. 
 
 " But ah ! I have found out the cause. You do not talk and 
 look to every one as you do to me, especially to men. You 
 turn aside those blue eyes, or glance at them austerely, as who 
 should say, " thou art mj^ enemy." Yes, yes, that must be the 
 cause, to be sure. What a simpleton was I to miss it so long. 
 
 " And yet, Sophia, I dare say if the truth were known, every 
 heart has not been callous. For all your guarded looks and cir- 
 cumspect attitudes, many a one, I doubt not, sighs in secret for 
 my friend. And she knows it too, I warrant, but she is so 
 scrupulous a judge. With her all is not love that sighs, nor will 
 she own it to exist in any heart, which she deigns not to admit 
 to fellowship with her own. And truly thou art right my friend, 
 lie cannot love you as he ought, who is not your peer in merit, 
 and wiiere are we to hunt for one gifted so divinely as my Julia i 
 
 " Will you pardon me ? I was going to mention o?ie. Ru- 
 mour was very busy with your names, and the tale wanted not 
 plausibility. I scrupled not to believe all that was said, nor to 
 wish much more. Your delicacy has, I suppose, made you 
 silent to me, and I ought not to be talkative ; yet the spell is on 
 me and I 7nnst talk. For what do I take up my pen, but to tell 
 you all my thoughts ? and have not I, but now, set you the ex- 
 ample of this very sort of ingenuousness ? 
 
 " They say, Sophia, that Courdand was in love with you. 
 yet not till after his failure with me, and how surprising is that, 
 since he grew up under the same roof with you, and must have 
 seen you without disguise and so intimately. But why say I 
 that his love for me went before ? 
 
 " His conduct spoke differently. He was no doubt so long 
 withheld by disinterested regards, but they at last yielded, as 
 they ought to do, to consciousness of merit. So he wrote to 
 your fiither, it seems, stating his hopes, yet like me who scarcely 
 hoped, and was prepared to return fidelity and gratitude, even 
 if refused. It was an admirable letter. 
 
 " Indeed ! why, you have not seen it, have you ? 
 
 " I have, or something that pretended to be it. Courtland 
 shoAved a copy to my brother before it was sent, and your father 
 showed what he received to some friends, and so rumour got 
 
117 
 
 speedy hold of it. I need not say more, for without doubt you 
 know the whole affair, and now that you see I know something 
 of it, will you oblige me by telling me all ? And here I will break 
 off, to give you opportunity. Adieu. 
 
 " Were it not for this pathetic earnestness I should think you 
 in jest. Can it be that the story is absolutely new to you ? 
 
 " I fear then I was wrong in mentioning it to you at all. Alas I 
 how easily, how undesignedly, may one do wrong. 
 
 " But you call on me for particulars. I had better suppress 
 them, I think, but that I suppose is to be cautious too late. So 
 I will even tell you, as well as I can recollect them, the contents 
 of this letter. Indeed I recollect them perfectly, and will give 
 them to you, word for word. These are they. 
 
 " I am greatly at a loss in what manner to address you, even 
 now, that repeated trials have convinced me, that my subject 
 can only be discussed in a letter. 
 
 " Never I trust shall I forget the obligations which I owe to 
 your generosity. All that I am, my education, my character, 
 my fortune, I owe entirely to you. These benefits, perhaps, a 
 different mind would labour to forget, and it would be still 
 more natural to avoid adding to their number, but as to me, I 
 think I may venture to affirm that I never shall forget them. 
 
 " In v.'hat terms shall I offer a proposal, by your assent to 
 which, all former obligations, great as they are, will be un- 
 speakably surpassed, though by your rejecting it, they will be 
 nowise diminished ! 
 
 " When I reflect upon the beauty, accomplishments and fea- 
 tures of your daughter, and upon my own defects, I am prompted 
 to bury my aspiring thoughts in oblivion, since should your con- 
 sent to my seeking her favour be obtained, what slender hopes 
 can I have of success in my application to her, and would it not 
 be unv.ise and rash to risk exciting your indignation, for a 
 purpose which should I be so happy as to gain vour consent, may 
 
il8 
 
 still have insuperable obstacles to encounter, in the pre-occupled 
 affections, or invincible indifference of the lady herself? 
 
 " I should not be a man, however, I should not deserve that 
 rank in your good opinion which I have hitherto possessed, if 
 I did not somewhat trust to my own integrity, if I did not 
 ascribe to myself that merit which lies chiefly in discerning and 
 revering another's excellence, and that gratitude which is ready 
 to devote all my life, in return for the preference of a virtuous 
 woman. 
 
 " I intreat you to believe that this request is not founded on 
 any the slightest proof that your daughter regards me in any 
 other light than as her father's friend. Need I say that I have 
 scrupulously avoided making myself an interest in her heart ? 
 Since to do this, .before I had gained her father's promises would 
 be equally inconsistent with my sense of justice, with my gra- 
 titude to you, and with my regard for the happiness of the young 
 lady herself. 
 
 " I cannot say more, but that, however you decide upon this 
 occasion, or any other in which heaven may give you power 
 over my happiness, I will not question the rectitude of that de- 
 cision, nor will it be possible for me to be any other than your 
 grateful and affectionate 
 
 " What have 1 done my Julia. I am almost frighted at my- 
 self. Fearful, very fearful am I, that I have done wrong. 
 
 " Having heard something of this kind whispered, I took my 
 brother to task. I knew he was master of all Courtland's se- 
 crets. So my brother, after some hesitation on his side, and 
 m^uch importunity on mine, showed mc this letter, and now have 
 I showed it to you. 
 
 " You maj'^ suppose how anxious I was to know the answer. 
 I knew you then only by repute, but what a character for sense, 
 beauty and accomplishments was yours. And deeply as I re- 
 \ered Courtland, could I help fervently praying for his success ? 
 This was your father's reply. 
 
 " You will perceive Courtland, that I need not comment upon 
 your letter, after I have told you that my daughter considers 
 
119 
 
 herself, and that all my family considers her as actually betroth- 
 ed to her cousin Watkins, who has been a few years in Europe, 
 and whom we now expect shortly to i-eturn to solemnize his 
 marriage. I will only add, that I wish he may possess in all 
 respects, a character similar to yours : I shall then as truly re- 
 joice in my son-in-law, as I now do in my friend. 
 
 L. F. 
 
 " And now, let me repeat, what has your Jessy done ? Surely 
 had I thought you ignorant of this aifair, I should never have 
 mentioned it. There were, indeed no motives for your father's 
 disclosing it to you, but since he mentioned it to others, it was 
 natural to suppose that he had made it no secret with any body, 
 or at least that the rumour, which must first have sprung up 
 somewhere in your own family, had reached )'ou. 
 
 " I was always afraid till now of mentioning any thing of this 
 to you. You set me an example of reserve which I thought it 
 became me faithfully to follow. This engagement with your 
 cousin too, I dared not to hint at it, without some encourage- 
 ment from you to do so. And yet, communicative as you were 
 to me, in all your most intimate concerns, and professing to 
 hide nothing of the least moment that had ever befallen you, and 
 thinking it impossible that affairs of this kind, so important and' 
 so recent too, should be forgotten, I knew not how to think. 
 
 *' What unhappy misapprehensions sometimes occur? You 
 cannot imagine in how many ways I tried to account for, and 
 excuse what I could not but think a breach of sincerity in my 
 Julia. 
 
 " But are you not, indeed, my Julia, as your father has asserted, 
 actually betrothed to your cousin? He said you were, that you 
 and all your family considered it as a positive engagement. I 
 should be deeply grieved if this disclosure should involve you in 
 anj^ perplexity, yet what ill consequences can it produce ? 
 
 " Are you serious, Sophia ? Can you indeed, think so lightlv 
 of tlie filial duties, your father you say has no right to dictate your 
 marriage choice ! A dubious and dangerous opinion, beleive me 
 my friend : reconsider this subject, I beseech you remember the 
 sacred injunction to those who decide for another. Put yourself 
 beforehand in that other's place. Before you determine on a 
 
120 
 
 parent's claims, recollect yourself a moment, and imagine that 
 you are the parent. 
 
 " And so, it seems, this conduct of Courtland, which I so 
 much admired for its magnanimity, does him injury in your 
 opinion. Being shortly independent in fortune, and a woman in 
 age, you think it became him to treat you as a being imder self- 
 controul only. 
 
 " How different, indeed, did he treat me, on a similar occa- 
 sion. He knew that my brother would zealously concur with his 
 wishes, as soon as they were made known ; and would, perhaps, 
 second them with his injunctions or remonstrances, but he dis- 
 dained to owe success to any thing but his own merits, and ge- 
 nerously spared me all that pain which could not fail to follow 
 my repugnance to my brother's will, or my compliance with it. 
 
 " With regard to you, he sought, and surely could expect no- 
 thing from your father but his permission to address you. Had 
 he been your equal in birth, fortune and the like ; had he been 
 bound to your family by no personal obligations, he might, with- 
 out impropriety have treated you as he treated me ; but this, as 
 the case stood, would not have been right. / think so. In your 
 situation, I should have looked for such treatment from a man of 
 probity. Any attempt to prepossess me before my father's con- 
 currence was, at least, acquired, would have grieved me much. 
 
 " If young persons like each other, in spite of parental dislikes, 
 let them persist in their choice ; but why not do this openly ; why 
 not set so much value on the will of their parents as, at least, to 
 know what it is ; and try my arguments or intreaties to reconcile 
 it with their own. A choice of this kind, disapproved by parents, 
 jnay be best on the whole, but certainly its benefits are immea- 
 surably increased by their approving it. 
 
 " I do not know Courtland's opinions fully. I suspect he 
 would not accept your love, were it offered him, without your 
 father's sanction ; and yet if he were placed in such a situation, 
 tliat the parent's inclination, or child's happiness must be sacri- 
 ficed, I am puzzled to think how he ought to decide. 
 
 " Let me thank you, my beloved friend, with tears of true 
 pleasure for this letter. How happy am I in your love and con- 
 fidence. How zealous shall I be, and how proud to deserve it. 
 
121 
 
 '' You cannot think, for I cannot describe my feelings, when 
 you first made advances to me, and offered me your friendship. 
 Your first visit, how unlooked for ! And your manners so af- 
 fectionate and affable ! Your inquiries so tender and free to me 
 that was so absolute a stranger to the world and to you. While 
 you staid, I was in a constant flutter ot surprise. This made 
 me awkward in accepting and returning all your kindnc^sses. To 
 be sure, thought I, when you were gone, this is some freak of 
 the charming girl ; as she has some inquiry to make or some 
 end to serve, which she found no opportunity of making on this 
 visit ; but she will not surely repeat it ; especially if it were made 
 for my own sake, for how coldly and ambiguously have I be- 
 haved ? * , 
 
 " But you came again very soon : the very next evening, 
 gay, charming and blithsome as ever. Do you love, Sophia, to 
 give pleasure to the lonely and forlorn heart ? You do ; then how 
 much have you been gratified by your intercourse with me. A 
 generous, a disinterested delight has been yours ! Your efforts 
 have been amply rewarded by their own success. 
 
 " What a change have I experienced since I gained your love ! 
 A warmth, grateful and delicious, a softness which I am not 
 rich enough in words to call by its true name, has come back 
 again to my heart. Come hack agam^ I say, for once I had it, 
 or something very like it. So much so that I cannot tell where 
 lies the difference. 'Twas not the emotion that I felt for 
 Marianne or Sally. In this there is something more extatic : 
 more of gratitude, I think, and admiration. Their love you 
 know was due to me. It began at my birth, and grew as I 
 grew ; besides, though very good, they had no remarkable or 
 dazzling excellence about them ; such they were as we usually 
 meet with, plain in person and untutored in mind. 
 
 " No ! what I feel for you I have not felt since I was sixteen, 
 yet it cannot you know be love. Yet is there such a difference 
 brought about by mere sex — My Sophia's qualities are such as I 
 would doat upon iu man. Just the same would win my whole 
 heart ; where then is the difference ? On my word Sophia, I see 
 none ; but that's no proof that none exists. A million of truths 
 there are, no doubt, that thy unsagacious friend has never seen 
 and never \vill see. 
 
 16 
 
122 
 
 " How cold was once my heart. How dreary was tny lone- 
 liness ! Yet I was not conscious of it. I was not discontented. 
 The change which your friendship has made, is not by pains 
 removed but by pleasures added — pleasures how ineffable ! 
 
 " Ignorance, I believe, my Sophia, is the mother of some 
 kinds of happiness, at least of quietude : how can we regret 
 what we have never lost, and to lose it, we must have it ; and 
 by having it only can we know its^-alue. I am now in all ex- 
 ternal respects, just as if I never had a sister, but how different 
 would my feelings be, if in tiaith, they never had been born ? 
 
 " How my mother shrieked over a breathless son who died m 
 childhood ! But suppose the lad had never been bom, then, as 
 now, she' would have had but four children, and she would not 
 have lamented that they were but four. 
 
 " Pleasure and pain, my dear Sophia, strangely run into, and 
 mingle with each other. Ignorance, I said, is the mother of 
 content, but I would not for all that be ignorant. Contentment, 
 methinks, is no desirable thing; pleasure, indeed, cannot be 
 had, without the risk at i^ast of acconipanying or ensuing pain ; 
 but this mixture of bitter and sweet, is better than the utterly 
 insipid ; better than the finished, tasteless potion of indifference. 
 
 " But why do I call the broken bonds of sympathy pain ? 
 Why, indeed, do I call them broken P Death severs us not from 
 those we love. They still exist, not in our remembrance only, 
 but with true existence ; and if good, their being is an happy one. 
 What more should we wish, and why should life, with all its 
 cares and maladies, be prayed for, either for ourselves or our 
 friends ? 
 
 " My friend removes to the next village, or he crosses the 
 sea, but I am not much unhappy even at our parting, and that 
 sadness is soon succeeded by a sweet tranquility. He is living 
 and he is prosperous, and forgets me not, and sometime I shall 
 see him again, aad that consoles me in his absence, but how 
 blind is my sagacity. 
 
 " How know I that he lives — tliat he is virtuous and happy, 
 that he gives me still a place in his remembrance ? Is he not a 
 mortal creature, and encompassed therefore by the causes oi 
 sickness and death, beset by temptations, and liable to new 
 affections that exclude the old ? 
 
123 
 
 " But intelligaice is brought that he is dead, and why should 
 I weep ! I grieved that he has gone, from perishable feverish 
 life, to blest eternity, where maladies of mind and ills of body 
 betide him no more. 
 
 " But I have lost him. No, while he lived I had lost him, 
 indeed, for the space between us was so wide that I saw him 
 never, and heard from him but rarely, but now has he not 
 come home to me ? and do not I hourly commune with him ? Am 
 I not sure of his existence and safety, for my friend was good ; 
 and is he not more present to my thoughts, and more the 
 guardian of my virtue and partaker of my sympathy than ever ? 
 
 " But I shall never see him more." Indeed ! and whose fault 
 will be that I must die like him ; indeed it is uncertain when, 
 but then we shall meet. And what then but m)"^ own unworthi- 
 ness ; my own misdeeds shall sever us ? Nothing but guilt Avill 
 divide us from each other dead, though virtue itself was unable 
 to unite us living. And how invigorating to my fortitude, what 
 barrier against temptation is that belief? 
 
 " No, my Sophia, death is no calamity to virtue, to dead or to 
 living worth. Our wailings for the dead, are breathed only by 
 thoughtless or erring sensibility. Is it not so ? I would not 
 affirm too positively, or too much. I know so little ! yet J 
 can't but think that many of our woes are selfish woes. 
 
 " Yet I mourned for my sisters : but rebuked myself while I 
 mourned. Such reflections as these comforted me ; but they 
 would not come at first, nor would they stay long, till time had 
 soothed me into some composure. Now and then at thoughtful 
 moments, when taken, if I may say so, unawares, my tears 
 gushed anew and my breast was agonized by sobs. 
 
 " Still have I, as I long have had, something that may be 
 called sorrow, but a sweet, a chastening, an heart-improving 
 sorrow. Most dearly do I prize it. For the world I would 
 not part with my sorrow. Glad am I that I once had sisters, 
 and I have them still, but I would not have them any where on 
 earth. 
 
 " It seems to be, Sophia, that the only true grief is connected 
 with guilt; every other has" so many gleams and respites, and 
 is so transient, and carries in its train so man)' after joy? ! But 
 
124 
 
 remorse ! I'hc sense of shame deserved, the weight of human 
 and divine indignation — that must be agony indeed. 
 
 " But how have I been thus led on! When I sat down, 1 
 designed a very different letter, but one is carried forward in- 
 sensibly, when the heart knows no restraint, and to thee, Julia» 
 mine knows none. 'Tis now too late to say all that I meant to 
 say, but another packet will serve as well. Adieu. 
 
 JESSICA. 
 
 " And will I continue to love you ? Will I live with you at 
 Wortleyfield ? Indeed I will my Sophia. I will share with you in 
 your retirement. 
 
 " But, alas ! And why this pang? My mother, Sophia ! while 
 she lives, 1 must be her fosterer, and her death only can make 
 it possible to join thee in thy sweet retreat. 
 
 " It must come sometime to be sure ; she is old, and it must 
 come soon. I cannot deny this, but I am able sometimes to 
 forget it, and I love to forget it. 
 
 " I did not tell thee, my friend, that / was the sage that I 
 had painted. I look forward to the death of one so dear and 
 the tear will start. My heart will ache when I sometimes look 
 back. Yet I want not fortitude. I hope while my reason fully 
 exerts itself I shall never, I believe, despond. Neither in the 
 foresight or the sufferance of such evils, evils which no virtue in 
 me can elude ; that owe their truth to no degeneracy in myself 
 or my friends, shall I want the needful consolation. I thank my 
 God, who has as yet, never suffered me to want it. 
 
 " I will live with thee, Sophia, but thou knowest the conditions ; 
 put thyself in my place and let me hear thee say< — Many, many 
 years may our scheme remain unaccomplished. 
 
 " But what a scheme is tfiis. You cannot, surely, be in earnest. 
 No, no, Sophia, thy stars will never permit that. And yet the 
 very causes that attract a multitude of wooers, will, in my 
 friend's case, obstruct their success ; thousands will solicit her 
 Jiand, but who can deserve the boon? 
 
 " How much to be regretted that your equal should never be 
 found ! You do not think so, you prefer, or say you do, the 
 
125 
 
 single life ; but that my Sophia, shall I say, is one of your errors. 
 Yet before I say that, I should know perhaps, the grounds of 
 your aversion. 
 
 " You despair of finding one that will please you ; while that 
 despair lasts, I see not how you can think otherwise than with 
 preference of singlehood, and indeed I too, am almost desperate 
 on your account, yet if such a one should offer and be accepted, 
 fervently should I rejoice in my Sophia's destiny, for wedlock is 
 a blissful state. Excellent and happy as thou art, my Sophia, far 
 more so wilt thou be in the character of wife and mother. 
 
 " This Watkins then is nothing to you. Methinks, I pity 
 him for sufferings to come. Returning with such hopes can he 
 see my Sophia and not love her ? But is not my friend a little for- 
 ward? To predetermine the rejection of one, merely because 
 your common friends have decreed your union, without regard 
 to any thing but family aggrandizement. Not a good motive, 
 perhaps, if it were the single motive, but it cannot be the single 
 one with your friends. Kindred, fortune, equality of birth, 
 contiguity of estates ought surely to weigh something even in 
 your scale, but especially in that of your friends. Worth, talents, 
 generous temper, equable deportment, love, may likewise be 
 required by both, and these, though not the only weights, may 
 and ought to be, by far the most ponderous. 
 
 " Personal qualities, however, may be every thing with you. 
 The other may not claim the least regard from you, but if these 
 extensive recominendations will not promote your cousin's suit, 
 they surely ought not to be obstructions to it. 
 
 " But you it seems are contented. My brother say you, 
 Hannah? Very well. I will be there in a moment. I will hear 
 what my brother has to say, Sophia, it is not often that he visits 
 us at this hour ; something of moment must bring him, and 
 then will I be back again to my pen. 
 
 " Since our correspondence began, I have been an indefati- 
 gable penwoman. Something may grow out of this in time. And 
 yet, as I said formerly, it is not the mere writing or prating, 
 the merely putting words together with the lips or pen, that 
 
126 
 
 tends to improve ; quite Ihe contrary I fear with mc and my 
 careless manner, in which at every step, method must be broken 
 and perspicuity be outraged. 
 
 " Yet I write every day, I think with more ease. I mean 
 not as to words or thoughts, for those that come I take, and you 
 know every child, just mistress of her tongue, has a ceaseless 
 volubility, but merely as to management of pen and fingers. 
 This grows continually easier with me. But I was going to tell 
 you what occasioned my brother's unseasonable visit. 
 
 " What say you, Jessy, said he, somewhat abruptly, to an 
 addition to your family — to a boarder. A boarder, brother! Let 
 me rather ask in my turn what you say to it ? Nay, 'tis for you 
 to decide. If you can reconcile yourself to such a charge, such 
 an enlargement of your family, it may not, perhaps, be ineligi- 
 ble as to the person. But who is the person and what will 
 he expect from us ? all you know must depend upon that. I 
 scarcely know how to describe him ; he is one of middle size, 
 hasjnodesty, reserve, is a stranger, lately arrived from Europe, 
 knoAvs no one here ; yet lie has the air of one not meanly born, 
 nor penuriously educated. He wishes for a snug, quiet, humble 
 abode, in a small, frugal and decent family. The thought oc- 
 curred that a single person, who chose to live in his manner, 
 might be no insuitable guest to you ; he is v/illing to pay well, 
 much more than the additional expense of his entertainment, and 
 that will be worth considering by you and mamma. What say 
 you to the scheme ? Yes or no as you please. If we decline, 
 the accommodation he v^^ants will easily be found elsewhere. 
 Why, brother, I cannot answer you immediately. Blamina 
 may not be willing, so long used as she has been to one track, 
 and one round of objects, and indeed, the same is the case with 
 me. The presence of a man and a stranger under this roof, is 
 so great an innovation that — but if the man be modest an'^ dm- 
 pliant, can put up with an humble fare and worse cookeiy, and 
 especially if you approve his character and recommend him, I 
 see not what objection can be made. But surely he cannot be 
 content with our frugality; we shall be obliged to enlarge our 
 scheme of living. No, no, I should not have thought of it had 
 any thing of that sort been needful, you have had but too much 
 trouble on your hands alreadv. I would be much more willing 
 
127 
 
 to lessen than increase it, but the customs of Colden, that is his 
 name, are very remarkable, as to lodging and diet, and are so 
 singularly plain and simple, that you will scarcely be conscious 
 of any addition to your household. 
 
 " You have only to set before him, moniing, noon and night, 
 at your own eating hours, a pint of milk, in an earthen or tin 
 porringe*-, with a cut or two of just such brown bread as vou 
 make already for your own use, in the little back room above, 
 so tight, airy and clean ; let a blanket be laid upon the sacking 
 bottom and his bed is made. To all other particulars he will 
 pay the due attention himself. But who is this man ? Where 
 did you light upon him ? 
 
 " I sometimes call, you know, at Philipson's ; I was there a 
 few days ago. They propose it seems to leave the city, and 
 mentioned to me their anxiety to procure suitable accommoda- 
 tions for one that had lived with them for the last three months, 
 and to whom their removal from town, hindered from any longer 
 giving entertainment. Who was he ? I asked. 
 
 " They could tell nothing but his name, and relate his habits. 
 They were such as I have just mentioned ; they were simple ancl 
 always the same. He talked but little, spending his time abroad 
 Gniefly, or in his chamber. What were his engagements abroad ? 
 No business they believed ; he went out at different hours, mere- 
 ly it seemed, for recreation, as they and their neighbours had 
 sometimes met him strolling in the fields. He was always 
 sedate, and sometimes had an aspect bordering upon melancholy, 
 spoke affably and gently when he spoke at 11, but seemed to 
 entertain a preference for solitude and silence. What company 
 did he keep > None at all they believed. No one visited him ; 
 they had never seen him in the company of others ; his demeanor 
 had always been so mild that they loved him much, and though 
 his accommodation cost them little or nothing, he had offered of 
 his own accord, and had punctually paid the highest price. For 
 their own sake, as well as for the sake of profit they were loath 
 to lose him, but it coulcl not be avoided, and they were only 
 anxious that he might be accommodated as much to his mind, 
 somewhere else. 
 
 " These particulars laid some hold on my curiosity, and re- 
 flecting on the situatioji of your family, I thought that his 
 
128 
 
 residence with you, might chance to prove highly and equally 
 agreeable to all parties. Being then in his room, I requested 
 them to call him down to me ; he came at the summons. 
 
 " His appearance was very prepossessing. At first view I 
 ahould have judged him to be under twenty-five ; but there 
 quickly appeared a stedfastness and forethought in his lookS; 
 inconsistent v/ith so immature an age. His manners were polished 
 and graceful, in no ordinary degree. 
 
 " Phillipson mentioned to him my ability to point out to him, 
 a suitable lodging. I described to him your household and 
 dwelling, and told him that I doubted not my sister's willingness 
 to entertain him on the same terms as the Phillipson's had done. 
 
 " His countenance assumed a less thoughtful air, and he 
 seemed to receive my offer with pleasure. He explained his 
 own modes and expectations, and requiring a few more parti- 
 culars respecting you and your economy, cheerfully assented to 
 the scheme. 1 promised to speak to you about it immediately, 
 but had no opportunity before noAV. I have seen him to-day, 
 and he says if agreeable to you, he will take possession on 
 Monda}' night. You know, our mother, in such a case will 
 leave the decision to you, and so what say you ? 
 
 " What can I say ! Your judgment must decide for me, brc' 
 ther. If you think it proper. 
 
 " I see no objection to it I confess. 
 
 " You say he is a stranger in the city. 
 
 " So it seems, but he has made himself so, by his privacy. 
 Phillipson's family know him, as well as long domestic and 
 curious observation of gossips, old and young, breeched and 
 petticoatcd, can make tliem. They praise his gentleness, so- 
 briety, and circumspection. His countenance speaks very 
 strongly in his favour with me ; so do his manners and words, 
 they exact respect from me. Never saw I dignity so visible. 
 
 " Well then let him come, I will be prepared for him on 
 Monday. 
 
 " And now, So'phia, let me ask myself why I rehearsed this 
 family dialogue to you ? As if whatever chanced to occupy my 
 thoughts, deserved a place in your's. You will not perhaps 
 comprehend how so small an incident should acquire importance, 
 but you know the humble, solitary and obscuie life which I 
 
129 
 
 have always till now led. Shut up in this cottage singly witli 
 my mother, and having no intercourse with the rest of the world, 
 except with my brother, and with your charming self, to become 
 all of a sudden, inmate with a stranger ; a man too, of no mean 
 deportment j his real character and past adventures unknown : 
 no wonder that I feel a little disquiet ; some fluttering expecta- 
 tions ; as if entering on a new scene. 
 
 " I know I shall be extremely desirous of obliging our guest, 
 but doubt I shall be awkward, and be either too reserved from 
 dread of offending, or too officious from the desire to please. 
 How are little things magnified by inexperience, and how does 
 my ignorance degrade me from the womanly sedateness and 
 address of eighteen, to the childish blunders, and timidities of 
 twelve ! 
 
 " But again, what is all this to you ? I will say no more upon 
 this trifling subject, and cannot return, just now, to that which 
 I left upon my brother's entrance. So adieu. 
 
 '' What a sweet encourager art thou, Sophia ! Can you truly 
 say that my prating pen constitutes your chief pleasure ? Can 
 you sincerely request me to continue the little tale of all that for 
 whatever reason, finds an interest in my bosom ? 
 
 " And yet, now 1 think of it, this is acting but like yourself; 
 and as I should applaud myself for acting were I in your 
 circumstances. To be thus surprised at proofs of condescension 
 and sympathy in my friends ; is it not confessing indirectly that 
 I did not expect to find }ou as good as you ought to be ? Fie 
 upon me for an envidus, or at least, a negligent observer ! 
 
 Methinks, they that are themselves good, would find so many 
 inducements, and advantages in goodness, that specimens of 
 virtue in others would never make them stare, as i do, and ex- 
 claim. They would only feel surprise when instances of folly or 
 vice occurred. Yet it is not so with me, though without that 
 experience which teaches us, perhaps, not to judge of others bv 
 our own hearts ! Can it be that I judge thus hastily of others, by 
 my own feelings ? I believe it is. 
 
 17 
 
130 
 
 " I say to myself, Sophia is generous, kind, affectionate. 
 Strange, that she is so, since I in her situation should be other- 
 wise. I should be arrogant, disdainful, selfish; and thus, un- 
 thinkingly, do we afford a criterion of our own character, in the 
 judgment that we form of others. A just punishment upon us I 
 think. 
 
 " And yet if the matter be a little more deeply considered, 
 that inference may not hold : are we not taught self-diffidence, 
 self-blame, and is not cliarity to others chiefly built upon our 
 belief of the strength of those temptations that have made them 
 wicked, and which had we been exposed to them, would have 
 had the like effects upon us ? Why else are we so earnestly 
 warned to watchfidness ; to rely upon our divine helper, and to 
 lay not more stress on deliverance from evil, than on freedom 
 from temptation ? 
 
 ''• But v;hy to thee, my friend, do I thus run into the mo- 
 ralizing strain ? Poor and crude must be my thoughts, on 
 subjects like this, and not worthy of my Sophia^s notice — Hold ! 
 is not that another proof of my misjudging selfishness ? Is not 
 this to give to my friend that arrogance which I should possess 
 in her circumstances, and that all my intercourse with her and 
 observation of her conduct, show to be foreign to her temper } 
 
 " It is, and so I will hencefcrth if I can, have done with 
 apologies. I will talk to you without reserve, and be apprehen- 
 sive of nothing less than of tiring or disgusting you ; and now to 
 return to what I will own, fills much of my thoughts. 
 
 " This stranger has not come among us yet. My brother is 
 to bring him hither this evening. The poor Jessy is in tremors. 
 And for what? Because it is a stranger that is coming. 'Tis 
 partly that but not ail. If the stranger were a female, I should 
 not, methinks, have these unquiet feelings. A female ont can 
 love and trust, and take without reluctance or misgiving to one's 
 confidence ; but a 7nan ! That is a different case, Sophia. 
 
 " And yet my brother is a man ; so vvras my father ; and 
 Ambrose, who daily shows his honest face within our door at 
 morning and eve, excites no apprehension or uneasiness. And 
 what more is this Golden ? But he comes not as a visitant ; he 
 comes to take up his abode with us, to eat and sleep under this 
 roof; besides I never saw his face before, and my brother says 
 
ISl 
 
 he is young; loftily reserved ; gravely dignified ; severely beau- 
 tifulT and such a one is coming, not to see us and to talk an 
 hour and away again, but to live with us. O dear! I wish 
 almost, that I had not consented to his coming. 
 
 " I do not like to be looked at too closely, for too long a time. 
 In all guises and attitudes, a man's scrutiny is painful, embar- 
 rassing. I shall never be at ease while he is present, that is 
 certain. I shall think him always gazing at me, watching my 
 looks, and trying to read my thoughts. 
 
 " No, I will not consent to his coming. I will plead the 
 trouble of a new member of the family. I will make my mother 
 object to it. AH about us is too humble and too coarse for such 
 a guest. 'Twill never do. I w^onder at my brother for not 
 seeing its impropriety. 
 
 " And yet it is too late to make objections now. It will appear 
 girlish and capricious ; it cannot be avoided, and I must make 
 the best of it, I believe. And truth to say, these doublings and 
 misgivings ai-e verj^ foolish ; they rise in vanity or inexperience, 
 and at this age ought to be trampled on. Let him come then, if 
 he will. 
 
 " I have made all things ready for his reception. The g-arde?i 
 room will just suit him. It was mine, to sit in only, and to 
 work. My chamber adjoins it, but I must sit and work there 
 no longer now ; but I do not like that. How shall I part with 
 this sweet recess? When they were alive it was my sister's work 
 room, but now it seems, I must enter it no more. A stranger 
 will possess it and a man ! How chilling is that thought my Julia ? 
 
 " Besides my own bed room is so near ; a slight partition di- 
 vides them, for the tv/o apartments were once the same, and the 
 two doors are not ten inches asunder. I cannot go on ; I cannot 
 move about ; I cannot stir a step, but — 
 
 " O dear ! O dear ! It must never be. Why did I not think 
 of these things before ? In time to prevent — but it still is time. 
 It shall be time. I will run away to my brother's " this very 
 moment, and tell him to excuse me to the stranger. Lay down, 
 pen, the while. 
 
132 
 
 " I am quite disconcerted, Sophia, my brother was gone*out, 
 gone to Phillipson's, they told me, for the hour fixed upon is 
 come. I had wasted so much time in writing, that I knew not 
 the exact time. So I hastened back again with new fears, lest 
 they should come and I be out ; my brother might well wonder 
 and be angry at my absence, when the hour had been so accu- 
 rately preconcerted. 
 
 " They had not come, however, so here am I again at my pen. 
 'Tis some relief j a sweet consolation to be writing this, to thee, 
 my Sophia ; 'tis so like talking as we used to do, side, by side at 
 the very window of this garden room, that now must witness 
 these delightful interviews no longer ; and that, forgetful crea- 
 ture that I was, escaped my thoughts. Thou and I at these 
 precious hours, used to withdraw thither, and converse without 
 fear of interruption and intrusion, but now — 
 
 " Cost what it will I will revoke my consent ; and yet it will 
 look strange, whimsical, capricious, at the very time when he 
 has actually come. But how, where shall 1 receive my friend 
 when she comes, if dispossessed of this room ? 
 
 " I will not part with it, that I am resolved ; and seasonably 
 resolved, for they have come. Two person's by their footsteps ; 
 my brother's one, the other a stranger's. They ask for me, and 
 here comes Hannah, with their message of " Tell Jessica I 
 want her." 
 
 '•'■ Ah ! my friend I he has come indeed ! I had not presence 
 of mind to declare my resolution, so that h.e has actually taken 
 up his abode with us. 
 
 " What changes may one short day make in one's condition ! 
 Methinks I am not the same as when I last wrote, yet things 
 have not been quite as I expected : but I will tell you every thing 
 in order as it happened. 
 
 " By the way, who would have thought that I should ever 
 have become so fond of the pen. My brother looked in just 
 i^ow — Writing Jessica? This is a new passion, indifference to 
 books is usually coupled with antipathy to writing. I am glad 
 
V.O see it, my dear, and hope when one is come, the other will 
 not linger long behind. 
 
 " So do I brother, but Jessy always loved to talk when her 
 heart was full, and any one would listen to her, and this is but 
 talking. 
 
 " Not quite true, Jessy. Somewhat more was needed, than 
 a full heart and docile listener. The last thou always had'st in 
 me, but you wanted what only your charming correspondent 
 could furnish, and may you value the new found blessing as it 
 deserves. 
 
 " I join in thy prayer brother. And Sophia, it is true. To 
 any other than my charming correspondent, I never could have 
 fretted thus without reserve — But this again is rambling from my 
 theme ; to return to it then : 
 
 " This is my sister Jessica, Mr. Colden ; a good girl, who 
 will never want the will at least to oblige you. I curtsied loAv 
 to what I supposed was a low bow from him, for I could not 
 look up, nor utter any thing like welcome. I had a prett)'- 
 speech ready, that by oft repeating I hoped to have by rote, for 
 this occasion, and I had not forgotten it, but to articulate a 
 syllable was not in my power. How is it, Sophia, that I who 
 have so much of an ideal kind of magnanimity ; who so much 
 value gracefulness in others, should yet be destitute myself? 
 
 *' To look at him with no immodest stedfastness, with intel- 
 ligence all benignant and smiling ; the utterance ready and fluent ; 
 in words all promptitude, in gestures all harmony ! That was 
 my previous wish, and I laboured for it but in vain. What 
 cowardice to tremble, shrink, and look down at the scowling 
 wrath of a fellow creature. What folly to be thus dismayed in 
 the presence of benignity and kindness, merely because they sit 
 upon the brow of a vian and a stranger ! 
 
 " But so it was : thy Jessica was thus cowardly, thus silly. 
 My brother saw my weakness, and his eye, when mine chanced, 
 to steal a glance at him, rebuked me for it. He endeavoured by 
 easy conversation, to reinstate my composure. 
 
 " I utterly forgot my objections to his residence with us. All 
 were swallowed up in these new tumults. I struggled hard to 
 look up, but could not, for fear of encountering his glances. 
 WHiat a simpleton was I, sheer vanity *tis plain. To imagine 
 
134 
 
 myself the only object in the room claiming his scrutiny, yet till 
 row, I had not thought myself vain. 
 
 *' My brother desired him to look at that spar on the mantle- 
 piere. In doing this, thought I, he will turn away his eyes 
 from me, so I will venture to catch a glimpse of him. 
 
 It soon appeared, greatly to my relief, and somewhat to my 
 humiliation, that no object attracted less of his attention than 
 mvself. He set me down at once, no doubt, from the childish- 
 ness of my demeanor, as an ill bred girl, and therefore, not 
 mrriting a second glance. 
 
 " I looked at him while he bent down his head to examine the 
 storfe. The candle stood beside, so that all its light fell upon 
 his countenance and form. My view was momentary, and yet 
 it left nothing I believe, to be supplied by after observation, I 
 have seen him since in different attitudes, but they are all new 
 positions of the picture which I saw at first. 
 
 " But why all this minuteness ? Did I never see a man before ? 
 Never, my Sophia, in the present situation. Had I met him in 
 the street, in a public room, or a stage boat, none of these 
 emotions, none of this cautious yet eager scrutiny had happened ; 
 for then you know there had been no need. But he was one with 
 whom I was todzvell ; whom I was to see the livelong day, with 
 whom I was to sit in the same room, and at the same board, 
 whose accommodation I was to study, and whose constant and 
 near approach would bring about conversation between us. 
 Surely I had some interest in examining the face and manners of 
 one, in this relation to me. 
 
 " And I did examine them, for he left me at full liberty to do 
 so. After one or two glances stolen at his face, while he talked 
 to my brother, I perceived clearly enough, that he did not think 
 of me as of one present : never looked towards me, but as it 
 seemed by chance, and never spoke to me at all. 
 
 *' Shall I own to thee, Sophia, that this neglect a little mortified 
 thy proud friend! but it was of some benefit; it placed me 
 somewhat at my ease. I was able to look at him attentively and 
 listen to his discourse. My throbs disappeared, and my fingers 
 sought no longer employment, by drumming on the arm of my 
 chair. 
 
 J 
 
135 
 
 " Yet I ought not to be mortified, I think, for this man is not 
 sullen, contemptuous. He forgot me but not, it seemed, be- 
 cause of my own insignificance and littleness, but the greater 
 excellence of those objects that employed his attention. And 
 \vhy should he think of me r Never before, Sophia, did I discover 
 so much vanity in my heart, but I am almost cured of it already ; 
 it has all gone away, indeed it has. 
 
 " Why, repeated I, as I had put up my hair before the glass, 
 going to bed, why should he think of me ? A mere moveable, a 
 drudge, a something useful in putting sticks together for a fire, 
 a machine to pour out tea, to make whole a rent garment — that 
 is all. 
 
 " As to person, what am I ? Women have charmed merely 
 by their looks, their symmetry, their speaking eyes, their snow- 
 white forehead ; but these, well-a-day, are none of mine — poor 
 unsightly, brown, diminutive thing that I am, what are my 
 pretensions ? 
 
 *' But what a rambler am I ? more than usual I believe. How 
 devious and volant is my quill ! but I must restrain myself to 
 some degree of method ; else, instead of pleasing, I shall tire 
 you ; darken and bewilder by confusion, instead of ranging my 
 ideas and my incidents in radiant files, and beauteous order. 
 O ! what a charm there is in order, with its lightsomeness and 
 charming, from the airy spell of Sophia's harp, down — to my pots 
 and kettles. 
 
 *' But now, with all my thoughts untold, I must end my letter 
 for the present. 
 
 " I dream often of you, Sophia, dream but half as often of thy 
 Jessica, and she will be happy. 
 
 " No, I will not be incoherent for all that. Are you not afraid 
 of spoiling me, Sophia. But yours shall be the penalty, for since 
 you ask it, you shall have it in abundance. 
 
 " I used to write on the table below, but I do not like to write 
 before him ; he may ask to see what I write, perhaps, and that 
 will place me in a distressful case : so I removed my pine board 
 to my chamber, and neatly fitted it to my window case ; glad I 
 
136 
 
 am of the change. It is so much for the better, here it is light- 
 some, and my window overlooks so pleasant a green ; and here 
 there is such quiet, such security ; for I bolt the door. In going 
 to and from his chamber he comes so near as to brush against my 
 door, and methinks I would not be seen by him, or be thought 
 bv him to be within, when he passes to and fro. I am little in 
 danger of detection, I believe, for this is the third day of his 
 residence with us, and yet he has not spent an hour at home, 
 but at night and at meals. 'Tis true, the weather has been fine. 
 The case may vary when it turns to rainy, bleak and cold. We 
 shall see ; but I have not told you what happened at our first 
 meeting have I ? No. Well then take it now. 
 
 " He talked much to my brother ; yet is not talkative : yielded 
 to the impulse of my brother's questions : talked I thought not 
 from inclination, but complacency, as if he would have been, not 
 more perhaps, but equally satisfied with being silent. 
 
 " Harry, you know, loves to converse in his way. A great 
 dealer is he in moral distinctions, deeply read in historj^, and an 
 endless speculator upon government. Methinks, Golden is like 
 him in these respects, he listened with so intelligent an attention, 
 and what he said, when my brother called upon him for his 
 opinion and waited his replies, was so accurate, so just. 
 
 " Do not smile at me, Sophia, I know what you would say. 
 Well do I know my own ignorance ; the fallacy of all my de- 
 cisions, but I give you my thoughts as they come, not as true, 
 but simply as mine. 
 
 " I told you that I loved to be a listener of rational conversa- 
 tion. Here, you may well suppose, I listened eagerly ; all was 
 so new. Harry, though my brother, I had scarcely ever before 
 heard in this kind of discourse, and Colden's looks, tones, senti- 
 ments, were so little like the few whom I had heard talk ! 
 
 " Well it was that he did not sometimes glance at me. As 
 bold he would have thought me now, with my staring eyes, as 
 at first, he might have thought me timorous. 
 
 " My brother, at length, it being late, rose to go. Now did 
 my tremblings and embarrassments return. To be thus left alone 
 with him, and obliged to say something ! and to end the conver- 
 sation so soon ! 
 
137 
 
 " My brother retired, and a pause, very painful to me follow- 
 ed, but he ended it by saying, shall I take this lighi ? I will go 
 if you please to my chamber. Yes, yes, stammered I, and 
 Hannah appearing just then, I directed her to show him the way 
 to his apartment. I had scarcely voice enough to return his— 
 *' good night." 
 
 "• Commonly, I no sooner lay my head upon the pillow, than 
 I am in deep sleep. It was not so to-night. Such a throng of 
 images, such misgivings, may I call them, at my heart — But 
 my language, Sophia, is very poor, for half my feelings : 
 I want words. Shame upon me for profiting so little by your 
 conversation and your letters! All I have, indeed, I owe to 
 you, but that all is too, too little. 
 
 " Often have I wanted suitable expressions, but never more 
 than now, I think, for I never felt thus before. My situation 
 now had no parallel in my past life. 
 
 " How silly are these feminine timidities ! Often have I heard 
 them described as attendant upon solitude, darkness. 'Till now 
 I never understood the describer ; ''till 7iorv, I say, for surely 
 these sensations answer to the picture so often drawn of panick ; 
 restlessness ; dread of we know not what ; phantastic misinter- 
 pretings of noises and shadows. 
 
 " But the object of my dread was not solitude or darkness : 
 these were ever friendly to my peace. To be ahne have I often 
 thought, on entering my little chamber, what comforts, what se- 
 renities does it bestow : except when my Sophia has been thought 
 of, then has even solitude, with all its safety and its stillness 
 been irksome. Much as I love to be alone, Sophia, I would 
 always exchange my solitary pleasures for the blessings of thy 
 company. My pillow has its charms ; sweetly do I rest my 
 cheek upon it, but far more sweetly would I lay mine upon thy 
 cheek. 
 
 " You honoured me once you know, with your company for 
 one night. How delighted was I, yet how ashamed to intro- 
 duce you to my humble cot. Shall I ever forget that night ! we 
 talked till past three ; and such unbosoming of all your feelings, 
 all your pleasures and cares, and what you called your foibles ; 
 spots in the sunny brightness of your character. Ever since that 
 night have I been a new creature ; to be locked in your arms } 
 
 1^ 
 
138 
 
 to share your pillow with you, gave new force, new existence to 
 the love which before united us : often shall we pass such nights 
 when thou and I are safe together at Wortlyfield. 
 
 " But how do these remembrances seduce me from the present 
 
 scene 
 
 " Why these panicks, my friend ? Was I not still alone and 
 safe ? Certainly. What could 1 fear ? But this man under the 
 same roof; in the room adjoining: his footsteps and the very 
 movements of the furniture overheard, or capable of being so ; 
 for this night I heard nothing ; all was still long before I came 
 up. I took care of that. 
 
 " I rebuked myself for these terrors, but they staid throughout 
 the night, in spite of my — " Begone." Sometimes they with- 
 drew or momently subsided, when the late conversation recurred. 
 I took a new view of his features, and ran over all that he had 
 said. The talk was cursory and miscellaneous ; how did every 
 word call up feelings of courage or despondency in my heart ; 
 chiefly of the latter, for they more often talked of things of which I 
 was wholly ignorant, than on subjects I knew aught about. 
 
 " How very gross is my ignorance, how limited, how ideot- 
 like my faculties ! Have I common sense, I wonder ! Never saw 
 I so clearly ; never despised I so much mv own ignorance, as 
 on this night. Never did my soul droop so much under this 
 load of self contempt. 
 
 " How have you contrived, Sophia, to hide my ignorance from 
 me so long ? But 1 never saw you in company with others ; 
 and your friendly pity was no doubt, careful to adopt your style 
 and your topics to my childish capacities ; yet you love me, you 
 write ; you talk to me without i-eserve ; in spite of my de- 
 ficiencies, you treat me with respect and tenderness. How does 
 it happen ? 
 
 " You come to be delighted too with our subjects of discourse. 
 You freely discuss them ; and at eveiy moment I see your supe- 
 riority to me ; you instruct me without distressing or perma- 
 nently humbling me. Your regard for me raises me as high as 
 your proofs of excellence have otherwise a tendency to sink me. 
 The higher you are above me, your esteem exalts me the more, 
 for it places me in some sort, on a level with yourself. 
 
139 
 
 " But we talk together in a different manner from Colden and 
 my brother. We talk of what each has seen and felt. The 
 comments, the reflections you make, the specimens of wit, ad- 
 dress, and force of mind are what distinguishes you so much in 
 my eyes. We neither of us go out of our own sphere ; not to 
 know what you know, may not always be to my discredit, since 
 I cannot be in your house, and surrounded by your company, 
 while I am mewed up in my own cottage. Daily incidents, 
 and dialogues, display of character you meet with, are your 
 subjects J and these, from your way of life, so different from 
 mine, must be far more numerous, various and important, 
 and the improvement you thence derive, and the reflections that 
 are thence suggested, must unspeakably excel mine. 
 
 " But Colden and Harry talk not thus. They speak of per- 
 sons and things which they could not see with their own eyes ; 
 thousands of miles off, or living ages ago ; events they talked 
 about, not affecting the happiness or fortunes of one or a few 
 insignifieants, and not limited to a year or two or life or two, 
 but governing the fate of nations and worlds, for centuries of 
 years. And all the time how shrunk am I into my little despi- 
 cable shell ! 
 
 " I knew nothing of the Regent Orleans and his parliaments : 
 the causes of the lute war : the siege of Havanna and Prague, 
 and the good or bad conditions of peace that were offered and 
 received. I don't know what kind of rule it is that the English 
 at home, exercise over the English in America. I don't know 
 how far it is, and what it is, (I suppose it to be sea), that 
 divides one from the other. How should so unread a simpleton 
 as I know these things ? 
 
 " And what is worse, I never shall know them. To know 
 any thing, I fancy we must begin soon, we may dare to look 
 forward after twenty-two, nay after four score and two; but 
 Avhat can she expect, who has not begun till after twenty- two ? 
 
 '' I can no more at present. 
 
 " He rose by day dawn. I rose soon after him. I am seldom 
 such an early riser, but I could not sleep ; so I sat down at m\ 
 window till m\' mother called. 
 
140 
 
 "• His breakfast was set in due season. Nothing said but a 
 cold " Good morrow/' as he entered seeing the arrangement oi 
 my table, and I seating myself at it, he also sat down. 
 
 " The bread broken and the cup lifted not like one that was 
 hungr\', nor, as I at first feared, like one that disrelished his 
 meal, but simply as if thought was too busy to allow much at- 
 tention to the cravings of nature. His eye fixed upon a knot in 
 the table, or glancing through the window with all the unsteadi- 
 ness of inattention. So deep in thought was he that I ventured 
 to observe him closely. 
 
 " Thy pencil, my friend, might show this face as it ought to 
 be shown. My words cannot. I am sorry to see it as I see it, 
 as I see it in his absence would answer the painter's end. Yet by 
 candle light, it looked, I know not why, with softer lineaments 
 than at the breakfast table. The spar he said was beautiful ; he 
 had never seen a specimen so highly polished ; pleasure sparkled 
 on his features, and they somewhat gleamed with the social 
 spirit, his heart appearing to be opened by the previous conver- 
 sation with Harry. 
 
 " Now there was an air widely different ; not boisterous nor 
 sullen, nor vet austere. Far from any of these was it, yet I 
 cannot tell what it was. But surely it denoted not a mind at 
 ease ; the soul within y.as not at peace with fortune. Once or 
 twice, looking through the window, but in such a way as showed 
 him wholly unobservant of the objixts before him : I saw his 
 brows folded and his eyes glistened : then he would recover his 
 attention to things around him, and lift the cup to his lips, that 
 for some minutes before had been idle in his hand. 
 
 " What, at that moment, Sophia, v.as he thinking of r Me- 
 thinks I would give a great deal to know. It was a sorro\vfuI 
 strain. His fortune must be singular and mournful, to make' 
 him choose this way of life. To have no company, no business 
 of any kind, to shun discourse as he was said to do, at Philip- 
 son's, with all mankind, not to talk to an) of the family though 
 good people : me, he might naturally overlook and think not 
 worth a word, but all others he equally kept at a distance. 
 
 " Here he is, an exile from some foreign country ; not accom- 
 panied bv any of his kindred or friends : he must have some 
 
141 
 
 relations ; young as he, his parents, it is likely are still alive. 
 He must have sisters, perhaps, Sophia, he has a wife. 
 
 " What would 1 give to know his true situation ? He is not 
 married, one would think, for would he not be accompanied by 
 his wife ? Could any calamity induce her to desert him ? I am 
 extremely anxious to discover the truth ; but how ? he will not 
 tell it me himself. 
 
 " He quickly dispatched his breakfast, and spent the morning 
 in his chamber. 1 suppose, because it rained. I was busy as 
 usual at mv needle. I wanted to sit in mv chamber, but I was 
 unwilling to go up while he was in his room. It was a ioolish 
 reluctance to be sure, but 1 could not drive it away. 
 
 " I was thinking all the time of this man. How different are 
 my thoughts now from what they used to be before he came i 
 Then 1 was in a settled calm, vacant of all emotion, and ponder- 
 ing chiefly on past events, but the present seems now to fill up 
 my whole soul. 
 
 " After dinner, the weather clearing up, he went out and 
 returned to tea, after which he went out again. The two last 
 meals passed like the first, without a syllable uttered by either, 
 and the next day was but the counterpart of the day before. 
 
 '' Whither does he go ? out of town, Philipson says ; but for 
 what end r Merely for the sake of exercise and meditation. 
 That must be the end, to be sure, for what else can it be ! 
 
 " My brother came last evening to see him, but Golden being 
 abroad, sat an hour with me. He inquired how I liked mv 
 guest ? 
 
 " I told him all that I had observed and thought about hin; . 
 and asked him, in my turn, what was his opinion. 
 
 " He is certainly, said he, a remarkable man. He has educa- 
 tion and refinement. His knowledge is extensive and of the 
 most valuable kind. He is a proficient in several languages and 
 sciences, and talks of the affairs of the world, like one that had 
 not acquired the knowledge at a distance or at second hand. 
 Yet there is a perplexing mystery about him ; nobody in this 
 part of the world knows him. His aversion to society mav be 
 his habitual humour. It may proceed from a deeply rooted 
 melancholy, occasioned by some recent and great disasters, or 
 it may arise from conscious guilt, from terror of detection. 
 
142 
 
 *■' Good Heaven! brother, what do you mean by that! From 
 guilt ! 
 
 " That is one conjecture ; not, in itself, probable I own, but 
 perhaps, not less so than others. 
 
 *' But what guilt can you conceive ? 
 
 " None. It is a bare conjecture. I pretend not to specify 
 what guilt, or to point out the true cause ; as to what he has been 
 it is impossible to form any plausible guess ; but it is evident 
 that he is learned, amiable and accomplished, and I shall labour 
 to make him more sociable. 
 
 " Just then our guest entered. I was delighted to see the 
 friendly manner in which he greeted my brother. Another con- 
 versation ensued, which ended with an invitation from Harry to 
 dinner the next day. 
 
 " He appeared not to have expected this, and was, I thought 
 a little embarrassed : he paused. Harry then added, I invite 
 you not as a formal guest, but as a friend, and merely to show 
 yoU' the way to an house, where I hope you will be a frequent 
 and familiar visitant ; you will therefore find only my own family, 
 and the same frugal fare that is provided for you here. 
 
 " This pleased him, and he readily consented to go. To-day 
 is serene and bright. He went out as usual, and not being to 
 return at noon, will leave me alone, I suppose, till night. 
 
 " But why, Sophia, do I talk to thee of nobody but this man ? 
 Why scarcely think I on any other subject? 'Tis the novelty of 
 this change I suppose, and so will disappear in a few days or 
 weeks, and I shall be well pleased when it does so. My present 
 feelings are unpleasant ; I feel I know not what of disquiet and- 
 perplexity. I am not, if I may so sa}', at home to myself ; I 
 sometimes v/ish that we had never been troubled with this guest. 
 Things are not so orderly, so private, so tranquil, as they used 
 to be under this roof, when my mother, my Hannah and myself 
 were its only tenants ; but the evil, if it be one, is without re- 
 medv, so I must make the best of it. Adieu. 
 
 •'■ I can hardly believe that my poor prate can give you plea- 
 sure, Sophia, but since you say as much to be sure it must be so. 
 
14S 
 
 Thy praise is a sweet encourager. Without it, much as I have 
 come to love the pen, I should not indulge so often my scrib- 
 bling vein. 
 
 " By the way, is not this sudden fondness for writing, in one 
 so awkward at the quill as I am, a little surprising ? Nothing 
 will serve but once a day at least, must I seat myself here, and 
 scribble. It I miss doing so, it is like omitting a customary 
 meal. 
 
 " My mother and household affairs employ most of the day,^ 
 but my mother sleeps an hour or two, after dinner, and retires 
 for the night, at ten. At these times I am left to myself, and I 
 used to spend them chiefly in the garden room, but now I hie me 
 to my own chamber. The pen lies so near and so enticingly, my 
 thoughts are so busily engaged with thee or with this new-comer; 
 and this being the only way to converse with thee, I mostly 
 yield to the temptation, and lay by my work. What I begin in 
 the afternoon, I finish, if I can, at night. 
 
 " But do not think me an idler, Sophia. There are other 
 times of the day, when I am as diligent a workwoman as ever, 
 but I always told you that sewing was my entertainment, and I 
 applied to it so much, not because it was absolutely necessary, 
 but because I had nothing else to do, or nothing else that I liked 
 to do ; now I like writing better, and so I write, yet should not 
 do so, I suspect, if my Sophia were not thus kindly eager to read 
 what I write. 
 
 " You tell me to relate all that I think, and all that occurs re- 
 specting our guest. Nothing new has occurred. Every thing is 
 uniform. The same silence at meals ; the same wandering 
 abroad, and the same seclusion in his chamber as at first. 'Tis 
 very strange, Sophia. I must needs say, I do not like it at all ; but 
 how shall I help myself! 
 
 " I want him to talk to me a little ; a word or two, methinks, 
 he might oblige me with, as we sit opposite at table. If it were 
 only, " Your bread is well baked," " Your glass is a clear glass," 
 it would be something better than total silence, methinks. 
 
 " But if he has lost his tongue, in my company, he might 
 show some attention by his looks, at least. But he comes and 
 goes, and sits at dinner, just as if surrounded by unconscious ta- 
 bles and chairs. He looks across me as it were, as his eve roves 
 
144 
 I 
 
 about, just as if I were a flitting shadow on the white wall, or d 
 
 two legged pine table that could movt itself. 
 
 " This is not polite, surely. 'Tis not kind. A kind temper 
 would not let him act thus superciliously. To be wrapt up in his 
 own gloomy thoughts, to treat a human creature, whom he sees 
 so often, and a woman too, and young too, and not talkative or 
 forward, I will venture to say, as if she were a thing inanimate. 
 
 " He deems me, without doubt, a simpleton as I am ; but how 
 does he know but that I have some sensibility and some know- 
 ledge ? This cannot be found out, but on the trial. He looks 
 for nothing in me congenial with his own views and pursuits ; 
 and nothing, indeed, there is ; but are men to act with no view 
 but to receive pleasure ? Ought they not, sometimes, to aim at 
 giving it ? 
 
 " I, a poor girl, ignorant, forlorn, might be greatly benefitted 
 by the conversation of such an one as he. That condescension 
 would so flatter me ! I should be made better and wiser by his 
 talk ; and not only that, but I should be gratified, delighted, by 
 such notice ; and he himself siirely would be no loser. These 
 melancholy musings that afilict him now, would be driven away 
 by more cheerful images : thus would he secure himself as much 
 pleasure as he gives to another : but he does not perceive this, 
 morose, incommunicative creature that he is. 
 
 " I am displeased with him, Sophia. I blame myself for con- 
 senting to his coming. All before was so serene, so unruffled, 
 but now — 
 
 " He has come in, I see, and our supper time is arrived. All 
 was ready for Hannah to bring in, and she was to bring it in as 
 soon as he came. So I must go down. Yet that is an idle for- 
 mality ; he can dispatch his meal as well in my absence as my 
 presence : nay, would be better pleased, I warrant you, that I 
 should stay away : and I 7viU stay. He shall eat by himself this 
 time, and I will write on as if such — 
 
 " No. I want not to eat this evening, but see that he is well 
 served. Hannah came up to tell me, all was ready, but I will 
 not go. I am, just now, a little sullen. I believe I could not 
 look on him as kindly as, perhaps, I ought. I will write away 
 my spleen before I see him, if possible. 
 
145 
 
 " Yet I cannot write. What ails me, Sophia ? My fingers are 
 unsteady. My heart flutters and misgives me much. I will take 
 to my needle, and see if that will pacity its tremours. 
 
 " Ah ! my friend ! I was much to blame a while ago. Now, 
 do I see my fault. Could I be so peevish and absurd ! What a 
 change, will a few minutes, will a single word make in our feel- 
 ings ! Why see 1 things, and judge of things so differently at 
 different times ? 
 
 " Where's Jessica ?" said he, after a second or third sip, and 
 looking at the girl, that stood at the window. 
 
 " She's up stairs. She does not want any tea to-night. 
 
 " She's well, I hope, anxiously rejoined he. 
 
 *•' O, yes, very well. 
 
 ■'' Not quite true girl — my mind was not well. A bad pas- 
 sion possessed it, but, strange, how all vanished, in an instant, 
 when these questions of our guest were told mir by Hannah. 
 This was all he said. Satisfied, it seemed, by her assurance, 
 he relapsed into thoughtfulness, and having drained his bowl, 
 went up to his chamber. 1 heard him coming. Into what new 
 flutters was I thrown. My door, carelessly, had been left open 
 and he must pass it going to his own, and so could not help 
 seeing me. And what if he did! What timorous creatures are 
 we, women, for I suppose the rest of girls are like myself in 
 this particular ; there seems a kind of nature in it. 
 
 " My apprehensions were groundless, as it proved. What 
 apprehensions ? I don't know. He passed the door, not observ- 
 ing me, and soon afterwards Hannah came up, and whispering- 
 ly told me what he had said. 
 
 " Now did my cheeks glow and my heart flutter indeed. How 
 did I upbraid myself, for my folly ; my arrogance. I am not 
 then a mere inanimate, a senseless piece of furniture in his eyes. 
 He can think of me, can ask if / am rvell, and with an anxious 
 tone ask it ! While I, an obdurate and selfish creature, was iac- 
 cusing him of treating me with scorn, and absented myself 
 through resentment ; and for what ? 
 
 " Because, my highness, forsooth, had not been noticed ; 
 
 19 
 
146 
 
 had not been courted to talk ; because my little humours and 
 caprices were not watched and gratified. And who am I, that 
 my existence or my health should be of value in his eyes, what 
 have I done to prove myself better than the dirt I tread on ! In 
 what am I better ! 
 
 " Compunction has a very sharp sting, my Sophia. I feel it 
 now, for the fii-st time, I believe ; yet still I feel it not alone. 
 There came pleasure along with it ; a pure delight, not less new 
 to me, than my remorse ; yet why was I pleased ? 
 
 " My mother calls. Methinks I would be spared attending, 
 on her just now, for I want to write on, but thou art a selfish 
 desii-e, and so I banish thee. To-morrow will be here time 
 enough. 
 
 *' Now that I have communed with my pillow, let me ask 
 again, why these few words of our guest pleased me so much. 
 To find him with some humanity about him, is truly, no such 
 extraordinary thing. Another proof of my short-sightedness, 
 Sophia ; always surprised at instances of kindness in another. 
 Whence could I get such bad thoughts of mankind, I wonder ? 
 I copy from my despicable self, no doubt, yet not in this case, 
 for should I, in Colden's circumstances, have behaved so mon- 
 strously? I think not. 
 
 " A taciturnity, an inattention to me so uniform ! What else 
 tould I infer, but that he cared not for me a straw ? that my 
 absence or presence, my death or life, were equally indifferent I 
 But I see now my mistake, I am glad of it, yet why so glad ? I 
 cannot tell why, but I am very glad notwithstanding. 
 
 " Now I long for breakfast time ! I want, methinks, to atone 
 for my foolish misbehaviour last night. No doubt, on seeing 
 me again, he will ask me concerning mv health, and my absence 
 from the tea table. I shall be puzzled for an answer. To be 
 talked to by him ; to have those eyes of his fixed upon me, such 
 eyes, Sophia! They often made me think of yours, yet how un- 
 like are they to my Sophia's! Thine so intelligently sweet: 
 Such a blue serene ! But his ! — But here again my friend, I want 
 thy words. Fain would I describe them if I could. 
 
147 
 
 "* But if he should look at me, and ask me, what shall I saj'^? 
 How shall I loolc ? Now again these flutters, these burning cheeks! 
 Surely he will think me quite a fool, for I shall want articula- 
 tion. Confidence to look up will be denied me. Then will my 
 perverse fingers fall to twining with each other, to drumming 
 the window ledge, to pulling out threads from my handkerchief. 
 Did I ever think that I should prove such a simpleton ? 
 
 " Yet I must say something — but I hope he may not speak to 
 me. My appearance alone will answer his inquiries. Yet what 
 is the atonement which I thought of, if he speak not ? What 
 can I do, but sit in stupid silence at the same table, looking at 
 him and from him, just as his looks give me leave ! What a 
 despicable trifling exhibition. In another I might laugh at it, 
 but that I should be the actor makes me weep. 
 
 " How as I come to knov/ myself better, do I more and more 
 despise myself? What will at last become of me, if i go on 
 making new discourses of my imbecility at every change of situa- 
 tion ? Such a wavering, timorous creature ! Something must be 
 wrong within me. If I saw clearl}^ what is right to be done, 
 should I feel all these hesitations and reluctances in doing it ? 
 
 " What is there in this man to make me fear him ? Why faul- 
 ter and shudder in his presence, more than in another's ? Why 
 shrink and be abashed because he speaks to me, and yet be dis- 
 contented and resentful when he forbears to speak ; to wish his 
 notice, when I think he will not give it, and tremblingly to shun 
 it, when he off"ers it ? I could beat myself for this folly. 
 
 " But he has come, and breakfast waits. Shall I go down ? 
 Half a mind not to go : shall feel so awkwardly : yet not to go ! 
 How will that look ? What excuse — a future meeting still more 
 difficult. Fie upon me ! " Yes, girl, I come." 
 
 *' I needed not be so apprehensive, not I. Speak to me, in- 
 deed 1 The same as if an empty chair stood there. Not a syllable 
 besides a faint, half articulate, fashioned-of-itself " Good Mor- 
 row." All in a hurry I, eating very fast, pouring out small 
 portions of my tea at a time, and cluttering cup with saucer as 
 
148 
 
 1 poured, and sipping nicely^ all to show no leisure to hear 
 ' r"a, to d( ter him from speaking to me. 
 
 " Yet all these impediments were needless : mute as a stone, 
 no sign of the slightest inclination to open his lips ; eye always 
 gazing vacantly through the window, or cast up ceiling-ward. 
 He finished sooner than I , and left me at the table — Here did 
 my resentments swell my heart ; the tears would not be kept 
 down! 
 
 *•• Such was he at dinner too, but there I felt not disappoint- 
 ment. I was prepared for his neglect. How mom-nful has 
 been this day ! all luminous abroad ! quiet the air, serene the 
 sky, and its azure checkered by a thousand silvery effulgencies ! 
 but none of these things affected me as once they did. 
 
 " The livelong day uneasily sat I at my work. My mother's 
 afternoon repose allowed me to retire hither and I did so, but 
 not as yesterday, to my pen. I could not write. Indignant, 
 sorrowful, mortified, perplexed, was ever creature so absurdly 
 inconsistent as thy Jessy? 
 
 " I am not happy, yet why not ? What has happened to make 
 me different from the being that I was a month ago. 1 am dif- 
 ferent ; quite an altered creature, Sophia, an unhappy alteration 
 too. 
 
 .-" I can do nothing; I have not patience to write. The 
 deepest humiliation has seized my heart, and the pain it gives 
 me is more than I can bear. I must take myself to task. 
 
 " I will walk I believe ; 'tis long since I visited the river's 
 pebbly shore, and the twilight now is gratefully cool, serenely 
 solemn. 'Tis a long time since I rambled there. All my habits 
 have been changed of late. I will try to muse away my wander- 
 ing hours as I used to do. To feign myself beside my Marianne 
 and Sally in their evening stroll. 
 
 My heart has grown unfaithful to their memory. I have not 
 thought of them once these three days. So sweet a calm as 
 their gentle apparitions, flitting about me, used to breathe over 
 my soul ! Will it never be so again ! I hope it will. I will try 
 for it at least. 
 
149 
 
 " How could you alarm me so ! I am half displeased with you ; 
 I think, my tumults are scarcely hushed yet, though an hour 
 since I read your letter. In love Sophia ! What an hateful, what 
 a frightful intimacy is that ! for at first I was startled, terrified, 
 and whence my terror ? Surely my heart pleaded not guilty to 
 the charge. But made thus abruptly, thus earnestly, and by one 
 whom I so much revered ! could I help a sudden dizziness ; 
 confusion of thoughts j just, I fancy, as if wakening on the 
 brink of a precipice. 
 
 " I verily believe that I shrieked ; startle and tremble 1 cer- 
 tainly did, and dropping the letter, buried my face in my pillow, 
 for I had not left my room when Hannah brought it me. Had 
 thy father written it, to tell me that his darling child, had ven- 
 tured too far into the whirlpool, in her evening bath, and was 
 swallowed up forever — Somewhat so do I feel now. 
 
 *' O my friend, add not to my unhappiness by thy scorn ; 
 despise me thou must, for am I not worthy to be so, but not 
 with this contempt. Not so very silly yet, assure thyself my 
 friend, so very wicked. In my mind 'twould be wickedness to 
 love ; yet that would be a term too good for me. To love^ 
 Sophia ! not indiscreet, or rash or wicked, should I be in such 
 a case, but lunatic^ my Sophia. The very imputation almost 
 makes me so. 
 
 " Surely you forget that Colden has not been here ten days ; 
 turn over again my late letters ; mark their dates j no less for- 
 getful too of their contents. What could I have written to sug- 
 gest so wild a thought ? Why, Sophia, he has scarcely spoken 
 ten words to me, and these the cold formalities of " good mor- 
 row'' and " good night." I have seen him, putting all the 
 minutes of our silent intercourse together, scarcely two hours, 
 and yet thou tell'st me, Vm in love ! 
 
 " Grant me patience, good Heaven, or give me back the 
 esteem of my friend ! Yet how am I perplexed ! to write so 
 coolly as you do, and call me by the tenderest names ! Yet charge 
 mewith what would place my judgement below infancy. 
 
 " I wish I had my late letters to you before me. I would 
 examine them again, and see what has inspired my friend with 
 this thought. Yet, I think I have every tittle of them in me- 
 
150 
 
 mory ; an^l have conned carefully over all their contents ; and- 
 noth'. io I recollect to have said, that could justify you in 
 belif .ng — 
 
 " But whv dwell I on so hateful a them ? Why countenance 
 I thus, by reasoning on the matter, so childish a chimera? In- 
 deed Sophia, if thy suspicion were true, I should hate or 
 despise myself — I Jon't know which I should most deserve, 
 certainly both in the highest degree. 
 
 For only think, Sophia, on the difference between us ; the 
 distance that severs this man from me ; no eye can measure it, 
 'tis so wide, where could any body look for a contrast to his air, 
 his visage, his stature, his mean, so lofty, grave, dignified, 
 intelligent, but in thee poor Jessy ! 
 
 " As to his mind, little as I know of that, it is clear that we 
 are just as opposite in that respect as in the other. 
 
 " Besides, I know him not. Is not his past life a blank to 
 me ; an utter void ! His mind is full of something, but what that 
 something is, I am quite as ignorant as I am of what is passing in 
 the moon. 
 
 " Nay what proof have I that he is not married! And to 
 love, Sophia, while that is an undecided question ! think not, I 
 beseech you, so meanly of me. 
 
 " There goes somebody : a man, I guess so bj- the hat. The 
 fence hides all the rest of him, or her; for possibly it is a wo- 
 man. The hat you know, is sometimes worn by the lower class 
 of our sex. I have seen it myself, drawing at the cistern or 
 chopping up a log. 
 
 " But it may be a man, and therefore I will love him. Love 
 whom ? He that is creeping along the outside of the fence there ; 
 a man, I will suppose it to be, on the evidence of the hat. 
 
 " But what know you of the wearer; is he old or young, mar- 
 ried or single, foolish or wise, good or bad, white or black? 
 
 " No matter. Whoever he be. I am all enamoured of him. 
 I shall die, if he returns not my passion. 
 
 " How now, mad cap ? What's come to thee ? Hast thou lost 
 thy wits ? Hold thy tongue child, keep thy foolish thoughts at 
 home, and mind thy work ! 
 
 " And now, Sophia, tell me if you can, the difference between 
 such a girl, and that girl who, in my situation should fall in love 
 
151 
 
 with our guest. There is a difference indeed, but all to my dis- 
 advantage. I know more of Colden than of him there (he has 
 just now raised himself above the fence-top, and proves to be a 
 woman : a cartman's wife that lives near) but all that I know are 
 only proofs of our mutual distance; the contrariness of our cha- 
 racters and tastes. So that the folly of my love would even ex- 
 ceed that of doating on the hat. To love the unseen who may 
 be what we wish, is wiser than to love the seen^ whose visibles 
 are only unfitness, and which, if even they were not unfitnesses, 
 are still so small a part of the being, and a part so unimportant, 
 that he might as well be not seen at all. 
 
 " I am no adept in these things, Sophia, I pretend not to be 
 so. True, no doubt, as you say, we are not always aware of the 
 tendency of our own feelings, but here there surely can be no 
 room to doubt. For need I repeat, but I am ashamed to repeat 
 things so evident ! It was foolish to dwell upon a notion so 
 phantastic so long. So here, Sophia, I stop. 
 
 " I have just parted from Harry, and in a very peevish mood. 
 I am harassed ; I am eaten up, I think by my vexation. A 
 thousand times have I wept, the very fall of inanimate nature has 
 often called up tears ; but what different feelings occupied those 
 tears, from the tears that are now blotting my paper ! 
 
 " How harsh is the voice of blame from those we love ! I 
 deserve not thy censure Harry, and that comforts me but little ! 
 Yet my brother meant no ill ; his concern for my happiness only 
 dictated what he said. As his own life does he love his sister, 
 and hence is he anxious for my welfare. Benevolent and tender 
 was he in his councils and his cautions. His intention was kind, 
 of a piece with his treatment of me from childhood up to this 
 hour, and let me only think of his intention and be grateful for 
 that. 
 
 " Yet to be thought to need such cautions ; not from my bro- 
 ther only but my friend ! No, my heart never knew pain till 
 now. Till now all has not been joyous with me ; full of glee, 
 lightly did my spirits dance, some ten years ago ; but since my 
 childish days have disappeared, I have shaken hands with gaiety, 
 
152 
 
 yet more I may say, was I unhappy. To be mihappy was to be 
 thus, and never before was I thus. Something must be wrong 
 in my behaviour, since on that are founded such suspicions. I 
 must scrutinize mine closely. Methinks I would be wrong, for 
 then my friend and my brother would be justified. 
 
 " But why have such a basis for his cautions ? Why is my 
 brother thus prone to construe into evil, into guilt, the mystery 
 so studied by our guest ? And from any reluctance to admit his 
 suspicions ; my solicitude to vindicate his friend, why so per- 
 versely infer that I am in danger of loving him. 
 
 " Cannot I revere talents ; cannot I pity the unfortunate, 
 without these selfish views ? Cannot I be just without incurring 
 such humiliating charges ? 
 
 " Thou art wrong Jessy (cried my brother) I reproach you 
 not for what is done. I only caution you against the possible, 
 the future. My caution may be useless. The strength of your 
 mind may serv^e you against the evil, though no caution were 
 given. So much the better. The caution has done no good, 
 'tis true, but then, my sister, it has done no harm. Why then 
 be displeased ? Knowing too that I mean you only good. Let 
 me tell you, Jessy, the manner in which you have received my 
 caution is — a little unaccountable. A severe judge might think 
 the caution more needful, in proportion as it was heard with im- 
 patience. But I judge not severely, I judge as the kindest and 
 fondest heart can judge. 
 
 " Much as I esteem you, Jessy, I do not believe you a witch, 
 an oracle, guided in all you do by inspiration ; in all you say 
 by prophecy. After all, you are only a woman. A young one 
 too. Ignorant of most things, and most of all, of the world. 
 You are no match for the cunning of mankind, for the tricks of 
 your own heart ; an easy dupe would you prove, I am afraid, to 
 both. How should it be otherwise ? Where should you get 
 your knowledge ? Fi-om books ! poor preceptors these of world- 
 ly knowledge ? But poor as they are, they have taught you 
 nothing. They are not of your acquaintance. 
 
 " From observation ! You, shut up in your cottage, holding 
 no converse, but with your Hannah and your Fuss, what ha^ e 
 vou observed ? 
 
153 
 
 •>' There again you wrong me Jessy. I am not Colden's 
 enemy. I am only my sister's friend. As to what may be 
 concealed under this mystery, I have mentione i possibilities only. 
 They do not influence my conduct, }ou sav. Wn\ , to be sure 
 I am not a girl as thou art, Jessy. I see clearly my way ; there 
 is no danger of my reposing undue confidence ; my property, 
 my liberty, my life, I shall never need to put into his keeping. 
 I cznnot fall in love with him. Should he go to the world's end j 
 should he give his affections as a lover and a husband to a Che- 
 rokee squaw, my peace will be unaffected. 
 
 " But my peace, brother, you think will not be unaffected! 
 
 " Pervert not my meaning Jessy, I have spoken plainly enough. 
 
 " O my dear brother, what has come to me to merit all this 
 chiding ? 
 
 " This chiding'^ as you call it, is a creature of your own fancy. 
 Did you love, with all your soul this man, I should not chide 
 you ; it would be barbarous to do so. I have said nothing as 
 if I supposed you loved him ; I have merely argued on a possi- 
 bility. That there is danger is suggested more by the knowledge 
 of your tenderness and purity of heart, your guileless, frank, un- 
 suspicious temper, than from any foreign considerations. If I 
 overrate the danger, it is because I overrate your good qualities j 
 because I am too deeply concerned for your safety. If my judg- 
 ment be clouded, it is clouded by affection. If I raise needless 
 fences and plant a needless watch round your happiness, why is 
 it but because that happiness is so dear to me ? 
 
 " You are no common girl. Though no prodigy, yet I know no 
 woman of your age who thinks and acts in the same manner. 
 My confidence in jou is greater than I would place in another 
 older, more wary, more proficient in the passions than you are. 
 
 " Had you not been thus superior, had you not possessed this 
 confidence, should I, think you, have placed a man like this un- 
 der the same roof, have allowed him to live, in some sensej 
 alone with you, for your mother and your Hannah are, in this re- 
 spect, as nobody. A man thus noble and attractive in his per- 
 son, rich in mental gifts : his past life and his genuine principles 
 thus totally unknown ? 
 
 " Many persons have expressed their surprise that I should have 
 done this ; but the danger which thev feared, I could not fear. 
 
 20 
 
154 
 
 " Lord bless me, brother, I do not understand you 1 Danger ! 
 What danger can you mean ? No matter what, if you really do 
 not take my meaning, since, as I told you, I did not and cannot 
 fear it. 
 
 " After a little pause, I saw what he meant. How am I fallen 
 Sophy ? What a world do we live in ! But my brother feared not 
 for me, yet for those who knew me to hold it for an instant in 
 their mind, was so opprobrious to me. 
 
 " Much besides this, my brother said, all so strange, so hum- 
 bling to my honest pride, honest 1 may surely call it, that I shall 
 hate to remember it. 
 
 • " I asked him if any thing in my behaviour — I could not say 
 more, but by the indignant glow of my cheeks. He hesitated to 
 reply. Why no, said he, at last, I have seldom seen you toge- 
 ther. You tell me that you have had no conversation with him, 
 but yet — But I fear to check your ingenuous spirit. 
 
 " Fear not that brother. No consequence shall make me a dis- 
 sembler to you. I •will alv/ays repose mv feelings in your ear, 
 whatever inference \our judgment may draw from them. Tell 
 me what you have observed in me to occasion uneasiness. 
 
 " Perhaps, I have inferred to much. In youthful minds, in in- 
 experienced minds, in female minds, where sensibilities are genu- 
 ous and fervent, admiration and compassion, for persons of a 
 different sex, are so apt to slide into a different sentiment, and 
 the compassionater herself all the while unconscious of what is 
 going on within, that I have, I own Jessy, been somewhat 
 uneasy. 
 
 " Such interest as you take in this man ; such delight as your 
 sparkling eye betrays while listening to him ; such craving after 
 all that I can tell you of him ; such eagerness to vindicate him 
 from my disparaging conjectures ; such humiliation as his ne- 
 glect of you occasions ! 
 
 " All these are worthy of your liberal heart. They argue no- 
 thing but that, at present, you admire and pity. All my appre- 
 hension relates to what may be — what structure time may raisfc 
 on this foundation. 
 
 " Besides, when I reasoned thus upon appearances, I was not 
 aware of what this conversation has partly disclosed ; I did not 
 know that my sister reasoned as she now seems to reason ; I was 
 
155 
 
 far from thinking that the consequence alluded to, had, ia your 
 eyes, so few attractions and so many obstacles. Why, thought!, 
 should this girl be vigilant to check those grateful impulses ? Her 
 heart was formed for love. She will never taste true happiness 
 till she finds some being on whom to bestow all her affections. 
 Why not bestow them on Golden, with all his graces and merits, 
 whom she sees so nearly and so often ? What can thwart the na- 
 tural course of her feelings, but the fear of not being requited, and 
 what is there to instil such a fear ? 
 
 " Enamoured hearts are seldom diffident of their own merit. 
 Their gratitude, their services, they usually deem a sufficient re- 
 compense for the love they claim. Minds, in most respects une- 
 qual, find seldom any difficulty in uniting, and supposing Golden 
 to be, what he seems to be, there is far from being any remarka- 
 ble disparity between him and Jessy. 
 
 " O ! My brother, cried I, in a painful confusion, how can you 
 say so ? 
 
 " The strongest mind and the most enlightened, looks not, in 
 women, for various knowledge and studious zeal like its own. 
 These are not the cementing powers between the sexes. These 
 give not birth to love, and form not the charms of wedlock. It 
 is the concord of hearts, the mingli;ig of affections, that give forc^ 
 to this bond. Does not Jessy know this, and may she not then 
 make herself a merit in her love ? 
 
 " That the difference of Golden's birth and education from your 
 own, the uncertainty of his present condition, whence he comes, 
 what connections or embarrassments he may have left behind, 
 what stay he may make among us, and whither he will go, wheij 
 he does go ; that these uncertainties occupied so much place in 
 your mind, as they now seem to do, I had no means of knowing 
 till now. 
 
 " I rejoice that you allow these uncertainties so much weight. 
 Let them, I admonish you most earnestly, let them always be 
 present and outweigh every sentiment that his company may 
 excite in your heart bv mere complacency and good will. 
 
 " And thus ended, mv Sophy, a conference more painful to me 
 than I can describe. Why did I repeat it to you ? 1 have only 
 called up again the pain it gave me, and now is my heart so 
 greatly depressed, that I can write no more. 
 
156 
 
 '' Cheer me Sophia, by thy letters. Tell me what I should thmk ,, 
 how I should act. I see that I am not fit, in your and my bro- 
 ther's opinion, to govern myself. 
 
 Never, Sophy, did I so much wish to be with you as now. I 
 would be any where but here and in the company of this man. 
 When in the same room, at the same table, with him, ray uneasi- 
 ness is greatest, but loneliness and sleep do not take it away. 
 These hints and precautions of you and my brother have bereav- 
 ed me of my comforts. I know no inmates of my heart, but 
 doubts, fears and suspicions, and my heart detests such visitants. 
 " I am afraid of doing wrong. I must act and speak, but I am 
 no judge of consequences, and to mean well, will not always pre- 
 vent mischief. 
 
 " Can't I see you Sophy ? Will not you fetch me away ? Your 
 sweet retreat must have numberless charms at this season, and all 
 is here so dusty and so hot. Such myriads of insects teazing us 
 all day and stinging us all night. We live near the road, which 
 is only an heap of dust, which wheels and horses, going to and 
 fro all day, raise into clouds, that doors and windows cannot 
 keep out, and that rest upon chairs and tables polluting and dis- 
 ordering whatever it touches. The very ivy at my back window 
 is whitened and loaded with it. 
 
 " And then the heat ! I wonder such an air as this does not 
 breed plagues worse than that of flies and gnats, which it does 
 breed. Yet a worse plague it has bred in me ; the plague of an 
 impatient spirit ; a plague worse than Egypt ever knew. 
 
 " The sun at noon-day, shining full upon this low roof, makes 
 every thing almost too hot to be touched. The night is not long 
 enough to cool the air, and the breezes, of late, seem all to have 
 passed through an oven before thi y reached us. Last night I 
 chanced to leave a knife blade on the window — this morning, at 
 ten, I saw it where it lay in the sunshine, and took it in. Will 
 you believe me, Sophia ? I was obliged instantly to drop it on 
 the floor, it was so hot. I dropt it, else, I verily believe, it had 
 scorched my fingers. 
 
 " And in this weather, Sophia, must thy poor friend broil and 
 bake, not her mutton and potatoes merely, but herself. The 
 
157 
 
 uoals must be brightened, morning and noon, the pot must be 
 filled, whether the sun shines or not. This it is that makes my 
 languor so extreme at this season. Hardly can I go up stairs. 
 Indeed I am obliged to rest in going up. My aching knees ab- 
 solutely require it. 
 
 " I can eat scarcely any thing. My appetite goes quite away 
 in summer, and it puzzles me to find out how I reach the autumn 
 alive. Yet by summer's end 1 am scarcely half alive. Pale as 
 as ashes, meagre, spiritless, her substance half dissolved, is thy 
 Jessy by the time that the air begins to be refreshed by the gales 
 of November. 
 
 " I cannot bear it any longer. My brother says he will send 
 his Jenny to keep house for me, whenever I choose to visit you, 
 so send for me, Sophia, as soon as you can. 
 
 "What a weak, foolish creature am I grown! I am quite 
 other than 1 was. Some evil spirit has got hold of me, without 
 doubt. He it was, surely, that made use of my pen, and wrote 
 thee such a letter yesterday. 
 
 " Such a letter, Sophia ! For me to write. To paint my situ- 
 ation in such exaggerated colours : to determine to leave my 
 mother ! No. It was not I. 
 
 " I am greatly astonished at the state of my mind, for these 
 last three days. Surely, Sophia, my intellects have not been 
 quite sound. Never did 1 feel before as I have lately done. 
 Are there not cases of insanity, coming on without warning, and 
 lasting for a little while ; and has not this been such a one ? I 
 strongly suspect it has. It has gone, and methinks it never will 
 come back again. Alas 1 What assurance can I have of that ? 
 
 "The heat! the dust! the insects! Did I ever complain of 
 
 these before, and have I not always had as much reason ? Many 
 
 days within this month have been as hot, as dry and as stagnant 
 
 as yesterday, yet I never repined at such trifling inconveni- 
 encies. 
 
 " Whatever is painful in my condition, have I not chosen it, 
 for my mother's sake ? I need not stay in this cottage, but as long 
 as I please. Has not that tutelary angel, to whom I now write, of- 
 fered every good that the most aspiring heart can wish, and the 
 proudest fortune bestow ? I may live with her, all her leisure. 
 
158 
 
 Ivixuries and enjoyments may be mine too, if I please, and why 
 dp I not take them ? 
 
 " B. cause I must not, cannot, forsake my mother. I am not, 
 ii^dL ea, fit to enter the high and the gay world. I was born for 
 pi ;' acy, seclusion and an humble lot. I love my cottage, for my 
 own and my dear sister's sake, who lived and died under its roof; 
 but I would not live in it alone, nor pass my time in it, as I now 
 do, were I to take counsel of my own independent inclination. 
 
 " None of this broiling and baking would 1 do, to serve myself. 
 I would live as our guest does, and my fcK^d, preferable to my 
 palate, in itself, should cost me no trouble at all, and not one 
 tenth of the expense of our present living ; but my mother can- 
 not, and I wish her not, to change her habits merely to save mc 
 trouble. 
 
 " I might persuade her too to leave this house, and go, as my 
 brother has long wished us to do, a few miles from the city. 
 There is many a sweet spot on the Hudson, where we might find 
 a green and quiet abode, and to please me, my mother would 
 consent to go ; but this would be with much reluctance, and my 
 brother would be obliged to supply from his own stock, the mo- 
 ney which I now earn, and which is equal to my own mainte- 
 nance. 
 
 " You too, Sophia, have exhorted me to leave town, and offer- 
 ed the means necessary for doing it without injury. I have iK>t 
 declined accepting the loan, from any pride or perverseness of 
 temper, but merely through regard to my mother's wishes, and 
 because, in truth, my cottage and my homely tasks, are not dis- 
 pleasing to me. 
 
 " Let me dispatch this letter, after yesterday's, without loss of 
 time, that it may save you the trouble of sending for me. I have 
 much to say to you, Sophia, but have not time just now. 
 
 *' Now am I tranquil and joyous once more. I feel, methinks, 
 as I used to do. My brother's counsels, that humbled and af- 
 flicted me so much, ai"e remembered with thankfulness and 
 pleasure. His caution v.as indeed needless, but his kindness in- 
 duced him to give it, and I should love him the better for his 
 kiadness. 
 
159 
 
 *' Yet they had a deep influence for a time. The disquiets 
 they gave me were always strongest in his company, and though I 
 tried to behave with composure and collectedness before him, I 
 could not succeed. Yet he seemed not to notice me till yester- 
 day at tea. I had just finished my foolish letter to thee, and that ' 
 employment had only disturbed me the more, when I was 
 obliged to go down. For some time he was absent and thought- 
 ful, as usual. At last, his attention seemed to be caught by 
 something in my looks. A glance now and then, half inquisi- 
 tive, I thought, and so benign, Julia ! The benignity of his eyes 
 %vas new, was sudden. I had never seen it before. Commonly, 
 his features have been darkened by comfortless reflections. 
 They are commonly austere, but now a ray of sweet benignity 
 seemed luminously to diff"use itself over all his features. 
 
 " Yet how did I know all this ? I, to whom his attention made 
 it only more difficult to look at him. 
 
 " I don't know how : I knew it by sympathy, I believe. I felt 
 my cheeks glow with new embarrassment. He said nothing and 
 quickly retired. 
 
 " How was it, Sophia, that this little incident almost instantly 
 changed my feelings. I went up stairs again to my chamber, 
 but the mood was changed. The heat, the gnats, the dust no 
 longer incommoded me. I was not well, yet my spirits were ex- 
 alted into heavenly serenity. 
 
 " This man, Sophia, has a soul. I am sure he has. I read 
 it in that look. Wrong, you often tell me to judge of men by 
 their looks. Wrong or not, there are cases, when not to judge 
 thus, is impossible. Impossible, at least, for me. 
 
 " And this it is that pleases me so much. A noble, a benefi- 
 cient aspect in man is, of all earthly things, the most attractive to 
 my gaze. Do not some say, I think I have been told so, that 
 the Deity possesses an human shape, the man of this world be- 
 ing fashioned after the image of the Universal Maker ? 
 
 " Do not smile at me, my friend. Above all, beware, I charge 
 you, of dealing out unwarrantable inferences, from v/hat I shall 
 tell you. I fear you a great deal, but that shall not hinder me 
 from saying, that to me there appears somewhat dh'mc in the 
 face of our guest. 'Tis a book full of sublime and excellent 
 meaning. 3Iethinks I could read in it for-rver. 
 
160 
 
 "- fiut iill the rest of him is fully worthy of his face. I mean 
 his personals. I know but little of the rest. Yet his face tells 
 me much, and indeed his conversation with my brother, has un- 
 folded a few things. 
 
 *' Would to heaven he would deign to talk to me. Yet the 
 very thought of that makes me tremble. What a poor part 
 should I act ! What could I say ? I know nothing that he 
 knows. I have never been where he has been. And what oc- 
 curs within my little sphere, is all trifling and despicable. No 
 fit subjects to talk to him upon. 
 
 " But could I not listen ? Methinks I should listen eagerly. 
 I have a great desire, you know, to learn, and though reading is 
 to me but a dull task ,1 have always had a great passion for 
 listening. I know I should be, not, indeed, an apt, but a most 
 willing and obsequious scholar. By dint of zeal 1 might get for- 
 ward ; perhaps rise to something in time. 
 
 " And how shall I prevail on him to talk ? Why not tell him 
 my wishes ? Why not ask him to talk ? Why not say to him, 
 " Here, Sir, is a poor girl who knows nothing, but who wants to 
 know every thing. Have you nothing in all that travelling and 
 books, and education have given you, suited to her childish ig- 
 norance and incapacity ; something which she will be the better 
 for knowing, and which it may not be unamusing to yourself to 
 communicate ? You meet her twice or thrice a day. You are 
 obliged to endure her company for a little while — Why not, good 
 sir, devote that little to her benefit ? 
 
 " She is not a Avorthless or stupid creature, I believe. Hex 
 heart is composed of fibres that vibrate easily and strongly. 
 The}'^ are moved bv the least breath, but are touched into har- 
 mony by nothing sooner than by gratitude and pity. 
 
 " You are not happy, good sir. Will not a docile ear and grate- 
 ful heart, even in so trivial a thing as I, beguile you of a few 
 moraents of uneasiness. While you talk to me, you will cease 
 to think of that which gives }ou pain." 
 
 '' Now, Sophia, v/hv should I not speak thus to our guest r 
 He would not repulse me, as forward and impertinent, would 
 he ? I have a good mind to try ; but I know I should never 
 muster up courage. 
 
161 
 
 I wish he would begin with me. In him, it would be condcr 
 ucending, and therefore easy ; but in me — No, I shall never have 
 courage to begin discourse with him. I wish he knew how de- 
 sirous I am to be talked to. Is there no way indirectly and by 
 way of hint ? 
 
 " Would I knew something more of him. By that know- 
 ledge, perhaps, I might regulate my approaches, and is there no 
 means of knowing ? He writes and reads not at all, I believe. 
 One day he opened Moshiem's history, that lay in the window. 
 Something caught his eye for three minutes. He read the page 
 and then left it. Luckily he opened where a shred of linen lay, 
 so that I was able, as soon as he went out, to look at the pass- 
 age. 
 
 " I understood not much of it. It talked about a certain 
 
 Jerome, who was burnt at Constance, for heresy — the disciple of a 
 certain John Hiiss. What a strange effect, Sophia, has reading 
 upon thy poor friend. It shews me, only more clearly, the ex- 
 tent of my ignorance. Every thing alluded to in this account, 
 was strange to me. I asked myself questions. Where, said I, 
 is Prague ? What were the incidents of Zisca's war ? Where- 
 fore did the Prince quarrel with his subjects ? What did one 
 demand and the other refuse ? And who were they who sat in 
 counsel, and caused the venerable Jerome to be burnt? 
 
 " Alas ! None of these questions was I able to answer. Now 
 Colden, I suppose, has all this in his possession, and, perhaps, 
 would despise me, on finding me so ignorant. Yet why should 
 not a man find pleasure, in removing ignorance, in imparting his 
 knowledge ? Suppose I should put those questions to him ? No- 
 thing improper, I should think, in that. But whence, would he 
 not ask, could I glean such odd inquiries ? What are Zisca and 
 Jerome and Bohemian battles to me ? Better, surely, exercise 
 my curiosity on other subjects ; but what other ? 
 
 " Some, they must be, on which he is able to instruct me : 
 else to put my questions to him would be absurd. Yet why not 
 be inquisitive on the same subjects with him ? The Taborites 
 and Calaxtines are as much to me as to another. They are men, 
 and their fate ought not to excite the less sympathy in us, be- 
 cause they lived a great while ago, and a great way off, if their 
 story be truly and circumstantially told. 
 
 21 
 
162 
 
 " Religion, it seems, was the hand that set fire to their pas- 
 sions. Jerome preached a new religion. Many people believed, 
 but the rulers were not convinced, and killed every body that 
 believed like Jerome. I should like to know what it was that 
 Jerome preached, and whether he or the council were in the 
 right. There must have been some very great difference be- 
 tween them surely, to make one so cruel and the other so ob- 
 stinate. 
 
 " Will not IMosheim tell me all this ? I have half a mind to read 
 the book. If ever Golden should talk to me, how would he be 
 surprised to find me so knowing as this book would make me • 
 Some inducement, too, to speak to me, he observing me thus 
 employed. A proof, it would be, that my thoughts sometimes 
 rose above the tea-pot and the stew-pan, 
 
 " Don't be surprised, that I run on thus, Sophia. Don't be an- 
 gry, especially as I stop merely through compassion to you. 
 J could write twice as much before I sleep, but I must not trust 
 too much to your indulgence. So, adieu. 
 
 " How, Sophia, do you think this morning has been busied ? 
 I wish I were near enough to hear your guesses. 
 
 " Getting breakfast, I suppose. Attending your mamma. 
 * Working at a wrint-band." 
 
 " To be sure, but what besides these ? 
 
 " In reverie, perhaps, while the bed is made and the floor 
 sanded. 
 
 " Certainly ; but what else ? 
 
 " Why — reading. 
 
 " Yesterday's design, respecting ]Mosheim, has been executed. 
 You began to study, at last. 
 
 *' No such thing. Sometime hence, perhaps to-morrow, I 
 may begin, but, to-day, I had other business. 
 
 " What! Had vou a long conversation with your guest i Has 
 the statue opened its mouth at last ? 
 
 Ah ! Sophy ! Would that guess was the true one. But I will 
 tell you what it was. 
 
 " I awoke pretty early, earlier by far than common. I thought 
 
163 
 
 of course, on all that had lately passed. It was a motley, a sur- 
 prising scene, Sophia. Some parts of it engaged me more than 
 others. Especially Colden's conversations with my brother. 
 All of them (by-the-bye there have been but two in my hearing) 
 were remembered, and now I repeated them to myself. 
 
 " But, thought I, shall I always remember them so exactly as 
 now. Time, perhaps, will slowly wear the traces out. A good 
 scheme, to write them down. Then they will always be vivid 
 and at hand. And how can my active pen be better employed ? 
 Let me see, what can be done, before breakfast time, this very 
 morning. Full two hours from the dawn of day, till my mother 
 stirs. 
 
 " So I watched the stars till they faded away. Then I got 
 up, and my paper was before me, and my pen in hand, some mi- 
 nutes before the light was strong enough to let me use them. I 
 looked very impatiently at the east. My window gives me a full 
 view of that quarter of the heavens. The air was. deliciously 
 cool, and my mind glowed the more fervently on that ac- 
 count. 
 
 " I soon began to write, and finished my task, I assure thee, 
 before the sweet face of my Hannah (she sleeps in my mothei^'s 
 room) showed itself at my door. A great deal too was to be 
 said, but I hurried forward my pen, minding not my dashes and 
 my commas. I wrote it for myself alone, yet I will send it to 
 my Sophia, if she wishes it, on condition that she sends it back in 
 due season. 
 
 " It was done — every syllable of these two talkers was put 
 down, and proud was I of my exploit. What a difference, 
 my friend, between this morning and all my former ones. Me- 
 thinks that thus to spend every morning would be highly benefi- 
 cial. Such a contrast would it prove to the molested sleep, the 
 confused dreams, in which my mornings heretofore have been 
 spent. 
 
 " Yet this is not the first attempt at early rising. I have often 
 determined to rise with the sun, but so drowsy, so comfortless, 
 have I felt, so impatient of my mind's vacancy, and so vainly 
 striving to keep the needle going, that I as ofcen gave up the 
 scheme. 
 
 " Nothing of all this did I now feel. I was all alert, spright- 
 
164 
 
 ly, impetuous. My thoughts glowed, and as they followed each 
 other to the pen, my soul was visited, it seemed, by glimpses of 
 a pure, a supernal light. I once, Sophia, thought sewing was 
 pltasant. Lately its reputation has sunk a little with me. I like 
 the pen better. 
 
 " As usual, I met Golden at breakfast. The remembrance of 
 how I had lately been employed, gave me some credit in my own 
 eyes. Ought it not to give me some ? At least, with him ? 
 
 " "Wny not, thought I once, tell this man what I have been do- 
 ing ? Such a dumb reserve on either side ! Justifiable, perhaps 
 in him from his ignorance of what is passing in my heart. Let 
 me pluck up reasonable, decent courage, and break the spell. 
 Once broken, it will nevtr be formed again. 
 
 " I had done it, I believe. A fluttering heart, needless move- 
 ments of the tea-cup, were preludes which should have ended 
 in a — " Prav, sir, will } ou be so good as to tell me what religious 
 people mean when thev talk of receiving' the cup in both kinds ?"' 
 But he left me before the preludes were at an end : Sorely, to my 
 disappointment. All the courage and tranquillity which I had en- 
 joyed, for a few days, had like to have deserted me. I hemmed 
 and sighed it away, and conquered my dejection the sooner by 
 thus betaking myself to the pen. 
 
 " Pray send for me, Sophia ; pray do. Not a moment long- 
 er under this roof — that 1 am determined. A rude ; an inso- 
 
 IpT^f , I W * ^ VT ^ "tF 
 
 "Faithful pen! Let me intrust to thee, and to my Sophia, all 
 the feelings of this simple and wayward heart. What, O my un 
 governable heart, shall I compare the to ? 
 
 " Tears, scalding tears, tears of indignation ; of anger at m^ - 
 self and the world, burst forth, but now my tears rebuked them- 
 selves. 'Tis well I have no witnesses to my intirmity. Should 
 I not die with shame if there were ? 
 
 " Yet my poor mother thought that something was the mat- 
 ter. ■ The sob, not effectually stifled, the voice, broken and un 
 even, excited her notice. 
 
165 
 
 " Why, Jessy, my dear, what ails you ? 
 
 " Nothing at all mamma. Will you have your gruel now ? 
 stammered I, awkwardly endeavoring thus to draw away her 
 thoughts. And all my tears, for what ? 
 
 " Ah Sophia ! You must cast away the frail and perverse Jes- 
 sica. She merits not thy love. My confession will make it but 
 too evident. 
 
 " I spent this morning in quieting those scruples that had hi- 
 therto, as I imagined, stood so much in the way of conversation 
 with our guest. I persuaded myself to take courage and ad- 
 dress myself to him, while at tea. Various questions 1 thought 
 of, with which I might begin, by asking him. I was at great 
 pains to find out a suitable question, and when I found it, I 
 weighed very carefully the words I should use. Having settled 
 all these difficult points, I waited, with some impatience, for the 
 evening. It came, at last, and at the usual time. I found my- 
 self seated opposite to him at the tea-table. 
 
 " Methought it was more solemn than usual. There was an 
 air of more disquiet, and greater inattention to me, was evident. 
 This discouraged me, a good deal. I felt my resolution sink- 
 ing. I struggled to keep it alive, and at last, as I held the plate, 
 with a slice of bread, to him, I said — Pray, sir — There I 
 stopped. 
 
 " His attention was roused. He looked at me with curiosity, 
 and I resumed with a world of hesitation and embarrassment — 
 Pray, sir — Yet I am loath to trouble you with such idle ques- 
 tions. I could not go on. With an air of benignity, he now- 
 said — You cannot imagine, Sophia, the sound of his voice. It is 
 awfully sweet, to my ears, especially when kindly modulated, as 
 it now was — but he said : All your questions, if I can answer, I 
 will answer cheerfully. 
 
 " It was only — I was thinking this morRing—what it was — 
 what hai-m there could be — I forget what I wish to know, and to 
 ask so strange a question of you. 
 
 " Pray, said he, with increasing affability, let me fully know 
 your doubts ; I will remove them if I can. 
 
 It was only this. What harm, I thought, this morning, can 
 there be in leaving the Romish religion and turning Protestant, 
 that people must be burnt alive for doing so. 
 
. 166 
 
 " O Sophia ! I shudder even now to tell you what followed. 
 Such a propitious beginning to end so ! 
 
 " He started half up, cast a dreadful look at me — uttered not 
 a syllable, but, after a moment's pause, seized his hat and hur- 
 ried out of the room. 
 
 " Such was the issue of my foolibh experiment. Deeply, and 
 with burning tears, did I see my folly, my rashness. So blind 
 was I, not to see the impropriety of my inquiry. Yet who 
 would have suspected it to be improper ? Sure I am, I intended 
 no ill. 
 
 " But I have done, methought, some bad thing, that he can 
 never forgive. He will change his lodgings to be sure, to avoid 
 being tormented by my impertinent curiosity. Well j well ; — • 
 Let him g-o ; a haughty ; unaccountable ; mysterious — and the 
 sooner he will go the better. Either will be less unhappy in the 
 absence of the other. 
 
 " O Sophia, these v.-ere unhappy moments to me. I could 
 not endure home. I could not bear myself, and went out to 
 walk, though tlie air was very gloomy and blustering, and big 
 ^rops of rain began already to fall. 
 
 " 1 took, pensively, the way across the fields, towards the Hud- 
 son. You know the hill, from the side of which you overlook 
 Wantsey's Marsh. 'Tis pretty steep, and some old trees are 
 scattered on the edge of it, whose shade is pleasant at noon, and 
 whose covert makes the evening gloom still deeper. I sat me 
 down under one of these, quite thoughtless of the time, and of 
 every thing but Colden's strange demeanour. 
 
 "The night came on, and I still was seated on a grassy hil- 
 lock all alone. People frequently ramble here on summer even- 
 ings, and a solitary girl like me, might well be timid. At other 
 times I should have been so, but now I felt nothing like fear. I 
 thought not once of my situation. 
 
 " At last, perhaps, it was an hour after dark, something hap- 
 pened, I don't know what, to rouse me from my dream. I saw 
 it was a very dark night, so much so, that I feared I should hard- 
 ly find my wa)- back. Just then, mctliought, I saw a large figure 
 moving towards this spot, brushing through the long dry grass. 
 I was fu.il of tKmonrs. ]My knees shook so much, that I could 
 
167 
 
 not for a moment, get on my feet, yet I dreaded to remain, and 
 wanted to hurry away. 
 
 " The figure still came on, and when near me, suddenly stopt, 
 observing me, no doubt, and wondering what could induce a girl 
 like me to trust herself, alone, at this time o*night, so far from 
 home. By this time, I found my feet, and starting up, was go- 
 ing, when the person said, in a tone of surprise, Jessy Arnot. 
 Is it you. 
 
 " O my Sophia ! The voice was Colden's. How I trembled. 
 He did not tell me to stop, yet 1 did stop. I could not move a 
 step further. I did not answer him neither. It seemed as if I 
 had not breath enough to utter a syllable. 
 
 " He came up to me— Why, said he, it is Jessy indeed. My 
 good girl ! You have strayed far. 
 
 " Good girl ! Sophia, in a tone so kind ! "What a change was 
 here. My heart was now in greater tumults than ever. Ap- 
 prehension, joy, surprise, seemed all to swell my bosom at the 
 same time. I could not find words, till he had repeated — A 
 late hour, Jessy, to be thus far from home. 
 
 " It is, indeed, said I, it was very wrong of me ; but don't 
 know how it was. I walked on without thinking, and sat here, 
 inattentive to the things around me. I shall never do the like 
 again, I am sure. 
 
 *' No common theme must have engrossed you so much, said 
 he, in a tone, as I thought, of interrogation. 
 
 " Now was the trembling fool more embarrassed than ever. 
 Did he suspect what 1 was musing on? Never, my friend, was 
 there a worse dissembler than thy Jessy. Her heart is in the 
 hand of every one, that wishes to have it there. 
 
 " Nothing, not much, stammered I, in a hurry, I was only 
 sorry — grieved for — because — ^ 
 
 *' Lord bless me, Sophia, what was I about ? Was I going to 
 say how his fierceness had affected me ? I suppose I was, and 
 should have said it then, but his anger before, and his kindness 
 now, were too much for me. I could not say more for tears,, 
 that impertinently came into my eyes. 
 
 " His accents betrayed more kindness, as well as some sur- 
 prise. 
 
168 
 
 " You were sorry ; you were grieved, Jessy. For what ? May 
 I know the cause ? 
 
 " I grieved for my own rashness ; for having given anger and 
 pain, by my impertinence ; for having met with sharp rebuke, 
 where I meant no ill, and stern repulse, where I sought know- 
 ledge. 
 
 *' This hint gave him evident disturbance. He seemed to 
 breathe hard while he spoke. 
 
 " No more of that, good girl. I was the faulty wretch, not 
 you. Allow for my infirmity. It was a fi-eak not to be account- 
 ed for, or justified, and I wanted to see you and atone for it. 
 Pass it over ; think of it no more, will you ? 
 
 " Golden thus to humble himself at my feet ; to confess himself 
 in error ; to ask forgiveness from me. I could not answer him, 
 Sophia ; I could not, indeed. Marking my unwilling silence, I 
 hope he saw it to be unwilling, he continued : 
 
 *"" Your ingenuous heart must seek a diflferent instructor. I am 
 not worthy to be your teacher. What knowledge you want, I 
 am unable to communicate — 
 
 " Here ensued a long pause. It was not for me to break it. 
 Meanwhile, we walked forward, and had, by this time, got into 
 Broadway. 
 
 *' You know the way now, he said. My path leads me differ- 
 ently. So saying, he left me, and walked quickly away. 
 
 " I hurried home, wanting the kind solitude of my chamber 
 to think. Sophia ? There is something in all this — exalting, shall 
 I call it, to thy poor friend ? Bewildering, it surely is. What a 
 crovid of vivid, rapid images, burst in upon my mind. They 
 would not suffer me, as methinks I hear, 
 
 " Some minstrel, Jessy, sing or say, 
 
 " To bide at iiome, 
 
 " Abroad to roam, 
 
 " But snatched me, from myself, a\vay. 
 
 *'I have tranquilized myself enough to write thus far-t— To tell 
 thee what has happened, but to describe my feelings now, that I 
 liesurely look back upon these incidents, is too hard a task for 
 me. Some other time, I shall be able. To-morrow, perhaps. 
 
169 
 
 " Bewitching pen ! I can scarcely spare thee from my fingers 
 while I sleep. Night has become more tedious since I have 
 grown accustomed to my quill. More than once, I had like to 
 have risen, gotten a light, and scribbled away upon my pillow. 
 
 *' How numerous, how troublesome, said a neighbour, are the 
 musquitoes grown of late. For them and the heat, one can 
 scarcely get a wink of sleep. Don't you find it so, Miss Arnot ? 
 Last night especially. 
 
 '* Me ! O ! dear, no. Their buzzing and their stinging vex 
 not me. Last night, I hardly slept a xv'ink^ to be sure, but I do 
 not thank the musquitoes for that. 
 
 " O ! what a light, what a bounding heart is mine ! It would 
 not lie still long enough to let me sleep."* 
 
 I shall next present the reader with a fragment which I shall 
 call " Sketches of a History of Carsol." I would not have 
 presented these Sketches until later in the work, but that I find 
 them already selected and printed for this part of the first 
 volume, because they were undoubtedly written by Mr. Brown, 
 at a period subsequent to that of which I am now treating, 
 and after he had become an author by profession. 
 
 Of the intention of the author in these Sketches I have no 
 definite idea. They were intended doubtless as part of a 
 great work. The author's love for Utopian systems appears 
 in them, though he gives his work very much the air of real 
 history. 
 
 ♦ In a few instances, the Reader will find that in the preceding' pag-es, the 
 rames Julia and Sophia are indiscriminately used 
 
 99 * 
 
SKETCHES 
 
 OF A HISTORY OF CARSOL. 
 
 " THE funds of Carsol amount to an annual payment of two 
 and an half million of ducats, or 612,500/. sterling. They con- 
 sist of shares of 100 ducats each ; the number of shares is, con- 
 sequently, 25,000. Cards of the shape and size of a ducat, the 
 edges hardened by a species of glue, represent this property, and 
 are transferable like pieces of money. The production of the 
 card, at the proper office in the capital, entitles it to payment five 
 times in the year, of twenty dollars at a time, on each share. As 
 all payments are recorded, the numbers being creditors, pa}^- 
 ments may be declined, and the money left to accumulate. This 
 may happen in consequence of the loss or destruction of a card ,* 
 of the absence of the holder, or his voluntary reservation of the 
 claim. In case of loss or destruction, due proof will be received 
 by the office, and new cards issued. Old, defaced or torn cards 
 may be renewed at pleasure. 
 
 " These funds have various advantages over the public funds 
 of other nations. They are transferable without form or trou- 
 ble, in any part of the world ; the possession of the card being 
 to all useful purposes, equivalent to that of coin. They are, in 
 one respect, better than coin, because the loss by robbery, mis- 
 laying, miscarriage or otherwise, may be repaired by proving be- 
 fore an impartial tribunal. Those who are desirous of further 
 security, may lodge them in the bank of Carsol, to be taken out 
 or transferred, only by their signed order. 
 
 " The stability of the government, its good faith, its riches, 
 its exemption, by reason of its wisdom, energy and strength, 
 from foreign molestation, give these funds a vast superiority 
 over others. The cheapness, security and other advantages of a 
 
171 
 
 residence in Carsol, where these funds are most accessible, con- 
 tribute also to enhance their value. The occasional commo- 
 tions and wars of the neighbouring nations, and the convenient 
 position of this Island, render it the best possible for persons or 
 property. 
 
 " The value of these funds, or their price in exchange, bears 
 a large proportion to their annual produce. This proportion va- 
 ries with the circumstancesof individuals and of nations. It has 
 never sunk below one hundred to two, or risen above one hun- 
 dred to five. So that the smallest value of the funds, or the 
 amount of the principal, of which the annual payments may be 
 considered as the interest, is 1(X)0 ducats or twelve and an half 
 millions sterling, and the highest value has been 12«5 millions of 
 ducats, or 31 and three quarter millions sterling. 
 
 " These funds l^ve been reduced to their present state, since 
 1725, that is, for 85 years. Dividends unclaimed for 40 years, 
 revert to the state. During the last 45, the average of annual 
 reversions has been about 25 shares, or 2,500 ducats. Much 
 deliberation has taken place as to the best mode of appropriating 
 these reversions. The whole amount has been (up to 1805) 
 125,000; which gives a principal, at only 5 percent, of 2,500,000 
 ducats. By cancelling the cards, the annual payment would be 
 reduced to 2,375 ducats. Great advantages, however, having 
 been found to arise from the acceptance of these funds, they have 
 been kept unimpaired. All lasped funds are granted anew, and 
 as their lapse must necessarily arise from the misfortunes of pri- 
 vate persons, and especially of strangers, the sovereign has or- 
 dained that they shall be granted gratuitously, for the relief of 
 meritorious individuals of foreign nations. Being granted in an- 
 nuities of 12,500 ducats, (325/. sterling) it follows that the pre- 
 sent number of such annuitants amounts to 100. 
 
 " After resolving that the objects of this bounty should be fo- 
 reigners, it was a topic of much reflection to settle the kind of 
 merits or services to be thus rewarded. So large a fund, wisely 
 dispersed, could not fail to produce considerable effects. 
 
 " These stocks were created in the following manner : The 
 hrst Arthur, in order to acquire the whole landed property of the 
 Island, offered the proprietors a sum, in the fund of perpetual an- 
 
172 
 
 nuities, equal to all the income they received from their lands. 
 This offer was accepted at different times, by the whole body of 
 proprietors. 
 
 *< The baronial estates, at the time of Arthur's accession, 
 were entailed. They were neither liable to alienation, testa- 
 mentary disposal or forfeiture for debts, except during the life 
 of the debtor. 
 
 " To diffuse throughout the Island their agricultural and eco- 
 nomical improvements, of which he had become enamoured, the 
 prince found it necessary to acquire the privileges of an univer- 
 sal landlord. His policy consisted in obtaining these, with the 
 full consent of the owners. This was effected by obtaining a 
 senatorial law, allowing proprietors to alienate their lands; and 
 by purchasing, at a fair price, the lands thus unfettered. The 
 improvements immediately adopted, raised the rental of the 
 land from 1 to 15 ducats, and thus easily enabled the prince to 
 fulfil his contract.' 
 
 " The new property being of a volatile and transferable na- 
 ture, became exposed to all the freaks of prodigality, improvi- 
 dence and folly. The connection between the nobles and their 
 vassals, being thus dissolved, and the power and influence thence 
 accruing, being at once taken from the ancient barons, and in- 
 vested in the prince, the barons became wholly powerless and 
 insignificant, and the prince absolute and irresistible. 
 
 *' In the course of a century all the ancient families, except 
 nine, were either extinct by the ordinary accidents of nature, or 
 were sunk into mediocrity or obscurity. Pedigree is rather 
 contemptible than venerable, when disjoined from wealth and 
 power. 
 
 " Nine families continued unimpaired in their wealth. They 
 changed the nature of their property, but three generations suc- 
 ceeded each other, endowed with a sufficient portion of discre- 
 tion to preserve their property from being lessened, and in some 
 cases to augment it. These, indeed, had sunk from turbulent 
 and ferocious leaders into indolent and unambitious gentlemen ; 
 eminent for their softer nature^ but divested of ambition. The 
 descendants of these families were sometimes found in places of 
 profit and dignity, but tor this they Avere not indebted to their 
 family, but to their cnvn personal merits. 
 
173 
 
 *' The ancient senate consisted of the proprietors of land. 
 Every barony was entitled to one seat. The proprietors of seve- 
 ral baronies could therefore nominate as many members as there 
 Avere baronies in his possession. The barons or their proxies 
 composed the Senatus Laicus. The Senatus Clericus consist- 
 ed of the archbishops, bishops, twenty deans, chosen by the 
 deans from their own body, and 110 curates,, elected by that 
 body in the same manner. The two senates assembled annually 
 during the last week of the year. These bodies possessed legis- 
 lative powers conjointly ; the deliberations of the latter, being 
 confined to ecclesiastical affairs, and all its decrees requiring the 
 concuiTence of the Laical senate. The prince has, in virtue of 
 his property, the nomination of ten senators. The boundaries 
 of the respective jurisdictions of these bodies ; their privileges 
 and methods of proceeding, had been settled and sanctioned by 
 the usage of four centuries. 
 
 *' In acquiring the whole landed property, the prince would 
 have acquired power much more absolute than what would have 
 arisen from the mere appointment of all the members of these 
 two senates. This right, however, would have followed the ac- 
 quisition. As all laconial estates were unalienable, and descend- 
 ed only to lineal or collateral heirs, the possessions of the prince 
 would naturally be augmented by these accidents, which occa- 
 sioned the extinction of families. Princes, however, instead of 
 increasing their demesne, were found, in all ages, much more 
 disposed to diminish it. All the lands accruing to them by es- 
 cheat or forfeiture, they were sure to regrant, sooner or later, on 
 the ancient terms to their favourites, and they were prevented 
 only by the strictest laws, from impairing their original patri- 
 mony. Grants of the original demesne, were in fact only dur- 
 ing the life of the prince granting. 
 
 '•' By a project which converted all the barons into mere 
 holders of stock, this constitution was subverted, unless some 
 special measures were employed to preserve it. Bv an express 
 law, the baron's right to form a constituent part of the senate, 
 was declared to be inherent in his person, and descendible to 
 his heirs, in the same manner as his barony formerly was. Bv 
 this law, he was enabled to part with nothing but the rights and 
 profits of a mere landlord. 
 
174 
 
 " The extinction of some families, the poverty and ignominy, 
 or emigration, of others, the loss, by all, of that influence which 
 proceeds from territorial possessions, very quickly reduced this 
 senate to a mere nominal assembly, whose decrees were con- 
 trouled or dictated, at the pleasure of the prince. Insensibly the 
 substance changed, while the name continued, and the Senatus 
 Laicus finally became a council, consisting of the officers of the 
 prince, and those whom his patent invested with this privilege. 
 Senator became a personal honour, conferred without regard to 
 ancient distinctions. 
 
 <'As to the Senatus Clericus, the power and privileges of its 
 members were connected with their offices. These offices were 
 held for life, upon the gift originally of the prince, but ultimately 
 of the pope and the dignitary clergy, archbishops, and bishops 
 were named by the pope, the deans by the bishops, and the cu- 
 rates by the bishops jointly, with their council of deans. Thus 
 stood the ecclesiastical establishment at the accession of the Car- 
 rlls. As in all ecclesiastical appointments, the court of Rome 
 had nothing but revenue and influence in view- — the benefices of 
 Carsol were almost entirely possessed by foreigners, or by those 
 who resided abroad. These performed their official duties, 
 whether ecclesiastical or civil, by deputies, whose places were 
 sold at auction. 
 
 " The convents, in like manner, were originally possessed of 
 the power of naming their own heads, and expending their own 
 revenues. In process of time, the nomination to abbies, with 
 the greater part of their revenues, were engrossed by the arch- 
 bishops, bishops and pope. The injurious eflfects of this system, 
 the venality, tyranny and negligence of the prelates and their de- 
 legates, may be easily imagined. The continual draining away 
 of money, was of ruinous tendency. The administration of jus- 
 lice, among the vassals of the clergy, was totally neglected, or 
 perverted ; poverty, depopulation and depravity, were the conse-r 
 quences of this system. 
 
 " The revenue drawn from this Island by the court of Rome, 
 consisted of the tythe of all the benefices, for the first year after 
 nomination to tliem, of innumerable fees and perquisites, of the 
 produce of the sale of a calendar of 7 pages, containing the year- 
 
175 
 
 ly festivals ; and a pontificial indulgence to eat flesh on Santa- 
 besta's day. This indulgence was a simple inscription on the 
 last page, in the following words : 
 
 " Sanctissima papa dat tibi hoc tenenti libertatem camem 
 edendi die sanctae vestse. The rest of its pages contained four 
 columns each ; one two sets, one column of each set containing 
 the day of the month, and the other the festival, of which there 
 were forty in the year answering to it. 
 
 " This calender was annually sent from Rome, and its sale and 
 distribution intrusted to a special minister, resident at Carsol. 
 From him they were purchased by the quantity, by certain ped- 
 lars, who made it their business to carry and disperse thera 
 through the country. It was easy to persuade the multitude that 
 it was a meritorious and pious act to purchase these calendars. 
 The clergy easily annexed to them a sanctity, beyond the origi- 
 nal design. They were greedily purchased by the people, and 
 considered as a sort of talisman, the influence of whose presence 
 was beneficial both here and hereafter. The venders of this 
 talisman gradually became a class order, partly mercantile and 
 partly apostolical, and who, in preaching up the merits of their 
 wares, were supposed to preach up religion. They consisted of 
 100 persons, each person having a peculiar district. Through 
 this district, to every house in it, were these calendars accustom- 
 ed to penetrate during the last three months in every year, load- 
 ed with this article. The average number annually sold, from 
 1650 to 1680, was 500,000. The price to the wholesale dealer 
 was a quarter of a ducat ; to the last purchaser, an unica more, 
 so that the whole produce of this sale is about 580,340 Cr. 
 from which, deducting 8,340 for the profits of the immediate 
 distributors, &c. 10,000 ducats for the expense of printing, ma- 
 terials and transportation, and for the perquisites of the secreta- 
 ry of calendars and his officers, there is left to the papal jtrea- 
 sury, the enormous sum of 445,000 ducats. This calendar, 
 paid for at this price, is the only book dispersed through the 
 country, and to read its words and figures is the greatest as- 
 tonishment of the whole mass of peasantry. 
 
 '< The profits of these pedlars were about equal to the stipend 
 of a village curate. They were considered as the family and 
 under the particular protection of the legate. 
 
176 
 
 ** The benefit resulting from such emissaries, the service of 
 their zeal, eloquence and industry, may be easily imagined. By 
 this plain and obvious system, the legate obtained access, easy, 
 open and undisputed, to the ear and family of every individual 
 in the whole society. These pilgrims served as collectors of 
 the population, which was calculated only from the data af- 
 forded by their sales. 
 
 *' Arthur could not help perceiving that the sale of this calen- 
 dar was an abuse of the popular superstition for the benefit of 
 idlers and strangers. The continual abstraction of so much 
 money, was highly injurious to the nation, whose money was 
 thus taken fjom them, in exchange for a book which only nou- 
 rished ignorance and folly. To annihilate this traffic entirely, to 
 appropriate the money to his ov.-n use, to convert the zeal and 
 diligence of so many agents, to the promotion of purposes benefi- 
 cial to himself and his people, instead of contributing to uphold 
 the authority and enrich the minions of Rome, were the projects 
 which Arthur and his ministers meditated. 
 
 '< These were delicate and arduous schemes, and to be accom- 
 plished only by the most cautious, wary and addressful mea- 
 sures. The great evil lay, in their opinion, not in drawing so 
 much money from the people, nor even in thus continually di- 
 minishing the circulating medium, but in omitting so advantage- 
 ous a means of contributing to the real instruction of the people. 
 Popular prejudice, which does not bend and turn at the will of a 
 prince, created formidable obstacles to any change. By contract- 
 ing with the pope to pay in advance, the full amount hitherto 
 remitted to Rome, the prince might place himself in the office of 
 the legate, and thus acquire that minister's authority over the 
 calendaria. No objection would be made to augmenting the 
 contents of this publication, provided the old articles v/ere re- 
 tained, and nothing should appear in the additions, heretical or 
 impious. 
 
 " A more potent engine than this, over popular opinion, can 
 hardly be conceived. Every member of the society thought it a 
 religious duty to purchase a copy of this work, for each member 
 of his family. He was taught to believe that every copy had 
 touched the hand, and received the express benediction of the 
 supreme pontiff. To enhance its sanctity ,«the boxes containing 
 
177 
 
 ihem, were carried unopen to the church of St. Vesta, in solemn' 
 and magnificent procession, on the day consecrated as her birth- 
 day. They there were carried through her chappel, in presence 
 of that statue, which all believed to have been marvellously crea- 
 ted by her express words. The general belief was that this 
 statue became animated for a moment, and that the marble 
 smiled a benediction on the treasure as it passed before her. 
 Hence, the possession of this book, was imagined to confer an 
 happy existence after death, and in no small degree to exempt 
 frail mortals from crimes and disasters, even upon earth. 
 
 " By such irresistible sanctions, was this book accompanied, 
 and the compiler therefore was sure of a reverend audience to 
 every thing he chose to insert in it. Its contents possessed the 
 most sacred recommendations, not only of the prince, but of the 
 pope, and of heaven itself. 
 
 " The prince undertook at first to purchase of the legate, in 
 quality of wholesale dealer, the whole impression of the calendar. 
 Tliis was an offer too advantageous to be rejected, since it secur- 
 ed the payment of the whole sum, at once, by a single hand. 
 Whereas this payment was formerly made by a numerous com- 
 pany, and subjected to many hazards and delays, through the 
 knavery, error or misfortune of the pedlars. 
 
 " The prince next turned his attention to the pilgrims (for that 
 was the name assumed.) He flattered them by his praises and 
 attentions. He drew closer the bands of their fraternity, bestow- 
 ed upon them badges and privileges of little importance in them- 
 selves, but gratifying to their vanity, and assigned recompenses 
 and gratuities for such as should excel their fellows in diligence 
 and punctuality. The calendar for some time was untouched. 
 
 " This conduct really flowed from generosity and patrimony, 
 but the pope, the clergy and the people, could only see in it the 
 impulses of a most orthodox and exemplary piety. The grati- 
 tude of the people was still further excited by a reduction in the 
 price of the calendar, of two or three unicos. In paying the an- 
 cient price to the pope, and demanding less from the people, they 
 could see nothing but the sacrifice of his personal interest in the 
 cause of piety and virtue. 
 
 " The next step that the prince adopted, was only a new proof 
 of his mercenary considerations. The papal barque ladened with 
 
 9-'5 
 
^78 
 
 the calendar of the ensuing year, was fortunatel}^ for his views, 
 and probuble with his connivance, taken on her passage to Car- 
 sol, by a Barbarian corsair. To prepare and transmit a new 
 impression, was attended with double expense, and inconvenient 
 delays. On these circumstances did Arthur build a new appli- 
 cation to the Roman court, requesting that the calendar should 
 be printed v/ithin the Island. Every scruple against the accept- 
 ance of the offer was removed, by subjecting the copy to the 
 inspection and revisal of the pope or his legate ; and bestowing 
 the pontifical benediction on the types employed on the work. 
 
 *'' The calendar, as has been said, was originally distributed by 
 pedlars, who pursued the business with the same views as the . 
 itinerant venders of any other article. In the beginning of the 
 sixteenth century-, an enthusiast, by name Mosca, imagined that 
 so pious a duty ought to be performed gratuitously. He soon 
 formed a society, by which the old pedlars were supplanted. 
 This fraternity engaged to distribute the calendars at the prime 
 cost, and to owe ail additional payment to spontaneous charity. 
 This was a new mendicant order, who, with regard to the pur- 
 chasers of the calendar, were exactly like their predecessors ; 
 since, as the labourer was worthy of his hire, and those who 
 could pay fifteen unicos, were generally able to add the six- 
 teenth ; the new carrier was paid, upon the whole, as well or 
 better than the former one, and custom soon converted the gra- 
 tuitous donation into a stated price. 
 
 *'The pilgrims or moscatize, being devoted by their vows to 
 a vagabond life, became, in process of time, exceedingly corrupt 
 and profligate. The head of the order was obliged to calculate 
 with accuracy, and manage their common funds with order, since 
 the privilege of selling the calendar depended on their punctually 
 fulfilhng their contracts with the papal agents. But it was the 
 business of the underlings to make their gains as great as possi- 
 ble. Thus they were authorized, by custom, to refuse any price 
 which did not include at least one surplus iinko^ and all their ad- 
 dress and eloquence was exercised to augment this charitable 
 dole. 
 
 "This vagabond, depraved and lying order of itinerants be- 
 came subjected, by his new arrangements, to the absolute controul 
 of the prince. The pope was by no means insensible to the 
 
179 
 
 abuses that had crept into this body, and his own interest being 
 nowise promoted by these disorders, he readily consented to con- 
 stitute Arthur chief of the order, and to invest him with the office 
 of superintcndaiit and reformer. Arthur knew full well the im- 
 portance of accomplishing his point, by means, slow, gradual and 
 imperceptible. He dispaired of making any durable impression 
 on the existing generation. He trusted his success to the next. 
 He was therefore in no haste to make material changes in the dis- 
 cipline of this order. The members of it were suffered to pro- 
 ceed pretty much in their customary manner ; but as these mem- 
 bers were continually removed by death, his vigilance and severity 
 manifested themselves in the choice of new members, and on the 
 conditions imposed upon them. These, on their admission into 
 the fraternity, were thoroughly apprised of the terms of this ad- 
 mission. They voluntarily and knowingly incurred the obliga- 
 tions of sobriety and honesty, and if their misconduct drew down 
 punishment upon them, there was nobody to pity or complain on 
 their account. The people in general were fully sensible of the 
 former abuses of this institution, and regarded him who removed 
 them as a public benefactor. 
 
 " The next step was to introduce some change into the calen- 
 dar itself. A task of no small difficulty. The legate was morose, 
 suspicious, fanatical. Every innovation he regarded with jea- 
 lousy ; and it was soon found that his concurrence was hopeless. 
 Instead of labouring to subdue his sovereign, or to supplant him 
 in his post, he was left to the ordinary influence of time. In a 
 very few years he was called to Rome, to occupy a more con- 
 spicuous station, and Arthur's whole influence was exerted at 
 that court, to obtain this office for one of a more easy and ac- 
 commodating temper. 
 
 " To acquire the property of the church and contentual lands, 
 was a task not quite so easy as that of supplanting the baronial 
 order. The change, with regard to the latter, was considered as 
 aff"ecting the very vitals of religion 
 
 " It it true that Arthur did not mean, upon the whole, to im- 
 pair the ecclesiastical revenues. Neither did he entertain any 
 immediate views of cramping their authority or privileges. 
 There should seem, therefore, no visible objection to a schema 
 which should change the nature, without lessening the amount 
 
18® 
 
 of the church's income, and which should leave the faith of the 
 nation, as well as the spiritual immunities of the clergy, unaf- 
 fected. 
 
 " Strenuous efforts were employed at Rome, to obtain the 
 papal sanction or permission for the alienation of church lands. 
 These efforts were unsuccessful. 
 
 " The infinite abuses of the clerical establishment called 
 aloud for a cure. What cure could be administered ? All that 
 was desirable, was to restore the ancient discipline. To give 
 the monks and nuns the right of choosing their own head and 
 members, to secure to them the use of their own revenue, and to 
 oblige them to conform to the rules of their pristine institution, 
 which, though obsolete, had never been repealed. To reinvest 
 the prince with the nomination of the prelates ; to oblige these 
 prelates to decide within their dioceses, and perform the duties 
 belonging to their station ; to prohibit the holding of more than 
 one benefice at a lime ; to exact the due qualifications of learn- 
 ing and virtue from the deans and curates ; these were merely 
 conformable to genuine rules of right discipline ; but as they were 
 at open war with the pecuniary interest of the Roman court, and 
 of the prelates, what measure could hope to be successful ? 
 
 " In other countries the reigning faith, with all its appendages, 
 has been overthrown by preaching a new doctrine. This, though, 
 sufficiently desirable in itself, could not be effected at all, in the 
 actual condition of this people, or could not be effected, without 
 consummations and perils, by no means compensated by any good 
 that could flow from the change. 
 
 " To restore things to their ancient condition, by the mere ex- 
 ertion of political power, would be a danggrous experiment, and 
 was therefore avoided. Nothing indeed could be effected with- 
 out previously moulding the public opinion into a conformity 
 with its designs ; and this he endeavoured to effect by causing a 
 book to be written and published. The author of this volume 
 undertook to paint the actual condition of the Island, in the times 
 of Charles Martel, as to ecclesiastical affairs. All his eloquence 
 was displayed in unfolding and adorning his subject. The times 
 were indirectly held up, to the imitation of the present genera- 
 tion, as a period of rectitude and purity, by being described from 
 which every deviation since, had been criminal and pernicious; 
 
181 
 
 He particularly dwelt and enlarged upon those points, in which 
 the past had been a contrast to the present, and by assiduously 
 depicting the benefits that flowed from the ancient system, in 
 those points that had since fallen into disuse, he suggested all he 
 wished, without appearing to design it, to the reader's imagina- 
 tion. That is vulgarly considered as right, which is ancient, and 
 the earliest institutions are most sacred, because they are the 
 earliest. 
 
 " All reasonings from authority, mounted no higher than the 
 expulsion of the Saracens in the year 1300. AH the reigning 
 institutions, ecclesiastical and civil, took their origin at that pe- 
 riod, and the model of government then exhibited, was natural- 
 ly regarded as the criterion of justice and duty. Arthur desired 
 to bring back the theory of the Carsol government, to that pat- 
 tern, though he intended that the practice of it should bear no 
 resemblance to it. In these views, he was accidentally befriend- 
 ed by the personal character of the first Charles, in which valour 
 and military conduct was combined with political wisdom and 
 justice. This justified the advocate in painting the felicity of 
 the nation, at that period, as an effect of the mode of govern- 
 ment, though it was merely or principally the result of the cha- 
 racter of the prince. 
 
 " Charles Martel pretended to derive his descent from the hero 
 of that name His ancestor, the son of that hero, married the 
 heiress of Brittany, and was invested by his father in the sove- 
 reignty of that dutchy. On the decline of his, the elder branch, 
 for he was lineally descended from a younger son of that hero, 
 the Martels withdrew^ to a small patrimony, situated in the bo- 
 som of the mountains, from whence the Garonne on one side and 
 the Rhone on the other, take their rise. Here they resided, in 
 the vale or lordship of Haac, for 300 years. Charles, the young- 
 er brother to Arthur, the 27th duke of Brittany, collected a lit- 
 de army from the hills of Brittany, and invaded Sardinia, which 
 was at that time under the dominion of the Saracens. The eight 
 sons of the last Saracen prince had quarrelled about the succes- 
 sion. The Island had been wasted for six years, by a civil war, 
 in which the bravest of the Mahometan militia had fallen. The 
 number of competitors had been reduced by violent deaths to 
 diree^ one of whom had sought an asylum in France, while 
 
182 
 
 th6 remaining two, still hostile and Implacable towards each 
 other, divided the Isle, somewhat unequally between them. De- 
 giarba, the exile, was the eldest of the three survivors ; conse- 
 quently his hereditary right was least questionable. 
 
 " Charles Murtel, count of Haac, was made captive by a Sa- 
 raceh ship, in coming from Constantinople to Marseilles. The 
 captive was carried into a Sardinian port and sold. He was 
 purchased by Degarba, fourth son of the reigning prince, whoise 
 temper was liberal and generous, and who conceived such a re- 
 gard for his noble slave, as to give him his liberty without ran- 
 som, and to restore him, loaded with gifts of value, to his native 
 country. 
 
 " The death of the Sardinian king was the signal of civil war 
 among his sons. Degarba was the most worthy of the brothers, 
 but success was not answerable to his merit. After a long con- 
 flict he was besieged in Carsol. The city was taken, and the 
 prince escaped to sea in a small boat. He passed over into 
 Provence, and found a brotherly asylum in the grateful lord of 
 Haac. Degarba was of a gentle and pacific disposition, and be- 
 coming a converted Christian, he passed the rest of a long life in 
 a cloister. The ambition of his protector was, however, inflamed 
 by the councils and repi'escntations of the fugitive, who drew 
 such a picture of the helpless and ruinous condition of the Island, 
 that Charles determined to invade it. The bulk of the Carsol 
 population were still Christians, from whom a Christian invader 
 might depend upon receiving formidable succour. 
 
 " Charles, from among his own vassals, formed a band of 500 
 brave, faithful and enterprising soldiers. Thev embarked in four 
 vessels: they landed without opposition on the northern end of 
 the Isle, obtained possession of a very strong, but unguarded 
 post, summoned the peasants to arms, and in the course of nine 
 months subdued the whole Island. 
 
 " The evils of war and misgovernment, which had raged for 
 half a centur}^ had reduced a very flourishing community to a 
 very low condition. On Charles's arrival, the population did not 
 exceed 300,000 persons, of whom about one third were Saracen- 
 ic in blood or religion. The rest were Christian, and chiefly 
 composed the class of cultivators. 
 
183 . 
 
 '* Every mussulman was armed, and hastened to oppose the 
 invader ; but their skill, courage or success, bore no proportion 
 to their numbers, and after a short, but destructive contest, in 
 which 15,000 of their number were slain, they submitted to the 
 yoke. The Hves, liberties, and, in some degree, the properties 
 of the remnant, were spared, and the conqueror, attended by only 
 300 of his original followers, whom the war had spared, took 
 possession of the crown of Carsol. 
 
 " He divided his conquest among these followers, preserving 
 to himself a considerable demesne, and various marks of feudal 
 preeminence. 
 
 "Though treated by the prince with lenity and justice, the 
 mussulmen inhabitants provoked by the oppression of their form- 
 er slaves, or instigated by ambition, made in the course of five 
 years, five revolts. In suppressing these, the lives of 60,000 
 persons, among the rebels, were sacrificed. Notwithstanding so 
 many motives to vengeance and hatred, the first Charles refused 
 to exert any further severity than was absolutely necessary to 
 maintain his power. At his death, which was caused by the 
 poinard of a Saracen, whose life he had preserved and cherished, 
 the general hatred of the parties broke forth without restraint, 
 and almost the whole Saracen population was exterminated by 
 the sword, in the course of a single week. A few thousands 
 escaped to the fastnesses of Rincan, where they maintained 
 themselves against an incessant war of ten years, with the fero- 
 city of wild beasts. The number was then reduced to eleven 
 persons, the chief of whom was the only son of Degarba, to 
 whom, with his follower, an amnesty v.as granted. This leader 
 became a Christian convert, and his lineal posterity continues to 
 this day. They forget not, nor cease to value themselves upon 
 their descent from royalty. Their ancestor was taken into fa- 
 vour by the prince, and married the prince's favourite sister. 
 
 " The only lineal descendant of Degarba, was, in the fifteenth 
 century, a female. By her marriage with the heir of the king- 
 dom, now became a dutchy, were united the two lines. 
 
 " Such was the history of the Martel or Haac line, which end- 
 ed, in a female, in 1680. By the marriage of this heiress to 
 Arthur Carrol, a third son of Carrol, lord of Hallo way, and Lo- 
 
i 184 
 
 dowick, in England, a new line was established. For 125 years, 
 that is, from 1680 to 1805, the Island has been governed by this 
 Arthur and his son. 
 
 " The tendency of- this work, which was entitled " Carsola 
 Restaurata," was easily suspected by the clergy. The dispersion 
 of it could not fail of being injurious to their interests. They 
 therefore treated the publication as a crime. It was printed in 
 Holland, and the whole edition was imported into Carsol. It 
 was written in Latin, so that it was intelligible only to that part 
 of the community, who were instructed in that language. It was 
 intended to enlighten that class of society, who possessed the in- 
 fluence resulting from rank, office, riches and profession. 
 
 " The legate, with the prelates and the whole Senatus Clericus, 
 published a solemn decree, in which they stigmatized this book 
 as heretical and impious. They ordered all persons who pos- 
 sessed it, to destroy it without delay, and threatened such as 
 were convicted of having it in keeping, after a certain day, with 
 condign punishment. In doing this, the clergy did not trans- 
 gress the bounds which usage had assigned to their jurisdiction. 
 This body claimed a general superintendance over religious opi- 
 nions, and their own judgment only was to decide upon the con- 
 nection or relation which any narrative or doctrine might Dear to 
 the sacred code. All crimes and causes of ever}' kind, in which 
 a clerical person was party, was cognizable only by the spiritual 
 tribunals of the prelates. Their own prisons detained the cul- 
 prit, and their own officers executed the sentence. This exclu- 
 sive jurisdiction was likewise maintained over all kinds of 
 writings, over matrimonial and testamentary affairs. 
 
 " This decree against a work written by his own secret direc- 
 tions, placed the prince and his counsellors in a situation of some 
 difficulty. There was no small danger in openly opposing the 
 execution of this sentence. In some respects the enmity and 
 consternation of the clergy were advantageous, since the dullest 
 imderstanding was awakened by them, to the true meaning and 
 tendency of the book, and since curiosity is only augmented by 
 the obstacles thrown in the way of its indulgence. These obsta- 
 cles, in the present case, threatened to be insurmountable, and 
 both the prudence and inclination of the prince compelled him to 
 
185 
 
 elude by art and address, rather than Ibrtibly withstand the ob- 
 noxious edict. 
 
 " This book meddled not with the speculative doctrines of 
 the reigning religion. It proposed no change in ecclesiastical 
 order or property. By making the prelates depend upon the 
 prince, instead of the pope, it merely changed the source, with- 
 out diminishing the esteem of clerical authority or privilege. 
 By restoring the old conventual system, it was highly favoura- 
 ble to the monastic orders. It was beneficial to the numerous 
 class of curates, by opening the- way to their advancement. 
 When all benefices should be conferred by the native prince, 
 they would of course be bestowed upon the natives of the coun- 
 try. To the lay inhabitants of Carsol, it was highly advan- 
 tageous — first, as it prevented immense sums of money from 
 being annually carried abroad ; secondly, as it secured prefer- 
 ment in the church to those of their kindred and posterity, who 
 devoted themselves to the church ; and thirdly, as a faithful 
 discharge of clerical duty, was beneficial to morals and piet}''. 
 To the pope, and to the foreign beneficiaries only, it was the 
 signal of destruction. 
 
 *' 'I'his anthematizing decree had been obtained, chiefly by 
 the influence of the legate and archbishop, before the disper- 
 sion of the book. Most of the inferior clergy had joined in 
 the vote, without having read what they had condemned, and 
 through habitual submission to the head of their own body, and 
 to the representative of the universal head. 
 
 " The real author of the work was no other than the senator 
 and minister Pareiro, who had been named, according to usage, 
 his agent in the clericale, but whom sickness had prevented 
 from attending, when the subject was first canvassed. It was 
 resolved, that, in that assembly, he should have exerted him- 
 self against the decree, but this accident prevented his attend- 
 ance. At the next meeting, however, he attended and proposed 
 the revocation of the edict. 
 
 ** The clericale was composed of the prelates or their depu- 
 ties, with the legate, generally a foreign bishop at the head, of 
 twenty representatives of deans, and as many of the curates. 
 Among the twenty-five monasteries, thirteen were distinguish- 
 
 24 
 
186 
 
 ed from the rest, by their abbots, enjoymg seats in the clericale. 
 This was a privilege conferred by the pope's bull. This 
 assembly then consisted of seventy-five members. 
 
 ** The reformation in the sixteenth centmy, had not left Car^ 
 sol entirely unmolested. In the year 1750, some enthusiasts 
 of the neighbouring continent conceived themselves impelled 
 by a divine command, to visit and convert Garsol. They were 
 men naturally bold, enterprizing and inflexible, and religious 
 zeal had added new force to all these qualities. A bible, care- 
 fully concealed in their baggage, was the only weapon of their 
 meditated w.-a-fare against the peace of the Island. 
 
 " Piero Hecta, a native of the Isle, was the chief of these 
 new apostles. He was a fugitive from his native country, in 
 his youth, on account of some amorous indiscretions. He set- 
 tled at Geneva, and his ardent temper taking a religious turn^ 
 he became a convict to Calricus tenets, and gaining over eleven 
 others, equally visionary and adventurous as himself, they ar- 
 rived at Carsol. They conducted their plot with uncommon 
 caution and adroitness. They betook themselves to the most 
 remote districts of the Island, and gaining over the simple and 
 unlettered curates, they spread their tenets among many thou- 
 sands before they attracted the notice of the government. 
 
 *' The reigning duke, though smitten with a passion for an- 
 cient literature, and the elegant arts, was ardently attached to 
 the Romish faith. He therefore willingly concurred in all the 
 measures taken by the ecclesiastical power to suppress the new 
 sect. 
 
 " The Isle had hitherto remained so free from religious in- 
 novation — Its ignorance had so thoroughly secured its bigotry, 
 that the ruling powers had never had their vigilance awakened 
 by any disturbance or novelty. The talents of Hecta were 
 formed lor conducting revolutions. This enthusiasm was pro- 
 bably sincere, but it was united with ambition, and all his ef- 
 forts were directed, not only to change the speculative tenets of 
 his followers, but to make them implicit slaves of his will, and 
 tools of his ambitious purposes. His consummated arts kindled 
 in the stupid, vacant and hitherto passive souls of the peasants 
 of Varingo, a fire which raged to the destruction of every thing 
 formerly held sacred, and the fierce enthusiasm he had roused, 
 
187 
 
 he was able to controul and direct, with a power more abso- 
 lute than had ever hitherto been exercised in this part of the 
 world. 
 
 " The excesses of the anabaptists in Germany bore a striking- 
 resemblance to the scenes acted in the province of Varingo. 
 So cautiously had Hecta conducted himself, and with so much 
 supineness had the government and clergy been seized, that 
 Hecta was able to bring into the field a body of 2 or 3,000 
 fanaticks, armed with rude spears or pikes, and animated by the 
 lessons of destruction, with which the ancient Jews entered Pa- 
 lestine. The prince, the nobles and the clergy armed them- 
 selves, and a religious war ensued, which terminated in the 
 destruction of upwards of 20,000 rebels, and the conversion of 
 Varingo into a solitary desert. These commotions were not 
 appeased, in less than seven years, and cost the lives of 30,000 
 persons. 
 
 " The reformations thus assumed a most inauspicious aspect 
 to the people of Carsol. The stigma of heresy is always, among 
 orthodox believers, sufficiently terrible, but, in the present case, 
 the Carsolians annexed to the name of reformers, the utmost 
 hatred and terror that can be ingendered by the images of De- 
 mons and wild beasts. Their own experience was tlie founda- 
 tion of their religious prejudices. Their attachment to their 
 ancient faith acquired new strength from this unsuccessful and 
 injudicious attempt to shake it. One hundred and fifty years 
 had by no means obliterated the memory of Hecta and his ra- 
 vages, and the clergy were thus supplied, from their own history, 
 with the most cogent arguments against the earliest approach 
 of religious reformation. 
 
 " The doctrine of the " Carsola Restaurata" resembled, in 
 some points, the tenets of Hecta. This resemblance was in- 
 dustriously remarked by the clerical declaimers, and a revival of 
 the same calamities vehemently predicted from the propagation 
 of these impieties. 
 
 " After the suppression of Hecta's rebellion, the clergy were 
 naturally led to emplov extraordinary precautions against the 
 return of similar calamities. The two senates united in making 
 the most vigorous laws againt heresy, and a tribunal was 
 
ltJ8 
 
 erected, differing little in its nature from the odious inquisition, 
 for carrying these laws into effect. 
 
 " This tribunal consisted of one judge, ten assistants, ten 
 messengers, two jailers and two executioners. The judges 
 •were appointed for life, by the archbishop, with the concur- 
 rence of the synod, and the subordinate officers by the judges. 
 This tribunal possessed the power of arresting, trying and 
 punishing all persons charged with, or suspected of heresy. 
 Their proceedings were secret, and their decisions liable to no 
 appeal or controul, from any other jurisdiction, ecclesiastical 
 or civil. 
 
 " The crime of heresy was very vaguely defended by the 
 laws. Any deviation from the prevailing faith and practice, 
 in the Island, was stigmatized as such, and the Judges of the 
 Convicata (so this tribunal was afterwards called) were allowed 
 to interpret these laws, according to their own judgment. The 
 punishment in all cases was capital, and the sums of their 
 proceeding, and the rules of evidence were left to their own 
 discretion. 
 
 " A tribunal of so tremendous a nature, so secret and abso- 
 lute in its proceedings, bounded, in its jurisdiction, by such 
 vague and indefinite limits, and wholly independent of the § 
 civil power, could owe its existence only to the ignorance, 
 inexperience and supineness of the prince and his barons. 
 The outrages of Hecta, had produced the belief that the most 
 swift and energetic measures were absolutely necessary to 
 guard against their recurrence, and as the Laics were sincerely 
 attached to their own faith, they thought too much could not be 
 done to preserve its purity inviolate. They were not aware of 
 the abuses to which such an institution was liable, and how far 
 the powers, entrusted to the judges j might be perverted to the 
 gratification of their own resentments, the views of a sanguina- 
 ry faction, or the separate interest of the clergy. 
 
 "• So fiicndly was the reigning duke to this new establish- 
 ment, that he bestowed on it the Tora Letza, as a place of trial, 
 detention and execution. The synod, in concurrence with the 
 senate, and tli'> express consent of the archbishops, conferred 
 
189 
 
 ample salaries on the judges and officials, payable out of the 
 archiepiscopal revenues. 
 
 " The judges, first appointed, were men of considerable ca- 
 pacity, and the system they adopted, was eminently calculated 
 to accomplish the end designed. They settled, with great ac- 
 curacy, the qualifications and duties of the various officers, their 
 badges and distinctions, with the methods of proceeding. As 
 this system was adopted for the preservation of religion, all 
 the persons connected with this office, were impelled by pious 
 impulses, and loaded with religious obligations. They devoted 
 themselves to the sei-vice of this tribunal, during their lives, to 
 the observance of secrecy and fidelity, to celibacy, to abstinence 
 from certain meats and drinks, and to unlimited obedience. In 
 fine, they might be considered as forming a religious order, 
 whose pmposes were similar to that of the Jesuits and Domini 
 cans, though the means adopted for effecting this purpose were 
 different. 
 
 " For a whole century this tribunal was maintained with vi- 
 gour, and did not materially deviate from the end of its institu- 
 tion. Its zeal and vigilance, however, was perhaps, on many 
 occasions, superfluously exerted. 
 
 " An extreme terror of heresy and infidelity had now taken 
 place of the ancient indifference. A kind of toleration towards 
 adverse sects had till now been allowed. A great number of 
 Jews had been found in the Island, at the invasion of the Mar- 
 tels. The temper of a late Saracen prince had been softened 
 towards that nation, by the influence of a beautiful Jewess, 
 whom he had made his mistress, and the indulgences allowed 
 ihem had been continued by the successors of this prince. For 
 half a century this unfortunate people had been treated with 
 more lenity in Carsol than elsewhere, and their numbers and 
 wealth had sensibly increased under the benign sway of the 
 Moslims. In the contest between the Saracens and Christians, 
 the Jews had naturally sided with their benefactors, and hearti- 
 ly opposed invaders, from whom they could not expect the 
 equitable treatment they had hitherto enjoyed. They shared 
 the common ruin, and after the power of the new comers was 
 fully established, both Saracens and Jews were excluded from 
 the Island, under pain of death. 
 
190 
 
 " This rigorous edict had never been repealed, but as time 
 wore away the memory of ancient disasters, it silently fell into 
 oblivion. Both Jews and Turks, induced by commercial views, 
 ventured to approach the interdicted shores. Their presence 
 excited no alarm or outrage, and these obnoxious people even 
 ventured to take up their permanent abode in the towns and 
 sea-ports of Carsol. The Jews principally became settlers, and 
 6 or 800 persons of that nation resided in the Island, at the 
 time of Hecta's rebellion. They where wholly disconnected with 
 the interests or enterprizes of that arch -heretic, but the new 
 tribunal began to suspect that the indulgence hitherto extended 
 to infidels, had awakened the indignation of heaven, and had 
 drawn upon the Island the late calamities by way of punish- 
 ment. They therefore set themselves diligently at work to 
 purge the land of all its impurities. 
 
 ** Those crimes which consist of immediate injuries to per- 
 son and property, were already provided against by civil laws 
 and tribunals. The king's judges took cognizance of these, 
 except in cases where a member of the church was any wise 
 concerned. Then justice was administered by the bishops and 
 their deputies. That species of guilt, which consisted in abju- 
 ring or denying those limits of religion which formed the dis- 
 tinction between Christians and Mahometans, was properly 
 cognizable by the the Episcopal courts, but this guilt had only 
 hitherto existed in the persons of Jews and strangers, by whose 
 impieties the whole society was in no danger of being infected. 
 This branch of Episcopal, had consequently been neglected, and 
 almost forgotten. 
 
 " The innovations of Luther and Calvin, had created a new 
 list of offences, and that general power vested in the Episcopal 
 tribunals, rather bj- force of custom than of law, concerning 
 heretics and infidels, was now taken from them and be- 
 stowed singly and entire on this new tribunal. 
 
 '< The crimes which exposed a person to their animadver- 
 sion, was not any more a breach of morality. A man might 
 calumniate his neighbour, abuse his authority as parent, hus- 
 band or guardian, be drunken, idle, lascivious, prodigal or 
 miserlj^, obscene or scurrilous in conversation, dirty or indecent 
 
191 
 
 in his dress, food or habitation. In all these, and similar cases, 
 his only punishment was in the disapprobation of his neigh- 
 bours, or the natural consequences of fblly and imprudence, as 
 they affected his ovvn health, comfort or reputation. But if he 
 directed his scurrility against any member of the church j if he 
 denied, or contravened, in speculation or in practice, the autho- 
 rity of the pope and the clergy, the divine truth and efficacy of 
 those rites and ceremonials, which distinguished the Roman 
 church from that of any rival or hostile sect, he was liable to 
 punishment. 
 
 " To enforce the laws, forty persons were commissioned, to 
 spend their lives, in traversing the district allotted to each, in 
 watching the conduct of the inhabitants, and carefully noting 
 any thing that favoured heresy or innovation. They made pe- 
 riodical reports to their superiors, and were themselves sub- 
 jected to a very rigid discipline. They were selected on ac- 
 count of qualities favourable to the due execution of their office. 
 Their sobriety, their religious zeal, their continence, their con- 
 stitutional firmness and courage. Their discipline commenced 
 at an early age, and their capacity and integrity were tried by 
 painful tests, and secured by tremendous sanctions. They were 
 bound to conceal from the rest of mankind, their real office and 
 character, that their office might be discharged more effectual- 
 ly. Each one was a stranger to all the rest of his fraternity, 
 and on no account did any one transgress the limits assigned to 
 him, and though he might have frequent occasion to traverse 
 the district of another, he never exercised his inquisitive func- 
 tions, except in his own. 
 
 " From those who had been twenty years in this service, ten 
 were selected to perform the duty of inspectors over the rest. 
 The witnesses were all known to their particular inspectors ; 
 but the latter were wholly unknown to the former, and his duty 
 lay in watching the conduct of the witnesses. 
 
 " When any person was denounced by the witnesses, the 
 grounds and motives of the accusation were explained by them 
 to the judge, who, if he tliought proper, directed an officer, 
 called Captor^ to arrest the culprit. Of these captors they were 
 ten, whose qualifications and duties were settled and prescribed 
 
192 
 
 with all possible vigour. The symbol of their office, displayed 
 only at the time of seizing an offender, was a stamped piece of 
 copper, fastened by a cord round their waist. 
 
 " As their officers were punished with great rigour, for any 
 infraction of their duty, as their education and personal quali- 
 ties were carefully considered, they enjoyed considerable dis- 
 tinctions and advantages. In case of sickness or infirmity 
 they were absolved from all duty, and provided with an ample 
 maintenance. They were bound to their office only for thirty 
 years, and were afterwards dismissed to the enjoyment of com- 
 petence, credit and ease. 
 
 *' In judging criminals, the written testimony of the witness, 
 and the personal examination of the judge, was the only evi- 
 dence admitted. Contrary to the fashion of that age, torture 
 was excluded from the process of this tribunal. One of its 
 maxims was, that it is better for a score of innocent persons 
 to suflfer than one guilty to escape. In its proceedings, there 
 was a marvellous mixture of cruelty and lenity. As the rites 
 of the prevailing religion were considered as divine truths, the 
 belief and observance of which, were necessary to salvation, it 
 followed, in the opinion of the framer of this system, that the 
 most sacred duty of those intrusted with power, a duty most 
 cogently enjoyed by the lovers of mankind, was to extirpate 
 cause of unbelief or deviation. Every human means being em- 
 ployed, to secure the zeal and veracity of the informers, their 
 testimony was admitted without scruple. The death of an inno- 
 cent, but suspected, person, was amply justified, provided this 
 death was exempted from needless pain or apprehension, since 
 innocence would be truly distinguished and rewarded in the 
 state to which he was sent, and a quiet and speedy death v';is 
 to such a one rather a good than evil, and since the mischiefs of 
 heresy are so numerous and so lasting, and are propagated from 
 such minute and casually dispersed seeds, the system of caution 
 and prevention cannot be carried to excess. 
 
 " In pursuance of these maxims, the fate of every person was 
 decided by giving the order to arrest him. If upon subsequent 
 examination the charge was established or confuted, or left in 
 doubt, the event was the same. The accused lost his life. But 
 
193 
 
 death was inflicted on the innocent or doubtfully guilty, not as 
 one meriting such punishment on his own account, but as a 
 victim offered at the shrine of the public welfare. Where the 
 guilt of the accused was established, his death was considered, 
 not strictly as a punishment, but merely as the act of consign- 
 ing him to the justice and mercy of the Divine Judge. 
 
 " On entering the fatal towers of Letra, neither menaces* 
 privations or torments awaited the criminal. Examination en- 
 sued, in which a full account of his conduct in general, as well 
 as in relation to the charge of heresy, was exacted from him, 
 but exacted by no motive of fear. These were repeated and 
 extended as long as was deemed proper, and the unhappy per- 
 sons were finally enjoined to prepare for the inevitable lot. 
 Every spiritual aid was given, adapted to their condition. 
 They were, in fine, placed as much as possible in the situation 
 of men reduced to the brink of the grave, by an ordinary mala- 
 dy, and by thus annihilating every motive which prompts men 
 to descend, was generally obtained from them. They were 
 taught to expect a death without agony, but the form it was to 
 wear, they were not permitted to know. They died in conse- 
 quence of taking a potion, which wrapped them in deadly, but 
 painless slumber, and their obsequies were performed with pe- 
 culiar solemnity, and their bodies were laid in deep vaults, be- 
 neath the castle. 
 
 *' In a country where civil offences were frequently punished 
 by beheading, where torture was inflicted on many trivial occa- 
 sions, in an age where religious differences were accustomed to 
 excite the most outrageous persecutions and bloody animosities, 
 the system adopted by this tribunal, will hardly be credited. 
 We can scarcely imagine by what course of education, or turn 
 of thought, the author of so singular and unexampled an insti- 
 tution, was led to its adoption. 
 
 '' The founder of this system was JVIichael Praya, a person 
 equally remarkable for his learning, piety and amiable man- 
 ners. He had acquired an eminent skill in ancient literature, 
 but his attachments to these pursuits had not weakened his re- 
 ligious zeal, or diverted him from theological studies. He was 
 profoundly versed in the history and ordinances of the Christian 
 church, and had signalized his zeal and learning by a work ii\ 
 
 OCT 
 
194 
 
 defence of the Roman creed. In this work, he argued with 
 earnestness and ' eloquence, but with more mildness and can- 
 dour, than any controversialist of that age had displayed. So 
 great, indeed, had been his candour, that the zealots overlook- 
 ed the eloquence and reasoning of his book, and stigmatized 
 his charity as impious and heretical. 
 
 " He was a native of Florence, was educated at Paris, and had 
 been taken at an earlv age, into the service of the Carsol em- 
 bassy, at that city. Having unfortunately excited the ill will of 
 the French minister, he thought it prudent to withdraw to Car- 
 sol. There he enjoyed the favour of the prince, and was a 
 distinguished member of the literary societies at this court. As 
 he advanced in life, religion absorbed more of his attention, and 
 he obtained leave to bury himself, with a few of his compa- 
 nions like himself, in the castle of Letza. When the rebellion 
 of Hecta was extinguished, and the attention of the court and 
 clergy was directed towards the proper means of preventing fu- 
 ture evils of the same kind, the zeal of Praya impelled him to 
 transmit from his gloomy retreat, the proposal of a separate and 
 powerful tribunal for the extirpation of heresy. The plan, in 
 its general outlines, was adopted, and Praya was named the su- 
 preme judge of this tribunal, and he was empowered to metho- 
 dize and regulate the system, according to his own pleasure. 
 He then produced the plan, of which 1 have given a sketch, and 
 submitted it to the king and the archbishop, these two being 
 empowered to sanction. The prince's religious zeal, and his 
 constitutional humanity, were both gratified by the plan, and 
 the archbishop, who could not gain the royal approbation to a 
 scheme that should be more conformable to the example given 
 by other nations, was obliged to acquiesce. 
 
 " From this moment Praya devoted his life to the execution 
 of his plan. He continued to reside at Toro Letza, with a 
 family of ten monks, and the officers of his tribunal. Tiie monks 
 were his assessors and assistants, and performed the religious 
 offices requirtd by his system. For fifty-seven years he con- 
 tinued to administer this office, and died at ninety-three years 
 of age. 
 
 " All the maxims of judicature, and the spirit with which it 
 was administered, more than half a century, originated in the 
 
195 
 
 character of Praya. His wisdom preserved the institution from 
 the abuses to which it was naturally so liable. If we except 
 the injustice, which some will maintain to be intei'woven in the 
 very nature of the scheme, it was chargeable with no glaring 
 iniquity. The virtue of the supreme judge was impregnable 
 to those temptations and seductions, employed against it by the 
 interests or passions of the great and powerful. He would not 
 suffer his sublime office to be made a tool to the vengeance or 
 cupidity of nobles, kings or priests. He kept a watchful eye 
 over the conduct of his inferior agents, and occasionally em- 
 ployed the arduous expedient of travelling in disguise through 
 the whole Island, in order to verify the testimony of his spies. 
 By the consummate wisdom with which his system was di- 
 gested, and the devotion of his whole time and talents to per- 
 fect and uphold it, he acquired a reverence from his own offi- 
 cers, and from the people in general, that almost mounted to 
 worship. He was looked up to as one possessing preternatural 
 powers, and whose decrees were specially dictated by heaven. 
 The lofty and inaccessible walls of his residence, the invisible 
 majesty in which he lived, the utter oblivion which involved the 
 fate of every one who entered these gates, the mysterious and 
 unseen, yet in-esistible energy with which every corner of the 
 Island, every town and village, and almost every family, were 
 occasionally visited by his power, combined to impress the po- 
 pular imagination, with the most awful dread, both of the tri- 
 bunal and of him whose genius and authority animated it. 
 
 " One is struck with astonishment at beholding so omniscient 
 a scrutiny, so elaborate a system, constructed and directed to 
 no other end than to detect and punish imaginary crimes, opi- 
 nions relative to points trifling and ridiculous, or absurd and 
 contradictory. What efficacy would a system like this possess, 
 if directed against the genuine crimes by which human society 
 is afflicted, if this potent engine had been turned against the in- 
 numerable curses of fraud and violfnce ? How could they have 
 hoped to escape detection and vengeance ? Place a king at the 
 head of such a tribunal, and make this implicated agency sub- 
 servient to maintenance of public order, and of royal authority, 
 what despotism can be imagined more absolute and ii-resistible. 
 *•• I have said that Prava's first attention was directed to the 
 
1$6 
 
 banishment of Jews and infidels. His emissaries furnished hlu> 
 with an exact enumeration and list of these unfortunate persons. 
 Each of them then received a positive command to leave the 
 Island, before a day fixed. Their number and particular cir- 
 cumstances seemed to justify this milder treatment ; but should 
 they remain beyond the day, they were to be buried in the ca- 
 verns of Letza, their children, of an unknown age, to be com- 
 mitted to Christian care, and their property distributed among 
 the poor. 
 
 *' The Jews had hitherto been merely tolerated at Carsol. 
 They had not been allowed to hold real property, they were 
 destitute of every municipial privilege, their persons were treat- 
 ed contumeliously, but not with violence. Their contracts had 
 no legal validity, and were supported only by the spontaneous 
 equity of those that dealt with them. The consequence of this 
 degradation betrayed itself in the squalidness of their appear- 
 ance, the knavery of their conduct, and the vileness of their 
 pursuits. They were, with few exceptions, indigent and wretch- 
 ed, and to cast them out was beneficial to the whole. Their 
 vileness was, indeed, produced by the treatment they received, 
 but as this treatment was not likely to change, their removal 
 was not undesirable. Praya, however, in exiling them, was in- 
 fluenced by an imaginary mandate from heaven, obtained and 
 communicated to the judge by St. Vesta, who could not suf- 
 fer her peculiar precincts to be polluted by that accursed 
 race. 
 
 " This unhappy people had reason to believe in the truth of 
 the threats pronounced against them ; but most of them were 
 disabled by ignorance from choosing, and by poverty from 
 seeking a suitable asylum. Their consternation and dispair, at 
 a blow so unexpected and severe, made them still more help- 
 less. The justice of Praya, which sought its ends by means the 
 most lenient, somewhat relieved them from their distress. He 
 prevailed upon the king, whpse mild temper gladly adopted the 
 expedient, to supply them with vessels to convey away, in safe- 
 ty, and in due season, their persons and property. The poor 
 were provided gratis, and a moderate compensation was ex- 
 acted from the rich. Though rigid duty compelled Praya to 
 drive them away, the same duty required him to make the sen- 
 
197 
 
 tcnce productive of the least possible hardship or suffering. He 
 took infinite pains, therefore, to facilitate their departure, and to 
 prevent any from remaining behind, to encounter the penalty of 
 disobedience. His efforts to this end, however, were not entire- 
 ly successful. Out of 110 families of Jews, 97 only were col- 
 lected on the appointed day. The rest disappeared from their 
 customary dwellings, and being among the poorest of the tribe, 
 there was no reason to imagine they had found themselves a 
 passage elsewhere. 
 
 " To rescue these wretches from all temptation to stay be- 
 hind, they were not allowed to elude the sentence, by abjuring, 
 their faith. Praya had no confidence in the sincerity of vows 
 made in circumstances like these. To admit them was, he 
 thought, merely to propagate enemies and hypocrites, and 
 it was far more eligible to fill the place their banishment should 
 leave empty, by the progeny of natives and Christians. His 
 emissaries, therefore, carefully watched their motions, marked 
 the places to which they removed, and following them thither, 
 endeavoured to convince them that concealment in the country 
 was impossible, and a ready submission to their fate, their truest 
 interest. 
 
 " Notwithstanding all these measures, such was the obsti- 
 nate attachment of some, to their present country, or such 
 their dispair of making any change, even in their present un- 
 happy circumstances, for the better, that upwards of fifty per- 
 sons, among those of whom previous lists had been formed, 
 were missing on the day of embarkation. 
 
 *' These ill-fated persons had too good reason to repent the 
 resolution they had made. They were thenceforth condemned 
 to a life of perpetual terror and disguise. All the ordinary 
 difficulties of procuring a subsistence, were multiplied an hun- 
 dred fold to persons in their situation. To leave the country 
 became thenceforth as difficult as it had before been easy. Some 
 of them, grown desperate, became robbers and outlaws. Some 
 killed themselves, in order to escape their miseries, and twen- 
 ty-seven expired, in the course of the ensuing five years, in the 
 caverns of Letza. Among the victims of this tribunal, during 
 the whole period of Praya'.s administration, the Jews who had 
 
198 
 
 either disobeyed the edict of expulsion, or whose temerity or 
 ignorance had afterwards brought them to these shores, amount- 
 ed in the whole, to 157. 
 
 " Carsol had been at almost uninterrupted war with their 
 Mahometan neighbours, since the expulsion of the Saracens. 
 A war provoked by so many mutual injuries, could not fail of 
 being obstinate and sanguinary. Their mutual hatred, in many 
 cases, extinguished even the thirst of gain. Those were often 
 indiscriminately slaughtered, whose services or ransoms as 
 captives woidd have been in no small degree profitable to their 
 conquerors. As this triumph of cruelty over avarice, could not 
 be uniform, captives were frequently brought into the the Island) 
 and either retained in perpetual slavery, or after a time ex- 
 changed for Christian captives in the same predicament, or 
 restored for a ransom. As a sincere conversion to the Chris- 
 tian faith, entitled them to be redeemed by a fund, formed by 
 a charitable fraternity in Carsol, the converts had been nume- 
 rous at every period, and they and their posterity wei-e mingled 
 with the people. Those who continued in slaver}'', were, of 
 necessity, allowed to retain their own faith, but every public rite 
 or ceremonial was prohibited. When the nation was at peace 
 with infidels, their merchants were suffered to enter the Island, 
 but the first act of hostility was generally to seize the property 
 and enslave the persons of the strangers. 
 
 " The number of Mahometans in Carsol, whether slaves or 
 freemen, depended on the revolutions of war and commerce, 
 and the treatment they received, depended on the character and 
 interests of the reigning prince and his officers. At no time, 
 hitherto, had it been a capital crime for captives and visitants to 
 retain their unchristian tenets, provided they made not public 
 ostentation of them, nor were guilty of any wanton insult to 
 the true religion. 
 
 " In the course of t\.-o centuries and an half, there had not 
 been thirty years, taken together, of peace with the infidels. 
 The war had been carried on either by contests between naval 
 armaments at sea, or by sudden descents upon the hostile coast, 
 the devastation of cottages and villages, and the death or cap- 
 tivity of their inhabitants. 
 
199 
 
 " By a computation, as exact as the nature of the case would 
 admit, it appeared that from the total subjection of the Island, 
 and the extirpation of the native Saracens, in 1300, till the ac- 
 cession of Alexandre I, in 1520 (during which period, war 
 with some of the Mahometan nations had been unintermitted) 
 these had been slain or made captive, at an average yearly of 
 500 Carsolians, of which 300 suffered at sea, or on the enemies 
 country, and the rest had been taken or destroyed by hostile at- 
 tacks within the Island. 
 
 "The injuries inflicted by the Carsolians, in their turn, con- 
 siderably exceeded the same proportion, and during the above 
 period, about 22,000 captives had successively been brought in- 
 to the Island. A small part of this number had been restored 
 to their native country. About a tenth part of them had been 
 redeemed by the fraternity of St. Rhoda. The rest had been 
 swept away by brief hardship, or the ordinary course of nature. 
 The posterity of the converts had melted down into the com- 
 mon mass. The averaged number of Mahometan slaves, at one 
 time, in the Island, except a certain period in the fifteenth cen- 
 tury, was about 500. 
 
 " In the rigorous reign of Charles VI (1459—1487) who car- 
 ried his marine power to a more formidable height than any of 
 his predecessors, and who waged a most destructive, predatory 
 war on the coasts of Africa, Lyria and Natolia, the number of 
 Mahometan's was greatly increased. In revenge for these as- 
 saults, a Turkish armament appeai-ed upon the coast, and land- 
 ed 20,000 soldiers. As this invasion had been long menaced^ 
 the king had long been busy in military preparation, and had 
 been able to arm and discipline almost every male inhabitant. 
 The slaves, already in the country, exceeded 10,000 persons. 
 Many of these were women and children, but about 6000 of this 
 number were of the robust age and sex. 
 
 " It had never been the Carsol custom to man their gallies 
 with slaves. The captives were usually brought to market at 
 Carsol, and sold indiscriminately. The male children were 
 trained up to Christianity, in which case they were legally free 
 at twenty-five years of age. The females were purchased for 
 domestic services, and particularly as waiting maids to ladies. 
 There were few wealthv or noble families v.ithout u f: male do- 
 
200 
 
 nicstic of this kind. The females easily adopted the religion ot 
 their masters, but their servitude was perpetual, unless ended 
 by redemption from abroad, to which, however, their becoming 
 Christians, was a legal obstacle. The children of these fe- 
 males were slaves, whether male or female, till 25. 
 
 " The destiny of male captives, was as different as the cha- 
 racter and occupations of their masters. In general their tasks 
 were severe, and their treatment harsh. Every master enjoy- 
 ed, by law, unlimited power over his slave, and might even 
 kill him with impunity. This power, so liable to abuse, was 
 generally abused. Chains, stripes, scanty fare, rags and exces- 
 sive labour, was commonly the lot of this unhappy race, and 
 those efforts of dispair and revenge, which were continually 
 occurring among them, were punished with uncommon rigour 
 by the general police. 
 
 " Till this period there had never been any general insurrec- 
 tion among the slaves. Every year, a score or two of fugi- 
 tives, who had harboured in the mountains, and who preyed up- 
 on the neighbouring villages, were taken and subjected to some 
 barbarous punishment ; but now the sudden increase of their 
 numbers, and the talents of one man among them, produced a 
 very dangerous commotion. 
 
 '< Achmet Pruli was a Syrian by birth, and had been taken 
 by a Carsolian ship, when a child of four years old, together 
 with his family, from his native village, on the coast. Being a 
 remarkable tall, robust and resolute figure, he was taken by the 
 reigning prince to be about the person of his son, afterwards 
 Charles VI. His education was naturally supposed to hav^e ef- 
 faced all the impressions of his infancy, and he grew up into 
 great favour and distinction with his prince. A bold, frank, 
 ingenious mind, was supposed to be combined, in him, with 
 gratitude, fidelity and a due portion of Christian zeal. So much 
 confidence was placed in his talents and integrity, that he was 
 at length intrusted with the command of the fortress of Larmi, 
 in which were laid up arms for 10,000 men, and where he com- 
 manded a garrison of 200 men. 
 
 ••' Pruli had been a page and companion to the young prince^ 
 by whoni he had always been treated with favour and distinction. 
 The only disgust, which the prince had ever given to the slave. 
 
201 
 
 •riginated iii the appearance of a Greek girl, of great beauty, 
 at the Carsol market. The prince, after seeing her by accident, 
 had determined to purchase her, but not having the price in 
 money about him, and the seller being loath to part with his 
 property, without the money in possession, he engaged to re- 
 turn with the sum in gold at a fixed time, and meanwhile gave 
 earnest to secure the bargain. His absence was prolonged a 
 few hours beyond the time fixed for his return, by an unex- 
 pected difficulty in procuring the money. Having surmounted 
 the obstacle, he hastened to complete his purchase, but the 
 maid was already sold and gone, the seller having concluded 
 that the first applicant had relinquished his intention. 
 
 *' Zelia, the name of the maid, was a Samian, the daughter 
 of a noble Greek of that Island. She had been carried off 
 while bathing near the sea shore, by a Turkish pirate, who, in 
 his way to a Caramanian port, was intercepted and taken by 
 a Carsolian galley, who had brought their prize to the Carsol 
 market. The prince, who understood Greek, gathered these 
 particulars from her own lips, and his love and humanity at 
 once urged him to make her his own. His grief and venera- 
 tion, on finding her already disposed of, was quickly alleviated 
 by discovering that Pruli had been the purchaser. Pruli was 
 required forthwith to give her up, the money she had cost be- 
 ing returned to him. 
 
 '*The beauty of his slave, heightened by grace and modesty, 
 had inflamed the desires of Pruli, then in the flower of his age, 
 to a pitch from which he could not readily reduce them at the bid- 
 ding of another. He made every effort to retain his purchase 
 which his situation would allow, but being finally compelled to 
 resign her, the disappointment rankled in his heart, and engen- 
 dered an inextinguishable thirst of vengeance. A regard to his 
 own interest, and even to the interests of this revenge, obliged 
 him to feign compliance with the wishes of the prince, and the 
 latter, ascribing his reluctance to the attractions of the beautiful 
 slave, and his ultimate compliance to his sentiments of gratitude 
 and duty, his regard for Pruli was rather augmented than di- 
 minished by this incident, and the fortunate slave continued to 
 make quick advances iiy:he road of honour and fortune. 
 
 2() 
 
202 
 
 <' The morality current in Carsol, allowed the master to ex- 
 act what services he pleased from his slave. The latter lived 
 for no end but the gratification of the former, and provided no 
 cruelty was wantonly emploved, there was no bounds to the 
 reasonable demands of the lord? but such as mere physical ca- 
 pacities established. The female slave was considered as per- 
 forming her mere duty, in gratifying her master's appetites, and 
 in bringing forth and nourishing those who will belong to him 
 by the double title of father and master. Intercourse with the 
 slave, was not considered as interfering with the rights of ma- 
 trimony. No moral, nor ecclesiastical, nor legal cognizance was 
 taken of such transactions. 
 
 " In the ardour of pillage, the Carsol adventurer seldom dis- 
 tinguished between the infidel Turk and the schismatic Greek. 
 The Greeks of the Turkish provinces were treated like oxen 
 and sheep, as the properties of enemies, and in the slave mar- 
 kets of Carsol, a captive of one nation was generally disposed 
 of on the same terms as one of the other. 
 
 " Charles, the new master of Zelia, was regarded with so 
 much tenderness b}^ his captive, that she refused the liberty he 
 offered her of returning to her family and country, and adopting 
 the religion of Carsol, she was advanced to most of the privi- 
 leges of a queen. The narrow escape which she had from the 
 arms of the quondam, made her ever afterwards regard him 
 with a kind of horror, at which his pride was mortally of- 
 fended. 
 
 " In this state of mind his reflections turned upon the cir- 
 cumstances of his birth. Insensibly he laid aside all the feel- 
 ings and habits, which had made his present abode as dear to 
 him as the place of his nativity. His religion hud been adopted 
 without reflection. That of his ancestors was too convenient 
 to the purposes of his revenge, and he found no difficulty in se- 
 cretly reverting to it. As he ruminated on his darling pur- 
 pose, his mind gradurdly enlarged his views, and he began to 
 think it by no means impossible to restore the Island to its an- 
 cient obedience to Mahomet, and to make the cause of the 
 true religion, instrumental at once to the success of his revenge 
 and his^ambition. 
 
203 
 
 •' When Charles the Sixth ascended the throne, this accom- 
 plished dissembler persuaded him to send him on a secret em- 
 bassy, to the neM' sultan of Constantinople. He there negociat- 
 cd with Mahomet the conquest of Carsol, by means of a fo- 
 reign invasion and domestic insurrection. 'He returned to ac- 
 complish his part of this design, and obtained, from the un- 
 suspicious prince, the command of the fort of Larmi. 
 
 " I shall nor detail the various arts by which he lulled the 
 prince into securit}^, as to a Turkish invasion, by which he ex- 
 cited the hopes of the slaves, supplied them with the means of 
 exchanging their thoughts, and assembling, concentrating and 
 arming advantageousl}' their numbers. 
 
 '' The Turkish ministry, deceitful and treacherous them- 
 selves, were always suspicious of these qualities in others. 
 They therefore flattered Pruli with assurances of formidable 
 succour^ and equipped a naval armament, which was to appear 
 upon the coast of Carsol on the day appointed. They intend- 
 ed, however, merely to show themselves and retire, as this, if 
 Pruli w^as sincere, would be a signal for the commencement of 
 rebellion, and though this rebellion, unsupported, could not fi- 
 nally succeed, yet it could not fail of doing a great deal of mis- 
 chief. If Pruli was insincere, or any accident should prevent 
 the insurrection, their prudent reserve would expose them to no 
 risk, and the navy might quietly proceed to its principal ob- 
 jects, Spain and Italy. 
 
 '* By indefatigable efforts, by consummated address, and by a 
 fortunate coincidence of events, Pruli conducted his designs to 
 execution. The arrival of the Turkish fleet was the signal for 
 raising arms, and fire and the sword began to deal destruction 
 in every corner. 
 
 " Five thousand men, however bold and desperate, could on- 
 ly make a temporary impression on an Island, containing tea 
 times their number, able to bear arms, and bearing the most 
 vehement animosity towards them. After a memorable strug- 
 gle of several months, the rebellion was finally extinguished in 
 the blood of the i-ebels ; but not till hardy ruffians had perpe- 
 trated all the devastation and ruin in their power. A remnant 
 <5»f TOO shut themselves up in Larmi. Here they underwent 
 
g04 
 
 the extremity of famine, and four fifths of their number being 
 cut off by hunger and the sword, the rest salhed forth upon 
 their besiegers and were entirely slaughtered. 
 
 *' This event taught the Carsolians the danger of multiplying 
 their slaves, and for some time this salutary terror prevented 
 the admission of any captives, but women and children. Male 
 captives, of a mature age, were taken to the neighbouring coun- 
 tries. This law, however, as the memory of the servile war 
 began to vanish,, fell into disuse, and slaves of all ages were in- 
 discriminately admitted. No general disturbance arose from 
 this source, in consequence, either of the scarcity of such reso- 
 lute and enterprising spirits as Pruli, or of the rigid police to 
 which the slaves were subjected. 
 
 *' It was the policy of the four Alexanders to exempt their 
 kingdom as much as possible from war. They negotiated a 
 peace with the Mahometans, which they took infinite pains to 
 maintain uninterrupted, and laboured with equal assiduity to 
 avoid embroiling themselves in the quarrels and dissensions of 
 the Christian princes. In both these designs, they had very 
 formidable obstacles to encounter in the intrigues and menaces 
 of their neighbours. They succeeded for the most part in pre- 
 serving this neutrality, especially with the Pvloors and Othmans, 
 and consequently their stock of slaves was no longer maintain- 
 ed or augmented from the usual sources. From the convenient 
 position of Carsol, it was, however, much resorted to by the 
 Maltese and other Christian corsairs, till this traffic was pro- 
 hibited by the second Alexander. 
 
 " The rigour of the new tribunal, against heresy and infideli- 
 tyj found few or no objects in the enslaved part of the society. 
 It, however, put a total stop to the clandestine importation of 
 alaves, which the civil government had been unable or unv/il- 
 ling to prevent. Though the terms of peace, between this 
 kingdom and the Mussulmen, required the cessation of all hos- 
 tilities, it had been impossible wholly to prevent the natives of 
 Carsol from adventuring under foreign commissions, and from 
 bringing their spoil into the Island. And as long as this indi- 
 rect kind of v/ar was unsuspected by the Turkish or Moorisii 
 governments, it met v;ith the connivance of the Carsol. The 
 evils of slavery were somewhat proportioned to the number of 
 
205 
 
 slaves, but though less misery arose from the presence of 200 
 than 2000 slaves, the mischief, even in the former case, was not 
 small. 
 
 " It appears egregiously unjust, to punish men for adhering 
 to the faith, in which they were educated, in a country to which 
 they are brought against their will. The proper objects of 
 punishment were those who, in bringing them, violated at once 
 the laws of their native country and of humanitv ; but the im- 
 possibility, which now existed, of retaining an infidel slave, ef- 
 fectually deterred any one from buying him, and no buyers be- 
 ing found in Carsol, captives were carried to other markets. 
 Sanguinary and inhuman as this system appeared, its operation 
 was highly salutary, and annihilated at once all the mischiefs 
 which slaverv produces. This general tendency, no doubt, re- 
 commended their measures to Praya, but his chief motive for 
 embracing them was connected with religious duty. 
 
 " The adherents to the Greek and Armenian religions were 
 involved in the common sentence against unbelievers. A little 
 colony or factory of the latter sect or nation, had inhabited for 
 many years, a street in Carsol, in which they had peaceably 
 preserved the vocation of goldsmiths and merchants. The al- 
 ternative of exile or conversion, was not refused to those who 
 already bore the Christian name, nor was this alternative so 
 hateful to such, as to Mahometans. The greater part of the 
 Armenians made no difficulty in seeking the bosom of the Ca- 
 tholic church, and the rest, who, of course, were there, to whom 
 their wealth and their mercantile resources, and connections, 
 made removal no dreadful or difficult obligation, sought an ha- 
 bitation in other countries. 
 
 <' The Greeks who, in early ages, were the colonists and ci- 
 vilizers of the Island, and who, in subsequent times, were its 
 governors, may be supposed to have left very visible traces of 
 their language, manners and religion behind them. The truth 
 is, that in the province of Varingo, the whole body of the 
 peasantry, and of the lower class, were of Grecian origin. Pre- 
 vious to the year 1301, this province, at all times mountainous, 
 rocky and sterile, was principally inhabited by Saracen shep- 
 herds. These shepherds, hardy, bigotted and warlike, were the' 
 
206 
 
 most prompt and activ e in the rebellions, which terminated in 
 the extinction of the whole race. By these commotions, the 
 whole province was nearly reduced to a desert. 
 
 *' At this time an insurrection took place in Crete, excited 
 by religious persecution. The insurgents were headed by a 
 kinsman of the Martels, who, being defeated in his designs, be- 
 sought the king of Carsol to grant him and his followers an 
 asylum in the Island. Their petition was granted, and the de- 
 solate hills of Varingo were assigned them for a dwelling. 
 About 500 persons came over on this occasion. They insen- 
 sibly multiplied till the population of the province had attained 
 its customary level. They retained their language and reli- 
 gion, but, in all other respects, they assimilated v/ith their 
 neighbours and coalesced into one nation. 
 
 " Hecta was a Greek of Varingo, and his countrymen in this 
 district, were the principal converts of the new saints. They 
 shared the destruction of their leader, and the miserable rem- 
 nant of the colony were exposed to all the prejudices of the 
 conquerors. 
 
 *' It was natural, though unreasonable, to ascribe the success 
 of Hecta's impieties, in some measure, to the foreign extrac- 
 tion and schismatical education of the people of Varingo. The 
 devout were not disposed to maintain that the calamities lately 
 suffered, were caused by the wrath of the deity against the na- 
 tion, for endui'ing the presence of these schismatics so long, and 
 the new zeal which their calamities had awakened, regarded the 
 Greeks with nearly as much abhorrence as the Mussulmen and 
 Calvinists. 
 
 " Hecta's success was doubtless owing to the suspicions and 
 jealousies continually kept alive, by the difference of faith be- 
 tween the Greeks and Latins. The former were regarded by 
 the latter as aliens, who owed their original admission to chari- 
 iy, and the evidence of whose religion was an indulgence and 
 not a right. The former, insulated by their mountains, their 
 language and their faith, were naturally led to regard them- 
 selves as a distinct race, with interests separate from those of 
 iheir neighbours. The late event had raised an insuperable bar 
 to their coalition, and the new tribunal proclaimed irreconcila- 
 ble war to Greeks. Varingo was peopled anew, by the Catho- 
 
207 
 
 lies of the neighbouring provinces ; the few survivors of the 
 civil war, even though faithful to the government, were com- 
 pelled to abjure their religion or leave the country, and no 
 stranger Greek was allowed to set his foot within the Island. 
 Among the victims of this tribunal, for some years after its es- 
 tablishment, a few incorrigible or adventurous Greeks, were 
 annually numbered, but they insensibly vanished from the cata- 
 logue. 
 
 '* While such is the nature of man, that diversities in reli- 
 gious opinions, though merely metaphysical and speculative, 
 inevitably generate hostile sentiments among them, an absolute 
 uniformity of faith is highly beneficial. Uniformity, even in 
 error, in points that have little or no connection v/ith practical 
 or social duties, is better than dissension. An enlightened 
 mind may not recognize the influence of divine truth, in the 
 maxims and spirit of this tribunal, and yet if religious uniform- 
 ity was a national blessing, and if the means adopted were the 
 only efficacious means to produce or maintain it, they must be 
 allowed to have a divine sanction. If the will of God be bene- 
 ficence, they who pursue the good of mankind, perform that 
 will, and since nothing would have given birth to this tribunal, 
 but such pleas and such pretexts as were actually used, it would 
 perhaps have been the duty of Praya to have feigned the belief 
 which he avowed, of being originally stimulated by an express 
 revelation (in a dream) of Santa Vesta. 
 
 " Previous to Hecta's rebellion, this little kingdom was divi- 
 ded among several religions. Some Protestants, some Arme- 
 nians, some Mahometans and some Jews, were found princi- 
 pally in the cities. In the fields and villages were discovered 
 both Catholics and Greeks. The people were further distin- 
 guished by two languages, one a dialect of Greek, and the other 
 of Latin. They were likewise divided into two classes, of 
 freemen and slaves. Twentv years after Hecta's rebellion, all 
 diversities of language and religion had entirely vanished, the 
 distinction betweea freedom and servitude, between foreigner 
 and native, among residents, with all the jarrings and diversi- 
 ties of jurisdiction flowing from this motley assemblage, were 
 no more. The new generation were as flourishing and nume- 
 rous as the former, but they formed one bodv infinitely more 
 
^08 
 
 compact and simple, and their harmony and energy bore a much 
 greater proportion to their number, than at any former pe- 
 riod. 
 
 " Though Praya never suffered a person, arrested and brought 
 to Letza, to leave these walls alive, he was by no means hasty 
 in taking this irrevocable measure. He generally afforded the 
 accused the alternative of banishment. Though not suffered to 
 know his accuser, or to repel by arguments or evidence, the ac- 
 cusation, he usually received a secret mandate to depart the 
 kingdom forever. In issuing this mandate, he considered the 
 circumstances of the culprit, and rendered his fate as easy to 
 him as the great ends of his justice would admit. 
 
 " From the authority of this tribunal, no one was exempted 
 by his rank or profession. The king and the archbishop were 
 equally amenable to this tribunal, with the most obscure monk 
 or peasant. In the laws, by which it was created, and which had 
 received the solemn and unanimous consent, no exceptions 
 were made as to the persons subject to its jurisdiction, and the 
 crimes committed to its cognizance, were all such words, 
 writings or actions which, in the opinion of the judge, were di- 
 rectly or indirectly injurious to the Catholic faith. Of the pre- 
 cise dogmas of this faith, he alone was despotic arbiter, from 
 whose judgments there was no appeal. In this manner did the 
 whole society combine to put, not their property, reputation or 
 liberty, but their lives, into the hands of one man. This man 
 was to be chosen for life, by three-fourths of the whole synod. 
 
 "A power, thus apparently without limits, was, however, 
 bounded by those invisible, but insuperable hedges, which po- 
 pular opinion creates. The exact nature and extent of these 
 hedges were never ascertained, during the administration of 
 Praya. His wisdom and equity was cautious never to overstep 
 these hedges, nor even to approach them. The unbounded ve- 
 neration paid to his personal character, the awe created by the 
 mysterious energy of his proceedings, and the long duration of 
 his life, clothed him, in the apprehension of all classes, with at- 
 tributes next to divine, and allowed him to stretch, his power 
 further than any other individual could have done in the same 
 nfdctt ; but these very circumstances, by giving the office the 
 
209 
 
 sanction of antiquity and usefulness, could not fail to enlarge 
 and strengthen the authority of his successors. 
 
 " There are several instances recorded, which show the pro- 
 found, submission, the sacred kind of awe, in which this insti- 
 tution was held. After long experience of the unalterable na- 
 ture of its proceedings, its mandates came to be obeyed like 
 those of a physical necessity. No one ventured to dispute the 
 order frequently given to depart the Island. Fear even stifled 
 his murmurs, and as to expostulate was vain, despair assumed 
 the appearance of resignation. Many, on receiving the order 
 of arrest, were known to kill themselves immediately, and many 
 expired of terror before they reached the castle. 
 
 " The sixteenth century was distinguished by the reign of 
 four princes in succession, by the name of Alexander. Their 
 characters were in many respects uniform, and widely different 
 from that of their predecessors. Their policy approached more 
 nearly to the standard of political wisdom. They were emi- 
 nently distinguished by their love of literature and the arts, and 
 signalized their devotion to the muses, by a more uniform and 
 consistent conduct, than the Florentine princes of the preceding 
 age had done. In their conduct towards other nations, they 
 showed nothing of that restless, turbulent, ambitious spirit so 
 common among contemporary princes. To maintain peace, 
 encourage commerce and protect the arts, was the motto which 
 they chose, and their maxims they carried into practice with n© 
 sjmall success. 
 
 " The Turkish empire, which was rapidly ascending to its 
 zenith, was a formidable object to all the Christian nations. 
 The Carsol princes maintained inviolable peace with that pow- 
 er. Zegim, the brother of Bajazet, who sought refuge in 
 Rhoads, and was thence transferred to Carsol, was kept in cap^ 
 tivity till his death, and gave these princes considerable advan- 
 tages in their negotiations with the Turks. This took place in 
 the preceding century, 
 
 " On the expulsion of the knights from Rhoads, the first 
 Alexander gave them the Island of Malta. 
 
 " I'he Alexanders, while they carefully resisted all tempta- 
 tations and allurements to enter into foreign wars, endeavoured 
 
 to secure the integrity of their own kingdom, by a well disci- 
 
 or 
 
210 
 
 pliuccl and militar)' force, and by raising every where the mosu 
 impregnable fortresses. They governed the baronial aristocra- 
 cy uith great energy and wisdom, and enjoyed a more extensive 
 power than had been known before in this Island. They labour- 
 ed to soften and humanize the manners of the nobility, to collect 
 them about the court, and make them pliable and docile. The 
 nobles were deprived of some of their most injurious preroga- 
 tives, and the royal authority established upon a deep, though 
 equitable basis. 
 
 " They revived and cherished the study of ancient literature. 
 The Greek and Latin writers were made the fashionable ma- 
 niials. Painters, sculptors, architects, musicians and poets, were 
 invited and cherished by pecuniary and honorary rewards, by 
 learned establishments and liberal institutions. 
 
 *' Eleven principal cities, including the capital, were walled 
 round. One hundred convents were rebuilt ; one hundred ba- 
 ronial castles were erected ; one thousand two hundred church- 
 es were built, and all this by the princes themselves, or by the 
 imitative spirit of the people. 
 
 *' For the honour and defence of the kingdom, a military and 
 religious order was established, into which, all the nobility en- 
 tered, and which subsisted in great v igour, during the whole 
 of the Alexandrian period. To this institution, these princes 
 were indebted chiefly for the stability of their government and 
 the refinement which took place in the manners of the higher 
 classes. Laying aside the system of mercenary warfare, prevar 
 lent among the neighbouring nations, honour, religious zeal, 
 patriotism and personal attachment to the Alexandrian family, 
 and to the head of the ordt]-, who v/as always the reigning 
 prince, were made the ruling passions of this body of knights. 
 
 " 7'he similarity in sound, iiuluces the dealers in etymologies 
 to dcriv'.- the name of Martil from I\lars, the god of battles. 
 The ingenious flaiterv of poets easily created a pedigree for this 
 line, similar to that of Romulus and Remus, and the descent 
 of this family, from Charles Martil, of the eighth century, gave 
 {hem, in the opinion of their enthusiastic subjects, a right to 
 the French throne. This, however, was merely an antiquari-. 
 ,m fancy, and formed rather to gratify a visionary pride, than 
 f.p i?>fluencc pqHc\' or conduct. 
 
211 
 
 '*■ The first conqueror of Mallorca, acquired a species of le- 
 iigious merit, by rescuing the Christians of the Isle from the 
 yoke of infidels. He was naturally regarded as a kind of sa- 
 viour, not only in a political, but also in a spiritual sense. He 
 was, doubtless, their benefactor, in as high and absolute sense 
 as was possible for mere mortality to permit. The power he 
 acquired, was administered with wisdom, justice and clemen- 
 cy, and his character must extort the homage of every impar- 
 tial observer. To the best moral and political qualities, he 
 added personal majesty, strength and beauty, such as the sculp- 
 tors of old imagined to be characteristic of divinities. Added 
 to this, he was famous for his Catholic piety, and dying by the 
 hand of those whom he had subdued and expelled, he was na- 
 turally placed among the list of martyrs. All these circum- 
 stances combined to give him an indisputable title to the honours 
 of a saint, and as such he was worshipped by his successors and 
 their subjects. His churches, reliques, priests and miracles oc- 
 cupied a considerable space in the worship of his subjects. His 
 birth-day, the day of his landing in the Island, and the day of 
 his death, were among the most holy and solemn festivals. 
 
 ** Among twenty convents, eleven were possessed by a mo- 
 nastic order, formed a few years after his death, and called, af- 
 ter him, Carsolines. The number of monks v/as 220. They 
 were formed to perpetuate and sanctify the memory and ac- 
 tions of this prince. Nine of them were nunneries, belonging 
 to the same order. In these convents, those of the royal fami- 
 lies who embraced the monastic life, took refuge. They per- 
 formed daily one mass for the soul of St. Charles. Some inci- 
 dent in his life, afforded occasion for one festival at least, weekly, 
 throughout the year. To each of these festivals, a particular 
 service, consisting of hymns, prayers and ceremonials were 
 adopted. 
 
 " These institutions originated with Alphonso Martil, fourth 
 archbishop of Palma^ in the year 1333, and with Agnes, queen 
 of Mallorca, in 1370. The nunneries were founded by the 
 queen. The liberty of self govei-nment, was originally bestow- 
 ed upon all these institutions, but in piocess they Ijecume in- 
 sensibly subjected to the influence and controul of the monaste- 
 ries, of the successors of the archbishop, and the nunneries of 
 
212 
 
 those of the queen. To appoint the heads of these houses, be-' 
 eame a prerogative of the reigning queen and the ruling pre- 
 late. 
 
 " Cuslem had given the force of a fundamental law, to the 
 rule that the archbishop of Palmo should be filled only with a 
 priest of the race of Martil, and that the kings should take 
 their consorts only from that branch of their family, which were 
 counts of Florae. In this manner the purity of this race, and 
 the harmony of the ecclesiastical and civil administration was 
 preserved in a remarkable degree. 
 
 '* Persons thus set apart, for the express purpose of adoring 
 the memory of the first Charles, might be expected to cultivate 
 the virtues, and scrutinize the actions of their chosen divinity. 
 These institutions might be imagined peculiarly favoural^le to 
 the growth of virtues and talents similar to his, but the same 
 circumstances that determined how far Christians resemble 
 Christy determined the resemblance between the Carsolines and 
 him, to whom they owed their existence and their name. The 
 duty of this order was, not to imitate his conduct as a general, 
 a king, a parent or a citizen, but merely to estrange themselves 
 from the converse of mankind, to practice abstinences and mor- 
 tifications, to perform on anniversaries, processions and rites, 
 symbolical of the principal events of his life, to guard his con- 
 secrated reliques, and to chant before his picture, or his statue., 
 hymns and prayers. These hymns were compt)sed by the arch- 
 bishop Alphonso, in Latin, rude in st}'le, but not without some 
 variety and energ)- in sentiment. 
 
 *' The Alexanders being in a more enlightened age, and truly 
 comprehending the merits of their great ancestor, were natural- 
 ly led to wish for a kind of homage and commemoration v/orthy 
 of his character. Their education had created a kind of politi- 
 cal indifference to all religions, but habit and a warm imagina- 
 tion made them friendly to the Catholic worship, which is, in 
 many respects, so faithful a resemblance to the enchanting su- 
 perstition of the Greeks and Komans. They were, therefore, 
 by policy and inclination, though not b}' principle, its strenuous 
 patrons and adherents ; but while they were ardently attached 
 to the Raman form and ritual, they were anxious to exalt and 
 
213 
 
 adorn them by infusing into them a spirit and classic elegan.ce, 
 more worthy of themselves. 
 
 *' The Carsoline convents were, most of them, 153 years old 
 They were constructed in an antiquated style of architecture, 
 chiefly of brick, though spacious and solemn, had no preten- 
 sions to genuine beaut}/ or magnificence. Many of them were 
 defaced by time, or mutilated by violence, or damaged by fire. 
 The only literature cherished or cultivated in them, was scho- 
 lastic divinity, the history, poetry and laws of the middle ages. 
 Their tenants had no knowledge beyond the boundaries of 
 Christianity, and the prospects opened in the preceding centu- 
 ry-, into the ages that preceded Constantine, were utterly un- 
 known to them. One sacred branch of their duty was to enable 
 the children in their demesnes to read, write and reason, and to 
 initiate some of them, more promising than others, into their 
 Canonical Latin, and into the substities of Scotus and Aquinas. 
 From the latter they chose their own successors. To be mi- 
 nutely versed in their own voluminous breviary, containing no 
 less than sixty distinct religious offices, was an arduou.s attain- 
 ment. To have these by rote, to be thoroughly familiar with 
 the tedious commentaries, with which different abbots had load- 
 ed them, and to be severely exemplary in every monastic du- 
 ty, was the consummation of human excellence. 
 
 *' One department in these houses, consisted in keeping a 
 faithful journal of all domestic transactions, a sort of chronicle, 
 in which every thing connected with the institution was care- 
 fully recorded. The exact degree of merit in these chronicles, 
 depended somewhat upon the natural capacity of the scribe. 
 Their extent was influenced by his habits of observation and 
 industry, but being limited to their own particular affairs, they 
 could seldom be of any general importance or intrinsic value. 
 
 " These monks rarely looked, for subjects of history, beyond 
 the limits of their own walls or demesnes. This, however, v/as 
 no invariable rite. Some among them, endowed with more than 
 ordinary curiosity, ventured to look abroad, and as they Avere 
 denied all intercourse with the present race of mankind, they 
 endeavoured, by means of books, to gain some knowledge of 
 the past. The actions of their peculiar saint, became of course 
 a principal object of thei-r attention. 
 
214 
 
 *' The first Charles was attended, during his whole lite, by 
 Nicholas Kampsi, a sort of page or squire, who, after the death 
 of his master, and in his old age, was smitten with a strong de- 
 sire of narrating his history. Kampsi, till sixty years of age, 
 could neither read or write, but then, in pursuit of this new de- 
 sign, he applied with so much diligence to letters, that, in a 
 short time, he became qualified to hold a pen. This remarka- 
 ble person must have been naturally endowed with very strong 
 powers of mind, and especially with a memory wonderfully te- 
 nacious. He has produced a very artless and honest, but a 
 most picturesque and circumstantial narrative of his own life 
 and that of his master. This work forms one of the most 
 faithful and valuable pictures of the thirteenth century that is 
 extant. 
 
 " This work claimed the attention of the monks. It was care- 
 fully transcribed and deposited in all their libraries, and was 
 studied, though with much less zeal and attention than another 
 chronicle, which contained the spiritual exploits of this hero, 
 before and after his death. This history of the special revela- 
 tions made from heaven in his favour, and of the miracles per- 
 formed at his tomb, v/as written by Salviati, a priest whom 
 Charles brought with him from Palestine, and placed in his 
 chapel at Florae. These works afforded principal scope to the 
 literary curiosity, the pious mediations, and the elaborate pen- 
 manship of Carsoline monks and nuns. Some poetical fathers 
 had added to the narrative, the ornaments of verse, and had 
 built upon it ballads and epics without number. It was sur- 
 prizing how voluminously furnished were the archives or libra- 
 ries of these convents, a ccntiu-y and an half after their institu- 
 tion. 
 
 " These convents were rebuilt, by the Alexanders, on a new 
 plan, in which the classical spirit of the architecture was dis- 
 played on a most ample and magnificent scale. Every expedi- 
 ent was made use of to incorporate the taste, language and 
 studies of the Augustan and Pevelian age, with the education 
 of these convents. These measures being pursued indefatiga- 
 bly for several years, a total revolution finally took place in 
 these establishments. Music, poetry, sculpture and painting 
 combined their powers to adorn the libraries, gallaries and 
 
215 
 
 chapels of these convents. The ancient writers began to be 
 sought after, copied, studied and imitated with enthusiasm. A 
 curtain seemed to be suddenly lifted, behind M'hich, the scenes 
 and transactions of the Greek and Roman worlds had hitherto 
 been concealed. The new born spectacle ravished the beholder 
 with surprise and delight, and to examine it more nearly, to 
 scrutinize it in all its parts, became a vehement and universal 
 passion. \ 
 
 " The fruits of this enthusiasm, became manifest, in the fa- 
 miliar use, in writing and conversation, of the Latin and Greek 
 languages, in all their purity. Xenophon and Cicero became 
 the manuals of the monks and nuns, as well as of courtiers and 
 ambassadors. 
 
 *< Innumerable pens aspired to imitate these pristine models, 
 and in history and poetry, the genius of Livy and Virgil were 
 reanimated, and exercised those themes with the memorable 
 revolutions of Mallarco. This, in line, was the golden age of 
 JVIallorcan literature. 
 
 " Under the auspices of the two first Alexanders, the con- 
 ventual modes of worship underwent various reformations. In- 
 stead of barbarous homilies, uncouth rhymes and monotonous 
 tones, the early orators and fathers of the church — hymns writ- 
 ten in the style and spirit of sublime poetry, and polished la- 
 tinity and new graces, and new principles of music were gene- 
 rally adopted in religious service, and especially in that of the 
 Carsoline convents. 
 
 '* The monastic orders in this Island were different from these 
 established in any other country. They were all peculiar to 
 itself, and to the local religion. In describing the religion of 
 a Catholic country, it is not sufficient to relate the ordinary 
 tenets of the Roman Church. The^e tenets allow worship to 
 be paid to persons subordinate to the divinity, and every Ca- 
 tholic nation, city, and almost every individual, has a peculiar 
 object of worship. The modes of worship, and the moral and 
 social obligations incumbent on the pious, are diversified with- 
 out end, and the bond which maintains harmony and unity be- 
 tween such multifarious sects, the power is scarcely visible. 
 Thus the Deities, which receive constant worship in Car§ol, are 
 
216 
 
 totally unknown in other countries. Their festivals, their rites, 
 their hymns and the duty of their votaries, were in almost all 
 
 respects peculiar to the Island. 
 
 " The Deity was an object of speculative belief. The name 
 of Christ was familiar to all, but his history and precepts were 
 known only to a few scholars. Little else than the mere names 
 of the primitive disciples and apostles were known, even to 
 deans and curates, but the divinities familiar to every one's 
 imagination, whose countenance and form were exhibited in 
 colours and marble to all eyes, the visible and tangible remains 
 of whose terrestrial bodies lay beneath tombs, to which all had 
 access, were the first founders of the true religion, and the last 
 restorer of it in Mallorca. Churches were dedicated to these, 
 prayers were addressed to them, they were imagined to exist 
 corporeally in an higher sphere, to have their attention entirely 
 engrossed by the welfare and concerns of their native Isle, to 
 be invested by God with a delegated superintendance over it, 
 and to confer every benefit which the nution or the individual 
 experienced. Vows and petitions were exclusively addressed 
 to them, and they were px-operly the objects of public and of 
 private gratitude. 
 
 " The name of the eldest of these Deities was Clara Vesta. 
 She was the only daughter of the last Gi'eek prince of the Island, 
 who was slain by a band of Vandals from Spain. The great 
 beauty of the princess preserved her from the common ruin. 
 After many trials, to which her sanctity was exposed, she be- 
 came the wife of the Barbarian prince, and the mother of a line 
 of princes, who maintained their throne till the coming of the 
 Saracens, a period of 400 years. 
 
 " The Christians of Carsol owed numberless obligations to 
 this princess. B}^ her jiowerful influence, she checked the 
 «;anguinary career of victory, prevented a general massacre of 
 all the natives, and converted the conqueror himself, from an 
 enemy to Christiana, to an ardent devotee. After the death of 
 her husband, she withdrew, with nine daughters, to a convent 
 of her own erecting, and which continues to this day. There 
 she spent a long life in devout seclusion, adored by the Island- 
 '■^rs, wliom she continued to benefit by the wholesome councils 
 
217 
 
 she gave to the princes, her posterity, and by the exercise of 
 prophetic and miraculous powers. 
 
 *' The general facts in the history of this personage, are by 
 no means improbable. They are related and repeated in va- 
 rious chronicles, written during the dominion of the Vandals, 
 and which accounts were preserved amidst the devastations of 
 the Saracen government. They are vividly preserved in the tra- 
 ditionary tales and ditties of the people, who, from the time of 
 her death to our own age, have adored her as their tutelary 
 Deity. And if, as some pretend, the most rational religion is 
 that which consecrated the memory of public benefactors, Clara 
 Vesta may justly be considered as deserving of divine ho- 
 nours. 
 
 " After the expulsion of the Saracens, the honours of this 
 Goddess became once more public and general. Those build- 
 ings which, from churches had become mosques, were restored 
 to their ancient title and Deities. 
 
 *' Clara Vesta's nine daughters, who formed her original 
 communities, and who partook of the maternal sanctity and 
 glory, became, also, objects of a kind of secondary worship. 
 As the mother was the general Deity, her daughters are re- 
 garded as delegates and substitutes, who take charge of parti- 
 culars, orders, communities, cities, villages or churches. Each 
 of them has a sphere, determined either by local boundaries, or 
 by distinction in rank, employm.ent or profession, in which 
 their exclusive guardianship and jurisdiction is acknowledged. 
 This celestial beauty is supposed to bear somewhat more than 
 a casual relation to the ecclesiastical division, into ten episco- 
 pal dioceses, and while the archbishop is considered as a kind 
 of visible agent or minister, of Clara Vesta herself, his ten suf- 
 fragans are looked upon as the agents of her divine daughters. 
 The names of these daughters offered, perhaps, some proof of 
 their authenticity, since they are all of Greek origin — Sophia, 
 Kloa, Agnes, Nika, Rhoda, Kopsa, Helena, Cassandra, Mos- 
 ca, Lora. 
 
 " On a very slender basis, afforded by true history, the proli- 
 fic fancy of those who imagined the creatures of mere musing, 
 or slumber, to be revelations from the Deity, or who belie%'ed 
 
 -3B '^ 
 
218 
 
 that falsehoods, which may benefit some and injure no one, are 
 allowable, is able to build the most ponderous and complicated 
 structures. Thus the history of these eleven personages, de- 
 tailed with the most minute and circumstantial accuracy, form- 
 ed, for many ages, the favourite reading of the studious 
 whether lay or clerical. Each of them has the principal events 
 of her life authenticated by reference to the places where they 
 happened. Their bones are still preserved ; many relicks of their 
 dress, manuscripts of their own inditing, their countenance and 
 figure are all preserved ; poets have celebrated their virtues, 
 and painters displayed their portraits and actions in their can- 
 vass, sculptures embody them in brass and marble, and the 
 populace bestow the most entire belief on all that the monastic 
 libraries relate concei-ning them. 
 
 " The merit connected with religious seclusion, produced its 
 natural effects in this Island. During the fourteenth century, 
 more than ninety convents were revived, or founded by those 
 who was desirous of obtaining divine favour, through the in- 
 fluence of St. Vesta and her daughters, and of St. Charles Mar- 
 tel. To these twelve divinities, were principally dedicated the 
 services of these various orders. At the accession of the first 
 Alexander (1520) there were seven convents of the order of 
 St. Lora, six of St. Mosca, eight of Cassandra, eleven of Hele- 
 na, three of Kopsa, nine of Rhoda, eight of Nika, two of Ag- 
 nes, three of Kloa, and seventeen of Sophia. To Clara Vesta 
 herself, were dedicated fourteen convents. The rules of these 
 various communities varied very much from each other, and 
 some of them were very singular. 
 
 "The monastic profession always implied some mortifica- 
 tion or self-denial. Its duties were either positive or negative. 
 The latter consisted in obligations to abstain from all inter- 
 course, even social, with the other sex ; from all artificial li- 
 quors : and from flesh. The former consisted in adhering to 
 a certain dress and dialect, pursuing certain civil employments 
 and performing certain religious duties. 
 
 " The daughteis of Vesta were frequently denominated nu- 
 merically, in the order of their birth. Thus they were desig- 
 nated by the appellation of Diva Prima, Secunda, Tertia, Quar- 
 
219 
 
 ta, Sexta, Septlma, Octava, Nona and Decima. Their re- 
 spective orders were sometimes called Primia, Dinia, Zer- 
 via, &c. 
 
 " The severity of duty was not equal in all their orders. It 
 was the heaviest in the first and lightest in the last. 
 
 ** Each house was governed by a head, who held this situa- 
 tion for life, was originally chosen from among their own num- 
 ber, by the members of the house, and was subject, in his turn, 
 to a common head or chief, who held, under various restric- 
 tions, the government of the whole order. The heads of the 
 houses were Patres or Matres : the head of order, Patroni or 
 3Iatroni. 
 
 '* In the domestic society of the house, between its members 
 and in all religious offices, and in fme, on all occasions whate- 
 ver, no language was allowed to be used but the Latin. To 
 speak the vulgar tongue, on any occasion, v/as an offence ri- 
 gorouslv prohibited. The head of the order was exempt from 
 this obligation, and he was empowered to exempt others from 
 it by his special licence. This relaxation was dictated by obvi- 
 ous necessity, and was understood to extend only to such 
 cases. 
 
 " A consequence of this rule was that to all conventical peo- 
 ple, this language became, in some sort, their native tongue. 
 By long disuse, both in reading and speaking, the language of 
 their country was forgotten, and many older monks and nuns 
 would have been unable to profit by this licence, when afforded 
 them. 
 
 " From certain causes, somewhat peculiar to this island, the 
 language acquired an extraordinary degree of sanctity. The 
 clergy universally considered it as their peculiar dialect, and 
 adopted the use of it in writing among themselves, as a privilege 
 rather than a duty. 
 
 ♦' All the monastic orders were limited to the use of salt and 
 milk, with its various preparations, meat, and water to drink. 
 This was a rule common to them all. A power of dispensing 
 with the observance of it was lodged in the patrons or matrons, 
 with regard to whom this singular distinction existed, that, 
 though he could dispense with the observance of general rules 
 
220 
 
 in others, his own obligation to adhere to tliem was unaltera- 
 ble. This expedient was probably adopted in order to preserve 
 the head, as much as possible, from corruption, and to prevent 
 their claims upon his indulgence which might be built upon his 
 own example. 
 
 " The only material allowed in their dress was wool among 
 the men, and cotton among the women. No very great uni- 
 formity existed between the different orders with regard to the 
 texture, shape, or colour of their robes. Among females it was 
 ordered that every part should be covered but the head and 
 hands, which were prohibited from ever being so. The female 
 ornament was the hair, which was long or short, and flowing 
 Or constrained according to special customs or directions. 
 Within certain limits, the conventical was at liberty to consult 
 inclination, fashion, taste, or convenience, in dress. By this 
 rule every metallic appendage, ornamental or useful, all leather, 
 cork, and all cosmetic articles were proscribed. 
 
 '* The ten orders of nuns were distinguished by the colour of 
 their dress. White, black, rose, yellow, three shades of blue, 
 and as many of green. All mixtures of colours were prohibited 
 to the white and black nuns. The others were allowed to use 
 white provided their principal upper garment was of the pre- 
 scribed hue. 
 
 " Though there were no pristine or fundamental regulation, 
 as to the form of dress, custom and particular decrees had in- 
 troduced a peculiarity and uniformity in this respect between 
 the members of the same convent, and of the same order. Un- 
 der the Alexanders taste and elegance penetrated even the re- 
 cesses of the convents, and the texture and fashion of monastic 
 dress manifested great improvement. 
 
 *' It was unlawful for nuns or monks to wear garments which 
 were not entirely manufactured under their own roofs. The 
 raw wool or cotton was received, and their own hands spun,_ 
 wove, dyed, and fashioned the cloth. In this way every con- 
 vent was a kind of manufactory, the overplus of whose pro- 
 ducts could only be applied in charity. 
 
 *'The great duty of these societies consisted in worshipping 
 their peculiar deity. This worship consisted, in the first place, 
 
221 
 
 in chanting hymns to her honour. As a copious legend related 
 the acts of piety and heroism ascribed by fancy or tradition, to 
 the nymph, these hymns found sufficient topics in their acts : 
 poetry embellished her exploits by a more diffuse narration ; by 
 figures, by rhyme and by numbers. These numbers >vere 
 adapted to vocal and instrumental music, but being originally 
 constructed in the infancy of learning, taste, and the arts, 
 they were abundantly meagre and rude. The conventical po- 
 etry and music was not wholly unaffected by that progress in 
 general improvement of which Carsol partook, in common with 
 the neighbouring nations. Under the Alexandrine princes, when 
 the inhabitants of convents began to taste all the treasures of 
 antiquity, this poetry and music experienced great improve- 
 ment. The ancient topics and distribution of topics had been 
 made sacred by time, but the purest latinity, as well as chast- 
 est fancy supplanted the ancient dulness and sterility. Music 
 invented new principles and new instruments, and sculpture 
 called the figures of the tutelary power out of marble. 
 
 " A remarkable peculiarity of the Carsol religion was the con- 
 demnation of all symbols but those produced by statuary and 
 sculpture, and the prohibition of wearing any material for these 
 symbols but white marble or porphyry. The history of this pe- 
 culiarity is very remarkable. This people entertain the same 
 conscientious scruples against the use of painting or music in 
 religious worship, and against the use of any stone but marble 
 or porphyry, or any colour but white, in the relievos and statua- 
 ry of their altars, as protestants or mussulmen do against any 
 kind of picture or statue. In this respect they seem to occupy 
 a middle place between these hostile sects and the Romish sys- 
 tem. 
 
 " Christianity was introduced into this island at an early pe- 
 riod. The Carsol historians ascribe this blessing to the minis- 
 try of Timon, or Timotheus, mentioned in the Epistles of St, 
 Paul. There is preserved, in the Timothine church of Teni- 
 na, an ancient parchment said to be an epistle of Timotheus to 
 the inhabitants of this town, where he is universally believed to 
 have spent his old age, and to have died. The bones of this 
 saint were contained in a tomb, around which the first Christian 
 
church was built. When Tenina was taken and destroyed by 
 the Saracens, this church, whither a great number of women 
 and children had taken refuge, was burnt, with all the wretch- 
 es it contained. Previous to the entry of the Saracens, however, 
 tradition related that Telen, the bishop of the place, and regu- 
 lar successor of Tiniotheus, opened the grave of the saint, and 
 put his bones into a small stone box. With this treasure in his 
 arms, he mounted the roof of the church, and thence was con- 
 veyed in sight of the whole city, by a band of angels, to the re- 
 cesses of the neighbouring mountain. 
 
 " Felix, it seems, had persuaded the people to shut their 
 gates against their enemy, assuring them that God intended 
 merely to try their faith to the utmost, and provided they held 
 out firmly to the last, would exert a miraculous power for their 
 preservation. These exhortations enabled them to make an ob- 
 stinate resistance. Famine, disease, and the sword of the enemy 
 at length vanquished their enthusiasm. They hearkened to fa- 
 vourable terms of capitulation, and Felix, finding them invinci- 
 ble in their new resolutions, predicted the destruction that 
 would follow, and declared that the bones of their deserted pa- 
 tron should not be exposed to profanation. His predictions 
 were verified. Regardless of their promises to leave the inha- 
 bitants their lives, property, and religion, the besiegers no soon- 
 er were admitted than churches, dwellings, and people were 
 at once annihilated by fire and the sword. 
 
 " A mountain in the neighbourhood of Timna was remark- 
 able for caverns almost inaccessible. The devotees of suc- 
 ceeding times delighted to occupy caves which this incident 
 had made so memorable. The city, however, was for some 
 ages, desolate and solitary. Timon, who had been hitherto the 
 tutelary saint of the isle, and had inspired his worshippers with 
 uncommon obstinacy in their resistance of the Saracens, was 
 regarded by those conquerors with peculiar hatred. Hence 
 their severity against his sanctuary, and the last strong hold of 
 the Christians. They razed all the churches dedicated to his 
 honour, and were careful to suppress his shrines, pilgrimages 
 and festivals. 
 
 ■■'• Timna owed its population, not to any local convenience 
 
223 
 
 or advantage, for It was situated among rocks and prfeclpices 
 in the heart of the country, but merely to the sanctity derived 
 from the birth and the reliques of Timon. This sanctity being 
 withdrawn, the enmity of the conquerors was seconded by 
 popular indifference. 
 
 " When the Christian power was re-established, the mosque 
 and fortress erected on the ruins of the church of Timna, was 
 converted into somewhat like a monastery. The Moorish 
 temple became a Christian chapel, which was sanctified by be- 
 ing the ancient residence of Timon. 
 
 " The Saracens had less reason to persecute the memory of 
 Vesta than of Timon. Hence the general devotion was almost 
 concentered in the former and her daughters, and her suprema- 
 cy was too well established at the coming of the Martels to 
 give place to the apostle. This pre-eminence was rendered 
 still more stable by the general belief that the first Charles was 
 prompted to the invasion of Carsol by a dream, in which Vesta 
 had appeared to him, and exhorted him to undertake the en- 
 terprize. This story was given out by Martel as his mo- 
 tive to the undertaking, and whether a real dream, or onlv 
 feigned to secure success to his arms, the rumour kindled the 
 enthusiasm of his followers, and of the Carce themselves, and 
 no doubt contributed greatly to the success of his efforts. 
 
 " A priest and ten monks were consecrated by Charles to the. 
 service of the chapel at Timna. The general curiosity was 
 greatly excited with regard to the fate of the Saint and his re- 
 liques. The story of their miraculous flight, and their con- 
 cealment in the recesses of the neighbouring hills, had by no 
 means been blotted from the memory of the pious by the lapse 
 of five centuries. Though during the kingdom of the Arabs 
 various tales had been current of their recovery by certain 
 hermits, who successively passed their lives on this hill. These 
 tales had never been generally or fully credited. 
 
 In this state of things the priest of this chapel dreamed, 
 about the year 1315, that a venerable man appeared beside his 
 couch, and announcing himself as the primitive apostle, direct- 
 ed him to a certain spot in the mountain, vv'here hit, bones, so 
 long concealed, were deposited in a marble box. toa,frher with 
 
224 
 
 a writing composed by the Saint's own hand. This dream was 
 solemnly related by the priest to the bishop of Timosa and king 
 Charles II, and the dreamer being famous for his sanctity, 
 they ordered the spot pointed out to be examined. The box, 
 with the bones of a man, and a writing upon parchment cased 
 in oak were found agreeably to the dream. These reliques were 
 deposited beneath the altar of the chapel j the monastic body 
 was enlarged ; the whole fortress of Timna was assigned to 
 their use ; this shrine became the resort of pilgrims ; and be- 
 fore it the princes received their crown from the bishop of 
 Timosa. The popular zeal was anew excited by this circum- 
 stance. Convents dedicated to Timon were established in va- 
 rious places. During the first half of the fourteenth century 
 forty monasteries were established by the order of Timothite. 
 
 " In the dissolution of the Roman power in Carsol, the royal 
 authority naturally devolved on the bishops of Timosa, the suc- 
 cessors of Timotheus. They were elected by a monastic fra- 
 ternity or chapter of thirteen persons, who performed religious 
 offices in the cathedral of Timosa. This kind of theocracy 
 existed for two or three centuries, and was not dissimilar to 
 the authority exercised in the Roman territory by the popes. 
 
 " The Vandals speedily adopted the religion of their subjects, 
 and the pontifical power became neai-ly as absolute as before. 
 The whole political authority was divided between the bishop 
 of Timosa and the Vandal prince. They neither of them ac- 
 knowledged a superior in Constantinople or Rome. 
 
 " The annals of Carsol relate, that Timon was a native of 
 this island, a Greek by descent, and a Roman citizen of emi- 
 nence. That he was born in Timosa, which with the neigh- 
 bouring lands was his patrimony. That he travelled in his 
 youth to Rome and Athens. In the former place he met St. 
 Paul, became his convert and companion, and finally undertook 
 the conversion of his native Island. He began with his ancient 
 tenants, from whom he formed the earliest Christian congrega- 
 tion. At his death he named his successor, and at the same 
 time appointed thirteen persons, who, together with the bishop, 
 were to govern the society, and from whose number, perpetu- 
 ally renewed by their own election, future bishops were to be 
 
225 
 
 taken. The birth of this apostle is fixed at the year ten of the 
 Christian era, and his death in the year ninety-one. From him 
 to the present time a regular and uninterrupted series of bishops 
 of Timosa is recorded. Their whole number, inchiding the 
 first, is one hundred and eight. The names, characters,- and 
 principal events in the life of all these are still preserved, and 
 the voluminous detail, whatever infidelity foreigners may en- 
 tertain of its truth, was, till the succession of the Carrils, an 
 object of religious belief among the Carse. 
 
 " The theological library of Carsol is extremely extensive. It 
 consists of the chronicles, homilies, meditations, and epistles of 
 a great number of these bishops and of others. The woi-k of 
 greatest sanctity among them are the original epistles of Timon. 
 
 " I have just related the manner in which these epistles were 
 preserved. The existence of such a manuscript, previous to 
 the Saracen invasion, is generally acknowledged ; but the copies ■ 
 made from it during that period, and distributed among church- 
 es and convents, were totally destroyed by the followers of Ma- 
 homet. These rulers had been exasperated by repeated efforts 
 to shake off their yoke, and knowing the efficacy of a sacred 
 book to keep alive enthusiasm, they had taken infinite pains to 
 destroy every copy of this. They had apparently succeeded, 
 but the auspicious vision of the monk of Timna convinced 
 the nation that heaven had not entirely deserted them. 
 
 " As these islanders considered Timon as their sole and pe- 
 culiar apostle, their religious faith was built entirely upon his 
 writings. They were early distinguished in the christian world, 
 as a sect which rejected all the apostolical writings but these- 
 Hence their appellation of Timonites. These writings con- 
 tained a concise biography of Christ, and several doctrinal and 
 monitory epistles. 
 
 " They boasted of possessing these writings in the hand of 
 the original composer, together with his bones. This double 
 treasure formed the palladium of the nation, with the posses- 
 sion of which their temporal safety was as inseparably connect- 
 ed, as their eternal welfare was with the profession of the faith 
 they contained. They were consequently deposited in a very 
 strong fortress in the centre of a lake already mentioned un.- 
 
 29 ^ 
 
226 
 
 dcr the name of Timosa, and I have ah*eady related the manner 
 of their loss. 
 
 " While this palladium was safe, no defeats or misfortunes 
 could persuade the people that their opposition to the Arab in- 
 vaders was desperate. As soon as it was lost, there was no- 
 thing that could reanimate their confidence. We may easily 
 imagine the transports of universal joy which attended their 
 recovery under the second Charles. From the first dream of 
 the monk Felix to the actual restoration of these reliques there 
 elapsed fourteen days. It was solemnly decreed that the future 
 year should commence on the anniversary of the first of these 
 days. That the fourteen should be one continued festival, in 
 which the whole business of the society should be social emu- 
 lation and religious gratitude. This grand festival commences 
 on the 4th of February every year. 
 
 " The Alexanders signalized their magnificence and piety* 
 by erecting at Timosa, a sort of temple and fortress, on a plan 
 of greater solidity and magnitude than any preceding structure 
 on the same spot. lu- it were united the temple, the monrtstery, 
 the palace and the castle. The work was begun in the year 
 1521, and diligently pursued to its completion in 1560, by two 
 thousand v/orkmen, a period of forty-one years. Long as this 
 period is and great as is this number of workmen both appear 
 too small when we examine carefully this structure. 
 
 " The religion of the Timonites was different in many res- 
 pects from that of the neighbouring nations. Within their nar- 
 row sphere there was room enough for innumerable sects, which 
 agreed with each other in nothing but in acknowledging no other 
 authority than the remains of Timon. Their ecclesiastical 
 history exhibits a various picture. Its earliest scenes display- 
 ed the struRgles of the new religion against the paganism of the 
 natives, and the persecuting ra'ge of some of the Roman em- 
 perors. Two centuries and an half elapsed between the esL- 
 tinction of Paganism and the invasion of the Vandals. During 
 this time, several sects were successively dominant, but the 
 tenets of Vesta being adopted by the conquerors, the worship 
 of the country became pretty uniform. There were aL* 
 
227 
 
 ways dissidents, but they composed always a very small mi- 
 nority. 
 
 " Under the iron yoke of the Saracens, the various sects in- 
 sensibly coalesced into one, and the Martels, though educated 
 in superstitious veneration for the church of Rome, found it 
 necessary to leave the rescued nation in quiet possession of 
 their tenets and their mode of worship. 
 
 '* The Roman pontiffs naturally regarded an island so much 
 in the centre of their ecclesiastical empire, with eyes of desire. 
 The invasion of Martel was a kind of crusade, in the success 
 of which the popes imagined their own interest principally in- 
 volved. They urged Martel to the enterprize, not only fpr 
 the sake of expelling infidels, but of reducing schismatics to the 
 dominion of the church. Happily, however, for the people of 
 Carsol, their conqueror, in the midst of his religious zeal, had 
 a large and comprehensive understanding. He perceived the 
 injustice of tearing from this class of christians, their favourite 
 belief, and indeed, was thoroughly convinced that the undertak- 
 ing was impossible. He eluded therefore, the demands and ex- 
 pectations of the court of Rome, and his contumacy being 
 flnalh punished bv excommunication, he made his quarrel with 
 the pope irreparable, and completed his union with his new 
 subjects, bv solemnly embracing their religion and restoring 
 their hierarchy to the state in which it was in the time of the 
 Vandals. 
 
 " The pretensions of the pope excited many broils in suc- 
 ceeding times. According to the temper and character of the 
 Carsol pontiffs and kings, their authority in this island aug- 
 mented or declined. The warm attachment of the princes to 
 the Tlmonite creed ; to their own dignity and independence, 
 was an insuperable barrier to these pretensions. 
 
 *' Numberless conferences and negociations were carried on, 
 in order to reconcile the Carsol and Romish churches ; that is, 
 to bring the former into subjection to the latter. By dint of 
 repetition and perseverance this enterprize was finally accom- 
 plished. The general supremac)- of the pope was acknowledged. 
 His schemes, particularly the Calendaria, for drawing a reve- 
 
228 
 
 aue from the countiy, were tolerated. His sanction of the 
 choice of patriarch, being required, naturally led the way 
 to other encroachments, and by the cunning and incessant ef- 
 forts of four centuries, .the ecclesiastical independence of the 
 island was almost entirely subverted. 
 
 " No innovation has, however, been made in the modes of 
 faith and worship. A kind of political authority has been in- 
 vested in the pope, over the revenues and officers of the church, 
 but the speculative dogmas of the Romish creed have been care- 
 fully excluded. The order of events has been opposite to that 
 which has taken place in many christian nations, where the 
 papal power over officers and revenues has frequently been des- 
 troyed, while the unity of faith and worship has been unim- 
 paired. 
 
 " The worship of the Carce is a kind of medium between 
 the gross and bloody rules of paganism, and the abstractions of 
 some sects of christians. It is a stranger to the sacrifice of 
 living creatures. No blood of unoffending innocence is shed 
 at the altar of its deity, in the name of propitiation or atone- 
 ment. 
 
 *' As no efficacy is ascribed to the agonizing cries of ani- 
 mals, or the fumes rising from their \yarm blood, neither is 
 any value placed upon the odour of burning Thus. No smoke 
 of incense is ever seen in their temples, nor is their deity 
 imagined to be anywise accessible through the medium of 
 smell. 
 
 " They differ nevertheless from those who imagine that 
 God's omniscience his universal existence, and his unalterable 
 energy of his general government, together with his exemption 
 from all human passions, abolish the necessity or use of any 
 kind of worship which consists in oral supplication or thanks- 
 giving, and which sanctifies one language, one dress, one time 
 or one place beyond another ; or rather, from this very opinion 
 they derive an argument for limiting this kind of worship to 
 those who were once mortal, who though purified and exalted, 
 have still a resemblance or identity with their former selves, 
 who have carried into a state of new existence, all the good, 
 without any of the bad qualities incident to human nature, 
 
229 
 
 who nourish still the attachment to the region of their Urth 
 which they had while clothed in human bodies ; and are still 
 actuated by the same passion for its welfare and felicity ; a pas- 
 sion joined with much greater wisdom and disjoined from all 
 selfish and erroneous attributes. 
 
 " The use of temples, festivals and prayers are not enjoin- 
 ed according to them, because their duties are more accessible 
 at one time or place, or in one language rather than another. 
 These are rendered necessary merely by the occupations and 
 infirmities of mankind : who cannot, as experience proves, per- 
 form two things at once ; who can perform certain acts much 
 better, with more fervour and attention, in some situations 
 than in others. Their tutelary power is present and accessible 
 at all times and places, but by setting apart times and places 
 for the purpose of addressing him, and establishing certain 
 preliminaries to the act, the imagination of the worshipper is 
 more strongly disposed to such addresses. Thus does the use 
 of temples, whose style of building and ornament possess beau- 
 ty and grandeur, and is exclusively confined to the same uses, 
 thus does a peculiar dialect, peculiar words, and peculiar melo- 
 dy become efficacious means of exciting and directing the ima- 
 gination and thoughts in the desirable manner. 
 
 " Those forms of worship which represent a sacrifice, either 
 real or symbolical, they totally reject, because the notion of a 
 sacrifice is in itself absurd or unintelligible, is adapted to pro- 
 duce no salutary effects on the understanding or the morals, and 
 is wholly inapplicable to the objects of their worship. Hence 
 the mass with all its appertenances and appendages are rejected 
 from their system. 
 
 " As the thoughts and feelings of true worshippers require 
 to be fixed upon the conduct and examples of the objects of 
 their adoration, the following means are thought to be highly 
 serviceable to that end. First, the putting into words the 
 actions and virtues of these personages ; and reciting them at 
 times and in places connected with the actions and actors. 
 B)' embodying the persons themselves in marble or other du- 
 rable materials, and placing them in the domes consecrated 
 to this worship. The imagination is in no way more forcibly 
 
230 
 
 affected than by such visible representations of the object ad- 
 dressed : and as statuary is upon the whole a much more strik- 
 ing representation of nature, than a flat surface however art- 
 fully coloured, statuary is prefered to painting. 
 
 " As to the existence of an order of men, denominated 
 priests or clergy, their use is limited to that of preaching and 
 lecturing. Their proper province is to instruct their country- 
 men in the truths of piety and virtue. For this end they are 
 subjected to particular discipline ; their subsistence is provided 
 for, independently of their own labour and attention ; times 
 and places are allotted for publicly delivering their instructions^ 
 and the persons, who composed their school, are bound by cer- 
 tain laws and penalties, to attend. The two departments of 
 teaching and v/orshipping are carefully separated, and are per- 
 formed in different halls and on different occasions ; though 
 the preacher is invested with a certain superintendance and di- 
 rection over worship. 
 
 " Such are the outlines of the s}''stem of opinions respecting 
 religious worship, adopted by the more enlightened among 
 the Carce. How far these notions are diffused among the 
 vulgar, is another question : how far they are influenced, by 
 the belief of express command, issued bv God, and enforced by 
 the penalty of eternal perdition hereafter, to the observance of 
 these modes of worship : how far they consider the day, the 
 temple and the statue as possessing the actual and exclusive 
 presence of their deity ; what notions they entertain of the na- 
 ture, character and habits of their gx)ds are different subjects 
 of inquiry. 
 
 " The Carce, in general, believe that no other times or pla- 
 ces of worship than these in use would be acceptable ; that 
 painting in these churches would be impious and idolatrous ; 
 that Heaven would be deeply oflended by omitting or removing 
 the statue which they consider as the exact resemblance of the 
 person whose name it bears, "vvhich in many cases, they be- 
 lieve to have been mii-aculously formed, and the possession of 
 which they regard as indispensible to the success of their pray- 
 ers : that the clergy have an indelible and sacred character, and 
 and enjoy their privileges and authority by the express command 
 
25 i 
 
 direction of Heaven, delivered through the mouth of his mes- ' 
 senger Timotheus ; that the observance of the rites and pre- 
 cepts delivered in their sacred book, and interpreted by their di- 
 vines, will be rewarded by eternal being and beatitude. Such 
 is the creed of those who do not reason, and of most of those 
 who do, because in these points they are governed by habit 
 and example, or because the facts and arguments, by which 
 they are supported, are sufficient to convince them. 
 
 The Carce temple exhibits an altar or pedestal, on which a 
 statue large as life, in white marble, is erected. This statue 
 placed in the most honourable situation, is that of the saint or 
 divinity to whom the church is dedicated. Timon, Vesta and 
 her ten daughters, the first Charles, and the nine bishops, im- 
 mediate successors of Timon in that sacred office, are the only 
 names in which the churches of the island are consecrated. 
 The canonized or deified bishops are Caecilius, Sophron> Ceci- 
 lius Secundus, Felix, Clemens, Cecilius Tertius, Clemens Se- 
 cundus, Cecilius Quartus, Felix Secundus. These nine pre- 
 lates lived from A. I). 91, till 391, a period of three cen- 
 turies. 
 
 *' The oldest statue of Vesta was, it is not impossible, a 
 statue of the pagan divinity that bears the same name. This, 
 with ten others preserved in different temples, and which pass 
 for the statues of her daughters, have occupied their present 
 station, since the year 700. Though histoiy be silent, legend 
 and tradition are very circumstantial in their account of these 
 statues. I'hey were formed, it seems, by a miraculous influ- 
 ence, after the decease of the originals. In the convent which 
 they founded, the mother survived ten daughters, and saw 
 the extremity of old age without decay or infirmity. On her 
 death bed, in order to console the sisterhood, she told them 
 that, though withdrawn by the decrees of Heaven, from mor- 
 tal to immortal existence, she intended to intercede with God 
 for the privilege of returning to them, in the course of a few 
 circling years. Should she succeed in her prayers, she would 
 gladly assume her own shape, and continue to direct their ac- 
 ceptable devotions as formerly. If a different decree, however, 
 should bf. made, she would send them in token of Jier afFec- 
 
232 
 
 ilbnate regard for them, the images of herself and her daugh- 
 ters in a form which, if secured from violence, would be im- 
 mortal. To these images they should pay homage as to her, 
 for though, unseen by mortal eyes, a portion of her spirit would 
 latently animate the figure, and its presence should secure to 
 them perpetual protection and felicity. 
 
 " Several years elapsed before the fulfilment of this pro- 
 phecy. At length going in full procession to her chapel, at mid- 
 night the commencement of her annual festival, eleven images 
 in marble of divine beauty, were found arranged on the same 
 number of pedestals. The sacred apartment was illuminated 
 by a lamp of silver, suspended from the roof, and fed with 
 ambrosial oil. The statues, the lamp, and the light, being 
 transported hither by means inconceivable and preternatural. 
 
 " Such is the tale solemnly related by the abbess, who pre- 
 sided at the time, and which has been faithfully delivered down 
 to the present age. 
 
 '* The place, selected by Vesta as her retreat, was a rock on 
 the borders of the Meri lake. It rose to a considerable height 
 and jutted out, like a promontory, into the lake. On the flat 
 top of this rock, a space of several acres, she erected a spa- 
 cious and solid building, where with her daughters and a few 
 devout companions, she continued for the rest of her days. 
 The solemn beauties of this water and its shores might well 
 have been recommended as a scene of religious meditation. The 
 act by which the lamp was supplied, was inexhaustible, and the 
 light an undying flame, continued to illuminate these sacred 
 walls till the invasion of the Infidels. 
 
 " At that period, a dame renowned for her sanctity, presid- 
 ed in this mansion. Though she had reason to tremble for her 
 life, and the lives of her daughters, she experienced no anxiety 
 but to preserve these sacred emblems from profanation. Hea- 
 ven condescended to relieve her distress, and by a revelation, 
 directed her to carry the lamp and statues into a vault in the 
 building, in which for the first time, they discovered a circular 
 opening, and downward stair case in the rocky pavement. 
 They descended this stair, with their precious charge, and the 
 
opening immediately closed, and all traces of it were; thence- 
 forth invisible. 
 
 " While this scene was acting, the enemy approached the 
 walls, finding the gates open they entered in tumultuous crowds. 
 When the house was filled with these unbidden guests, a shake 
 of thunder was heard ; the massy walls and roof fell to the 
 ground, and crushed every person beneath them to death. An 
 heap of ruins continued to attest this miracle till the coming of 
 the Martels, when tradition having faithfully preserved these 
 events, the rubbish was carefully removed ; and lo ! an opening 
 and staircase presented itself. The explorers descended till 
 they reached a cell where they beheld these eleven statues, with 
 the lamp, still lightening the place, in the midst. On being car- 
 ried up to the surface of the earth, the lamp suddenly went out, 
 and the materials of which it was composed crumbled into 
 dust. The statues were replaced in a chapel erected anew up- 
 on the spot, but all of them except that of Vesta, were at dif- 
 ferent times removed to churches built for their reception. 
 
 " An incredulous antiquary will be apt to consider those 
 statues as no other than the ornaments of some Roman temple 
 or some proconsul's villa. In their style and execution they 
 are evidently the work of the best age of sculpture. There 
 is a family resemblance between the whole group, but no- 
 thing that could lead us to believe them modelled after the 
 same ideal model. The physiognomy is extremely intel- 
 ligent and pleasing, but perfect symmetry is seen in none 
 of them. 
 
 " Some inquirers have conjectured that they were designed 
 to represent the nine muses, with Mnemosyne their mother. 
 It is remarkable, if either conjecture be true, that the wife 
 and daughters of a Roman senator, should become, for many 
 centuries, the idols of a numerous and enlightened people : or 
 that these tutelary honours should be assigned to the children 
 of some nameless sculptor's fancy. It is no less remarkable 
 that they should in process of time come to resume the very 
 attributes which the artist had originally assigned to them, 
 since thry have been naturally exalted by the poets of the 
 
 30 ^ 
 
334 
 
 country into patronesses of the sciences ; to each one a peculiat 
 province in the intellectual kingdom having been allotted. 
 
 '« In consequence of these miraculous images being formed of 
 white marble, in the graceful raiment and simplicity of an- 
 cient art, the Carce worship has considered this material and this 
 forixi as essential and peculiar to religious worship. As church- 
 es and convents multiplied in the island, copies were made of 
 these originals. These partook of the rudeness and barbarism 
 of the times, nor was it till the Alexandrine period, that the co- 
 pies began to vie with the originals in elegance and beauty. 
 During this period also, a kind of harmony and sanctity began 
 to be discovered between this and the ancient principles of archi- 
 tecture. Vesta, having by this stupendous miracle, attested 
 the superior sanctity of the ancient mode of sculpture, a kin- 
 dred sanctity was supposed to appertain to every thing which 
 existed at the same time ; and thus the ancient architecture 
 obtained a sort of religious reverence. To erect temples of 
 the same material as the statue it contained, and to ascribe to 
 them additional sanctity on that account, was the dictate of na- 
 tural superstition. To these ideas are we indebted for the 
 splendid and eternal monuments of architecture and sculpture 
 produced in the fifteenth century. The island abounded in all 
 kinds of marble, a kind similar in hue and texture to the Pari- 
 an exists in great quanilties : and of this were formed the 
 twelve hundred temples, convents and colleges, with which the 
 island was adorned by the indefatigable zeal of the four Alex- 
 anders. 
 
 " It is not surprising that these circumstances should gene- 
 rate a belief that all representations of nature, by the chissel 
 should be confined to religious purposes. In an apartment set 
 apart for devout offices or meditations, all ornaments were 
 deemed profane but such as the chissel produced, and due 
 sanctity could only be conferred on such recesses, by some 
 image of the human form divine. The size of this image was 
 of no indispensable importance. Divine properties were capa- 
 ble of being given to a colossal statue seven feet high or to q. 
 face, executed in relief upon a ring ; but they could not be 
 imparted to any thing but the human form, or so much of it 
 
235 
 
 as Included the face at least ; to any thing but a solid resem- 
 blance of these, or to any such resemblance, but such as was 
 wrought in white marble. To such resemblances formed of 
 other materials, no sanctity could be imparted, bat sculpture 
 was considered as sacrilegiously employed in producing the 
 human figure out of any other substance. Hence it was that 
 the pencil arid its wonders were rigorously banished from all re- 
 ligious offices or places, and confined entirely to profane or ci- 
 vil uses. The chamber, the parlour and the hall, were the pro- 
 per spheres of painting, and such sculpture as did not extend 
 to the human figure. The temple or chapel, on the contrary, 
 excluded every colour but white, and every ornament but such 
 as the plastic art produces. 
 
 " Timon and his nine successors have also their original sta- 
 tues ; of whose genuineness there is no doubt, and whose sanc- 
 tity, though produced by a mortal workman, is attested bv 
 many miracles and revelations. From these are the copies 
 taken which are set up in so many churches, chapels and, 
 convents. 
 
 " It is not unlawful to copy the human face or form in mar- 
 ble, but by so doing we confer upon them a certain degree of 
 sanctity. As the objects of established worship were formerly 
 mere human beings, there is no essential or specific diflference 
 between them and the mortals of the present age. Good men 
 by their death, became associated with Timon, Vesta and 
 Caroliis Divus. Their characters and services to mankind en- 
 title them to less reverence ; but some reverence, exactly of 
 the same kind is not denied to them. Private individuals are 
 therefore permitted to evince their regard for the dead, by per- 
 petuating their likeness In marble, but this is a solitary and indi^ 
 vidual act. No one is entitled to a place in any acknowledged 
 church, to have the day of his death inserted in the calender 
 as a general festival, but such as obtain the suffrages of the 
 whole synod. This is the act of his canonisation. 
 
 " As Carsol is placed in the centre of the Roman empire, and 
 in the neighbourhood of Italy ; as the Roman power was fully 
 established in it in the reign of Augustus ; and its tranquility 
 suffered no memorj^ble interruption till the Vandal invasion; 
 
236 
 
 a period of five hundred years ; it is natural to expect that tlie 
 island enjoyed all the blessing that peace, commerce, agricul- 
 ture and civilization can confer, many vestiges of that flour- 
 ishing period may be expected to remain even to our own 
 times. 
 
 " The most durable monuments of the Romans were build- 
 ings, specimens of sculpture, and coins. Palaces, villas, tem- 
 ples, foras, aqueducts, theatres, amphitheatres and forts, no 
 doubt existed in this island, in great numbers. Fire, civil dis- 
 cord, occasional commotions and the influence of time, which 
 are perpetual causes of decay, operated to a certain extent 
 through the whole Roman period ; but as arts and civilization 
 flourished, the destruction flowing from these causes must have 
 been perpetually repaired. 
 
 " The establishment of a new religion and new manners, 
 and the decline of all the arts, operated in a double way. 
 What the former razed to the ground, the latter were unable 
 to rebuild upon a different, but equally substantial and grace- 
 ful model. The theatres and amphitheatres deserted of their 
 accustomed spectacles, went rapidly to decay, or were gradual- 
 ly demolished by the builders of cottages, fences or stables, in 
 their neighbourhood. Their walls sought the level of the 
 ground, and their foundations gradually disappeared under an 
 accumulated mass of earth. Forest trees took root among their 
 crevices, and the plough traversed their areas. 
 
 " The temples were abhorred by the new religion as the re- 
 cesses of impiety, and to raze them to the ground was deem- 
 ed a meritorious act. Some few of them were converted into 
 christian churches ; but in these the decays of nature could not 
 be retarded by art. 
 
 <' During the dominion of the Vandals, many bloody intes- 
 tine revolutions took place, and the general ignorance and bar- 
 barism contributed to hasten the extinction of ancient monu- 
 ments. The arts of building assumed a new form, and the 
 ruins of ancient buildings already cut into shape, afforded ma- 
 terials for new edifices, too conveniently disposed to be over- 
 looked. 
 
237 
 
 *' Five centuries of Saracen empire, and the two first of the 
 Martels afforded continued scope for all the causes of decay. 
 The accumulation of vegetable remains, in one place ; the for- 
 mation of a bog or swamp in another ; the slow but sure 
 operation of the plough in a third ; the conversion of fallen 
 stones into the foundation or walls of new buildings in a 
 fourth ; the rage of political or religious zeal in a fifth, 
 had made immeasurable havock in all the vestiges of former 
 ages. 
 
 " In the sixteenth centurj^, a new spirit arose. Literature 
 had lifted up the veil which had hitherto concealed the trans- 
 actions of times anterior to the Christian triumph. Mankind 
 became of a sudden ardently inquisitive as to all that had 
 occurred in these ages. Curiosity betook itself to every hint 
 and clue, by which it might hope to penetrate the darkness 
 which infolded the past. They turned their eyes upon the 
 ground. Every artificial mass of earth or stone, was exam- 
 ined, sifted, analyzed. Wells and hollows were carefully ex- 
 plored ; rivers and lakes, were dragged with nets and pervad- 
 ed by divers ; the earth itself was removed in places ; old 
 pavements or foundations were suspected to lie hid beneath 
 it. The rules of ancient art were employed to guide them in 
 conjecturing the uses ; and supplying the vanished parts and 
 members of what was discovered. 
 
 " Thus in the course of half a century did temples, the- 
 atres, and palaces ascend as it were from the abyss of obli- 
 vion ; and shine in all their pristine beauty and proportions in 
 models or in pictures. Statues, mosaics and medals which 
 had rested beneath the sod or furrow, at the bottom of wells 
 or marshes, or rivers, unknown, unsuspected and unvalued for 
 a thousand years, now rose to light and occupied cabinets and 
 nitches like those from which they had originally fallen. 
 
 <' The number of coins or medals, and engraved stones, 
 formed between the fall of Carthage and the reign of Con- 
 stantine, recovered during this period and still preserved in the 
 island, exceeds twenty thousand. The statues conjectured to 
 have been formed during the same period, recovered from 
 the bosom of the earth, from subterraneous vaults or funeral 
 
238 
 
 monuments, exceed fifteen hundred. The existence of five 
 hundred temples ; of three Fora ; of five theatres, of two am- 
 phitheatres and four aqueducts have been traced in their ves- 
 tiges. These vestiges are more or less numerous and entire ; 
 in some cases, the plan and elevation of the original build- 
 ings have been made out with sufficient accuracy, and the in- 
 genuity and daring fanc)^ of eminent designers have ventured 
 to rebuild upon paper every one of these structures. The 
 pencil and the graver have contributed to adorn and multiply 
 these glorious visions of departed magnificence. 
 
 ** The third Alexander formed a society of artists, whose 
 business it was, in the first place, to delineate the remains of 
 architectural antiquity, in their actual state ; and secondly, by 
 the exertion of their own learning and taste, to produce de- 
 signs of the same buildings in their original condition. These 
 designs having received the sanction of the whole body, form- 
 ed an architectural library of great extent and magnificence. 
 These designs are accompanied by historical and critical dis- 
 quisitions on each subject. 
 
 " This plan was afterwards enlarged, and the same system 
 pursued with respect to every architectural monument con- 
 tained in the island. The whole period was subdivided into 
 the Roman, the Vandal, the Saracen, the Martel and the 
 Alexandrine ages ; a part of a numerous society devoted it- 
 self to each of these divisions ; and the produce of their la- 
 bours remain to this day. 
 
 *' The Alexandrine period was wonderfully rich in archi- 
 tectural monuments. The face of the country so far as it 
 consists of buildings was entirely renewed, and almost total- 
 ly changed. Till the accession of that familv, the island was 
 covered with farms, cottages, village and city houses, and 
 palaces, and churches, the greater part of which had been 
 built, during the two preceding centu;-ies. Of all the private 
 houses of townsmen and citizens ; few or none could aspire 
 to an elder date. One hundred and twenty convents had 
 arisen, some of them on old foundations, during the same pe- 
 riod. .Among a thousand churches, many had been erected 
 during the Saracen reign as mosques, and not one hundred 
 
239 
 
 remained from the preceding times. Even the latter had 
 been repaired and improved till the ancient model had almost 
 entirely disappeared. 
 
 " The mansions of the nobles, of which there were upwards 
 of an hundred, chiefly stood in situations which had been 
 similarly occupied from the oldest times. Some of them were 
 sites of Roman fortresses and still displayed traces of their 
 masonry. A few of them, built by the Vandals, were in a 
 more or less ruinous condition. All the inhabitable ones were 
 erected by the Saracens, but two centuries of decay and re- 
 novation had greatly obliterated the features impressed upon 
 them by the Arabs. 
 
 " During much of the fourteenth century, a thousand vil- 
 lages had been fortified by a ditch, a mound and rows of sharp 
 stakes ; ten towns had been surrounded by walls and tow- 
 ers, from six to twelve feet thick, and from twenty to thirty 
 feet in height. Carsol city was encompassed by walls six- 
 teen feet in thickness and sixty feet high, and square towers 
 thirty feet thick and eighty or ninety feet in greatest height. 
 
 *' Round, slender and lofty towers, partly for alarm and 
 partly for defence, were scattered over all the hills and along 
 the shore. They were chiefly built of rough stones, artfully 
 adjusted to each other so as to produce a regular exterior and 
 well cemented. They generally preserved the same shape 
 and relative dimensions, but their size was extremely vari- 
 ous. Their height was generally from thirty to ninety feet, 
 and their diameter about a fourth part of their height. In the 
 centre of the mass, a vertical opening was made just sufficient 
 to admit a narrow staircase. The top was a plat-form, edged 
 with a parapet, with a room underneath containing small 
 windows. 
 
 " The cement used in these buildings was remarkably tena- 
 cious and hard, and bound together all the motley materials 
 into a solid rock. Their regular structure and proportions ; 
 their great solidity and elevation grtve these towers an eflfect 
 uncommonly grand and picturesque. Their whole number ex- 
 ceeded an hundred and eight.- 
 
24a 
 
 *' The original of these towers has afforded abundant em- 
 ployment to the Carsol antiquaries. Almost every theory 
 hitherto adopted, has been entangled with some difficulties. 
 That they were prior to the Martel dynasty is universally known. 
 The style of their architecture is wholly different from that 
 adopted by the Saracens in other structures ; besides there is 
 historical and traditionary testimony that the Arabs found 
 them on their coming. There is no evidence, either from 
 history or analogy that they were erected by the Vandals, and 
 the total absence of all inscriptions seems to deny the claim of 
 the Greeks or Romans. 
 
 " The vulgar have a read)-^ way of solving all such difficul- 
 ties by supposing a miraculous agency. Vesta, to whom al- 
 most all public benefits are ascribed, was, according to the 
 popular nation, the builder of these towers. They were all 
 of them erected, in a single night, by the strenuous efforts of 
 some celestial power, whom the prayers of Vesta had persuad- 
 ed to the undertaking. Her son, who was the second king of 
 the Vandal dynasty, was terribly infested by pirates and free- 
 booters from the neighbouring continent, and applying to the 
 oracular dame for advice in what manner most effectually to 
 guard her shores from the enemy, he^ was told that tomor- 
 row's sun should shine upon an act of divine succour, extended 
 to him upon this occasion. The next day the astonished eyes 
 of the prince and his subjects beheld innumerable towers, erect- 
 ed without human hands, in every situation favourable for des- 
 crying an enemy, and diffusing through the island warning of 
 his approach. 
 
 *' This seems to have been the only purpose of these build- 
 ings by whomsoever erected. The greatest distance between 
 any two of them is ten miles ; and modern surveys have de- 
 monstrated the curious fact that an observer stationed on the 
 top of any one of them has always one or more of the rest 
 within sight, and that the height of the towers is regulated 
 with a view to this general interchange of signals. By this 
 means intelligence of any event may be communicated to every 
 district of the island with almost the cE'lcrity of light. 
 
241 
 
 *' These towers form a very remarkable feature in the Car* 
 sol landscape. There are few conspicuous points from which 
 one or more of them may not be seen. At a small distance 
 all variety of form or colour in the pieces of which they con- 
 sist is softened into uniformity, and their columnar dignity 
 captivates the eye. 
 
 " The Alexanders began their improvements with taking 
 down the church and convent of Timosa, and building in its 
 stead a fortress worthy to contain these pledges of the general 
 safety. The ancient convent of Vesta was, in like manner, 
 supplanted by a new edifice, more becoming the dignity of its 
 divine protectress. This convent had been gradually enlarged 
 by additional buildings, into a college or seminary, in which 
 all the candidates for the clerical office were obliged to pass 
 through a scholastic probation. No person could discharge 
 any clerical function in this island who had not been a pupil 
 and licentiate of this seminary ; who had not as it were, re- 
 ceived his divine commission at the feet of Vesta, Avhose 
 statue formed the boast and treasure of this institution. 
 
 " These princes successively encompassed their capital, and 
 the ten provincial cities, with walls of massy strength. Car- 
 sol was defended by walls sixteen feet thick, and eighty high 
 with round towers of proportional magnitude. The smaller 
 towns were protected by a mural, twelve feet thick and sixty 
 high. They erected in the towns, palaces for themselves and 
 their provincial deputies. The baronial castles, the habita- 
 tions of their bailiffs, they replaced by castles in which ele- 
 gance and dignity of domestic accommodation were united 
 with military strength. Their example was assiduously fol- 
 lowed by their nobles, who razed their ancient halls, and em- 
 ployed their masters architects to construct for them residen- 
 ces in the style chosen by him.. 
 
 " All the convents over which the crown had exclusive ju- 
 risdiction, were entirely rebuilt upon new principles, princi- 
 pally at his own expense. The other convents copied this 
 example, and the lapse of a century entirely changed these 
 features of the island, which consisted in the greater build- 
 intrs, 
 
 31 ^ 
 
242 
 
 " Alexandra the fourth of this line, succeeded her father 
 in 1597, at the age of sixteen, and died, in 1631, after a pros- 
 perous reign of thirty-four years. This princess deserves to 
 be ranked with the most fortunate of mankind, and obtained, 
 even during her life, the memorable and unexampled surname 
 of Felicissima. 
 
 " To this title she had a claim founded not only on the per- 
 sonal advantages of beauty and health, but on every intellectu- 
 al excellence and moral grace. She possessed, not only a 
 strong understanding, capacious and retentive memory ; a 
 lively and rich fancy ; a fertile and sparkling wit, but an heart 
 and temper attuned to every generous affection, and endowed 
 with inexhaustible gaiety. Her capacity was eminently fitted 
 to her station, and her conduct as a sovereign was full of wis- 
 dom and beneficence. Compared with her two illustrious con- 
 temporaries the Scottish Mary and the English Elizabeth, we 
 perceive in her all the beauty and accomplishments without 
 the indiscretion or calamity of the first, and all the prudence 
 and felicity, without the feminine foibles, the personal un- 
 amiableness of the latter. Every event seemed to conspire to 
 exalt her felicity. The projects of taste, elegance and gran- 
 deur of her immediate predecessors were so far matured, at her 
 accession, that she had only to uphold them by her counte- 
 nance, and passively enjoy the benefits of which they were pro- 
 ductive. The national character had been softened and the 
 seeds of political discords and commotions extinguished by 
 the meliorating arts of the three preceding reigns. The 
 councellors and ministers which her father's wisdom had se- 
 lected, and whom her natural sagacity, as well as reverence 
 for parental injunctions, prompted her to maintain and cher- 
 ish, were faithful, patriotic and judicious. The acciden- 
 tal position of the neighbouring nations contributed at once 
 to her personal security, and to her dignity and reputation 
 by the opportunities afforded her of properly and beneficially 
 interfering in their concerns. In short her contemporaries 
 and subjects were so powerfully struck by the felicity of her 
 lot, and by her unsullied and unmixed excellencies, that she 
 came to be regarded as something celestial and divine. Tlie 
 
243 
 
 sentiments with which her subjects were inspired were com- 
 pounded of loyahy to the queen ; gratitude to the benefac- 
 tor ; devotion, to the woman; admiration of beauty, and 
 reverence for wisdom. The ecclesiastical supremacy of the 
 crown being fully established by her father, she inherited the 
 prerogatives and attributes formerly belonging to the pope, 
 and these, uniting with a civil authority, nearly absolute, and 
 with the headship at once, of the conventual and military or- 
 ders of St. Charles, every limit to the obedience or devotion 
 of her subjects was obliterated. Her empire was extended 
 over the heart and the mind. Her acts of government were 
 submitted to, not merely as edicts of a lawful power, but as 
 edicts of unerring and inspired wisdom. The divine authori- 
 ty of the Roman pontiffs, to which even moral principles and 
 obligations were subject, concentred in her. She became the 
 chief priestess and hallowed organ of Vesta ; and her will 
 was the indisputable criterion of right and of truth. 
 
 " It would not be extravagant to say that this princess was 
 vv^orshipped b}^ her subjects. The divine attributes by which 
 she was clothed were not the mere fruits of the adulation of 
 lovers or poets. They were bestowed by the enthusiasm of 
 all classes. Her existence was fondly believed to be only a 
 second visit of the deified Vesta, to her favourite isle ; the 
 personal and visible incarnation of the deity of Carsol. The 
 worship hitherto paid to the statue of that deitv, was now 
 paid with double zeal because she of whom it was the mute 
 representative was actually among them. 
 
 '* The impartial and the sober minded, when they reflected 
 on the merits of Alexandra, the union of so many qualities, 
 seldom concurring or compatible ; were inclined to adopt the 
 popular opinion. Her extraordinary felicity was a plain proof 
 that she was under the particular care of Heaven and those who 
 would not acknowledge her identit}' with Vesta, or her abso- 
 lute divinity, could not deny that she was of a species more 
 than human. 
 
 " There are many qualities which should seem to manifest 
 somewhat of a divine or celestial nature in an human being, 
 which the perverseness of mankind deem it a crime to pos- 
 
sess, and which they unaccountably consider as conferred not 
 by God, but by the devil. Does a man possess the faculty of 
 diving into futurity ; of perceiving objects at an invisible dis- 
 tance ; of repelling swords and bullets from his naked 
 body, of living beyond the usual period of terrestial exist- 
 ence J of converting base matters into gold ? He is stigmatiz- 
 ed, abhorred and punished as an agent of the devil and a rebel 
 to God, 
 
 " These prejudices governed the Carce as they govern the 
 rest of mankind, but while they ascribed some of these pre- 
 ternatural qualities to their queen, they excepted her from the 
 common sentence denounced against magic and necromancy. 
 In her, these attributes were allowed to be purely celestial, 
 and to be evidence of her communion and kindred with the 
 divine Vesta. 
 
 " The first Charles acquired after his death the name and 
 the honours annexed to the name of Divus. This title was 
 conferred upon Alexandra during her life, and the devotion 
 she excited was suitable to this title. 
 
 " The uniformity and perfection of her health, and some 
 extraordinary escape in her early youth, amidst the clashing 
 of swords and the whistling of bullets had given birth to the 
 opinion that she was inaccessible to wounds or diseases. 
 
 " Her father, was the most parsimonious of the Alexan- 
 ders. His passion for gold led him into no acts of meanness 
 or extortion ; but he did, not like his father and grandfather, 
 study to make his expenses keep pace with his receipts. On 
 the contrary, he took pleasure in accumulating, and the great 
 abilities of his financial minister enabled him to indulge this 
 passion without injuring his subjects. For the last eleven 
 years of his life, he annually received from the king of Spain, 
 pistoles and doubloons in gold equal in value to forty thousand 
 crowns. This money was paid in pursuance of a secret stipu- 
 lation with the court of Madrid, to which the Spanish am- 
 bassador and himself only were privy. It was the actual 
 price of this prince's refusal to accept the sovereignty of 
 Flanders, which the rebellious Flemings had offered him. 
 
<' When the successors of the prince of Parma had nearly 
 driven the people of the Netherlands to despair, they offered 
 to transfer their allegiance to the king of Carsol, in return for 
 effectual succour in their contest with Spain. The formida- 
 ble military and naval power of this island, and the ardent 
 zeal of its natives against the Spaniards, would probably have 
 rendered their interference fatal to the cause of Philip in the 
 Netherlands. Their hostilities would likewise have been par- 
 ticularly dangerous in the Mediterranean. Alexander was by 
 no means indisposed to embrace an offer so flattering to his 
 ambition, and so agreeable to the prejudices of his subjects ; 
 nevertheless he declined it, and though the motives publicly 
 assigned for so doing, were built upon a generous regard to 
 the faith of treaties and the happiness of his people, which 
 depended on the continuance of peace, the real motive was the 
 offer of an annual subsidy or pension, which amounted to a 
 larger sum than the possession of the Netherlands afforded 
 him any prospect of obtaining in the shape of clear revenue. 
 Alexander was a subtle politician, and had indirectly prompted 
 the revolted states to make this application, with no view but 
 to extort some advantageous concessions from Spain as the 
 price of his forbearance. This pension, and a solemn renuncia- 
 tion of certain rights in Majorca, was the consequence of this 
 proceeding. No secret was made of the latter, and no small 
 merit was arrogated by the prince in exchanging such splendid 
 prospects for his own family, for additional security and happi- 
 ness to his present subjects. 
 
 " The prince had many motives for concealing these pecu- 
 niar}^ arrangements from all other persons. The payments an- 
 nually made were therefore presented by the Spanish minister 
 himself to the king, without the presence of any one else, 
 and were placed by the latter in a vault, to which he alone 
 had access. When he found his end approaching he called 
 his daughter to his bed side, and presenting her a key, di- 
 rected her to the depository of this treasure, and exhorted 
 her to observe the same secrecy with regard to it that he 
 had done. 
 
'^4G 
 
 " Alexander stipulated with the Spaniards that this gold 
 should, previously to being sent to Carsol, be minted into ten 
 crown Carsol-pieces. In this shape they were received from 
 the minister and deposited. 
 
 *' The sum, thus transferred to the new queen amounted to 
 500,000 crowns. Agreably to her solemn promise to her father 
 she carefully concealed the source of those disbursements which 
 she made from this fund. She was, herself entirely a stranger 
 to the means by which her father had acquired this treasure. 
 The Spanish minister, who had been the medium of these 
 payments, had been superseded by another, who knew nothing 
 of the matter. The records of the treasury and of the mint, con- 
 tained no traces of it. In her various musings on this subject, 
 she was unable to form any other conjecture with regard to 
 it, than that her father possessed the secret of extracting gold 
 from baser materials. His known attachment to chemical 
 pursuits, tended to confirm her in this opinion. 
 
 " As her friends and ministers were equally ignorant of the 
 source of her supplies, the same opinion gradually prevailed 
 in the island with regard to herself. She, however, spending 
 none of her time in the laboratory, and maintaining no inter- 
 course with alchymists could only be supposed to acquire this 
 gold by supernatural means. It was ranked among the nu- 
 merous proofs of the favour with which she was regarded by 
 the deity, and her vanity would not allow her to discounten- 
 ance this inference. 
 
 " A woman, situated like Alexandra, could not fail to be 
 a most eligible matrimonial prize. Innumerable were the 
 wooers who aspired to the honour of her hand. Kings and 
 nobles contended for this prize, with an ardour proportioned 
 to its value. Marriage could scarcely be of more importance 
 to her own happiness than to that of her subjects. An alli- 
 ance with a foreign potentate, would endanger the indepen- 
 dance of the island, since the issue of such a marriage would 
 be likely to unite it forever with his own kingdom. Marriage 
 on the contrary with one of her own subjects could produce 
 no inconvenience but sucii as might arise from the jealousies 
 and rivalships of candidates. 
 
247 
 
 '* The kings of Carsol were regarded by themselves and 
 their subjects as a race exalted above all the families of man- 
 kind. As the lineal and indisputed descendants of Charle- 
 magne, they claimed the throne not only of France, but of 
 the western empire. The purity of the race had been re- 
 markably preserved ever since the conquest, by restraining 
 all marriages within the limits of the family. This rule had 
 hitherto experienced no exceptions, and the custom had become 
 a law, fundamental and inviolable. 
 
 *' Though the rank and power of this princess set her at 
 least upon a level with any Eiuropean sovereign, this impor- 
 tant custom raised an insuperable bar to their pretensions. 
 Among her own subjects any matrimonial alliance was equal- 
 ly impossible but with those descended without mixture from 
 the first Charles. The sanctity and privileges annexed to 
 this consanguinity, whether pure or mixed, were such as to this 
 relationship a matter of solemn record and great notorietv. 
 
 " A peculiar fatality had attended the Alexandrine family. 
 Each of the princes had many children. These children 
 were eminent for their personal or mental qualifications. They 
 were altogether worthy of their family. Their lives had ex- 
 tended to the customary period, but the son by v/hich each 
 prince had in his turn been succeeded, was the only one of 
 his children who had married in such a way as to make the 
 crown inheritable by his descendants. They had allied them- 
 selves to persons, some one of whose immediate ancestors 
 male or female, was an alien to the Martel family. 
 
 " The Carsen whom Alexandra married, was the next in 
 lawful succession. He was gentle, modest, unambitious, and 
 cheerfully submitted to that political inferiority which even af- 
 ter her marriage, the laws imposed upon him. 
 
 Rinaldo Martel was the great grandson of the second Alex- 
 ander, and the grandson of the third Alexander's second bro- 
 ther, and the son of Alexandra's cousin Rinalda Martilla. This 
 Rinaldo was nearly of the same age with the queen and his 
 cousin. After the accession of the queen, her cousin being 
 the only male living legally qualified for marriage with her, 
 was naturallv selected by the public wishes for such an alliance. 
 
248 
 
 Alexandra had been brought up with this relation and a female 
 Carsen, descended from the third Alexander's fourth brother. 
 Familiarity had produced between the queen and her cousin 
 an affection void of passion ; but between Rinaldo and his 
 other cousin, the same cause had pioduced a different conse- 
 quence. They were married, and their only child, a son Rinal- 
 do, was born in the third year of Alexandra's reign. This boy, 
 being, after the death of his father, which happened at an ear- 
 ly age, the heir apparent, was taken by the queen and treated 
 as her child and future representative. At the age of forty - 
 three Alexandra, while her bloom and beauty were still in 
 their prime, married Rinaldo, and one year after had a son, 
 who promised to realize all the beauty and wisdom of his mo- 
 ther. These promises, indeed, were not ultimately fulfilled ; 
 and neither did her husband? who quietly succeeded her, re- 
 duce to practice those equitable maxims of government which 
 he embraced with ardour in speculation. The evils which af- 
 terwards arose from the indolence and facility of the one, and 
 from the impetuous passions and licentious habits of the other, 
 could not be conjectured or foreseen by Alexandra or her peo- 
 ple in her lifetime, so that her prospects of futurity were as 
 brilliant and flattering as her retrospects of the past. 
 
 " This princess was contemporary Avith Henry IV, and 
 Lewis XIII, of France ; with Philip III and IV, of Spain ; 
 with Elizabeth, James I, and Charles I, of England. The 
 situation of her kingdom naturally gave birth to many intimate 
 relations with France, Spain and Italy. These relations were 
 for the most part pacific ; since her ministers maintained, in 
 full vigour, the maxims of the Alexandrine princes. In so 
 long a reign, it was scarcely possible to shun all occasions of 
 bickering and dispute with her neighbours : but on all such oc- 
 casions, she conducted herself with inflexible caution and pru- 
 dence ; and succeeded in maintaining the peace and neutrality 
 of her kingdom undisturbed. Her constancy, like that of her 
 predecessor was assailed by promises, intreaties, menaces and 
 bribes, but nothing could induce her to depart from her neutral 
 and pacific system : she equally refused to succour rebels 
 against their king, or kings against their rebels ; but willingly 
 
249 , 
 
 entered into amicable mercantile engagements with any of 
 them. 
 
 '« The spirit of naval enterprize which appeared in her father's 
 reign, prevailed very much in this. To search out and settle 
 or conquer new countries in the western hemisphere, was a 
 passion which pervaded many bosoms, but could never get any 
 footing in hers. The example of Spain and Portugal, the 
 riches of their mines or their traffic, formed no inducement to 
 her. In this particular her caution and forbearance were some- 
 what remarkable ; perhaps she was liable to censure. 
 
 " In an early part of her father's reign, 1576, Serendib had 
 been carefully explored by some Carsol navigators, and a com- 
 pany of merchants and adventurers had obtained the royal 
 sanction and aid to a scheme of settlement and conquest. The 
 scheme was adopted with views and conducted upon princi- 
 ples widely different from those by which any nation had been 
 actuated. 
 
 Nicolas Nicolini was a young man who, in a voyage to In- 
 dia in a Portuguese vessel, had been wrecked upon the coast 
 of Serendib. He alone had escaped destruction, and had gain- 
 ed extraordinary favour from the chief who ruled in that 
 part of the country in which he was thrown. Nicolas united 
 a strong and active mind with a generous temper, and his in- 
 genuity had made him so serviceable and venerable in the 
 country, that his influence was unbounded. The prince, his 
 patron, was the most powerful sovereign of the island, and Ni- 
 colas, during a residence of ten years, obtained an intimate 
 knowledge of the country and its inhabitants. Having an 
 anxious desire to return home, he seized the opportunity af- 
 forded by an European vessel which touched at the island for 
 refreshments, to revisit his native country. He obtained per- 
 mission to do this by promising to return, and to bring with 
 him certain assistants and tools, with the utility of which he 
 made the prince acquainted. On reaching home, he disco- 
 vered that his parents and immediate kindred were dead, and 
 his return being prompted by affection for them, he easily de- 
 termined to comply with his engagements. His patrimony 
 
 39 * 
 
250 
 
 being embezzled in his absence, he was left without the means 
 of accomplishing his voj-age. In order to obtain justice, he 
 besought an interview with the minister of justice. This min- 
 ister was a man of a visionary and enlightened character, and 
 having gained from Nicolas a particular account of his adven- 
 tures in Serendib, he conceived the design of building a new 
 and grand system of colonization in the particulars which the 
 voyager communicated. The prince warmly adopted his 
 schemes, and their execution commenced by sending back Ni- 1 
 colas with a vessel fully provided with every thing which the 
 state of the island made particularly useful. Natives of Carsol 
 particularly qualified and instructed, were, from time to time, 
 sent out to Serendib and put under the particular direction and 
 controul of Nicolini. By a wary and benevolent system of pro- 
 ceeding, this adventurer established in a period of forty years, his 
 authority throughout the isle, and many essential improvements 
 were made in the condition of the islanders. . From that period 
 the population and prosperity of the country have been continu- 
 ally dvancing, and at the close of the eighteenth century its 
 inhabitants have arisen to the number of one hundred millions. 
 " Alexandra the lawful sovereign of these adventurers, was 
 by no means friendly to their schemes. Considerable emigra- 
 tions were projected to this island, but she prohibited them. 
 By this rigour she prevented Nicolina from being made a 
 theatre of cruelty and suffering similar to Peru and Mexico. 
 She embraced the councils of the first discoverer, and com- 
 pelled her ministers to confine themselves to sending out from 
 time to time persons qualified in the manner prescribed by 
 Nicolas. 
 
 " With regai-d to this island, the popular opinions and wishes 
 regarded nothing but the pecuniary profit to which the possessor 
 might be made subservient, and the conversion of the natives to 
 the true faith. By reducing the natives to slavery ; by compell- 
 ing them to till the ground, and excavate mines for the benefit of 
 the people and government of Carce ; they expected to fulfil all 
 the ends of the wisest policy. To take formal possession of the 
 country ; to secure this possession by a military force : to allot 
 
251 
 
 the land and people, in absolute property, to certain persons, who^ 
 should buy the privilege, and who should employ the labour of 
 the natives, either in digging mines, of which the sovereign 
 should reserve a certain portion for his own use, or in raising 
 products, of which there was great and incessant demand in 
 Europe, was the scheme familiar to the practice of European na- 
 tions at that period. The importation and distribution of these 
 products being confined to natives of Carce, for ever, to the 
 agents whom the sovereign should select and commission, the 
 wealth that would thence arise would benefit Carsol in the same 
 manner in which Venice and Portugal had been benefitted by 
 their foreign acquisitions and monopolies. 
 
 '* From the first discovery of Serendib to the accession of 
 the queen, there elapsed about sixty years. During this period 
 the plans of the first discoverer and his son, who successively 
 obtained absolute grants of the island, were sedulously and 
 successfully pursued, in consequence of which the real popu- 
 lation of the island and its real felicity and opulence had great- 
 ly increased. To promote these ends, agreeably to the means 
 prescribed by Nicolas, the princes had hitherto allotted some 
 portion of their time, attention and revenues. They received no 
 pecuniary recompense from all these efforts, nor did they aim 
 at any. 
 
 Calosa became minister of revenue in the first year of Alex- 
 ander the Third. He was a man of great integrity and parsimo- 
 ny, and under his care, seconded by a some what similar dis- 
 position in his master, the royal income was much increased. 
 "Whatever augmentation might be made, by order and frugality 
 in proportioning the public burthens, and in collecting and dis- 
 bursing them, his temper led him to make. His attention was 
 early turned to Serendib, and his mind was quickly impressed 
 with the vast advantages that might arise from a system of co- 
 lonial management, widely different from that which he found 
 adopted. 
 
 He found that fertile Island, with eight millions of inhabi- 
 tants reduced to absolute submission under a s.ubject of Carsol, 
 who held his power by virtue of a patent from.his sovereign. This 
 
252 
 
 delegate had pursued a scheme of government, by which, indeed, 
 the numbers of his subjects were augmented, and their social 
 condition was greatly improved, but in which the usual ends of 
 colonial establishments, were entirely neglected. These ends 
 were additional riches and power to the parent state, by taxes 
 levied directly on the persons and industry of the planters or 
 cultivators; or bv the exclusive enjoyment of their trade. In- 
 stead of labouring after these advantages, the system hitherto 
 pursued had no direct tendency to enrich even the colonists 
 themselves, and the parent state was in reality subjected to a 
 constant and unrequited expense both of men and money. The 
 great objects of Nicolas appeared to be no more than to increase 
 the quantitv of cultivated ground ; to multiply the number of 
 the cultivators ; to secure to them the fruits of their industry and 
 ingenuity; to create new motives to labour and invention; to 
 bind every part of his empire in the bonds of harmony and 
 peace ; and to compel the observance of these m.axims among the 
 delegates of his authority. He sought to establish an internal 
 and independant power in the Island, and gradually to dissolve 
 all connection with Europe. To these singular maxims he had 
 gained the approbation and concurrence of the two first Alex- 
 anders, and by marvellous constancy and energy had even in 
 his own life time, accomplished the most extensive revolutions. 
 Just before the death of the second Alexander he died, after 
 obtaining the renewal of his charter in favour of his son. 
 
 Alexander the Third lent a favourable ear to the memorials of 
 his minister, who advised him to anul the charter given to the 
 younger Nicolas ; to appoint governors and officers who should 
 be animated with more simple and wordly views, and who 
 should hold their power from himself and at his own pleasure: 
 to levy taxes on the people : to open mines and establish trading 
 companies, from the profit of whose dealings some advantage 
 might accrue to his own purse. These councils sufficiently 
 agreeable to tlie prince's inclinations, he was prevented from 
 adopting, first by a regard to the obligations of his own charter, 
 and secondly, ljy an apj)rehension of the power and resources of 
 his present delegate. As Nicolas' commiission would expire 
 
253 
 
 with his life, he thought it most prudent to wait for thatnatnral 
 termination, and meanwhile to prevent Nicolas from taking 
 any measures to effect the future independence of his colony, 
 to conceal carefully his own views, and affect entire satisfacr 
 tion in the methods already settled. 
 
 " One of the earliest affairs which came under considera- 
 tion with the new queen, was the mode to be pursued with 
 regard to Serendib. Her treasury continued, during her life, 
 under the care of Calosa, and this minister renewed his ap- 
 plications to her, on that subject, with a confidence inspired 
 by her youth and inexperience. She would probably have ul- 
 timately embraced his views, enforced as they were by a 
 good deal of misrepresentation, had not Nicolas himself revisit- 
 ed his country at this period. He had been apprized of the 
 machinations of his enemies, and, in the acccession of a new 
 queen, resolved to counteract these plans in person : notwith- 
 standing all the efforts of those whose interest or policy de- 
 manded his destruction, he obtained the confidence and appro- 
 bation of the youthful queen ; and returned to Sei-endib with 
 the strongest assurances of her favour. 
 
 " The heart of Alexandra was the seat of divine philanthro- 
 py. If she failed to benefit her subjects in the degree to 
 which her poxver was equal, this must be ascribed to defect of 
 knowledge and not of inclination. With regard to Serendib 
 her wisdom very far exceeded the wisdom of the age in which 
 she lived ; but for this she was indebted to the instructions of 
 Nicolas ; the benevolence and justice of whose plans, her heart 
 and understanding cordially approved. Her perceptions and re- 
 solutions on this head were too strong to be shaken by the re- 
 monstrances and artifices of her councellors. Whatever mea- 
 sures Nicolas dictated for extinguishing'* the claims and pre- 
 venting the interference of her successors, she cheerfully 
 adopted. 
 
 " Her immediate successors, her husband and son, were 
 animated by views very different from her's. Though of 
 tempers not ungenerous, or mercenary, their ministers and 
 minions pursuaded them to believe that their claims as sove- 
 
254 
 
 reigns of Serendib were founded in justice and religioij. 
 The younger Nicolas died, after naming his successors, agree- 
 ably to the warrant of his charter. He formed a sovereign 
 pouncil or senate of twenty-five, to be renewed by their own 
 election, and devolved upon this council the absolute power 
 which he had exercised. This senate though carefully mo- 
 delled, by no means possessed the energy and wisdom of the 
 two first governors. They made a strenuous, but unsuccess- 
 ful opposition to the claims of the parent state. 
 
 " Nicolas Minermi had only one son. All the care and 
 attention bestowed upon this son, were insufficient to make 
 him worthy of his father. Though upright and innocent, he 
 was destitute of vigilance, activity and energy. His slender 
 talents were unaccompanied by insolence or presumption, and 
 he readily acquiesced in the arrangements made by his father 
 for securing the prosperity of Serendib. Shortly before 
 his father's decease, and at his request, he returned to 
 Carsol where he passed the rest of his life in peace and re- 
 tirement. 
 
 " The period succeeding the death of Alexandra, occupied 
 by the reigns of her husband, her son, and by the minority of 
 her grandaughter, a period of fifty years, exhibited a scene of 
 ruin and decay, both in Carsol and Serendib. The latter 
 country was desolated by a tedious civil war of twenty years, 
 in which the population and treasures of Carsol were irrepa- 
 rably wasted. The tyranny and misgovernment which sue-: 
 ceeded the final conquest of the island, contributed still fur- 
 ther to its decline ; and the wealth and luxury which ac- 
 crued to the parent state was transitory and pernicious. 
 
 *' The military and religious order of Nica, founded by the 
 first Alexander, in 1522, for the sole purpose of defending 
 their native islands from invaders had flourished, in great 
 splendour, during the sixteenth century. Their primitive in- 
 stitutions were from those times improved and enlarged, and un- 
 der the reign of Alexandra they attained to their highest vi- 
 gour and perfection. The members of this order exceeded 
 thirty thousand. Their existence and celebrity had alone uc- 
 
255 
 
 nompUshed the purpose of their institution, by intimidating 
 every enemy. 
 
 " The prince of Carce as the head of the order, had hither- 
 to receiv^ed the education peculiar to it, and was in many res- 
 pects subjected to its rules and discipline. When the crown 
 came into possession of a female, some of the rules of the order 
 with respect to the head of it, were necessarily relaxed, since 
 a female was disqualified by her sex from some of its duties. 
 Alexandra was extremely ambitious of performing all the du- 
 ties of a chief of the Nica, and though her sex was an insu- 
 perable impediment to her zeal, she did not alloAv it to form an 
 excuse for indolence or inattention or indulgence. She was 
 even supposed to have gone beyond the limits rigidly prescrib- 
 ed by her sex, in her efforts to perform all the duties of her 
 station. In these departments of that office, which were im- 
 possible to be performed in person, she was obliged to act by 
 deputy. This deputy was, in some respects, a lieutenant or 
 substitute ; and after her zeal in this respect was somewhat 
 cooled by age, and by domestic pleasures, this deputy became 
 more powerful and independent. The profound peace. of the 
 country, the luxurious taste of the queen and her court, in- 
 sensibly weakened the springs of this machine. ' The separa- 
 tion between the throne and the headship of the order, was 
 completed in the reign of her successor, whose voluptuous 
 and studious indolence made him averse to the active service 
 of this order. 
 
 " This order was naturally employed to re-establish the Car- 
 sol power in Serendib. The waste produced by war and cli- 
 mate, required recruits to be procured with unusual rapidity. 
 Hence those qualifications in a candidate, formerly insisted 
 on, were dispensed with, and the primitive vigour and spirit of 
 the institution, almost entirely vanished. The knowledge, 
 temperance and physical constitution, were found in some 
 degi'ee incompatible with the exigences of actual military ser- 
 vice. The degeneracy of half a century, however, the total 
 change of climate and situation, were not sufficient totally to 
 obliterate the strong impressions made by the institutions of 
 
256 
 
 the first founder. Courage, or an indifference to life and sub- 
 ordination were principles which survived the fall of almost, 
 all others. 
 
 <' When Serendib first became the theatre of commotion 
 and war, it had been in the quiet possession of the Carce, an 
 hundred years, and maintained a population of thirty millions. 
 The policy of the first Nicolas enjoined upon every emigrant of 
 Carsol, whom he allowed to enter the island, to marry a native 
 of the country and in some respects, to conform to their language 
 and manners. All political authority he had limited to the 
 male descendants of such marriage. He had thus created a 
 sort of ambiguous nation, named Nicolini, whose separation 
 from their ancient country was as imperfect as their connec- 
 tion with their new. This cast exceeded half a million of 
 persons, and were all bound together by the strictest laws 
 of political obedience, and to their vassals by the ties of 
 kindred and similitude of interests and manners. To this 
 cast, the offices of government and the use of arms were 
 confined. 
 
 '< The final triumph of the Nica over this populous empire 
 must be ascribed to the union, hardihood and military skill of 
 this order. Their triumph was indeed delayed for thirty years, 
 and every year during that period, detachments arrived from 
 Europe, amounting annually to five thousand men. The ad- 
 verse armies were likewise recruited from the class of natives, 
 and dexterous politicians had contrived to make the natives 
 themselves instrumental to their own subjection. At the con- 
 clusion of this war, it was satisfactorily computed that 1000 
 natives of Carsol had fallen by the sword alone ; half a mil- 
 lion of Nicolini, who were almost entirely extirpated, and five 
 millions of natives engaged on one side or the other. The 
 general ruin may be estimated when we mention that in 
 1625, the population was reduced to ten millions, or one 
 third of the number living at the commencement of these 
 troubles. 
 
 " Alexander Minermi was the son of the third Nicolas 
 Minermi, and born, at his father's castle in Carsol, in 1640. 
 
257 
 
 He was educated with great care, under his father's roof, who 
 died in 1657, when his son was seventeen years of age. This 
 event made the son master of his conduct. Shortly after he 
 left the island, and spent fifteen years abroad. During this 
 period, he visited every part of Europe, and spent four years 
 in Niclan. This part of his life was a busy and eventful 
 scene, in which his fortitude, and talents were tried by num- ' 
 berless incidents. 
 
 '* Of the system of his great ancestor, the founder of the 
 Niclan empire, he became a passionate admirer, and longed for 
 an opportunity of restoring a country, which he considered as 
 his proper inheritance, to its pristine glory. With a view of 
 procuring some official station in the island, by which he might 
 be enabled to accomplish his arduous purposes, he returned re- 
 luctantly to Carsol, at the age of thirty-five. At this time, 
 the kingdom was exposed to many evils, in consequence of the 
 tui'bulence and tj'ranny of the primate who had been appoint- 
 ed by the late prince the guardian of his daughter. Her ma- 
 jority was fixed at the age of eighteen. She was now only thir- 
 teen years of age. When her majority was completed, she 
 married Alexander Minermi Martelo, who became thence- 
 forth absolute master of the Carsol territories, foreign and do- 
 mestic, and who revived with new lustre the Alexandrine 
 age. 
 
 *' The life of this prince was spent in repairing the evils 
 which had multiplied under the two last reigns, both in Car- 
 sol and Niclan, and in perfecting institutions to which every 
 former age had been a stranger. Every obstacle to the 
 prosperity of the colonies and mother country were remov- 
 ed, and the same maxims being adopted by his successor, 
 the dominions of Carsol rapidly advanced to an height of 
 riches, power and felicity, which made them the wonder of 
 mankind. 
 
 " In 173r, John Gustor, the last of the Medicean princes of 
 Tuscany, died without heirs. By testament he left his do- 
 minions to the prince of Carsol, and in this bequest the neigh- 
 bouring powers after some negociation and demur, were oblig- 
 
258 
 
 ed to acquiesce. His great reputation for wisdom and ener- 
 gy ; the zealous wishes of the Tuscans ; the inclinations of the 
 reigning prince, who, during his life, delivered his fortresses 
 to the Carce, and thereby greatly facilitated the execution of 
 his will, induced the neighbouring potentates to submit to this 
 arrangement. Tuscany and the two isles were united under 
 one head, and the labour of seventy years was directed to ce- 
 ment their union ; to reduce to the same model, the manners 
 and institutions of all the parts of his extensive empire." 
 
 The remarks with which I prefaced the " Sketches of a His- 
 tory of Carsol," will apply to the next selection made and print- 
 ed for this volume, which I shall call " Sketches of^the History of 
 the Carrils and Ormes." 
 
 In this work Mr. Brown has indulged his passion for archi- 
 tectural study. How, or when first he imbibed his ardent love 
 for architecture I never knew. He would sit for a whole day 
 with his compasses and pencil absorbed in planning a mansion, a 
 castle or a cathedral ; or in examining the proportions of some 
 celebrated building of remote ages. 
 
 The " Sketches of a History of Carsol," and the " Sketches 
 of the History of the Carrils and Ormes" must be considered as 
 parts of plans of extensive works of imagination in which histo- 
 rical facts are mingled and the air of history imitated. Pan.i of 
 these plans are necessarily more finished than others, and the au- 
 thor doubtless intended to have seen his plans complete before 
 he began the task of filling up all the parts and putting the last 
 hand to his work. It will be seen that an Utopian system of 
 manners and government ^Yas to complete the whole. 
 
 In his earlier works he did not proceed in this systematic 
 manner. He began to write a novel after having only deter-' 
 mined upon one leading circumstance, character or idea, and 
 trusted to the growth of one incident from another, and the 
 appropriate sentiments from the incidents. One volume would 
 be finished and printed before he had formed any plan for the 
 beginning of the second, or any plan for the continuation, de- 
 velopemcnt or denouement of the story. 
 
259 
 
 The first novel he wrote was entitled " Sky Walk." It was 
 never published, owing to the death of the printer, who had un- 
 dertaken to publish it at his own risk. INIr. Brown being then 
 altogether unknown to the public, and the work, nearly print- 
 ed being left with executors, who did not choose to finish it 
 and would not or could not sell the sheets for such price, as 
 Mr. Brown's friends thought proper to offer for them. After 
 Charles had made New York his place of residence, he in- 
 corporated parts of " Sky ^Valk" into other works of imagina- 
 tion, as his memory retained them. In Edgar Huntley, for 
 example, the wild district of Norwalk, had its prototype in 
 Sky- Walk. 
 
 It is very evident that this unsystematic mode of composi- 
 tion must give a motley appearance to works so written. The 
 parts must occasionally be disproportloned to each other, and 
 incidents imagined which excite great expectations in the read- 
 er, and involve the story in myster}', which the author trusting 
 lo after thought for the explanation or the sequel, and not find- 
 ing, when the printer called for the remaining copy^ any ade- 
 quate solution of difficulty or termination of adventure, the 
 event either does not answer the expectation raised, or the 
 reader is put off with the intimation of a continuation at a fu- 
 ture time. 
 
 Wieland, the first no\-el which Mr. Brown published, and 
 which I shall hereafter speak of more at large, has a more 
 complete developement of plot than the others ; but even in 
 Wieland an opening is left to pursue his subject still further, 
 as his future leisure or inclination might dictate. 
 
 It may be said that all the works of imagination which 
 Mr. Brown has given to the public remain in this unfinished 
 state. Though the curiosity which is excited is not fully 
 gratified, yet they one and all speak in a language more for- 
 cible than panegyric can convey, the varied talents of the au- 
 thor. It has been truly observed of him, that " whether he 
 lets himself loose in the region of argumentative speculation, 
 or ranges the field of fancy, he is in either case perfectly at 
 home." 
 
/' 260 
 
 ,' • 
 
 The writer from whom the above quotation is borrowed 
 when speaking of Mr. Brown's novels has the following pas- 
 sages. *'iThe reader accompanies him step by step throughout the 
 whole labyrinth of his mysteries, with an expectation of finding 
 them eventually cleared up. As he proceeds, however, his at- 
 tention is arrested by still further novelties, which are brought 
 forward to explain the preceding, and which themselves require 
 the same explanation. At the end he closes the volume with 
 a mind still unsatisfied. The author was often asked by his 
 friends, when he proposed to elucidate the mysteries with which 
 his w^orks of fancy abounded, to which he would give some 
 sportive reply, plainly intimating that he considered it a matter 
 of perfect indifference whether this task was ever accomplished 
 or not. He seemed to consider the curiosity of his readers as 
 an engine in his hands, which he might play upon for his 
 amusement merely, and relinquish when he was tired of such 
 sport. 
 
 From this cause, all his works of a fanciful character pre- 
 sent to the eye this chequered and motley appearance. One 
 mystery gives hint to another, and the reader is finally left in 
 the lurch wondering how the last was intended to have been 
 elucidated. He must not be surprised, therefore, if in" the 
 unfinished works of the author, he finds them bearing the 
 same cast of character with the productions which he gave to 
 the world. It is equally obvious that an attempt to explain 
 what the author had particularly in view in these unfinished 
 manuscripts, must always remain a mystery, since it is im« 
 possible to trace out what his intentions were beyond what is 
 now left us. Indeed this perpetual intrusion of novelty to ex- 
 plain a novelt}', has been one of the principal objections to the 
 writings of this author, where fancy has been consulted. The 
 reader becomes fatigued with so fruitless a chace, and some- 
 what resembles the Trojan Hero attempting to embrace the 
 shade of his father, 
 
 " Terconatus ihi collo dare bracchia circum ; 
 Tel' frustra comprensa manu eflTugit imago 
 Par levibus ventls volucvique simiilima some" 
 
261 
 
 The author considered all his fanciful works as mere matters 
 of reoreation and amusement. As long as his imagination was 
 prolific in blossoms, he scattered them with the same prodigal 
 profusion. When this light employment was accomplished, 
 he patiently waited for the seasons of blooms to return without 
 endeavouring to arrange those Avhich he had already collected 
 into a beautiful bouquet. Such were the precise ideas which 
 this author formed of his works of this character. He declar- 
 ed to a friend who visited him, and took down one of the 
 volumes to peruse, that he might save himself such a needless 
 expenditure of time and trouble, and take the word of the 
 author that the work was not worth a perusal. If he had 
 thought more seriously on such subjects, and taken time to 
 weave the various threads of the narrative into one consistent 
 web, no question can remain of his capacity to excel in this 
 department of letters. His novels are therefore evidences of 
 what he 7night have done, not of what he has accomplished. 
 It was the excess of his genius that prevented him from excel- 
 ling. He loads his heroes with incredible and mysterious ad- 
 ventures, trusting to the fruitfulness of his own fancy to find 
 the means of extrication. When he is sensible himself that 
 this incident is insufficient for such purposes, he pours forth 
 so much energy of pathos that the reader in spite of his better 
 judgment yields to momentary conviction. Before his effer- 
 vescence cools, and before the reader can look about him, he 
 finds himself on the brink of another catastrophe." 
 
 Before writing the ' Sketches of a History of Carsol,' and 
 ' Sketches of a History of the Carrils and Ormes,' Mr. Brown 
 had seen the inconveniences and mischief arising from his first 
 mode, and I doubt not but he would have given in these 
 works, if he had lived to finish and fill up his plans, volumes 
 which would have delighted, instructed and satisfied the 
 reader. 
 
SKETCHES 
 
 OF A HISTORY OF THE CARRILS AND ORMES. 
 
 " St. Arthur Carril was buried, 1^11, iu the abbey of St. Ei- 
 mer, in pursuance of his own solemn request. The monks of 
 Canterbury were extremely loath to give up the honour and ad- 
 vantage of possessing his tomb. They even for a short time, 
 entertained the resolution of burying him in their church, but 
 having assembled to fix upon the time and manner of his inter- 
 ment, he is said to have suddenly appeared among them, and re- 
 peated the injunctions he had given them while living. They 
 no longer hesitated to obey. An instrument, averring this pre- 
 ternatural appearance, and signed by all the members of the con- 
 vent who were present, is siill preserved in the treasury at 
 Bel minster. 
 
 " His body, after being skilfully embalmed, was transported 
 in solemn and magnificent procession to Belminster. A chapel, 
 shortly after was built for it, adjoining the principal church, and 
 it was there buried. The honours of this new Saint, speedily 
 eclipsed those of Arthur the king. The fame and worship of 
 the ancient Arthur, had never travelled much further than the 
 bounds of his own diocese, but the renown of the new divinity 
 spread not only throughout England, but throughout all Chris- 
 tendom. Pilgrims visited his shrine from the remotest coun- 
 tries, and no divine personage attested his influence in Heaven, 
 by more numerous and signal miracles. The sacred college, 
 seemed indeed to exhaust their ingenuity in devising honours 
 for this saint. The diocese of Carthew, was exempted from 
 the jurisdiction of tlie English primate, which had never be- 
 fore been legally abolished. The election of the bishop was 
 vested absolutely in the convent, exempt from the controul, both 
 of the earl and pope. Their election, according to a form pre- 
 
263 
 
 scribed to them, was to supercede all application to the pope, 
 and was to be in all respects absolute and final, and acquitted 
 of all payments and dues to a superior power, as much as the 
 pope himself when chosen by the cardinals ; provided only that 
 the choice was to be limited to the descendants of the martyr, 
 who should be in orders, and of the canonical age. The bishop 
 was invested with all the spiritual prerogatives of the Roman 
 pontiffs, within his diocese, and was in all respects whatever to 
 stand in relation to the ecclesiastical affairs of the diocese, in 
 place of the pope himself. 
 
 " A jubilee was at the same time ordained to take place every 
 fifty years, at Carthew, to open on the eve of the anniversary 
 of the Saint's death, that is to say, on the thirtieth of Decem- 
 ber, and to continue three months. All pilgrims, who, during 
 this period, visited the tomb of the Saint, and standing before 
 it with clasped hands, and uplifted eyes, chaunted the words of 
 Simeon, " Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, 
 &c." These words were adopted because, according to the le- 
 gend, when the deified bishop was about ten years old,, he ac- 
 companied his mother on a festival to the shrine of St. Arthur, 
 and the abbot, coming from the akar after divine service, was 
 struck with the appearance of the child, whom, though he 
 was his nephew, he had now seen for the first time, and taking 
 him in his arms, repeated the saying of Simeon. After this, the 
 pilgrim was bound to go round the nine elder churches of Car- 
 thew, and repeat the same words, at the altar in each church, 
 dedicated to the new Saint. At each altar, he received from 
 the attendant minister, a small card, to serve as a certificate of 
 his having performed this ceremony. With these he was, on 
 the ensuing day, to return to the great church, and again to per- 
 form the ceremony already mentioned. He was then entitled 
 to receive a copper medal or token, for which he made a dona- 
 tion to the chest of Saxon or Norman money of the times. This 
 was a silver coin, weighing one twentieth of an ounce, or equal 
 in weight to a fourth of a modern shilling. The token was 
 originally gratuitous, but the pilgrims generosity always gave 
 something in exchange, till at length custom mad-* this sum 
 
264 
 
 obligatory upon all, though the pilgrim might, if he pleased, 
 and generally did, give more. 
 
 " St. Arthur's jubilee was celebrated in the following years in 
 regular succession, 1226, 1276, 1326, 1376, 1426, 1476, 1526. 
 At all these times there was a great concourse of pilgrims, not 
 only from all parts of England, but of Christendom. The 
 number varied according to the circumstances of the times, 
 but the lowest number exceeded thirty thousand, while the 
 highest number rose as high as 73,000. The greatest number 
 of pilgrims, is said to have occurred in the jubilee of 1426, when 
 Henry Fifth, was crowned at Paris, and returning to England, 
 visited this shrine, at th^ head of all his nobles. St. Arthur, 
 was the kind's -fevourite patron, to v^^hom he believed himself 
 indebted for his recent successes. Ke had visited this shrine, 
 previous to his expedition, and vowed to signalize his gratitude, 
 should he meet with success, by the most splendid donations. 
 He now performed his vow, by confirming and enlarging the 
 privileges of the sec, by granting to the convent the town and 
 lordship of Montaubin, in Guyenne, a district about equal in 
 extent to the lordship of Carthew, which belonged to the bishop. 
 The Guyenne estate was to be the peculiar property of the 
 convent, represented in most cases by the prior. King Henry 
 procured a confirmation of this grant, from the supreme pon- 
 tiff, by whom Montaubin was dedicated to St. Arthur, and 
 made a separate sovereignty vested in the prior of Carthew, 
 and his successors jointly with the convent. The estate con- 
 sisted of a town of a thousand houses, and adistrict of 123 square 
 miles. The cathedral was rebuilt, and dedicated 1430, anew to 
 St. Arthur. The ecclesiastical dignities including the bishop, 
 whose diocese extended over the modern department of Avey- 
 ron, and was consequently about equal to the English counties 
 of Kent or Suffolk, was filled with such as had been members 
 of the English convent. The possession continued in this 
 house till the English dominion in this quarter M'as entirely 
 subverted. None of these changes were acceptable to the peo- 
 ple of the lordship, and all traces of them were industriously 
 obliterated after the expulsion of the English. 
 
265 
 
 In the year 1421, the number of pilgrims from Bevernshire 
 alone, was about 18,000, from the rest of England about 30,000, 
 and from foreign countries, about 500Q, amounting in the 
 whole, to 53,000 persons. The pecuniary donations amounted to 
 thirty-five thousand pounds, a sum whose actual value in those 
 day*, was immense. 
 
 It gradually became a custom, obligatory on all the inhabi- 
 tants of Bevernshire, to visit Beverly at the annual festival of 
 St. Arthur, and pei"form their donations at the shrine of the 
 new Saint. This was at first only a meritorious pilgrimage, 
 the omission of which was culpable by no law, but it finally 
 degenerated into a sort of obligation, without performing which 
 the people incurred ecclesiastical censures. The evidence of 
 their performance, was a copper token, for which they paid a 
 penny, or as much more as they thought proper. As many 
 through poverty, infirmity, sickness or age, were unable to 
 perform this duty, the custom arose of granting a dispensation 
 to such, the token being sold to them at their own homes, or 
 at their parish churches, and all the virtue of ihe pilgrimage, 
 came at length to be considered as centering in the purchase 
 of the token. The benefits resulting from the possession of 
 this token were supposed to redound to persons of all ages, con- 
 sequently an annual token was purchased for each one of every 
 family. The payment thus made, obtained the name of Ker- 
 reck's pence or Kerrvpence. 
 
 The price of these tokens, as already mentioned, was a pen- 
 ny, which in the thirteenth century was a silver coin, weighing 
 the thirteenth of an ounce. The present value of the same por- 
 tion of silver is nominally equal to fourpence, but its actual 
 value, anciently was ten or fifteen times as much. The Bever- 
 gate, therefore, as it was called, must have produced a consider- 
 able revenue to the church. The lapse of time, by which it 
 made this payment universal and obligatory, lessened at the 
 same time the value of the penny, which continued to be the es- 
 tablished price of this commodity, and the penny that still con- 
 tinues to be paid, amounts only to 2000 pounds a year, among 
 five hundred thousand persons. 
 
 34 
 
#♦ 266 
 
 At the reformation, the spiritual rewards of this pilgrimage 
 ceased to be valued by the people of Devon ; tokens were no 
 longer distributed among them, but the payment of the annual 
 penny assumed in Athelney, in time, the. form of tax or a due 
 payable by every one abiding in the country. The lightness of 
 this tax, reconciled the people to the payment, and several indi- 
 rect advantages arose from the continuaiice of the practice. The 
 chief of these v/as the exact knowledge it afforded of the popu- 
 lation of the countr}'. It answered the purpose of an annual 
 and exact enumeration. 
 
 This payment continued near six centuries. For a long 
 time, upwards of a century, all these payments were made at 
 the cathedral. Afterwards what was paid at home became the 
 perquisite of the parish priest. Finally, when the pa3-ments 
 ceased at the cathedral, which happened in the sixteenth centu- 
 ry, a question arose, to whom Arthur's pence belonged. This 
 question produced much debate, between the parochial priest- 
 hood and the convent, but was after many synods and consis- 
 tories, given to the convent. By them it was vested in the lord 
 in consideration of a fixed annuity of nve hundred pounds, the 
 annual average amount of this payment at that time ; since 
 when it has been collected by the testates, and paid into the 
 treasury. The management of it is assigned to a particular 
 office and officer under the pi-etestate called the Kerrypencer. 
 This office as already hinted, is now become, in effect, an office 
 for numbei-ivig the people, and all the details belonging to this 
 enumeration is his province. The law was abolished by the 
 present earl. 
 
 This contribution was, anciently, a source of immense in- 
 come. This income was always understood to be sacred to 
 patriotic and pious purposes. It being under the controul of 
 the chapter, it was liable to be diverted to the private purpo- 
 ses of the m 'tubers, but this was always dceried an abuse, and 
 an upright spirit, together with the fear of shauie, sometimes 
 secured the just application of it. The first object to which it 
 was properly applied, was the repairing and improving of the 
 temple itself. Accordingly they were able to execute, in the 
 course of the thirteenth cenCury, the gigantic design originally 
 sketched by the Saint himself, and which renders the church at 
 
267 
 
 Carthew, one of the grestest and most magnificent edifices in 
 Christendom. The elaborate and minute sculptures with which 
 the walls are entirely covered, and the exquisite paintings in 
 the windows, are the product of immense labour, and of cost- 
 ly ingenuity, for which however there was no deficiency of 
 funds, till the era of reformation. Indeed this liberal source 
 of income enabled them, in the fifteenth century to rebuild, in 
 their present magnificent style, all the sixteen churches of 
 Beverly. 
 
 The scite of the town of Beverly, consisting of nine hundred 
 acres, was granted to his wife Ulpha, for an abbey and garden, 
 by king Edwin, as early as the year 630. It has continued 
 the property of the convent ever since. As a new demand 
 arose for houses, the brotherhood erected them, together with 
 churches for the accommodation of their tenants ; all, however, 
 together with the college, belonged to them as parts of one 
 guild, or corporation. In the year 1545, they transferred to 
 the bishop, all civil and criminal jurisdiction within their pre- 
 cincts, together with the uses. The Jurates therefoi-e are ap- 
 pointed by the bishop, but the testates and curates by the 
 ch pter. 
 
 The renown of St. Arthur, drew more permanent inhabi- 
 tants together, and the great opulence of this community ena- 
 bled them to afford good accommodation to settlers, and Car- 
 thew was famous for being the most splendid city in England, 
 as early as the thirteenth century. Its college became a cele- 
 brated seat of learning, and the resort of many students from 
 all parts. In the age of Henry VII, it contained upwards of 
 twenty thousand inhabitants, 2400 houses, twenty churches, or 
 more properly conventual cells, a college, the largest cathedral 
 in England, and many other public buildings. Since that time, 
 It has greatly improved in the quality, though not much in the 
 number of inhabitants, and its private buildings. The cheap- 
 ness of subsistence, arising from the moderate i-ents fixed by 
 the church upon the houses, and from the exemption from di- 
 rect taxation, together with tlie healthiness and beauty of the 
 situation, and the excellent system of instruction in the schools, 
 makes it the resort of a great number of persons of moderate 
 fortunes. These visistants are subjected to no condition but 
 
268 
 
 good behaviour, and an engagement to pay decent attendance 
 at church, to which the musical performances are to every one 
 a sufficient attraction. Its rental is 100,000/. and uses 20,000, 
 at 60/. an house. 
 
 The city called Carthew, with its two suburbs of earls court, 
 and bishops court, entirely erected in the eighteenth century, 
 is inhabited chiefly by proprietors of the Bevcren debt or 
 Ettricks ; by proprietors in Orme, bv the knights who are in 
 the habit of residing half the } ear in this city, and by strangers 
 from other parts of England, chiefly Devonshire. 
 
 Bishops court contains a thousand houses, about eight thou- 
 sand people, the bishops palace and five churches. Its rental 
 and uses, 60,000/. Earls court has a baronial mansion or pa- 
 lace, 500 private dwellings, 4000 people, and three churches, 
 each is a separate community or municipal bodv. The rental 
 of earls court is 25,000/. and the uses 5000/.* 
 
 The other light abbeys of Pamfill}'-, Norwalt, Keymaydon, 
 Seaton, Rose, Tunstall, Falkland, Willowley, and Orthecstone, 
 have all of them very ancient and considerable towns within 
 their precincts. Their property in all land within these pre- 
 cincts, w^as originally absolute, but, on various occasions, they 
 lessened their rights by grants and concessions to their tenants. 
 Each of them however, has still the property, upon an aver- 
 age, of 6400 acres, and none of them are without some of the 
 houses in their towns ; all civil and criminal and fiscal jurisdic- 
 tion in the burroughs, is either vested in the burgesses, or in the 
 lord. The average of the towns is 1000 houses, 89,000 inhabi- 
 tants, 6 churches, and a rental of 25,000/. The covenfield it- 
 self generally produces a rental of 6400/. The whole, there- 
 fore, had the original rights of the convent been unimpaired, 
 would have amounted to the enormous income of more than 
 30,000/. 
 
 All these convents were founded between the years 644, and 
 800. Their dwellings and chapels, with many alterations 
 and renovations continue to occupy their original scites. Their 
 landed property has scarcely experienced any change, except by 
 
 1 All Beverley g'lves a rental of 173,0001. a year, :ai(i uses air.oiinting' to 
 
269 
 
 their own grants, since their foundation. It has been, in all 
 cases, larger than at present, but few or no accessions have 
 been made to it, or exchanges been made. About one half of 
 the landed property was at one time, in the hands of the regu- 
 lar and dignified clergy, but the proportion is now sunk to 
 about one sixth, and to a much smaller proportion of the actual 
 rental. 
 
 Ulpha, in laying the foundations of her church, discovered a 
 cavity, dug or hewn in the rock, which contained a square box 
 of silver. On the lid of this box was engraven, in Roman 
 characters, the words Balteus Arture Carrille primate. With- 
 in this box, was found a chain of silver, about four feet in length, 
 composed of forty-eight small plain links, with an hook at one 
 end, to join the ends when necessary. 
 
 Beda relates, that, according to a British chronicle which 
 he had seen, this belt or girdle was originally given, by St. Paul, 
 to a British chieftain, once of Artland, by the name of Arthur, 
 whom he met with at Rome, and made a convert to the chris- 
 tian faith. On the day of Paul's execution, in the year 67, he 
 delivered this gii-dle to his disciples as a memorial of his 
 friendship, and declared that as long as it was worn, it would 
 insure to him the favour and protection of Heaven. Arthur 
 returned in 70 with this valuable legacy to his own country. His 
 principality or domain of Artland, consisted of the territory 
 since called Athelney Devan, which he and his posterity 
 continued to govern, in subordination to the Roman empire, till 
 the coming of the Saxons. On the return of the first Arthur, 
 a few converts were made to his religion, and he and his succes- 
 sors who all bore the same name, were a kind of royal priests, 
 whose chief town, residence, and sanctuary were fixed up- 
 on this hill, and called Caer Arthur, or more brieflv Car- 
 thew. The chain was faithfully delivered from one to another, 
 and preserved with religious venei-ation. As Roman arts and 
 manners prevailed, the town of Carthew or Arthropolis en- 
 creased in size and civilization, and acquired municipal privi- 
 leges. The first temple that was built in the Roman manner 
 by the Britons, was erected on this hill, and dedicated to 
 Christ, about the beginning of the second century. In a vault 
 of this temple, a smaller cavity Mas hewn out, and the chain, 
 
'270 
 
 enclosed in a silver box, was deposited within it under the spe- 
 cial guardianship of the reigning prince and his successors. 
 From age to age, the veneration for this relick encreased. It 
 was invested with many miraculous virtues, and, among other 
 uses assigned to it, was that of conferring the kingly dignity on 
 the princes of the country, by investing them, in this temple 
 at the time of their accession, with this girdle, a ceremony 
 which still continued to be used in the inauguration or installing 
 of the bishops of Carthew, who are deemed the ecclesiastical 
 successors of these princes. 
 
 Constantius Chlorus who afterwards became emperor of the 
 West, married in 25^1, Helena, the daughter of Arthur the 
 tenth prince of Artland. Constantine the Great, was born in 
 the following year, at Carthew. Arthur suffered much from the 
 tyranny of Carausius. His estates were forfeited, and he was 
 obliged to take refuge with his son-in-law in Gaul. By the de- 
 struction of Carausius, however, b}- Constantius, in 296, Arthur 
 the Eleventh, son of the former Arthur, who died in exile, was 
 raised to a greater pitch of prosperity, than any of his prede- 
 cessors. He was the brother of Helena, who, though repu- 
 diated by her husband, was still invested with great dignity and 
 afPiuence, this divorce being merely dictated by political mo- 
 tives, and having taken place with her own consent. When Con- 
 stantine became emperor, his uncle was made governor of 
 Maxima, Cesaruncis, and vicar of Britain, an office he en- 
 joyed till his death, in 325. He was succeeded in it by his son 
 Arthur the twelfth. The reigns of these two princes, occupi- 
 ed a period of fifty-eight years, during which this province of 
 the empire enjoyed the blessings of good government with an 
 absolute exemption from foreign and intestine war. Carthew 
 was the vicarial residence, and acquired, from the favour of 
 the governors, considerable splendour and population. The 
 death of the twelfth Arthur in 354, put a period to this glory. 
 He left an infant grand-son, under the guardianship of his mo- 
 ther Helena, and the familv thenceforth, were confined to their 
 ancient patrimony of Artland, and experienced much variety 
 of foi-tune according to the temper and views of the emperors 
 and their deputies. 
 
271 
 
 The Roman authority In Britain was dissolved about the 
 year 400. Thenceforth the petty princes of the country, Vvho 
 were generally descended from the chieftains, whom the Ro- 
 mans found in possession of it, became each of them absolute 
 and independent. Their mutual relations were founded on 
 sympathy of language, religion and manners, and on volunta- 
 ry facts and treaties. Of these families the most illustrious, 
 and the most pure, and entire in its pedigree, was that of 
 Carthew ; but its representatives were for several successive 
 generations, more remarkable for their devout and pacific ha- 
 bits, than for enterprize or ambition. They therefore did not 
 take the lead at any time in the affairs of Britain. About half 
 a century elapsed between the departure of the Romans, and 
 the first alliance between the Britons and Saxons. 
 
 For many years the contests between the Saxons and Britons 
 were confined to the Southern districts. It was not till the 
 year 550, a century after their establishment in Kent, that the 
 Saxons obtained a firm footing in the North. Alia taking ad- 
 vantage of the death of the twenty-fifth Arthur, who left only 
 an infant son, and a daughter of mature age behind him, over- 
 run this principality, reduced Carthew after a long siege, and 
 involved the whole nation in desti'uction. The capture and 
 destruction of Carthew, is said to have taken place in 553. 
 Consequently a period of 486 years elapsed between the acces- 
 sion of the first Arthur, the convent of St. Paul, in 70, and the 
 death of the last prince of this line and name, in 553. The 
 sister of the infant prince, is said to have given up the fortress 
 to the Saxon leader on promise of personal security to herself 
 and brother, but this promise was violated. The young prince, 
 together with all the garrison and inhabitants were slaughtered, 
 and the sister was compelled by menaces of tortures and death 
 to abjure her religion and consent to a marriage with Alia. 
 
 From this compulsory alliance, sprung the Saxon princes of 
 Dura and Northumberland; and the claims which are maintain- 
 ed by the present earls palatine of a regular descent from the 
 British princes of this country. Beda professes to have drawn 
 up this part of his prolix annals of Carthev.-, from certain 
 chronicles compiled by monks of the convent, which the Eleventh 
 Arthm- founded here in 295. I'hese moir.iscripts v/ere preserv- 
 
272 
 
 ed by Tergan, a member of this brotherhood, who, on the in- 
 vasion of Alia, escaped to the continent, and finally obtained 
 refuge in Rome. He deposited his manuscripts, augmented by 
 some additions of his own, in a library in that city, where they 
 were found about the year 720, and sent to Beda by the pope, 
 in order to assist him in writing his ecclesiastical history. Be- 
 da's work, however copious, he represents as merely an abridge- 
 ment of the still more copious materials supplied him from 
 Rome. They are no longer extant, and probably perished 
 in the burning of the convent, after the siege by Henry the 
 First. 
 
 The church at Carthew acquired fame and veneration, by 
 being the repository of St. Paul's belt, and by being the first 
 Christian temple erected in Britain. The materials were taken 
 from a quarry in the hill itself, and were not exposed to ruin 
 from any thing but human force, or the corrosion of the ele- 
 ments. Constantine and Hellena his mother honoured this 
 place of their nativity with particular regard. In the progress 
 of time, the belt acquired the reputation of possessing many 
 miraculous virtues, and the reverence paid to the First Arthur 
 soon degenerated into formal worship. He was clothed with 
 the honours of a Sa'nt, and became the tutelary divinity of 
 Artland, as early as the year 350. 
 
 It was not till the time of Beda, that the ancient history of 
 Beverley became known to the convent. Thev were then in- 
 formed by Tergan's chronicles of the history and merits of the 
 girdle, and that the body of St. Arthur was deposited in the 
 same cavity, though at a greater depth, which contained the 
 silver box. Ul{)ha, when she first discovered this box and its 
 enclosure, was informed, by the jnemhers of a convent in Bri- 
 taigne, that this was a christian rclick, and the object, for 
 causes unknown to them, of the worship of the christian 
 people, who preceded the Saxons in the possession of the coun- 
 try. She therefore replaced it, and ordered that no one should 
 disturb it. Ninety years afterwards, it was again disinterred, 
 as well as the Iiocly below it. The reigning pope acknowledged 
 the divinity of Arthur and the sanctity of his girdle. ^ The 
 girdle was exhibited, on solemn days, to a multitude of wor- 
 shippers, and an altar was built over the grave of Saint Arthur, 
 
\vho was regarded as the peculiar patron of the church, city, and 
 country around his monument. The eminence on which Ul- 
 pha had built her convent, had previously acquired the name of 
 iJlverstone, but the church was denominated, the Beltmin- 
 ster or Belrainster, the town Belterly or Beverly, and the coun- 
 ty Beltern or Berven. The two sister Saints Ulpha and Er- 
 menilda were deemed second to him, though equal to each 
 other, and occupied the second rank in his temple. When 
 the merits of Saint Arthur Carril began to acquire distinction, 
 those of the ancient Arthur became almost obsolete. The 
 chapter of Canterbury solemnly testified that the likeness of 
 their martyred pastor appeared to them, and said, remove my 
 body to Belminster, for there my spirit delighteth to dwell ; 
 bury it in the grave of St. Arthur, for he and I are the same. 
 From this mysterious declaration, they inferred that the soul of 
 the ancient Arthur, had actually and literally animated the body 
 of the bishop, and this inference was fully recognized and sanc- 
 tioned by the bull of the Roman pontiff. Hence both person- 
 ages were identified by the imagination of their worshippers : 
 the same altar and shrine served for both, and the honours 
 paid to the second, were merely the continuance or revival of 
 those due to the first Arthur. 
 
 From Beda's description of the temple erected by the Ar- 
 thurs it appears to have been an edifice of great solidity and 
 magnitude. The terms he uses are such as could only be bor- 
 rowed from. an earlier writer, and from one conversant with the 
 ideas of Roman architects. The finest building *.vas begun 
 5ibout the year 100. Two hundred and twenty years afterwards 
 a new one was constructed by the eleventh Arthur, aided by 
 the council and munificence of the Great Constantine. The 
 second temple is described as consisting of an oblong square, 
 sixty-four feet wide within the interior colonades, and three 
 hundred and sixty-four feet in the whole length. Within were 
 two rows of columns, which by the description given of the 
 capitals appear to have been of the Corinthian order. They 
 were entire pieces from the quarry, and were forty-eight feet 
 high. Above the entablature were walls, with oblong windows, 
 a timber roof flat within, and angular and covered with lead 
 without. The east end was semicirculai-, and was raised 
 
 3.^ 
 
274 
 
 several steps above the common floor. Here was the grand al-^ 
 tar which was raised upon the grave of Arthur. There is ex- 
 tant a ground plan of the Saxon church as it existed in the 
 twelfth century, and as Beda relates that Ulpha found the 
 walls and pillars of the ancient church standing, and had only 
 to supply it with doors, windows, and roof, to make it fit for 
 divine service,^, and that the body of the structure was entire in 
 his days, it is likely that this plan is descriptive of the edifice as 
 erected under Constantine : but from this it would appear to 
 be a correct copy of the Roman Basilica. 
 
 When the present church was erected, the architect took 
 care to make the breadth and length of the afterwalk coincide 
 with those of the ancient temple. The tomb of Arthur remains, 
 and the grand altar is placed on the same spot on which it was 
 probably erected more than seventeen centuries ago. The co- 
 lumns were sawn into pieces, and inclosed in the present walls 
 and piers. The same use was made of the ancient walls. Eve- 
 ry part of the pristine building was considered as sacred, and as 
 necessary to be retained and employed in the body of the new. 
 The old colonades consisted of thirty-eight pillars in each. The 
 same number, though very different in size and fashion, is ex- 
 hibited in the new. 
 
 The memory of the Artland princes is thus preserved in 
 the writings of Beda. He likewise relates that twenty-five 
 graves, similar in form to that in which the silver coffer and 
 chain were discovered, and placed near each other in a row, 
 were found by the queen Ulpha at the same time, but no re- 
 gard was paid to them. On the contrary, the bones were cast 
 out, and the cavities preserved for burying places to the abbots 
 who succeeded her. It is somewhat remarkable that in the 
 year 1134, when the new church was constructed, these graves 
 were completely filled with twenty-five successive abbots. 
 
 These graves were excavations made in the rocky pave- 
 ment, three feet wide and seven feet long at the top, and six- 
 teen feet deep. The body was laid at the bottom in the bare 
 stone, and covered with a flat stone made accurately to fit the 
 opening, and supported by a ledge round it. There were three 
 such lids, one above an other, , having between every two an 
 interval of seven or eight feet, the upper one being even with 
 
275 
 
 the floor of the church. There were inscriptions on the lower 
 and upper stones, which were efFaced by the Saxon sculptors, 
 and replaced by inscriptions adapted to the new tenants of their 
 tombs. 
 
 According to the plans of the second Arthur, an under 
 craft was to be hewn out beneath the whole of the new build- 
 ing, and this was to be reserv^ed for a sepulchre or mausoleum. 
 The under bye-walks were to be appropriated partly as sepulchres 
 of the ancient abbots, a separate apartment being dedicated to 
 each, and partly to the Carthew princes. The bones of the lat- 
 ter were irrecoverably lost ; so that cenotaphs only could be 
 erected to their honour. The earls palatine being considered 
 as the successors of the Carthew princes, were naturally thought 
 of as the proper tenants of these unoccupied tombs, and accor- 
 dingly all the earls from Edgar Atheling to the last have been 
 buried here. 
 
 The undercraft of Bellminster is therefore a sepulchre or 
 mausoleum for the tvv^enty-six princes of Carthew ; for thirty- 
 one Northumbrian kings from Ulla to Andrid, who reigned 
 successively from 547, to 810, a period of 263 years ; for eight 
 of the Saxon kings of England, Ethelbald II, who died in 
 860, Ethelbert II, in 866, Ethelred I, in 872, and Alfred the 
 Great, in GOl, brothers, grandsons of Egbert. Athelstain, 
 grand-son of Alfred who died in 940, and Edmund I, his bro- 
 ther, in 947, Edgar son of Edmund, in 975, and Edward the mar- 
 tyr, in 982, of the Norman Kings, Henry II, in 1189, and Hen- 
 ry V, in 1422, were buried here, and thirty-three earls of Be- 
 vern, twenty-five abbots, thirty bishops, and twenty-seven pri- 
 ors were also interred in these vaults. These Mausolea there- 
 fore are occupied with the tombs or graves, or monuments, of 
 an hundred and eighty-five persons. 
 
 The Northumbrian king Edwin, removed the bodies of 
 his predecessors hither, and he and his successors were buried 
 here. Their bones have been unmolested, and lie together in 
 a subterranean chapel, which was built for them in the twelfth 
 century, pursuant to the plan of the fourth founder, and to 
 which they were transferred with solemn rites. It branches 
 out northward from the afterwalk, and is called Kirk Edwin. 
 This appellation includes the three apartments, one above ano- 
 
276 
 
 ther of this offcell or offkirk, or outcell or outkirk as build- 
 ings of this kind are called in Athelney. Accurately speaking, 
 the term ofFcell denotes a small chapel projecting from the 
 side or lateral wall of a larger one ; outcell signifies a chapel 
 adjacent to another larger than itself, and connected with it by 
 a covered way, cloister or gallery. Offkirk is a chapel belong- 
 ing to a larger one, and near adjacent to it, but not adjoining 
 it b\' a continued wall. Outkirk, is a church belonging to 
 and dependant on another, but not built beside or very near 
 it. The sixteen churches of Beverly are outkirks of St. Ul- 
 pha's or Belminster. So is at least one church in each of the 
 eight burroughs. Of the eighty churches in Ormsey, eleven 
 are outkirks of the cathedral. They weie originally built, 
 and are still maintained from its funds, and administered by 
 curates and officers of its appointment. The whole number 
 of these outkirks of St. Ulpha's is thirty-seven. 
 
 I'he history of Athelney, from the extinction of the Nor- 
 thumbrian kingdom in 547, to the Norman tonquest in 1060, 
 a period of 513 years, may be deemed wholly ecclesiastical. 
 A charter of king Egbert, still extant, bestows the whole pro- 
 vince, in absolute property and sovereignty, on the abbey of 
 St. ITlpha, and in this form it continued to be governed till the 
 eleventh century. The annals of the convent relate that such 
 was the powerful protection of its heavenly guardians that the 
 Danes, during this period, never violated its tranquility. It 
 appears, however, by the same chronicles that the abbots were 
 in general, men of wisdom and enterprize, and not only con- 
 ducted well the internal government, but successfully resisted 
 and repelled all efforts of foreign invaders. Athelney came to 
 be considered as an holv and inviolable land, and the people 
 of the less secured provinces took refuge within its confines. 
 It was probably the most flourishing part of Britain during both 
 the British and Saxon periods. 
 
 The terror of religion shielded this province from the vio- 
 lence of the Norman conquerors. On the submission of the 
 abbot Kenulf, the brother of Edward the Confessor, all his 
 rights were recognized and confij'med by William. At the 
 death of this abbot, Ansehn, an Italian monk was elected 
 in 1069, but with his and the pope's consent, the patrimo- 
 
277 
 
 ny of St. Ulpha was confined to the lordship of Carthew, 
 and the rest of the province was bestowed as a feudatory king- 
 dom upon Edgar Athehng, who bears the title of First Earl 
 of Athelney. He continued to govern as such, till 1175, a 
 period of 57 years, a longer period than the reign of any of 
 his successors, except the one now living, who is the heir of 
 Edgar, by regular lineal descent. 
 
 Since the time of Edgar, it has been the custom of this fa- 
 mily to name their male children successively, Edgar, Arthur, 
 Herbert, Edmond, Walter, Eustace ; and the females, Adela, 
 Edwina, Eumenilda, Pamphela, Hellene. These, accordingly, 
 are the only ones to be in the list of the sovereigns of Athelney. 
 They are entitled, by the charter of William the Conquei-or, to 
 th^ name of king and queen, and in certain judicial proceed- 
 ings this title is still given them. They, however, by no means 
 affect it, and rather choose the title of earls palatine, by which 
 they are familiarly known. 
 
 The most extraordinary character which this family has 
 produced, was the countess Pamphela. She was the only 
 child of Herbert Carril, earl palatine, and Mary, youngest 
 daughter of Henry the Fourth. She was born in 1402, and was 
 married at sixteen. She had three sons and a daughter. At 
 twenty years old her husband and father died, and left her sole 
 mistress of the earldoms of Athelney and Kent, and guardians 
 of her children. Her eldest son, the heir of his father as earl 
 of Kent, was the famous King maker who was slain at the battle 
 of Barnet in 1471. Pamphela lived to the great age of ninety- 
 seven in the possession of a vigorous constitution, and all her 
 faculties unimpaired. Her second son was slain with his elder 
 brother, at Barnet. Her third son was archbishop of York. 
 The reign of Pamphela continued from 1422, being the 1st of 
 Henry VI, to 1499, the 15th of Henry VII. She displayed 
 extraordinary prudence in escaping from all the tempests and 
 convulsions of the times, and preserving her little territory un- 
 touched by war or commotion for a period of 77 years. Though 
 so nearly related to the crown, and though her sons were in- 
 volved in the quarrels of the two roses, her caution and dex- 
 terity insured her safety under every revolution. She was the 
 most celebrated beauty of the age, but being endowed with 
 
278 
 
 masculine ambition, and a passion for government, she deter- 
 mined never to marry again, and her resolution and constancy in 
 rejecting the numerous matrimonial offers that were made her, 
 were subjected to the most severe trials. She was learned and 
 accomplished beyond all the women of her age, and many of 
 her compositions, in prose and verse, in Latin and English, 
 are still extant. Except a journey which she made through 
 France, and to the chief towns of Italy in 1430, she never pass- 
 ed the limits of Athelney, after the death of her father. She 
 was exceedingly devout, and her enthusiasm even carried her 
 into the persuasion that her body was a second incarnation of 
 St. Pamphela, and exempted from disease and death till she 
 herself should desire her own dissolution. This belief was 
 adopted by her at the age of twenty- one, and her subsequent ex- 
 perience bore a surprising conformity to this precaution. 
 
 She had many singular opinions on religious topics. She 
 maintained the absolute equality of the two sexes, and the right 
 of woman to perform the sacerdotal functions. These opi- 
 nions, however, she never so far reduced to practice as to ex- 
 pose herself to molestation and scandal. At the death of her 
 uncle Herbert Carril, bishop of Carthew, in 1429, she conceiv- 
 ed the design of investing herself with the pontifical dignity, 
 and uniting in her own person, not only the temporal and 
 spiritual privileges which were formerly conjoined in the Sax- 
 on abbots, but all the sacerdotal power vested in the bishops of 
 Carthew by the papal Bull. To obtain the papal sanction to 
 this scheme, was a chief object of her journey to Rome in the 
 following year, and she pursued it further and more pertinaci- 
 ously than was consistent with her known prudence. Finding 
 it however, too violent an attack upon the prejudice of the 
 age, she was obliged reluctantly to give it up, and procured 
 the appointment to that office of her tutor Alfonzo. 
 
 Alfonzo was of unknown parentage. He was found a child 
 of six years old, without guardian or companion, sitting on the 
 steps of the church of the holy sepulchre at Jerusalem, by the 
 countess's father, while on a pilgrimage to that city, about the 
 year 1375. Being struck with the noble countenance of the 
 child, who applied to him for alms, the earl took him under 
 his protection, and returned with him to Europe. He was left 
 
279 
 
 at a college in Florence, where he was carefully instructed in 
 all the literature of the times, and became a very eminent scho- 
 lar. In 1411, he came to England by thV directions of his pa- 
 tron, and undertook the education of his daughter. He had 
 previously entered into holy orders, and when Pamphela grew 
 up, she made him her chaplain, confessor and counsellor. He 
 was like his mistress, of a warm, enthusiastic temper, and was 
 the author of most of her peculiar habits and opinions. He felt 
 or feigned an unbounded reverence for her character and sta- 
 tion, and first suggested to her mind the notion of her kindred 
 to St. Pamphela. He behaved to her, finally, more as a wor- 
 shipper than an equal. He refused to accept of any office or 
 preferment which led him away from attendance on her per- 
 son, but persuaded her at the same time, that she was above 
 the necessity or duty of treating him as a spiritual father or con- 
 fessor. Finding it impracticable to place the mitre on her own 
 head, she procured it to be placed on that of her preceptor, who 
 yielded with great reluctance to her command, and administered 
 the office, when he had gained it under her constant and entire 
 and absolute controul. Such was the strange fascination of 
 these persons, that the bishop, in his life of Pamphela, acknow- 
 ledges, though somewhat obscurely, that there was a con- 
 nection between them, first proposed by her, and concurred 
 with by him through mere deference to a will which could not 
 err. This circumstance he says did not abate the veneration 
 which he entertained for her, and his submission to her political 
 or spiritual orders. This intercourse, he says, by a special 
 indulgence of St. Pamphela, vocally imparted to them at her 
 shrine, was unattended with offspring. If we except this 
 strange infatuation of the bishop in relation to his mistress, 
 there is reason to describe him as a wise and upright prelate, who 
 governed his see with great prudence and integrity. He go- 
 verned this church from 1431 to 1463, or thirty -two years. 
 
 St. Pamphela was a maiden of obscure birth, being no better 
 than a shepherd's daughter, and lived in the time of Alfred, in 
 the village to which that prince retired on one occasion from the 
 pursuit of the Danish conquerors. She had passed a devout 
 life from her infancy, and the neighbourhood regarded her as 
 one whose prayers would intercede more powerfully for them 
 
280 
 
 in the courts of heaven, than those of any other dead or living 
 patroness. She is said to have recognized Alfred at his first 
 appearance in the \';yage, notwithstanding his disguise, and 
 her previous unacquaintance with his person. She likewise 
 bid him be of good cheer, and assured him that he should 
 finally subdue the barbarous invaders, and enjoy a long and 
 prosperous reign. She died and was buried in a grove, with 
 an humble stone over her. This rustic tomb was frequented 
 by the villagers, and the spirit of the maid was invoked in 
 hymns and prayers, and her kind regard for her natal spot was 
 testified by many miraculous favours bestowed upon her wor- 
 shippers. Alfred in his prosperity, ordered a church to be built 
 over her grave, and endowed it with the fields around it, as 
 an income to a priest, who should be appointed by the abbot of 
 St. Ulpha, and who shall pray daily for his soul. After the 
 death of Alfred, the church of St. Pamphela gained but little 
 notice. The rental of the ground given by Alfred, afforded a 
 very slender stipend to the chantiy priest, and though the 
 church was occasionally repaired by the personal labour of the 
 villagers, it Mas after the lapse of five hundred years, in a very 
 sorry and decayed condition. St. Pamphela, however, was 
 not entirely neglected or despised by the country at large. Her 
 name found a place in the Carthew Calendar, and her chapel 
 was generally found, in a corner of the greater churches ; but 
 her altar was seldom honoured with religious rites. 
 
 Mary, the mother of the countess, had suffered several mis- 
 carriages, before the birth of this daughter. These she had in- 
 vain endeavoured to avert by prayers and pilgrimages to seve- 
 ral popular shrines. While pregnant Avith this daughter, she 
 chanced to be overtaken by a storm, while travelling from 
 London to Beverly, and took refuge in a cottage hard by the 
 church of Pamphela. Her personal feelings began to threaten 
 her with a new disaster, when an old woman present exhorted 
 her to seek the aid of St. Pamphela, who, according to her re- 
 port was never prayed to in vain. The advice was followed, 
 and while praying at the shrine of Pamphela, the countess felt 
 her healthful feelings return, and a grateful assurance that on 
 this occasion, all would be well. Three months after she was 
 safely delivered of a daughter, whom she called by the .name 
 
281 
 
 of her divine benefactress. In the same year she died, but 
 left a writing behind apprizing her daughter of the debt she 
 owed to this Saint, and enjoining her to pay it by honour and 
 worship. This letter described the circumstances of her ap- 
 plication to the humble shrine of St. Pamphela, and related 
 that die answer to her application was audibly made in these 
 terms : " Mary, thy prayer is heard. A daughter thou shalt 
 have. Wise shall she be, and long her life, for I myself shall 
 be thy daughter." It was on the latter and mysterious part of 
 this promise, that the countess built her flattering belief of a 
 near alliance between her and the sainted Pamphela, and which 
 her counsellor endeavoured to fortify by metaphysical argu- 
 ments in support of such a transfusion or transmigration of 
 souls. 
 
 The countess, from the period of childhood, fostered a pre- 
 ference for a single and devotional, though not a cloistered 
 life. Her father's will was opposite to hers and compelled her 
 not only to marry, but in consequence of that marriage, to for- 
 sake her native country, and reside in London and Kent. The 
 premature death of her husband w^s happily followed very soon 
 by that of her father, who, if he had survived many months, 
 would have compelled her to a second marriage with the son 
 of a German prince, and thus condemned her for the rest of 
 her life, to an abode among strangers in a foreign land, and 
 have bereaved her of all the privileges and enjoyments which 
 she held most dear. The earl her father was of a gloomy, 
 austere and impious character, and regarded his daughter as 
 the mere slave of his humours, and tool of his ambition. His 
 design was that she should leave England forever, and leav^ 
 her children in his guardianship, and after his death, in that 
 of his brother the bishop of Carthew. This melancholy des- 
 tiny was averted by his sudden death. 
 
 She returned and took quiet possession of her patrimony. 
 Her uncle, the bishop, was somewhat of her father's character, 
 and endeavoured to persuade or intimidate her into a fulfil- 
 ment of her father's intentions, both with regard to herself and 
 her children, but being now legally independant, she was of too 
 lofty a spirit to brook the controul of any one. She incurred 
 considerable inconvenience and inqviietude from her uncle's 
 
 36 
 
282 
 
 character, but she still got the better of him in every contest 
 in which they were engaged. Finallv, she was relieved from 
 this source of trouble, by the prelate's resignation of this see, 
 and translation to York, to which he was induced to consent 
 on finding all his efforts to reign in Athelney unsuccessful. 
 There was much contention between them about his succes- 
 sor. She was anxious to promote her tutor Alfonzo, to" this 
 high station, but her uncle would only consent to give up his 
 place to a creature of his own, Martin Exetor, already prior 
 of St. Ulphas. As Martin was old and infirm, and had no 
 pretensions to authority from his birth, she finally agreed to 
 his election. 
 
 On her first accession to her heritance, she indulged her- 
 self in schemes for honouring her peculiar patroness, but she 
 was thwarted in these by the two bishops. She naturally con- 
 ceived the resolution of building a church and convent on the 
 spot consecrated by the grave of St. Pamphela, but the ground 
 belonged to the bishopric, and no religious foundation could 
 be formed without his concurrence and sanction. This sanc- 
 tion not only the uncle denied, but his successor, by his insti- 
 gation, though under plausible pretexts, continued to refuse it. 
 She was, therefore, obliged to delay the execution of her plans, 
 till the death of Martin should remove the present obstacles. 
 The pontifical authority was, even exerted to present the small- 
 est indulgence of her wishes on this head. . She was suffered 
 neither to enrich nor adorn the tomb itself, nor to translate the 
 hallowed bones to a new depository, nor to introduce into the 
 chapel of her own palace, any new rites or other objects of wor- 
 ship. The opposition of her uncle was more blunt, positive 
 imd rude, but Martin, v/ithout being more compliant, was more 
 civil, and covered his refusals under a veil of arguments and 
 scruples. Alfonzo endeavoured to console her under these 
 vexations, bv persuading her that as the soul of St. Pamphela 
 was actually enshrined in her own person, and it was the spirit 
 of the Saint alone which was the proper object of worship, all 
 devotional rites addressed to this Saint as to a being different 
 from herself, would be absurd. These arguments had certain- 
 ly some influence, but their tendency was to deprive her of 
 the pleasure of devout exercises ; the .consciousness of enjoy- 
 
283 
 
 ing the favour and protection of an immortal, celestial and 
 powerful friend, and the sweet emotions of gratitude and men- 
 tal intercourse with an inhabitant of Heaven. It was impossi- 
 ble to distinguish, in the operation of her own thoughts, in- the 
 nature of her own faculties, any traces of connection or affinity 
 with a pre-existent being, or any marks of an origin esssential- 
 ly superior to the rest of mankind. Besides, Pamphela, by as- 
 suming a new form, lost all the privileges for a time of her 
 aerial and disembodied state, without any adequate or intel- 
 ligible motive or purposes. To the scruples arising from these 
 sources, her confessor had only to alledge the material possi- 
 bility of such an incarnation ; the express declarations of the 
 Saint to her mother ; the fetters v/hich are necessarily connect- 
 ed with an human or embodied condition, and the effect which 
 time might have in unfolding the great purposes which such 
 an incarnation might answer. These arguments were favour- 
 ed by her vanity, and an incident that happened when she 
 was about twenty-nine years old, at once confirmed her con- 
 victions and removed the inconveniences attending them. 
 She dreamed one night that she was performing her orisons 
 in a private oratory of her owfi palace, when suddenly her right 
 side opened, and there issued a beautiful and youthful female, 
 bearing in lineaments and figure an exact resemblance to her- 
 self. The sprite regarded her with heavenly smiles, and wav- 
 ing her hand in adieus, vanished from her sight, after pro- 
 nouncing these words. " I am thy second and better self, I 
 have cleaved to thee and guarded thee thus long, because there 
 was no other earthly sanctuary meet for me. Now I return to 
 Heaven, but stiil will I watch and befriend thee. But I can 
 hear thee only at the spot where my bones lie, and that is the 
 haunt that delights me most. The time is come that allows us 
 to meet there. Farewell." At that moment, she was awaken- 
 ed by a messenger, who informed her of the sudden death of 
 Martin the bishop. 
 
 She was very naturally disposed to consider this dream as a 
 warning or message from above, and this impression was con- 
 firmed by the coincidence of the death of the noxious bishop. 
 By placing Alfonzo in his place, she for the future, render- 
 ed her will absolute in all ecclesiastical affairs, and had no 
 
^84 
 
 further opposition to dread. She forthwith determined to build 
 a church and convent at Pamphilly, worthy of her opulence and 
 her gratitude. Her immense revenues being administered 
 with temperance and order, allowed of very large funds for 
 prosecuting any work of this kind. On a survey being made 
 by her order, she found that the parish of Pamphilly bore a con- 
 siderable resemblance to that of Beverly. That it was a smooth 
 and round eminence of about six thousand acres, descending 
 on all sides to a branch of the Derwent river, by which it was 
 almost encircled, and which was augmented by a copious 
 spring situated nearly at the summit ; that a fertile soil cover- 
 ed a rocky bottom, of the same nature with Ulverstone. 
 These discoveries gradually enlarged her views, and she was 
 finally determined to make this her own place of abode. It 
 was at present nearly covered by an ancient forest of oak, and 
 occupied only by the little village of Pamphilly. The new bishop 
 transferred it to her in exchange for other lands of more than 
 equal value, in the neighbourhood of Beverl)-. 
 
 In deciding on a plan for her intended structure, the coun- 
 tess was governed by the reverence paid to the temple of St. 
 Ulpha. ' The second Arthur persuaded himself, or endeavour- 
 ed to persuade others, that his temple was designed under the 
 special and immediate inspiration of his celestial patron : or 
 rather, when the opinion was adopted, that the second was 
 merely the incarnation of the first Arthur, it followed that ail 
 his acts and purposes carried with them a sanction and authori- 
 ty superior to those of common mortals. Hence the original 
 plan of St. Ulpha was scrupulously followed by the successors 
 of the deified bishop, and this plan was fortunately construct- 
 ed in so ample and comprehensive a scale, that the unlooked 
 for zeal and opulence, and ingenuity of subsequent times 
 were no more than able, though they were fully able, to exe- 
 cute and fill up the stupendous outline. 
 
 Among the reveries of the bishop, there were many that re- 
 lated to the local circumstances of that Heaven or paradise 
 destined for the future abode of the good. All images of this 
 kind, so far as they approach distinctness, must necessarily 
 correspond with the object of terrestrial experience. The only 
 imaginable perfection must consist in certain events and quali- 
 
286 
 
 ties, of our present existence, rendered absolute and perpetual. 
 Thus the condition of the blessed, is always made up in human 
 contemplations, of such images as health, intellectual activity, 
 the social and benevolent affections, enjoyed and exercised in 
 the highest degree, and with endless and uninterrupted duration. 
 Of physical incidents, we have all those that are most valued at 
 present : lights permanent, universal, salutary and even nutri- 
 cious ; temperature, delicious and uniform, and all manner of 
 agreeable accommodation exuberantly and spontaneously sup- 
 plijjd : all celestial visions are naturally connected with images 
 of the benefactor or disposer of these goods, and the pleasure 
 which accompanies gratitude and devotion, even here leads us 
 to conceive that these will be the predominant emotions 
 and employments in paradise. In minds accustomed to the 
 pomp of a ceremonious religion, th"e images of music, temple, 
 altar, sanctuary, naturally find place, and Heaven in all these 
 particulars, is but a splendid improvement of earthly plans. 
 In men of architectural taste, these visions of glory and felicity 
 have alwavs an intimate connection with buildings. In their 
 ages, the paradisical landscape is always filled with architectu- 
 ral magnificence, and in the paradises of a Gothic Saint, or 
 poet, their peculiar hand will be known by many a towered 
 structure, high with glistering spires and pinnacles adorned. 
 It was not surprising therefore that the episcopal designer of 
 Belminster should consider the utmost exertion of his own fan- 
 cy in this way as vying in magnificence with any thing con- 
 trived by celestial builders, and the work of invention in all 
 the arts, is, to the inventor, so much like inspiration, that he 
 could hardly escape the belief that the aid which he earnestly- 
 craved was actually granted. I have resolved, said he, in his 
 orisons, to build an house worthy of thee. So thou hover 
 near, while I labour on the plan. Guide my pencil thyself, 
 and be it thy work, not mine. Thou dost approach. Thou 
 guidest my hand. The work is thine, not mine, and be it sa- 
 crilege in me and my successors to vary in the least from what 
 thou hast willed it to be. In this temple, thou hast but copi- 
 ed thy own celestial mansion, and it is a sublunar}^ home thou 
 wilt not disdain. Sometimes, well pleased, thou wilt Avalk 
 here. The multitude of thy worshippers shall know thy pre- 
 
287 
 
 sence, and thou wilt love the house that is dedicated to thee, 
 and that is most like to thy own, which is in Heaven. This was 
 certainly a sufficient foundation to build the devout belief that 
 St. Ulpha was a temple of peculiar sanctity, and a lovely copy 
 of the temples of Heaven. This sacredness however belongs 
 only to the grand plan, and general distribution. It is not 
 connected either with the materials, the actual dimensions, or 
 the ornaments of the elevation. In all these respects, a crea- 
 tive fancy will naturally picture the temple of the heavenly 
 Ulpha as magically wrought out of a single germ, as large 
 enough to cover the surface of a kingdom, and as containing a 
 million of historical scenes in the face of a single tablet. In 
 these respects devout or poetical fancies enjoy an unlimited 
 range, while the scene before them is a commodious guide and 
 a powerful prompter to their invention. The earthly material 
 consists only of plain dull and ponderous stone, while a 
 nearer imitation of supernal magnificence has been sometimes 
 attempted by the patience of monastic ingenuity, in minia- 
 ture models of gold, silver, ivory or glass. 
 
 All the churches of Bevernshire are in some respects, copies 
 of Belminster. Their dimensions, however, are much smaller, 
 and, with one exception, the members less complete. The 
 countess Pamphela was at first determined to produce an en- 
 tire copy, varying only in some of the dimensions. She was 
 afraid of attempting a copy of the full size, but her vanity 
 was gratified, by producing a more magnificent and spacious 
 structure, relatively considered, while the breadth and length 
 of the whole, and of all the parts, were "reduced to two thirds, 
 the height was made the same, by the addition of a fourth 
 story, hence the number of apartments in the mansion will be 
 augmented by one third, and the relative height of the roof of 
 the walks and cells is encreased in the same proportion. In 
 the style, the ornamental Gothic of the fifteenth century, would 
 of course be liberally introduced, while the several modes of 
 the former age are exemplified in the ancient edifice. This di- 
 versity in size and ornament very happily coincided with the 
 analogy between the respective divinities or genii of these tem- 
 ples ; one of them being masculine, and connected with the 
 general lav s and institutions of the country, and the other be- 
 
287 
 
 ing peculiarly dedicated to the honour and use of women. 
 The former, agreeably to this distinction, is gigantic, ponder- 
 ous, plain and massy, while the other is comparatively light, 
 slender, airy and highly decorated. Pope Felix of this fami- 
 ly, and his sister, the dame of Whitney, in the ensyii)g centu- 
 ry engrafted all the forms of the Grecian and Roman architec- 
 ture, from the same plan : the former adopting a proportion 
 one ninth less, and the latter a proportion two ninths less 
 than those of St. Ulpha's. Hence there are two Gothic and 
 two padodian models of this great design, including the de- 
 grees of size from six to nine while Bevernshire exhibits a 
 vast number of less complex edifices, moulded after the same 
 pattern, but having less dimensions. 
 
 The Templum Felecianum^ or church and convent of St. Ul- 
 pha at Rome, was the favourite project of that Pontiff, and on 
 which he lavished a vast deal of taste and wealth. It is among the 
 most splendid edifices in Christendom, and the only one upon 
 the continent, in which the Morgan or Pelagian ritual is used. 
 The pope made it his favourite residence and all the treasures 
 of sculpture, painting, tapestry and mosaic, are collected in it. 
 It was a convent appropriated to the English nation, females 
 onlv of that nation being admitted into it, and placed under the 
 patronage of the Italian branch of the Carril family. The 
 only survivor of this family, the cardinal of Berven, a man 
 eighty years old and upward, was compelled to flight, on the 
 revolution which the French effected latelv in Rome. His 
 English extraction, and his great zeal against the invaders 
 made him peculiarly noxious to these ministers of havock. 
 All his estates were confiscated, and this convent was pil- 
 laged. 
 
 These events were in some degree foreseen by the earl pala- 
 tine, and he was extremely anxious to rescue his kinsman from 
 the impending ruin. He was likewise ardently desirous of pre- 
 serving the precious as well as sacred contents of this convent 
 and palace, from the destructive cupidity of the French, and bv 
 the Same means to enrich England with the most splendid 
 monuments of the arts which Italy contained. The calami- 
 ties of Rome, occasioned bv the French in\-asion, onerated 
 
288 
 
 most propitiously upon the views of the earl palatine, and 
 enabled him to accompany a wish, which, when it was formed, 
 might have been ranked Vv-ith impossibilities. 
 
 When he first visited Italy with his sister Ellen, in 1729, 
 they hastened with equal zeal and curiosity to the shrine of 
 St. Ulpha at Rome. In the midst of their admiration of innu- 
 merable works of art it contained, the sister observed, fanci- 
 fully, that if the wand of the builder-devil in Milton could 
 transfe;* a temple ready built, as easily as it could raise one 
 from the ground, and she could get hold of it for one happy 
 moment, she would forthwith try its power on the church before 
 them, and set it quietly down in one corner of Bevernshire, 
 walls, statues, pictures, ruins, and all. The brother smiled, 
 and observed that it did not require a miraculous word to trans- 
 fer all that was of any value. An house of the same kind 
 might be built, with the old fashioned tools of chissel and 
 trowel, and a stout ship might safely transport all the movea- 
 bles before them. That said the sister, is as impossible moral- 
 ly, as the other is physically. The brother however lived to 
 see this removal actually take place. 
 
 The progress of the French revolution gradually converted 
 England into a refuge for the Catholic religion, even from Rome 
 itself; and the vigilance of the earl palatine enabled the cardi- 
 nal to transport in safety hither, not only his person and mo- 
 ney, but eveiy thing moveable in his palace ; every thing which 
 could be detached from the walls without material injury. The 
 great and valuable library ; all the contents of the museum in 
 statuary, reliefs, and medals ; all the appendages and orna- 
 ments of the sanctuary, together with all the plate, cabinet and 
 furniture were carried to England, and deposited with little 
 variation of their ancient ordei-. 
 
 Bcda relates that among the manuscripts transmitted to him 
 from Rome, as having been carried thither by Morgan, was a 
 copy of a translation into Latin verse of David's Psalms, to- 
 gether with thirteen tragedies in the same language. Accord- 
 ing to Morgan, these were the works of the eleventh Arthur, 
 composed during his residence at Rome, and where he receiv- 
 ed his education. They were introduced into religious wor- 
 ship by him, on his return to Aitland, and were gradually 
 
^89 
 
 adopted by many of the churches of the island. This circum- 
 stance gave them extraordinary sanctity in the eyes of the 
 Saxon converts, and especially of the members of this convent. 
 When Beda became abbot, he introduced this psaltry into the. 
 use of his own church, and obtained the papal sanction for the 
 innovation. All the churches of Bevern successively adopted 
 this ritual, and have maintained it till the present day. Though 
 an exception to the Roman methods of worship, it has always 
 been considered as orthodox, within certain limits. In the Ro- 
 man Pamphiline convent, this ritual was likewise employed ex- 
 clusively of all others. 
 
 The Psalms of David are the genuine effusions of a man. 
 dictated by a great variety of feelings and situations, which 
 occurred during an eventful life. There are few men, there- 
 fore, and particularly few princes, who cannot find passages in 
 these odes, adapted to almost all Che sentiments and incidents 
 which have befallen themselves. They are addressed by Da- 
 vid to that Divinity who ruled his own destiny. They may 
 therefore be addressed, without impropriety, by any other per- 
 son to their guardian power; these therefore are commodious 
 vehicles of devotion, which have been employed by almost all 
 christian sects. 
 
 In the creed of the Carthic church, this particular version of 
 the psalms is the sole and indispensible instrument of worship ; 
 but this is all that it enjoins. The order, proportions or times 
 in which this book is employed is, in some degree, submitted 
 to the choice of individuals and societies. There is also some 
 licence allowable with regard to proper names of places and 
 persons. Alterations confined solely to these, and so managed 
 as to produce no alteration or confusion of metre, are not for- 
 bidden. It is thus that these odes have been modelled into a 
 series of hymns addressed to Arthur, Ulpha or Pamphila, and 
 adapted to the Incidents of their lives. They may be consider- 
 ed as forming the bible of this sect, from which all its verbal 
 formularies and observances are taken. 
 
 It is well known that this paraphrase has been ranked by all 
 critics, with the purest and most classical productions of the 
 Romans. With respect to time Arthur was the last of the Ro- 
 man, and the first of the Christian poets, but while all admirers 
 
290 
 
 of Latinity read him with delight, the habitual impressions of 
 a Gothic reader, give a sanctity, significance and elevation to 
 this poetry which no one else can discover in it. Every line 
 and passage has a great number of interesting allusions and 
 correspondences. Every church and convent in Bevernshire, 
 has some peculiarity in its liturgy or psaltry, but the store- 
 house from which all is taken is the psaltry or version of the 
 psalms. 
 
 This version consists of about eight thousand lines, which 
 equally divided among the days of the year gives about twenty- 
 two lines to each. The simplest ritual therefore, would be to 
 divide the whole into 365 parts, and assign a part, in the ori- 
 ginal order, to each day. A more judicious system would, 
 however, adopt the pieces to seasons, occasions and anniver- 
 saries, so that the sentiments expressed may bear some rela- 
 tion to the day or the event commemorated. 
 
 Beda mentions the titles of thirteen dramas which accom- 
 panied the psaltry. Two of them at present only remain, and 
 these two began respectively the series of such as were con- 
 structed on Hebrew and Christian subjects. 'J he originals 
 were built, two of them upon the history of Jephtha and Samp- 
 son ; and four of them upon the chief incidents of the life of 
 David. The latter, Morgan relates, were adopted by the 
 modern poet, from the resemblance which the .plots bore to the 
 transactions of his own life. The rebellion of Absalom j Da- 
 vid's treatment of Uriah ; David's exile : the conquest of Go- 
 liah. The seven remaining dramas, commemorated the prin- 
 cipal events in the life of Christ. The history of John the 
 Baptist ; Christ in the wilderness ; Christ when a youth in the 
 temple ; Christ tried ; Christ crucified ; and Christ arisen. 
 In these performances were introduced, in pure Iambics, all 
 the actions and sayings of Christ, recorded by the Evange- 
 lists ; of these Jephtha, and the Baptist only remain. When the 
 judgment and eloquence displayed in these, are considered, 
 the deepest regret is felt for the loss of the others. The two 
 extant contain about 2800 lines, so that the twelve probably 
 contained about 16,800 lines, and including the version of the 
 psalms, about 25,000 excellent and classical liner?. 
 
291 
 
 In the sixteenth century, when Latin literature flourished so 
 eminently throughout Europe, and especially at Carthew, 
 many ambitious poets of this college, endeavoured to fill up 
 the chasm. On each topic, there are seventeen pieces, the pro- 
 duct of this century, of considerable merit, but those of bishops 
 Osban and Elbert, are authoritatively allowed to be the happiest 
 imitations, and are admitted as the classical and orthodox ob- 
 jects of academical study, and religious meditation. 
 
 All the copies of the psaltry and dramas, are supposed to have 
 perished in the conflagration of the convent, in 1140, except a 
 single mutilated copy. This misfortune arose from a super- 
 stitious aversion in the church of Carthew, to any dispersion 
 of this work beyond the walls of the monastery, nor was it 
 without a solemn synodal decree, that the bishop Arthur, was 
 permitted to take a copy from the house. The prelate was de- 
 sirous of having this treasure constantly about his person, and 
 obtained, with much difficulty, the privilege of copying with 
 his own hand, the psaltry, and two of the tragedies. No soli- 
 citations availed to extort permission for copving those relat- 
 ing to the life of either David or Christ, and though all of 
 these were probably had by rote by many of the monks, the 
 massacre of the whole body, extinguished even the remem- 
 brance of them. From certain allusions in the epistles of the 
 bishop it is evident that this convent possessed entire copies 
 of Tacitus and Livy, which irrecoverably- perished by the 
 same event. Its rich and curious library, abounded with 
 historical monuments, and possessed all the manuscripts of 
 Morgan which Beda had procured from Rome. 
 
 The first bishop's manuscript was deposited in an apartment 
 of the new house, allotted on purpose for it, and has ever 
 since been regarded as a sacred relique. All subsequent co- 
 pies have been originally made from this, and it constitutes 
 the stndard of correctness. It is unveiled and consulted only 
 by particular officers and with religious ceremonies, and 
 though the safety of the temple is not considered as depending 
 on keeping every copy within these walls, the preservation of 
 this copy is supposed to be essential to that safety. The art of 
 printing has multiplied the copies of the work abundantly, and 
 there is now no danger of its perishing. The labour which most 
 
292 
 
 other ancient writings have cost in comparing different manu- 
 scripts, has been totally unknown with regard to these perform- 
 ances, as the earliest and authentic manuscript is still preserved, 
 and what is very remarkable, there is not a single demonstra- 
 ble or probable error to be detected in it. There is no instance 
 of misspelling or confusion in the sense. 
 
 Theatrical exhibitions, confined however entirely to these 
 pieces, have ever been in use at Carthew. They have always 
 been considered as a part of religious worship, and times, pla- 
 ces, and persons have been assigned to them, with awful and 
 scrupulous care. All the magic of music has likewise been 
 joined to it, and splendid orations have arisen out of them. In 
 the mansion of Belminster there are two apartments called re- 
 spectively the votarium, or votary, in which the Jephtha is 
 performed four times a year, and the Baptisterium, or Baptis- 
 terv, appropriated to the representation of the Baptists. These, 
 as being the genuine performances of Arthur, are regarded 
 with most reverence, and the scenery and all appendages be- 
 longing to them are fixed in the walls and ceilings, and are im- 
 mutable. The Elbertine and Oshanene pieces are performed re- 
 spectively in two other theatres, and these apaitments are deem- 
 ed essential to every large and complete conventual establish- 
 ment in Bevernshire. 
 
 As the countess Ulpha continued to meditate on the plan of 
 her intended shrine, she naturally deviated from her first modest 
 resolution of faithfully copying the plan before her. Her imagi- 
 nation gradually placed her own dignity and divinity on a level 
 with thatof the deifiedbishop, and these variations which her fan- 
 cy suggested and her judgment approved in the model at Bel- 
 minster, were represented by her counsellor Alfonzo as flowing as 
 truly and directly from inspiration as the sketches of the bishop. 
 Hence arose all the particulars of the plan as actually executed, 
 anfl in which there is only a general resemblance to the great 
 maternal church. 
 
 In order to obtain some historical knowledge of her patroness, 
 minute inquiries were made at Ulwin respecting her birth and 
 achievements. These existed only in memory and tradition, 
 but Ulwin was so secluded a recess, and the people had con- 
 tinued from age to age with so little change from mi^-ration 
 
293 
 
 or intermixture from foreign guests, that the stream of tradi- 
 tion had flowed on with an undisturbed and undiminished 
 course. Five centuries and twenty generations had since passed 
 away, but the legend was as copious, and the ballad as minute 
 as if the rehearser had been a witness of the scene described. 
 
 The countess, accompanied by proper scribes and registers, 
 took up her abode for some months at this village. All that 
 could relate any thing of Ulpha, were carefully examined. The 
 rude ditty or marvellous tale of one was compared with that of 
 another and thus an entire story or poem was framed of the 
 various and disjointed testimony of several rehearsers. 
 
 Happily for the countess's purpose, she was informed that 
 there was a very aged native of this village who was blessed 
 Avith a remarkable memory, and who far exceeded all his coun- 
 trymen in the extent of his information respecting Ulpha. This 
 man whose name was Ralf, had been for many years in the 
 habit of wandering through the kingdom, as a tinker, and was 
 accustomed to return periodically to Ulwin, and spend here a 
 few weeks in a year. He was absent during the visit of the 
 countess, and she was so anxious to procure a sight of him, 
 that she sent messengers every where in pursuit of him. As 
 he had pursued nearly the same route for forty years together, 
 he was traced without inuch difficulty to an ale house in a lit- 
 tle village in Shropshire, and conveyed without delay, to the 
 palace of Beverly. He was an hale and cheerful old man, 
 whose age according to his own account, exceeded ninety years. 
 He still retained a clear strong voice, and chanted forth, with 
 great melody and promptitude, a sort of ballad or tale in very 
 rude verse, and in his native dialect, and consisting of up- 
 wards of eight thousand lines, entirely devoted to the history 
 of Ulpha. He related that about forty years previous to this 
 period, he had taken up his present mode of life, in conse- 
 quence of the loss, by an epidemical disease, which laid waste 
 his village, of his w^fe, and a numerous family of children. 
 In order to amuse his solitary rambles, he revolved in his 
 mind the images of his childhood, and gradually revived in 
 his memory, all the verses which he then recited, and which 
 he had heard, in mutilated parts, from various old men and 
 women, at an early age. He was chiefly indebted to the priest 
 
294 
 
 of the village church, uiih whom he used to sit whole nights 
 together, at the church door, and to whose songs he was wont 
 to listen with the most eager and devout attention. These 
 fragments he put into chronological order, so as to form the co- 
 herent narration of the birth, 'life, and death of the blessed UI- 
 pha. He had taken up a notion that it was a religious duty to 
 recite the whole of these at least once a month, so that they 
 were fixed in his memory by no less than five hundred recita- 
 tions. He related, however, that while walking or working 
 he was continually and hourly employed in these recitals. 
 They afforded him the highest delight, and this was betrayed 
 in all his looks and gestures while employed in singing them. 
 
 It is by no means improbable, that the old bard supplied a 
 great many links in this long chain from his own imagination. 
 He, however, when questioned on this point, always denied 
 with marks of horror, that he had used any such licence. He 
 considered the least subtraction or addition as profane and 
 highly criminal. The performance was taken from his lips by 
 the countess herself, and all the obscurities of phraseology 
 were explained at the time by reference to the usage of the 
 village. She likewise translated the whole into literal Latin 
 prose, and regarded every tittle as a sacred and infallible re- 
 cord of the truth. 
 
 By this surprising train of circumstances, the simple, home- 
 bred unlettered daughter of a shepherd, in the most obscure 
 and sequestered part of England, became, after an obli\ion of 
 five centuries, a personage of great importance, and even iden- 
 tified with the most illustrious ladj' of the age. Her bones 
 were taken from a grave, only known to a poor hamlet, and 
 reinterred in the most magnificent tomb in Europe. From 
 mere mortal, she rose into a powerful deity, and her name was 
 consecrated and adored by a whole conununity. The simple 
 recital of her actions existed, thus lonp; only in the memory 
 of a few rude villagers, and was, indeetW;\t last, confined to a 
 single pilgrim, who had chanted them for }ears in highways, 
 and forests, without the attention or respect of a single hearer. 
 They were now suddenly recorded upon vellum, studied and 
 rehearsed by queens and nobles, and a palace of gold and mar- 
 l)le was exvrmd for the abode of those whose whole duty it 
 
295 
 
 should be to hymn her divinity, and perpetuate her memory. 
 One of her disciples was even to become the head of the chris- 
 tian church, and the most splendid monuments were to rise to 
 her honour in the metropolis of Christendom. Such was one 
 of those marvellous turns in human affairs, which indeed are 
 daily occurring, though they are not often observed. 
 
 Ralf's poem was certainly, in every point of view, a very cu- 
 rious performance. Considered as the work of untutored ge- 
 nius, it reminds us forcibly of Homer and Shakespear, and we 
 are naturally led to look into it for those efforts of fancy, subli- 
 mity and pathos, which it is sometimes supposed are most suc- 
 cessfully made by such as enjoy least aid from education or 
 experience. The nature of the subject too suggests the expect- 
 ation of extraordinary novelty. Instead of violent and san- 
 guinary feats, this poem records the actions of a female whose 
 sole ornaments are piety, chastity, forbearance. The love 
 which she bears to her God and her fellow creatures is fervent 
 and unbounded, and her efforts to do them good is aided by 
 miraculous power. The circumstances of the time enabled to 
 promote the common good of the whole nation, by contributing 
 to the safety and success of the great Alfred, and this heroic 
 prince acts a conspicuous part in the plot of the poem. 
 
 The revival of Roman literature in Italy, took place before 
 the conclusion of the long reign of the countess Ulpha. She 
 and the bishop Alfonzo were zealous patrons of their im- 
 provement, and bishop Melwin who succeeded Alfonzo, and 
 who received an Italian education, owed his elevation chiefly to 
 his proficiency in classical learning. He gained the attention 
 and favour of the countess by presenting her an elegant version 
 in Latin hexameters of the paem of Ralf, with a series of above 
 an hundred hymns in lyric measure, in the same language, in 
 honour of St. Ulpha. The countess was so highly pleased 
 with these performances, which indeed are the best specia^ens 
 of modern Latinity, that she erected on them an entirely new 
 ritual and office, and they have since been exclusivelv emplqy- 
 ed in the religious exercises of the Ulphalines. This order 
 pays them the same reverence with which the Arthurites regard 
 the psaltry and dramas of Arthur ; and painting and sculpture 
 have been as copiously employed in embodying the conceptions 
 
296 
 
 of Ralf and Melwin as of Arthur, especially in the Roman 
 convent. In the Melwin psaltry, the poet has artfully inter- 
 woven the history and praises of the two Ulphas, so that the 
 chantress in signing them, unites the adoration of both divi- 
 nities. 
 
 The zeal with which the countess prosecuted the design of 
 the new building, enabled her to accomplish this magnificent 
 work in forty-five years. It was begun in 1430, and she had 
 the pleasure of settling a sisterhood of Ulphalines in this tem- 
 ple and mansion in 14/5, and of surviving this memorable and 
 desirable event upwards of twenty-four years. She had pre- 
 viously established the sisterhood in one of her own castles. 
 The seasonable aid of Melwin enabled her to begin the new 
 establishment with the new office. The bones of the two Ul- 
 phas were, in due season, inclosed in the same tomb, and form- 
 ed the great altar of Ulminster. 
 
 Ulminster is divided, like the other convents, into manse, 
 the abode or habitation of the members of the sisterhood, and 
 kirk, church, chapel or temple. Annexed to the temple arc 
 four great edifices. One of these is a palace designed for the 
 abode of the countesses of Athelney in their widowhood, or at 
 any time of their marriage, provided they are not accompanied 
 thither by their husbands, or by any male adult person. It h 
 the seat, at all times, of a kind of conventual establishment or 
 company, who are placed under the controul of the absent or 
 residing countess, and v/ho form, when she is present, her pecu- 
 liar household or train of domestics. This palace has a pecu- 
 liar kirk or cell, called the queen's cell, which with the remain- 
 der, called the queen's manse, are included under the general 
 appellation of queenstead. 
 
 The second adjoining edifice is called frinestead. Of the 
 three classes into which the order of the pearl is divided, the 
 third or frincs as they are called, consist of six or eight hun- 
 dred persons, and their deputies, amounting to about an hun- 
 dred, assemble amuially in this hall, to discuss the concerns of 
 their class, to admit new associates, and to weigh the claims al- 
 ledged, or compl hits made to them. It is divided into an hall 
 (called trenatis) which is the immediate place of general meet- 
 ing, and an adjacent manse, occupied by a company M'hir.h ai - 
 
L 
 
 "297 
 
 their attendants at their meeting-s, and the scribes and regis- 
 ters of their proceedings. 
 
 The queen's manse contains seventy-t^vo apartments, all cir- 
 cular, two thirds of which are twelve feet in diameter, and the 
 remaining third twenty-one. Forty of the former are chambers 
 or closets for the permanent convent. Four of the latter are 
 chambers for the train of the queen or her guests. Four are 
 the queen's apartments, and of the remaining eight, four are 
 designed for piazza, refectory, kitchen and parlour, and four 
 for the regular employments of the sisterhood. When the es- 
 tablishment is complete it consists of forty persons. 
 
 The frine manse contains eighteen apartments, of which 
 twelve are chambers for the resident officers of this class, and 
 their domestics. The remaining six are composed of an hall or 
 thoroughfare, parlour, registry, monitory, discretory and orato- 
 ry. They eat and drink in the great manse, and their laundry 
 and bath are at a distance. 
 
 The third and fourth great adjacent edifices are constructed 
 nearly on the same plan, and consist of one great hall, with 
 three recesses of large dimensions. They terminate respec- 
 tively the grand crosswalk of the temple and are essential parts 
 of it. One of them is designed for the election and inaugura- 
 tion of the prioress or dame of Ulwin, and for that ceremony 
 which annually commemorates that election. The choice of an 
 head to the order is conducted with a great number of solemni- 
 ties and forms. It can only take place on one day of the year 
 which is the anniversary of that on which the house was origi- 
 nally consecrated : and hence in the Fasti of the house is called 
 Damesday. The ceremonies attending it, are minutely detail- 
 ed and ordained in a volume called the Augural, the study, ex- 
 position, and custody of which are the province of two officers 
 called the auguralists. Dame or domina is the title of the mis- 
 tress of the order. Hence this solemn day is likewise called 
 dies dominicus or the dominical, the hall aula dominales, or the 
 dominal, or dame's hall, while the apartments in the manse as- 
 signed to her is the mansio dominaris, or the dominary. 
 
 The crosswalk opens on the dame's hall on one side, and on 
 the queen's hall on the other. This last is likewise called aula 
 reginalis, or the reginal. The queen of Athelney cannot exer- 
 
 38 
 
298 
 
 cise certain prerogatives within this district, belonging to her as 
 a consort of the king, till she has been recognised by the dame 
 and sisters, and this recognition must be made in this hall. The 
 solemn appearance of the lady here is a necessary part of the 
 ceremony. If she is hereditary queen this is the scene of her 
 coronation, a particular ceremonial being adapted to each case. 
 
 We come now to the kirk properly so called. This is divi- 
 ded into three parts. The porch, the walk, and the cell. The 
 porch is divided into gatew^a}^ ingate, fore porch, middle porch, 
 after porch and two bye porches. Four of these are separate 
 apartments, divided into several stores, making in all an as- 
 semblage of fifteen rooms. The middle porch was above the 
 rest in the shape of a square tower, three hundred and sixty feet 
 high. There are likewise four round angular towers eighteen 
 feet diameter, and two hundred and sixteen high, containing 
 staircases that connect these apartments. The ingate has like- 
 wise two divisions into middle ingate, and ingate ends. 
 
 The walk is divided into tvv^o parts : outwalk and inwalk. 
 The outwalk into middle outwalk and two outwalk ends, of 
 which one is called the queen's end, and the other the dame's 
 end. The queen's end is a vestibule to the palace and belongs 
 to it on some occasions. The dame's end opens into the frine- 
 hall. 
 
 The inwalk is divided into fore-walk, cross-walk and after- 
 walk ; to the latter and former there are lateral passages called 
 bye-walks, the fore-bye's and after-bye's. Of these there are 
 two tiers or stories ; the upper-bye's and lower bye's subdivid- 
 ed into upper fore-bye and lower fore-bye ; upper after-bye and 
 lov/er after-bye. The upper fore-bye on the north is called the 
 queen's walk ; the south upper fore-bye is called the dame's 
 walk. The upper and lower bye's are also more shortly called 
 the high v/alks and low walks ; the after-bye, or high walk on 
 the north, the upper alley is called Ulsway, on the south Ella- 
 way. Those under are respectively called, under-Ulls and 
 under-Ellas ; undcr-Queens, under-Dames. 
 
 In each of these bye-walks, the whole number being eight, 
 the passage is divided into piel*-way and under-way ; each un- 
 derway is likewise a cell, of which consequently there are 
 ihiity-two in .all, a number corresponding with the elders of 
 
299 
 
 the house. Each of the latter therefore has the peculiar charge 
 of one of these window cells, and performs the office of an 
 oratrix at its sanctuary. The divine power that presides in 
 each of them is supposed to be the good genius, or better angel, 
 or guardian spirit of her votaiy, and is named after that votary, 
 numerically, with the addition of Coelesti's, thus : Prima Seni- 
 ora Coelesti's : Secunda Seniora, &c. &c. or more briefly Pri- 
 mella Secundella, &c. 
 
 The cell or great cell, is the place dedicated to worship, and 
 to the peculiar worship of St. Ulpha. It consists of a central 
 apartment, surrounded by lateral aisles and galleries. The 
 latter open at four points into the central hall, and are divided 
 into five stories on the north and south sides, and into two 
 stories on the east and west. The lateral galleries have each 
 of them four openings into the middle spaces, while the east 
 end is moulded into a deep semicircular recess. 
 
 1'Ii F. lordships of Orme and Walney, came into the king's 
 V. ardship by the death of the tenth earl of Orme and Walney? 
 with no other issue than a daughter under age, in the year 
 1195, shortly after the return of Richard the First, from Pales- 
 tine. This prince had been extricated from a perilous situa- 
 tion, near Acre, by the courage of a military friar of the hos- 
 pital. The king was anxious to reward this service, but his 
 preserver merely demanded, that on the king's return to his own 
 country, he would show his devotion to Heaven, by founding 
 a monastery, and calling his adviser to the head of it. 
 
 The name of this monk, was Arthur Carril. He was line- 
 ally descended from Arthur, a chief of Cambrian extraction, 
 whose family had been in immemorial possession of these 
 lordships, previous to the Norman invasion, and who possess- 
 ed them at that period. A } ounger brother had deserted to 
 the Normans, and aided these invaders in expelling the lawful 
 proprietor. GeoflVy D'Orme, a Norman captain, was commis- 
 sioned to perlorm this service, but the auxiliarj^ as soon as the 
 conquest was affected, murdered the traitor, and obtained a 
 g;rant of the district for himself in the year 1080. 
 
JUG 
 
 The youngest son ot Arthur was the only one that escaped 
 the ruin of his family. He retired to the continent. In the 
 ensuing one hundred and fifteen years, his descendants experi- 
 enced a variety of fortune. He himself went to the Greek ca- 
 pital, and by ser\'ices rendered to the reigning prince, acquired 
 favour and fortune. He was made governor of an island in the 
 Archipelago, which he ruled with independent authority, and 
 transmitted to his heirs. The last of these was the preserver 
 of Richard, and their pedigree was carefully preserved. This 
 Arthur had lost his new inheritance, and was a volunteer in the 
 christian army in Palestine. 
 
 Richard on his return to his own country forgot his vow, but 
 he was at length reminded of it by the appearance of Arthur at 
 his coart. He immediately bestoAved upon the exile the heiress 
 and estate of Walney, and erected a magnificent abbey, for men 
 and women, which he endowed with the lordship of Orme. 
 Arthur did not choose to become abbot himself, but he put in 
 his stead a kinsman and friend who had been the companion of 
 his life, and the canons of this foundation required that every 
 future abbot and abbess, should be taken from the Carril family. 
 This institution was completed in 1200. 
 
 According to tradition, the first apostle of this district was 
 St. Ulpha. She was an Armorican princess, who married the 
 British chief, and converted him and his people to the true 
 faith, about the year 350. After her husband's death, she 
 founded a monastery and retired to it with her nine daughters. 
 This house was situated in the Isle of Holioke, which contains 
 within its precincts the remains of the famous old tree, under 
 which according to tradition, the first christian prince was bap- 
 tized, and which has ever since been held in religious venera- 
 tion. This convent continued to subsist, but its demesne had 
 dwindled down to the Isle itself, and the buildings were humble 
 and decayed. A new abbey built and endowed by the first 
 Norman chief rose on its foundations, but St. Ulpha continued 
 to be its patroness, and her legend and divinity still enjoyed the 
 veneration of the monks and nuns. On the restoration of the 
 Carrils, the institution was new modelled, and revived with 
 fresh splendour. 
 
301 
 
 The new institution continued in a flourishing condition till 
 the subversion of religious houses in 1540, a period of 340 years, 
 when the estate was given to the earls of Walney, with all the 
 rights and jurisdictions formerly possessed by the abbots, to- 
 gelher with the title of Orme. The abbey became the family 
 mansion of the new proprietors, undergoing various repairs and 
 alterations from time to time, till 1620, when Edmund Carril 
 Orme, the earl then living, took it down, and erected in its place 
 the magnificent mansion now standing. 
 
 In planning the new house, a religious observance was paid 
 to the limits and distribution of the ancient abbey. The old 
 foundations were anew built upon, but modern splendour and 
 lonvenience were studied without regard to old maxims. In 
 the new house, the hospital, the chapel, and the library or col- 
 lege have pretty nearly the same dimensions, shape and situa- 
 tion with these parts of the ancient building. 
 
 The library and archives of the old monastery are still care- 
 fully preserved in an apartment of the present building. The 
 plan of ttic ancient church was the solid rock, reduced to a 
 level, and is still the floor of the vaults under the present cha- 
 pel. The ancient tombs were hollowed by the chissel, out of 
 the solid rock, and covered bv slabs ; of these slabs, the floor- 
 ing of the chapel became in time almost entirely composed. 
 Names and figures were engraven on these slabs, and the walls 
 of the chapel were adorned with numerous monuments and 
 arms. The ancient chapel was about fifty feet wide, and one 
 hundred and tv.enty in length, dimensions that are still preserv- 
 ed in the present vaults, but the ancient pavement has been 
 sunk thirty feet belo\v its ancient level, so that the present 
 height is forty- five feet. In the new pavement has been 
 wrought tombs, corresponding with the ancient ones, in which 
 the ancient coffins are deposited. This apartment is at present 
 no^more than a cemetery, and is fitted up in a style peculiarly 
 solemn and romantic. It may be denominated Gothic, but is 
 modelled with very great simplicity. It has aU the parts of a 
 Gothic church. 
 
 The nunnery and monastery formed somewhat detached 
 parts of the same building. They had each a peculiar cha- 
 pel. On the scite of the chapel of the nunnery, is erected the 
 
302 
 
 present hall, underneath which there is a vault preserving the 
 shape and dimensiors of the old chapel, except as to height: 
 Avhith, at present, is only thirty feet. It forms a middle aisle, 
 twenty feet wide and seventy-five feet long, and two side aisles, 
 ten feet wide. 
 
 The last builder of Holioke, before he took down the old 
 structure, had the most exact views and plans, and the most 
 copious descriptions formed of the old building. 
 
 The house in town built at the same time, is a mass of build- 
 ing one hundred and seventy-seven feet six inches in length, 
 and one hundred and forty-two feet six inches in greatest 
 breadth. It consists of two principal stories, thirty -two feet in 
 height each, and one basement story, the exterior height of 
 vi'hich is twelve feet. The rooms in the basement story were 
 fifteen feet high, and are appropriated to offices and servants. 
 The two upper stories contain rooms thirty feet high, for the 
 use of the famil} ', 
 
 In the course of near two centuries, the interior furniture 
 and decorations of this house, have undergone many alterations. 
 In the year 1786, a daughter of this family being on the eve of 
 marriage, this house was allotted for her habitation. For this 
 purpose it underwent a thorough repair ; doors, windows and 
 furniture were entirely renewed, and with a splendour and mag- 
 nificence, as well as taste and beauty, no where else to be seen. 
 For forty-five years previous it had been the constant residence 
 of lady Mary Carril, a sister of the present earl, who had been 
 left a widow in her youth. After the death of her husband, on 
 whom she doated, she retired to this house, and here she pass- 
 ed the rest of her life, in domestic privacy. She hung her 
 lord's picture in her little chapel, and whether her daily ori- 
 sons were paid to God or to this image, may be doubted. In 
 the height of her grief for his loss she formed the resolution of 
 never again passing the threshold of this house, and to this re- 
 solution she inflexibly adhered. Her only exercise was walk- 
 ing in her garden ; her only employments within door were mu- 
 sic, in which she was an eminent proficient ; reading, of which 
 she was very fond, and the superintendence of her family, which 
 consisted of many servants, modelled and disciplined after a 
 manner peculiar to herself. She had few occasional visits, ex- 
 
303 
 
 cept from members of her large family, some one female ol 
 whom generally passed a few months in the year. 
 
 Having passed much of her youth in France, she contracted 
 a great fondness for that country. Her steward and house- 
 keeper, an honest and venerable pair, were natives of Picardy. 
 The former had been her husband's valet and favourite domes- 
 tic, the latter was his wife. So great was the lady's attachment 
 to the French language, that her reading was almost entirely 
 confined to it. Her library formed a very large collection of 
 French books, and these consisted almost wholly of memoirs 
 and histories of the age of Henry IV. She had conceived a 
 whimsical preference for the manners and actions of that period, 
 both in France and England, but especially in the former, and 
 her collections were probably more complete and extensive than 
 any elsewhere to be found. 
 
 She enjoyed excellent health, with a temper naturally be- 
 nign, and her life quietly closed on the seventy-first anniversa- 
 ry of her birth, in the chamber out of which she had never 
 passed a night, for forty-five years. 
 
 She had been a beautiful, gay, and volatile girl. She had 
 married her cousin, Valentine Orme, a youth as handsome, and 
 debonnair as herself. This alliance took place when she w^as 
 eighteen years of age, in the year 1733. She and her husband 
 spent the eight years of her marriage, in all the gayeties of 
 Paris, into which she entered with all imaginable zeal and 
 spirit, not without some imputations on her prudence, but 
 without any on her virtue. Though rash and thoughtless, her 
 virtue and attachment to her husband, were never impeached. 
 Her levity, however, was at length productive of fatal conse- 
 quences. One evening she and a companion, thoughtless as 
 herself, disguised themselves in male attire, and went to visit 
 a famous conjurer. A young man who had previously made 
 love to her, but whose addresses had been repulsed with scorn 
 and indignation, accidentally met and recognized her in the con- 
 jurer's antichamber. He instantly formed a plan in conse- 
 quence of which, she was decoved into an obscure house, and 
 suffered every insult but the last, from the resentment of the 
 lover. It appears that he meant not any violence to her per- 
 
304 
 
 son, but merely to revenge by all manner of freedoms of speech, 
 the treatment he had received from her. 
 
 The means by which he effected his purpose was this. He 
 had come to the conjurer's on foot, with a brother who was a 
 boy. He had observed the two ladies come out of a fiacre, 
 and in spite of their disguise, recognized them. While they 
 were detained within the house, he made a bargain with their 
 coachman : put his brother into the coach, and taught him 
 the part he was to act. The ladies were tired of their adven- 
 ture before it was accomplished by a conference with th^ 
 wizard. They struggled through the croud to reach theii 
 coach. By the marquis's contrivance, lady Mary reached the 
 carriage first, and threw herself hastily into it. Here she found 
 the marquis's brother, who seen indistinctly by lamp light, 
 she mistook for her companion. The coach with the mar- 
 quis behind it drove off, and stopping in a dark and narrow' 
 street, the lady was hurried into a strange house. Her terrors 
 were so great, on discovering her situation, that her ravisher 
 became alarmed in his turn, and suffered her after some time 
 to return home. She did not reach her own house before her 
 husband had taken an alarm at her absence. He had set on 
 foot a diligent search after her, but in the midst of his fears 
 and deliberations she arrived. The distress and disorder in 
 which she appeared, required some explanation. This she 
 unwarily gave. Next day the marquis and her husband met, 
 upon a challenge given by the latter. The husband was 
 killed upon the spot, and his opponent mortally wounded. 
 
 Lady Mary's companion in this frolic, was in reality in 
 league with the marquis, and had persuaded her unfortunate 
 friend to undertake this rash adventure at his instigation. This 
 discovery by no means blunted the edge of that grief and re- 
 morse which this catastrophe awakened in her bosom. Her cha- 
 racter now underwent a total change, and the rest of her life 
 was spent in the manner already described. 
 
 The direction which her studious disposition took, was owing 
 to the recollection that her husband's favourite hook, almost 
 the only one that he read, was the secret history of D'Aubigne. 
 During his life, neither were distinguished by a passion for 
 reading, and D'Aubigne's memoirs had gained Mr. Orme's 
 
305 
 
 attention merely in the leisure occasioned by a fit of sicknesi. 
 He had sent a servant to an eminent bookseller to purchase the 
 first novel that came to hand, and this was the work brought 
 back. With strong minds and ardent curiosity, this youthful 
 pair had given up their lives to gayety and dissipation, and 
 this volume was now valued by the lady merelj' as a relick of 
 her husband. The perusal of it, however, naturallv excited 
 inquiries which her leisure and seclusion from the world ena- 
 bled her to gratify, and she thus became a very great proficient 
 in the history and literature of Daubigne's age. This single 
 volume gradually multiplied into a very large library, the for- 
 mation and study of which became the great solace and amuse- 
 ment of her life. She died witliout issue. 
 
 Lady Mary had a twin sister, Elizabeth. She was naturally 
 of a sober thoughtful turn, and displayed a character and man- 
 ners so little compatible with her sister's, that there never was 
 much cordiality or intercourse between them. 
 
 The Devonshire Ormes had only two representatives, both 
 sons, Valentine and Ra}mond. There was five years differ- 
 ence in their ages, and in their characters there was a diversity 
 somewhat similar to that which existed between their cousins. 
 Valentine the eldest, was gay and luxurious ; Raymond the 
 youngest was grave and serious. The latter being a younger 
 brother, turned his thoughts to a profession ; he chose the 
 pulpit, and in due time became rector of Ormesbv, an office 
 whose duties he performed with the utmost punctuality. The 
 brother on his accession to his paternal inheritance, married 
 lady Marv, and carried her to Paris, leaving to Ra\ mond the 
 management of the temporal as well as spiritual concerns of his 
 estate. 
 
 The Orme family had been for so many years in the habit of 
 intermarrying among themselves, that it became a kind of a 
 law, a fixed obligation to do so. The first violation of this 
 rule, occurring for a century and a half, had taken place with 
 regard to Miss Tenbrook. The husband of Miss Tenbrook, 
 was the only lineal representative of the Cumberland branch, 
 and the Devonshire branch happened to terminate about the 
 same time, in a female. A union between these was claimed 
 by the friends on both sides, a thing of course. It was indeed 
 
 39 
 
306 
 
 particularly recommended by the total union of houses and 
 estates which would have followed a marriage between the heir 
 of one branch and the heiress of the other, in the present case. 
 The young man however thought proper to choose another 
 partner, and the young lady being left mistress of her own 
 conduct by the death of her father Sir Osmond Orme, and her 
 guardian, chose a youth of nameless parentage, whom her fa- 
 ther had patronized and educated. In this case however, the 
 breach of hereditary rules was rather nominal than real, for 
 the fortunate youth was suspected, with some reason, to be the 
 nephew of his patron, and consequently cousin to his patron's 
 daughter. His patron had a younger brother, left by their fa- 
 ther's will wholly dependant upon him. This brother had mor- 
 tally offended Sir Osmond by marrying out of the family pale, 
 and a woman of inferior rank. The offender had retired with 
 his wife to a foreign country, and both of them had died in po- 
 verty and misery, all applications to Sir Osmond for relief be- 
 ing ineffectual. It is supposed that the exile left an infant 
 child at his death, whom he had ordered his nurse to carry to 
 Sir Osmond with a letter written in his dying hours. Sir Os- 
 mond received this letter, provided for the nurture and educa- 
 tion of the child, but had never admitted him to the rights of a 
 kinsman ; on the contrary, the nurse w^as directed to call the 
 child her own. The Ind accordingly went by her name, which 
 was Walter ; proper care was taken of the child's instruction. 
 He received a liberal education, and being of a serious turn, 
 /in due season took orders. He was presented with the Recto- 
 ry of Ormsby, and finally married the heiress of his patron. 
 
 Raymond, as we have already said, copied his father's ex- 
 ample, assumed the gown, acquired the i*ectory of Ormesby, 
 married his cousin Elizabeth of Orme, and by the death of his 
 elder brother in 1741, acquired full possession of the title and 
 estate. 
 
 This marriage was productive of four children, the youngest 
 of whom was a son born in 1 750, The son only lived to reach 
 maturity, and was married to the only daughter of his mother's 
 youngest sister Jane, in 1774. The only fruit of this marriage 
 was a son, born in 1775, and now the heir apparent of the fa- 
 
. 307 
 
 inily of Orme, all their honours and estates in Cumberland and 
 Devonshire. 
 
 Lady Jane Carril was the youngest daughter of earl Vincent 
 and Miss Tenbrook. She had wit and beauty like her sisters, 
 hut licr destiny was widely different from theirs. Her father 
 was far from desirous that his children should follow his own 
 example in matrimony. His family pride had yielded to his 
 passion in his own choice, but his feelings could not admit a 
 similar excuse for the deviation of his children. His sons gave 
 him no reason for regret or displeasure on this score» for none 
 of them married. His two eldest daughters married agreeably 
 to his wishes, but the younger was not quite so obsequious. 
 Indeed a match equally suitable for her was impossible, since 
 the two Devonshire Ormes were already given to her sisters, 
 and the name was confined to her own family and theirs, and 
 the tie of kindred between them and the rest of mankind was 
 faint and remote. With regard to her therefore, should she 
 marry at all, there seemed to be a necessity of disregarding the 
 established rule. Her father was desirous of avoiding this 
 dilemma by keeping her unmarried altogether. This expedi- 
 ent, her ardent and impetuous character made very hazardous. 
 She loved society and pleasure, and could not be prevented from 
 mixing much with the world. She however remained single to 
 the age of twent}'-six, some years after her father's death, when 
 with the reluctant consent of her brothers, she married the son 
 of the count of Florae, in 174G. 
 
 The Martils, counts of Florae, were among the oldest and 
 wealthiest nobility of France. This young man was the only 
 heir of the count then living. He had gone early into the ar- 
 my, had distinguished himself greatly in the wars of the times, 
 became colonel of a regiment, and was made prisoner after 
 fighting desperately and receiving many dangerous wounds at 
 the battle of Dettingen. He was brought to England, but was 
 suffered to go at large in the kingdom, till formally exchanged. 
 Between the Ormes and Martils, there had formerly taken 
 place a family alliance, and a sort of kindred or relationship 
 was muiually acknowledged between them. The old count 
 recommended his son to the regard of the Ormes, and they 
 received him among them as a brother. He quickly fell in 
 
308 
 
 love with Jane, who returned his passion, and the approbatioa 
 of all parties being gained, they were married. She accompa- 
 nied him to France, and went to reside at Florae. The hus- 
 band, who was as volatile as he was ardent, soon lost all in- 
 ducement to make long stays at home. When not in military 
 service, he spent his time chiefly for four or five succeeding 
 years in travelling. During this time, however, his wife bore 
 three children. 
 
 In the year 1754, her husband, by the death of his father 
 count of Florae, received a wound in prosecuting an affair of 
 love in Italy. This wound, though not mortal, disabled him 
 ever after from moving without assistance. With an heart 
 soured by this disaster he reluctantly returned to his paternal 
 domain. His temper naturally impatient and irrascible was 
 rendered still more infirm by the misery of his present situa- 
 tion, and b}' a temper in his lady not much unlike his own : 
 they quarrelled, and their dissensions rose at length to such an 
 height, that he treated her with brutal violence. Being a wo- 
 man of great spirit and address, she formed the resolution of 
 escaping into England. By the aid of two English servants, 
 she finally surmounted every difficulty, and reached England 
 in safety with her two youngest children, a son and a daughter. 
 She was received and protected by her brothers, and would 
 never listen to any terms of reconciliation with her husband, 
 who frequently invited her back, nor gave up his children. 
 
 Her two children grew up. The daughter Louisa was mar- 
 ried in irr4, to the only son of the Devonshire Ormes, and 
 was happy. The two eldest sons, Philibert and Bertrand, re- 
 mained with their father. They proved excellent men, but so 
 deep w^as the resentment of their mother against her husband 
 that she involved in a common malediction all who adhered to 
 him. Her own sons she hated for living amicably with their 
 father, and m ould not suffer the children she brought with her 
 to have any intercourse with their kinsmen in France. 
 
 Tlie old count died in 1761. The sons divided the patri- 
 mony between them, and lived in the most affectionate harmo- 
 ny. They had spent their time in improving their estates, and 
 extending happiness to all within their reach. They had frequent- 
 ly visited England, but their mother could never be persuaded 
 
309 
 
 even to see them. They had been affectionately recognized 
 and treated by their uncles. 
 
 The third son had been named Lewis, after his father ; but 
 the mother's indignation was so strong, that after her escape 
 she changed it to Walter. Indeed, she herself renounced the 
 name of Martil, and resumed that of Carril, as well as be- 
 stowed it upon her children. 
 
 Philibert and Bertrand were at first friendly to the revolu- 
 tion in 1788, but their sentiments soon changed with events. 
 They remained however, in France, as long as there was sufety 
 in a quiet and neutral department. At length they narrowly 
 escaped judicial murder under Robespierre, and took refuge in 
 England, where they still remained (in 1803.) They are be- 
 tween forty-nine and fifty years of age. 
 
 Walter was of an innocent and amiable character, but his 
 capacity was so slender that he was overlooked and almost dis- 
 pised by his relations. He was almost wholly without curiosi- 
 ty or ambition, and complied with his mother's whims and 
 caprices through facility and cowardice more than through 
 judgment or principle. She passed her life at a seat in Hamp- 
 shire, and kept this son constantly by her side. He was brought 
 up in ignorance and idleness, doing nothing but hunting in 
 fine weather, and playing the fiddle in foul. A benign apathy 
 and total indifference to all those objects which engage the de- 
 sires of ingenious minds were his chief characteristics. Being 
 always treated by his mother as a child, he grew up to the age of 
 twenty-five as helpless as an infant. His uncles had endeavour- 
 ed ineffectually to tear him away from his mother, and put him 
 into a situation where his faculties might stand a chance of be- 
 ing awakened. She would not let him go. An healthful con- 
 stitution and a life of idleness naturally disposed him towards 
 the sex, but he had neither sense nor roguery enough to pur- 
 sue any complicated intrigue. Among the females of the fa- 
 mily and neighbourhood there were many who were ready to 
 encourage his advances without subjecting him to any laborious 
 artifices or irksome conditions. The mother's notions on this 
 head were by no means extremely punctilious. Her ideas of 
 the exaltation of her own family were such, that nobody, she 
 thought, was worthy of matrimonial alliance with it v/ho was 
 
31U 
 
 not sprung from kings : and no woman ol" humble rank was 
 degraded even by illicit intimacies with the offspring of a Mar- 
 til and an Orme. The greatest misfortune she dreaded Avas 
 her son's marrying beneath himself, or so as to produce his se- 
 paration from her. She saw no other mode of preventing this 
 calamity but by winking at his connections with her own do- 
 mestics, or with neighbouring cottagers. We may easilv ima- 
 gine how much these maxims of the mother, and this conduct in 
 the son, contributed to narrow his views, and deprave his taste. 
 Yet the lady possessed great abilities and many virtues. In 
 her treatment of her servants and dependants, she was wise 
 and beneficent. Her conversation was rational and brilliant, 
 and her deportment to her neighbours full of obliging-ness and 
 courtesy. It was only in the relation of wife and mother that 
 she was blameable. Her conduct in these relations, glaring 
 and enormous as it was, her ingenuity found it easy to justify to 
 herself, and to palliate to others. 
 
 Walter had never been sent to any school or to college. A 
 few years of his childhood were spent under the care of a do- 
 mestic tutor, who was sufficiently disposed to perform bis duty 
 had the mother permitted. Siie assumed an equal share of 
 attention to his progress, intermeddled with all the tutor's mea- 
 sures, would not allow him to con a lesson which had not 
 received her previous sanction, and all chiding and punishment 
 was her exclusive province. The tutor was a man of great 
 mildness and forbearance, but his patience would not have 
 sustained so severe a persecution, had he not been bound by 
 contract to this service. 
 
 The lady had procured and dismissed no less than four 
 tutors for her son in the course of three years. She either 
 found the preceptor indignant at the controul she assumed, or 
 if compliant and submissive, he was disqualified by indolence 
 or incapacity. After getting rid of the fourth, she almost 
 despaired of supplying his place. She wrote to her brother-in- 
 law of Ormes))y to find her, if possible, a new candidate for 
 this arduous ofiice. 
 
 'i'he rector of Ormesby had a brother, James Boyle, a man 
 of learning, piety and virtue, who had been educated for the 
 church, but was at this time without provision. He had lately 
 
311 
 
 lost a wife who had died in child birth of her only daughter. 
 The motherless infant had been taken from the parent by the 
 rector of Ormesby, and the father was at this time in search of 
 some means of decent subsistence for himself and his deceased 
 wife's sister, a worthy woman, entirely dependant upon him. 
 He embraced the offer of this tutoi-ship, of which the wages 
 were very liberal. With this stipend he settled his sister-in- 
 law and child in an agreeable abode in Salisbury, and his regard 
 formed his principal inducement for continuing in his new of- 
 fice, notwithstanding its inconveniences. 
 
 Lady Jane had penetration enough to discern that the new 
 tutor was more likely to be dissatisfied with her than she with 
 him. She therefore offered him a perpetual annuity of three 
 hundred pounds, provided he would stay with her son seven 
 years. The offer was accepted. The seven years servitude 
 was faithfully performed. At the end of this period, he joined 
 his sister, whom he then married, and enjoyed the leisure and 
 independance he had thus dearly purchased, like a man of true 
 wisdom. 
 
 Mr. Boyle had not succeeded in making the lad ambitious or 
 inquisitive, but he extorted from the mother a warm esteem, 
 and from the boy all the affection and gratitude he was capable 
 of feeling. Mr. Boyle was descended of an ancient and respec- 
 table family in Wiltshire, who had formerly been proprietors 
 of the very estate which lady Jane occupied. His father had 
 been profligate and improvident, and his estate, being mortgag- 
 ed to Tenbrook, came afterwards b)- forfeiture into the hands 
 of his heirs. The two children of the mortgager were taken 
 at his death by a kinsman, a dean of Exeter, and brought up 
 to the church. The eldest brother obtained the living of 
 Ormesby, and the younger was situated as has already been 
 described. 
 
 This respectable pedigree, together with manners suitable to 
 it, was no small recommendation to the favour and respect of 
 lady Jane. After the tutor was dismissed, she still continued 
 to value the society of the friend, and Mr. and Mrs. Boyle, to- 
 gether with their daughter, were entertained at Holioke every 
 summer for many years with great cordiality. Meanwhile 
 
3\2 
 
 Louisa Boyle grew up into a charming and accomplished wo- 
 man, and lady Jane became remarkably fond of her. 
 
 Louisa Martil, notwithstanding all her merits, had never ob- 
 tained an equal share with her brother in her mother's favour. 
 This partiality being observed by her aunt Elizabeth, and that 
 lady having no daughter of her own, she was the more desirous to 
 get possession of her niece, especially as the familv system point- 
 ed her out as the only eligible consoit of her son. She easily 
 prevailed with the mother to part with her, and very little in- 
 tercourse ever afterwards took place between them. The aunt's 
 notions on the subject of female education were widely differ- 
 ent from the wild, chimerical and dangerous maxims of the 
 mother, and this circumstance made the interval between them 
 still wider. 
 
 During the frequent visits of the Boyles at Holioke some in- 
 tercourse could not fail to take place between the young gentle- 
 man and the young lady. The habits of the former, without 
 being vicious or debauched, were so low, and his timidity and 
 disrelish for any thing polite or intellectual were so great, that 
 the fair visitant was regarded with terror and suspicion. He 
 carefully avoided any conversation with her, and found the 
 company of the Kate's and Molly's of the laundry and the cot- 
 tage far more congenial to his taste. Time seemed only to con- 
 firm their mutual dislike and reserve ; and the mother was en- 
 couraged by these circumstances to solicit the visits of Miss 
 Boyle. There were many points in Miss Boyle's character pe- 
 cidiarly fitted to endear her company to lady Jane, and the con- 
 duct of the latter was, in this particular case, equall}' adapted 
 to excite the esteem and affection of her guest. Hence she be- 
 came almost a settled i*esident at Holioke. 
 
 So idle a life as Walter led, seconded by youth and health, 
 made love, if his passion for the sex might be called by that 
 name, his chief business. The zest which springs from rarity 
 was necessary to keep his ardours alive, and from the age of 
 eighteen to twenty-five he was engaged in a succession of 
 amours, whose casual difficulties, obstacles, discoveries and re- 
 volutions kept his life from stagnation, and gave exercise to all 
 the talents he possessed. During this period, he had been suc- 
 cessively connected with six females ; all the daughters of his 
 
313 
 
 mother's tenants, whose acquiescence or connivance in the se- 
 duction of their children was compensated bv substantial bene- 
 fits and indulgences received from the steward. Hitherto 
 these intrigues had been attended with no tragical or disas- 
 trous event, but now an incident occurred of" a trulv shocking 
 nature. The youth had obtained the favours of a spirited girl, 
 by a series of long attentions and arduous services, but no 
 sooner had he accomplished his end, than as usual his passion 
 abated, and the appearance of a new face in the parish caused 
 him to desert her altogether. 
 
 This new face chanced to be connected with an honest mind ; 
 and both the girl and her parents were too proud to listen to 
 his overtures. The youth had hitherto been totally unaccus- 
 tomed to these obstacles. His indignation, as well as his 
 love, was awakened by such sturdy opposition. His mother 
 was weak enough to enter in some degree, into his resent- 
 ments, and the honest farmer did not escape some acts of op- 
 pression. His clamours at such treatment were loud, and hejpre- 
 pared to remove to another country. The rage of the girl 
 lately deserted, arose to such a pitch that she poisoned her 
 imaginary rival, together with her father and mother. 
 
 This horrible catastrophe, including the public trial and 
 execution of the murderer, reflected infinite discredit both on 
 the son and mother. It was considered as the natural conse- 
 quence of the strange maxims of education which the latter 
 adopted. In this calamity, the company and consolation of 
 Miss Boyle was prized by lady Jane at its true value. The 
 son's passion for the murdered girl was now combined with re- 
 morse, and a total change took place in his deportment. He 
 became silent, melancholy, gave up his customary out door 
 amusement, and spent most of his time at home. In this 
 state of things, a little more intercourse took place between 
 him and Miss Boyle. The awe with which the elegance and 
 dignity of her deportment and conversation, had formerly in- 
 spired him, was not lessened, but it did not, as formerly, breed 
 dislike or aversion. On the contrary, he began to regard 
 himself and his own deficiencies with contempt and sorrow. 
 
 40 
 
3H 
 
 Had these feelings been properly understood and encouraged 
 by the mother, the two females might have possibly wrought a 
 total change in their pupil's character. The youth was remarka- 
 bly handsome. The influence of that genuine passion which 
 he now began to feel called forth sentiments and wishes whose 
 existence had hitherto been unsuspected. The youtig lady 
 could hardly fail of being aflfected by these appearances, and 
 the objections which her judgment might have made to 
 such a partner, might have yielded to the pleadings of affec- 
 tion and of interest. Considering all circumstances, Walter's 
 collateral relations would not have withholden their assent. 
 The mother, however, with her usual perverseness, no sooner 
 suspected the tendency of her son's feelings, than she fell into 
 a rage which knew no bounds. The visitant in consequence, 
 immediately left the house, and her father being dead, return- 
 ed to live with her mother at Salisbury. 
 
 Walter took this separation so much to heart that he fell 
 sick, and the mother frightened at length out of all her scru- 
 ples, condescended to implore the return of the young lady. 
 Many efforts and many applications were necessary before her 
 reluctance to return was subdued. At length, her delicacy 
 being fully satisfied by the amplest apologies and concessions, 
 she returned, and married the desponding lover. 
 
 As soon as the mother's apprehensions about the life of her 
 son were removed, she insensibly relapsed into old habits and 
 prejudices. The son, in like manner, having nothing further 
 to hope, returned to his ancient careless and indolent life. 
 All the late indications of a change in his character, disap- 
 peared. His gun and his dog became, once more, his favou- 
 rite companions. The vulgar charms and awkward coquetry 
 of milk maids began to acquire their customary power over 
 him. Every day disclosed some new blemish in his character, 
 some vulgarity in his sentiments and habits, and the regard of 
 his wife, which might, in different circumstances, have ri- 
 pened into love, was soon entirely supplanted by indignatioH 
 and contempt. Her disappointment was heightened by discover- 
 ing that the sickness, which had frightened his mother, 
 and herself, had been feigned for the purpose, and this dis- 
 covery, being likewise made by his mother, contributed to 
 
315. 
 
 make her tyranny more insupportable. In fine, she thought 
 herself obliged to separate from them both. She returned, 
 with two infant daughters, twins, to her mother. Her mother 
 had a sister who lived in Philadelphia ; who had been left a 
 widow and childless, and had for a long time solicited a visit 
 from Mrs. Boyle. This visit was now paid : Mrs. Boyle, her 
 daughter and infants embarked for America, where they arriv- 
 ed in safety. 
 
 The countess of Florae had displeased and offended her re- 
 lations by every part of her conduct. Her marriage with a 
 Frenchman ; her quarrel with him, in which they were inclin- 
 ed to attribute at least half the fault to herself; her elopement 
 to England ; her obstinate and unappeasible resentment to- 
 wards the count, her hatred of her own children on account 
 of their adherence to their father : and above all the ruinous 
 system she adopted with regard to Walter, all contributed to 
 alienate her brothers and sisters from her. They had been for- 
 tunate enough to wrest her daughter from her, and made seve- 
 ral attempts in conjunction with his father, to tear Walter 
 awav from her before he should be irretrievably ruined. The 
 poor l:idy made strenuous opposition to all these attempts, and 
 to keep possession of the boy, cost her innumerable precau- 
 tions and anxieties. 
 
 She was extremely jealous of her independence, would 
 hearken to no brotherly or sisterly admonition or remonstrance, 
 treating them all as impertinent or tyrannical meddlers. They 
 always, however, cherished a sincere desire for her welfare ; 
 they contributed to induce Mr. Boyle to accept the office of 
 tutor, and his daughter to marry their nephew. They admit- 
 ted that she had good reason afterwards to separate ; they con- 
 doled with her, and offered her and her children an honourable 
 asylum among themselves. When she persisted contrary to 
 their wishes, in going to America, they offered her all the com- 
 forts that money could afford, and frequently, when the revolu- 
 tionary war commenced, solicited her to return. 
 
 T^e fair exile was a character somewhat whimsical. Her at- 
 tachment to her father's widow was extreme. She followed her, 
 with cheerfulness to the new world. She had suffered so much 
 from the pride of her mother-in-law, and had so much reason 
 
316 
 
 to consider family pndc as more or less characteristic of the 
 whole race of the Ormes, that she conceived her own happi- 
 ne'-.s, and that of her children more certainly promoted by a 
 total separation from them. In these sentiments she endea- 
 voured to bring up her daughters, and took every opportunity 
 of instilling into their young minds, a contempt of the pomp, 
 and horror of the servitude connected with rank. Still how- 
 ever, she maintained a friendly correspondence with her un- 
 cles, and disdained not the little presents and remembrances 
 they sent her. 
 
 This lady died in 1785, eleven years after her exile, and 
 when her daughters were twelve years old, she consigned them 
 to the guardianship of her mother and of Mr. Sale, a respec- 
 table citizen of Philadelphia. She left them considerable pro- 
 perty, and h,tr dying wish, expressed in a letter written for the 
 use of her daughters when they should arrive at an age suita- 
 ble for understanding it. This letter contained imperfect allu- 
 sions to her matrimonial history, exhortations to her daugh- 
 ters to remain forever in their present country ; to be satisfied 
 with the patrimony she had left them, nor seek to revive any 
 intercourse with their European relations. 
 
 Mrs. Boyle cherished the same sentiments respecting the fu- 
 ture destiny of her grand daughters. She was strengthened in 
 these sentiments, by circumstances peculiar to herself. She 
 herself had no personal connection with the Ormes, and every 
 circumstance that should tend to reunite her girls to their pa- 
 ternal stock, would, in some degree, tend to dissever them 
 from her. She therefore favoured the separation which al- 
 ready existed between them. She returned no answers to the 
 letters which still continued to be written to her. 
 
 Walter, after the departure of his wife, sunk into habits still 
 lower than ever. He finally became a sot, and died before his 
 wife, a martyr to maternal folly. The old lady indulged the 
 most extravagant affliction at his death. She had his corpse 
 embalmed and placed in a coffin, which she kept constantly in 
 her chamber. jMany other extravagant tokens she gave of 
 her attachment ; some of which almost put her intellects into 
 question. 
 
k 
 
 517 
 
 These freaks occupied her time and her imagination for a 
 while. At length, her thoughts turned upon her son's chil- 
 dren. To these she imagined she had an unquestionable 
 right, and was determined to exert it. 
 
 She had never been made acquainted with the real destinj' 
 of her grand children. She was merely assured that they had 
 left the kingdom with their mother. The secret was known to 
 her brothers and sisters, but they very wisely withheld it from 
 her. She made use of many expedients to obtain this desira- 
 ble information, but all her endeavours were, for a long time, 
 unsuccessful. 
 
 Her daughter Louisa resided with her aunt of Orme, Sud- 
 leigh, till she and her cousin of that family arrived at a mar- 
 riageable age, when they Avere united in 1771. This pair was 
 the only representatives of the Orme family. The two girls in 
 America were equally allied, and consequently became objects 
 of great importance. An importance heightened by the cir- 
 cumstance of this marriage being productive only of two sons 
 who survived their infancy. The American girls naturally oc- 
 curred as suitable wives for these sons. Mrs. Boyle declining to 
 I'eturn any answers to their letters written after her daughter's 
 death, left them in total uncertainty respecting even the exist- 
 ence of the exiles, and several years elapsed without any inter- 
 course between them. 
 
 Meanwhile the two Ormes of Sudley, Arthur and Herbert, 
 grew up with all the advantages of education and example. 
 They were considered, especially the eldest, and most v.'orthy, 
 as the heirs of the immense fortunes of their family. They 
 were two virtuous and noble youths, whose sentiments and 
 conduct in all respects gavfe entire satisfaction to their friends. 
 Their marriage became of course an object of great importance 
 to their friends. The youngest was sufficiently disposed to 
 marry, but the eldest Avas averse to it. They could not fail 
 to be made early acquainted with the history of their family, 
 and were very desirous of recovering and restoring them to 
 their English relations. 
 
 Herbert was of a much more adventurous and roving spirit 
 than his brother. His curiosity led him rather to converse with 
 men than with books. After travelling through Europe, he 
 
318 
 
 obtained leave to visit the new states in America, and deter- 
 mined to find out, if it were possible, his cousins, and persuade 
 them to return with him. 
 
 After their mother's death Mary and Eliza continued to re- 
 side with their grandmother in the utmost privacy, finding em- 
 ployment and amusement in domestic studies and vocations. 
 Sale, their mother's friend and their own protector, had an only 
 son, a sober and exemplary 5'outh, whom he brought up a mer- 
 chant. He was extremely anxious to marry this son to one of 
 the daughters, and in April 1796 an engagement took place be- 
 tween this young man and Mary Orme. Immediatelv after 
 he took a voyage to Holland to settle some business for his 
 father. 
 
 In the next month Herbert Orme arrived in Philadelphia. 
 He soon discovered his cousins. He found them eminently 
 beautiful and accomplished, and soon prevailed upon Elizabeth 
 to give him her heart and hand. Mrs. Boyle was obliged to 
 consent to this alliance. She was now old, upwards of sixty, 
 and very infirm. All overtures to return home with her daugh- 
 ters were rejected. Mary was bound to remain where she was 
 till the return of Sale. The old lady was obliged to be 
 contented with the company of Mary, who parted with her 
 beloved sister in the hope of meeting her again, when her 
 grandmother's death, and the arrangements of Sale would per- 
 mit. 
 
 The two sisters had passed all their previous lives together, 
 and this parting was an inexhaustible calamity to both of them. 
 However it took place in October 1 796. Eliza and her hus- 
 band were received with rapture by the Ormes. Holwell was no 
 suitable abode during the life of lady Jane, but the hall in Lon- 
 don having become vacant by the death of lady Mary, was pre- 
 pared for their accommodation. An extensive correspondence 
 was kept up between the sisters, and all the transactions of each 
 party communicated to the other, 
 
 Sale's return had been fixed for the beginning of the ensuing 
 year, 1 797, but accidents occurred to prolong his absence for 
 many months beyond the assigned period. In October 1797 
 an accidental interview took place between Mary and Coul- 
 thurst, near the country residence of the former, where the lat- 
 
319 
 
 ter had retired to avoid yellow fever. This acquaintance ri- 
 pened into intimiacy, which continued after their return for 
 the winter to the city, in November. This acquaintance was 
 assiduously cultivated during that winter and the ensuing 
 summer. It was interrupted by the return of Sale in Septem- 
 ber 1798, when his marriage with Mary took place. He re- 
 mained at home, however, but a few months, sailing to the 
 West Indies in May 1799» where he died in August follow- 
 ing. 
 
 Mary's marriage with Sale had been dictated by study rather 
 than by inclination. His death left her at liberty at the age of 
 twenty-five, to form a new and more agreeable alliance. Coul- 
 thurst was the choice of her heart, but there were many obsta- 
 cles to the indulgence of this preference. 
 
 Lady Jane, at her death in August 1799, at the age of eigh- 
 ty-one, left her estate to her two grand-daughters in America. 
 Just before her death her friends had given her the information 
 respecting the place of their exile, which she had so long sought. 
 By this will INIary and Elizabeth became copartners of three 
 thousand pounds a year, on condition that within four years 
 after her death they both made their appearance in England, 
 before her executors, with sufficient proof of their identity. In 
 case of their death or either of them not appearing as directed, 
 the whole was devised to Jacob Folks, an attorney of* Salisbur}', 
 who had formerly been her steward. 
 
 Holwell was a very noble patrimony of 7000 acres. It had 
 many claims besides its value in a pecuniary point of view, to 
 the affection of the Carril's. It was the only landed property 
 brought into the family by Miss Tenbrook. It was there that 
 she passed a good deal of her time, and where several of her 
 children were born, and passed the delightful hours of infan- 
 cy. It was the ancient property of the lioyle's, the birth 
 place of these two representatives of the family : its ancient 
 church contained the tombs of their remotest ancestors, and 
 many portraits and literary relicks of them still remained in 
 the library and gallery which belonged to it. AH these consi- 
 derations naturally inspired both the sisters with a strong desire 
 of fulfilling the conditions of their grandmother's will. 
 
320 
 
 The only obstacle to this voyage was Mary's regard to: 
 Coulthurst, for the grandmother consented to accompany her to 
 England. To take Coulthurst with her as her husband was 
 forbidden by the terms of the will, which directed that the 
 property of either should expire with her marriage with any 
 
 but a Carrel, and in such case the whole should go to the 
 other, and her heirs. 
 
 Arthur, when he became acquainted with his brother's wife, 
 and was assured that the sister who remained behind, was her 
 equal in mind and person, easily relinquished his aversion to 
 matrimony, and was exceedingly willing to fulfil the wishes 
 of his family in maiTving his kinswoman : thus there was a new 
 motive for Elizabeth's desiring her sister's presence, a motive 
 which operated in a contrary direction with respect to Mary. 
 
 Elizabeth was informed of the death of Sale, nearly at the 
 same time with the decease of her grandmother. This event 
 which opened a way for Pvlary's entrance not only into her pa- 
 trimony, but into her father's family, added new ardour to 
 Elizabeth's importunities for her sister's return. 
 
 A servant of Herbert Orme, was commissioned to carry 
 these recalling letters into America, and to accompany Mary to 
 Europe. This person arrived in Philadelphia in November 
 179y, and having business to transact in the southern states for 
 his master, it was ordered that he should return to Philadelphia 
 in the spring, and from thence, if Mary was willing, embark 
 with her for Europe. She had thus an interval of four or five 
 months in which to make up her resolution. 
 
 It V. as at first agreed between Mary and Coulthurst that the 
 former should return to her sister alone ; and that, after having 
 obtained possession of Holwell, she should endeavour to recon- 
 cile her family to her marriage with Coulthurst, and having 
 done this he should follow her. If she could not succeed in 
 this, she was to exert her liberty as a free agent and return to 
 America, or be joined by him in England. Her present little 
 patrimony was sufficient for their frugal maintenance. They 
 afterwards concluded to secure themselves against the possi- 
 bility of change, by the ceremony of marriage, which was se- 
 cretly performed. After a while all restraints to their matri- 
 monial intercouroc were laid aside, and it was finally determin- 
 
321 
 
 ed that the lady should go to England alone, and that her subse- 
 quent conduct as to concealing or avowing her marriage, and 
 staying or returning to America, should be made to depend on 
 circumstances. 
 
 She sailed for Liverpool in May 1800. She received a joy- 
 ful welcome from her sister and friends in England in July fol- 
 lowing. There was no personal circumstance which compelled 
 her to avow her marriage, and her sister and brother-in-law 
 and Arthur himself to whom the marriage was, after a time, 
 disclosed, persuaded her to conceal it from the rest of her 
 famil)^ 
 
 The earl of Orme, the head of this family, was now in his 
 ninety-fifth year. Till within the last three years he had en- 
 joyed extraordinaiy health and strength, but at that period the 
 latter began rapidly to decline. His limbs became so weak as 
 to be scarcely able to support him, his appetite declined, and 
 every thing threatened a rapid but gradual and painless decay 
 of nature. His mental faculties, however, and his senses, were 
 unimpaired, and he continued in the enjoyment of every intel- 
 lectual exercise as formerly. In this situation he devolved 
 many of his cares upon his two nephews, on whose vigorous 
 age and excellent character he reflected with extreme satisfac- 
 tion. The perpetuation of his race by the marriage of his two 
 nephews with his two nieces, was a darling project with him, 
 and the only one that remained to render the inevitable hour 
 pleasant and desirable. 
 
 The marriage of Herbert with Elizabeth afforded as high 
 pleasure to the old man as to the parties themselves. The in- 
 telligence that Mary was engaged to a native of America, wa» 
 a source of the deepest vexation. The news of the death of 
 her husband revived all his hopes, and her return to England 
 was solicited by a letter under his own hand, in the most earn- 
 est terms. When she returned, she met the most gracious and 
 paternal reception from him, and all her family loaded her with 
 tokens of esteem and affection. Arthur speedily laid himself 
 at her feet, but was, of course, rejected. The cause of this re- 
 jection, though deeply regretted by him, did not subdue his 
 generosity. He was still desirous of keeping her in her native 
 country, and persuaded her to make her marriage a secret from 
 
 41 
 
322 
 
 his mother and his uticlc, while the latter lived, and till the for- 
 mer could be gradually reconciled to it. These were her mo- 
 tives for remaining in England, and deferring her husband's 
 voyage till the year 1804, when the death of the earl removed 
 the impediment. The new earl, added to her letters his own 
 compliments and invitations, and Coulthurst embarked in 
 August 1804 for England. He had a long voyage ot three 
 months, and was shipwrecked on the southern coast of Ireland. 
 The crew and passengers escaped only with their lives, and 
 Coulthurst found his way, with some pecuniary difficulties, 
 from Cork to Liverpool, and thence to London, where he ar- 
 rived on the 10th of December 1804, exactly seven years and 
 two months after the first interview of Coulthurst and Mary in 
 179T. 
 
 The abbey at Holioke has, properly speaking, never been 
 dissolved. When Henry VI I L granted it to the earls of 
 Walney, he took no further notice of it. The earl, though 
 he followed the temporising fashion, then prevalent, was a 
 good catholic at bottom, and enjoying in his own domain very 
 considerable power, he suffered the abbey to continue unim- 
 paired. They recruited tlxeir numbers by tuition, and continu- 
 ed with little visible change in their condition, till the opening 
 of the seventeenth century. At that period, the number of 
 members was much diminished, and the spirit and zeal of those 
 that remained, had from various causes greatly declined. It 
 now became the principal family mansion of the lord, when he 
 remained at Onne. 
 
 At the breaking out of the civil wars, Edgar Henry, earl 
 of Orme and Walney, sided with the crown. Orme castle un- 
 derwent a long siege from the parliamentary forces, and was 
 given up only at the order of the king after his captivity. The 
 earl who commanded in the fortress, stipulated for favourable 
 conditions both for himself and his estate : but the terms of 
 surrender were disregarded by the victors. The earl was 
 carried a prisoner to London, and thrown into the tower, from 
 which, after a rigorous confinement of eighteen months, he ef- 
 fected his escape. His property was sequestered, his castle was 
 demolished Avith gunpowder; the abbey was burnt to the 
 
323 
 
 ground ; his tenants were pillaged without mercy ; subjected 
 to grievous penalties on account of their religion, for the ma- 
 jority were catholics, or sent into exile. Walney which vm- 
 der the benign auspices of its lerds, had been the most flour- 
 ishing and populous district of England, became, during the 
 next twenty years, a scene of desolation and misery. This 
 uncommon vengeance had been provoked by the formidable 
 and vexatious opposition which the republican cause had al- 
 ways encountered from the earl. No English nobleman had 
 made greater exertions on the king's behalf. The earl's whole 
 revenue had been applied to the equipment and maintenance 
 of troops, which he headed himself. His tenants cheerfully 
 resorted to his standard, and almost all the young men of Orme 
 and Walney had- fallen in the course of the war. The Orme 
 men formed a separate regiment, whose ardour, perseverance 
 and courage, v/ere not exceeded by any of their compeers. 
 In the course of five or six campaigns, a body of a thousand 
 hiird}^ youths v/ere reduced to fifty or eighty. Two of these 
 effected the rescue of their lord. 
 
 The earl's offences set him beyond the reach of republican 
 mercj' ; though indeed he was too high spirited to solicit any 
 favours from the conquerors. During an exile of twenty 
 years, he suffered many evils which a mind less inflexible 
 might without difficulty have avoided. He spent the greatest 
 part of this interval at Venice, disdaining to owe his subsist- 
 ence to any thing but his own talents and industry. 
 
 The restoration of monarchy was the signal of his return to 
 his native country. He was reinstated in all his honours and 
 estates : on visiting Orme, he beheld nothing but desolation 
 and ruin. The two great monuments of the glory and devo- 
 tion of his ancestors, were level with the ground. The earl 
 was particularly distinguished by his fervent attachment to the 
 religion of his ancestors ; time a long residence in Italy, 
 where nothing but the hope of returning one day to his native 
 country, prevented him from becoming a monk. 
 
 St. Ulpha, the divinity of Orme, was of course the object 
 of his religious veneration. He had escaped death, amidst 
 the perils of war, under her protection. He had been preserv- 
 ed, during his exile, from the extremity of suffering, by her 
 intercession. He made a vow, that if ever he were restored 
 
324 
 
 to his estate, he would signalize his gratitude by establishing 
 her convent and her temple. This was a favourite subject of 
 his meditations, and whether it arose from a spirit naturally 
 sanguine, or from his better knowledge of men and things, he 
 always cherished the conviction, that he should one day re- 
 turn. With this view he continually ruminated on the plan 
 he should adopt, in erecting and reorganizing his abbe)-, and 
 came back to England at the restoration, with his imagination 
 replete with ideas upon this subject. He brought with him 
 Nicolas Rosea, an ingenious architect, Marline, a sculptor 
 of great merit, and Carlo Rota a painter, all Venetians, 
 young men, whom he had apcidentally discovered, and rescued 
 from poverty and neglect. 
 
 In visiting his estates, he found a treasure, wholly unex- 
 pected in possession of Saxby, the vicar of Bootle. This man 
 had obtained permission of the parliamentary agents to take away 
 whatever he pleased from the abbey before it was destroyed. 
 He was at heart an enemy to the victorious cause, but either 
 his policy or timidity made him outwardly compliant with 
 every innovation. This conduct insured him the favour and 
 protection of the government, and this favour he industriously 
 employed for the benefit of the absent lord. All the books 
 and papers of every kind he conveyed to Bootle cap^ an an- 
 cient building near his village, where they reposed in safety, 
 till the earl's return. To him they were then presented, and 
 constituted the most valuable treasure which it was possible 
 for him to receiv^e. 
 
 The only claim which the earl made upon the gratitude of 
 the king, was a full and parliamentary confirmation of his pa- 
 ternal rights in Ornie and Walney. This claim, with some 
 little difficulty was complied with, and the lordships of Orme 
 and Walney were united and erected into a county palatine, 
 by the name of Orme Norwalk, and granted to the earl and 
 his heirs general, with power to aleinate by testament, but not 
 by deed. By this grant confirmed by act of parliament, the 
 earl possesses all regal rights and privileges within these lord- 
 ships ; justice is administered by him and his agents with no 
 appeal but to the king and council. All ecclesiastical, civil and 
 fiscal affairs, arc wholly independent of those of Great Britain. 
 
325 
 
 No taxes are levied but by authority of the lord. The peo- 
 ple are not represented in the British parliament, and the lord 
 possesses a seat in the house of peers, by virtue only of his ti- 
 tle of viscount Sudleigh. The condition of these extensive 
 grants was merely that of rebuilding within fifteen years, the 
 fortress called Orme castle, and keeping constantly within it 
 twenty men, able to bear arms. 
 
 This was the condition of the original grant, made by Rich- 
 ard, in consequence of which, Arthur, the first earl of the 
 Carril family, erected on the foundation of the Norman edi- 
 fice, which he pulled down, one of the noblest military struc- 
 tiu'es of that time known in England. After flourishing as 
 the mansion of the family for nearly three centuries and 
 an half, it was totally subverted by the fury of civil war un- 
 der Charles I. On visiting his domain in 1661, the earl found 
 nothing but a melancholy ruin. The building had been redu- 
 ced to fragments, by the force of gun powder, and lay confu- 
 sedly scattered on the surface. A natural superstition con- 
 nected the existence and prosperity of the family with the well 
 being of this fortress in a kind of physical sense. The terms 
 of the former and recent grants, had made a political connec- 
 tion between them. As the earl made the re-erection of this 
 edifice a favourite point with him, he willingly consented to a 
 condition which would bind his successors as strongly by po- 
 litical, as he himself was bound by moral considerations to sup- 
 port this edifice. In his plan therefore the solid and the du- 
 rable were consulted, and to these qualities, where necessary, 
 all other regards were made subordinate. Fifteen years were 
 sufficient to execute the grandest project in building, with the 
 assistance which his riches and authority enabled him to 
 obtain. 
 
 Edgar, in his youth, had spent some years in Italy, and had 
 there formed intimate connections with the Roman family of 
 Pamphili. A niece of this family had contracted a passion 
 for this Englishman, which might have terminated in marriage 
 had Edgai-'s father been willing to deviate from the family 
 custom of allying himself with his own name. The son bowed 
 to paternal authority, and gave up the Italian lady. This 
 sacrifice, indeed, was made not only to filial duty, but to his 
 patriotic sensibility, since, the countenance of the lady's fam 
 
326 
 
 ly was to be obtained only by adopting Italy for his country. 
 He married his cousin of Sudleigh, as his father directed, and 
 this marriage produced three sons and a daughter. There was 
 little affection between husband and wife, and when the civil 
 war commenced, her family siding with the parliament, and 
 the wife preferring the politics of the brother to those of the 
 husband, the discord between them became violent. He suf- 
 fered her to take refuge with her family, but sent his children 
 into France. She died at Sudleigh, after professing prcsbyte- 
 rianism, in 1654. His Italian mistress never lost her regard 
 for him ; she continued to live unmarried for his sake, and 
 her father, of whom she was the only child, made new over- 
 tures to him on the death of his wife. These, being accom- 
 panied with the old conditions, were rejected, notwithstanding 
 the little hope that could, at that time, be reasonably entertain- 
 ed, of his relation to his native countr}', and notwithstanding 
 the many hardships and privations to which his exile subject- 
 ed him. His pride, indeed, was such that he obstinately re- 
 jected every pecuniary aid which the generosity of the Pam- 
 phili made him. All these obstacles, however, were remov- 
 ed by the death of the old count. Henona Pampliili, now freed 
 from all restraint, obeyed her own inclinations, and gave her- 
 self and her estate to the Englishman without conditions in 1659. 
 On the great revolution that happened the year after, the earl 
 sold his wife's property to her uncle for 100,000/. sterling ; a 
 treasure which he brouglit entire to England, and which he 
 devoted to tlie repairing of the devastation made by the re- 
 cent usurpation in Walney. 
 
 There are four ajiartments next the roof in Orme castle, 
 12 feet 6 inches in diameter, and 16 feet 8 inches in height, of 
 which one is entirely dark and inaccessible, there being no ave- 
 nue connected with it, either for light, air, or human footsteps. 
 On every side, around, above and below, it is enclosed with 
 solid stone not less than three feet in thickness. This apart- 
 ment was probably constructed rather to indulge a capricious 
 fancy than for any reasonable purpose. Some conjectures 
 have been formed concerning it by various members of the 
 famil}-. That it is not an empty room has been inferred 
 from the anxiety displayed by the earl in its construction. 
 
o27 
 
 He was present when the last stone was placed over it, and 
 went in alone, before this was done, staying there some time 
 alone. 
 
 Another of these rooms has an avenue, the only one, by 
 which It has a long and intricate communication with a closet 
 belonging to the lord's chamber. 
 
 A third is lighted from the court by a window ; and is ac- 
 cessible by a narrow stair case. 
 
 Ormesey or Ormsey house was formerly the scite of an abbey 
 dedicated to St. Ulpha, and occupied by nuns who were gene- 
 rally called the nuns of Ormsey. This nunnery was founded 
 by the earl of Orme, in the tenth of Henry IV. and peopled by 
 a colony from the monastery in Walney. At the dissolution of 
 religious houses it came into possession of the Caml's, and 
 continued to be their town residence till the usurpation of Crom- 
 well. Earl Edgar's escape from the tower, when under sen- 
 tence of death, occasioned its destruction, for the mob, impelled 
 by some rumour of his being concealed in this house, attacked, 
 rifled, and burnt it to the ground. At the restoration, the 
 present mansion was built upon the ancient foundations, and 
 continues to be the most spacious, solid, and magnificent struc- 
 ture for private use in the metropolis. In every prospect of 
 London, it forms an object nearly as conspicuous and eminent 
 as St. Paul's and Westminster abbey. It is equally remark- 
 able for its vastness and simplicity, and architecture has seldom 
 produced a monument more calculated for duration. 
 
 This mansion has been a favourite object of attention with 
 its owners for a century and an half. They have spared no 
 paius nor cost in improving and adorning it, and its present 
 furniture and embellishments are the accumulated result of the 
 care and wealth of successive generations. 
 
 Andrew Pamphili, count of Tarsi, the father of the lady who 
 maiTied earl Edgar, inherited from his ancestors and left to his 
 daughter, a precious collection of sculptures, paintings, and 
 medals. Some time before his death he had planned the build- 
 ing of a palace at Rome, and had provided for this purpose 
 great quantities of marbles, of which some of the finest kind 
 were found al his own estate of Tarsi. This plan was adopt- 
 ed with little variation bv hi>^ son-in-law for his own house of 
 
328 
 
 Ormsey, and the materials thus provided, were appropriated 
 to the E nglish, instead of the Italian palace. 
 
 The count of Tarsi, had large estates both in the Neapolitan 
 and Roman territory. The former he sold, as before said, to 
 his kinsman, and the latter was reserved, by contract for the 
 younger children of this marriage : his honours and estates in 
 England being the property of his children by his first wife. 
 His first marriage had produced three children, one son and 
 two daughters. These, early severed from their rebellious 
 and heretical mother, had been brought up in Italy. They ac- 
 companied their father to England. The daughters married 
 suitably to their rank. At forty years of age, the son allied 
 himself to a portionless niece of his mother-in-law, and died 
 ten years afterwards (1680) leaving an infant son. His widow 
 buried herself at St. Ulpha, and left her child to the care of 
 his grandfather. 
 
 Four sons of Honoria Pamphili, lived to reach manhood. 
 The eldest became count of Tarsi, the second was a knight of 
 Malta, and passed his life in the military service of the em- 
 peror, in which he attained an high rank. The third embraced 
 religion, and died bishop of Ostune. The fourth married a 
 Sicilian heiress, and passed a private inoffensive life at Pa- 
 lermo. 
 
 Earl Edgar buried his second wife in 1682. He himself 
 expired January 30 (the anniversary of the death of his friend 
 and benefactor Charles I) 1700, at the age of ninety, more 
 through grief at the disappearance of his grandson, the hus- 
 band of Miss Tenbrook, than any other cause. 
 
 Sir Gerard Orme of Sudleigh, whose sister married earl 
 Edgar, who had abjured the catholic religion and persuaded his 
 sister to do the same ; who had sowed dissention between her 
 and her husband, and encouraged her in her rebellion to his 
 will ; who had distinguished himself as much by his activity 
 and zeal in the republican, as the earl had in the royal cause, 
 was excluded from the amnesty granted at the restoration. 
 The king had resolved on his attainder, and would have 
 granted his forfeited estate to his brother-in-law. Sir Gerard 
 had been once married, but his wife died, and, left an on- 
 ly son, whom the father disowned, because he declined fol- 
 
329 
 
 lowing the paternal example in a change of religion. His sis- 
 ter's son was consequently his presumptive heir, and the king 
 proposed to anticipate the course of nature by entailing Sud- 
 leigh upon him. 
 
 The earl instead of profiting by this favourable disposition, 
 prevailed upon the king to pardon Sir Gerard, and restore him 
 to his property. Sir Gerard though a violent and haughty 
 spirit, was not insensible to gratitude and compunction. This 
 treatment converted his ancient rancour into the tenderest ve- 
 neration. He embraced again the faith of his early years. 
 
 Gerard Orme, the son of Sir Gerard, being disowned and 
 proscribed by his father, in the year 1648, vvithdrew to the 
 continent, sharing with the banished earl, his poverty and pa- 
 tience. Being of a martial and enterprising character, he en- 
 tered the naval service of Venice, iiis father being disposed 
 to receive him again with kindness, diligent search was made 
 after him, and he was finally discovered in' the habit and em- 
 ployment of a captive slave at Linope, where he had remain- 
 ed unknown and hopeless, for six years. He was redeemed 
 and restored to his country, in 1664, at the age of thirty-two. 
 He married earl Edgars second daughter, and left behind him 
 in 1689, an only daughter. This girl and her cousin were in- 
 tended for each other, but the young man, as we have seen 
 married ISIiss Tcnbrook, and the lady chose the rector of 
 Sudleigh. 
 
 The life of earl Edgar, was a busy and eventful drama, till 
 the settlement of the kingdom, under Charles the Second. His 
 high rank and the personal favour of Charles I, might have 
 opened the way to honours and offices, had his ambition sought 
 them. But though a member of the council, he kept himself 
 pretty much aloof from the projects and intrigues of the court. 
 His exile had confirmed him in this resolution, and the gene- 
 ral rule of conduct, for the remainder of his life, was to be 
 as neutral and inoffensive as possible with respect to the af- 
 fairs of the nation at large. He saw that his peculiar habits 
 and opinions disabled him irom being of any service to his 
 couptrvmen in general. Ht- therefore willingly devoted all 
 his wishes and exertions to his own patrimony : he fortified 
 and enlarged his claims to his own estates by the amplest royal 
 
 42 
 
330 
 
 and parliamentary grants, and thenceforth studiously demean- 
 ed himself as one who was a stranger in England. His coun- 
 sels when he could not avoid giving them, were always fa- 
 vourable to the religion and liberties of the kingdom. He was 
 regarded with great veneration by James the Second, but he 
 merely employed the favour he enjoyed with that monarch, to 
 dissuade him from the conduct he pursued, and which ended 
 in his ruin. This advice, with his prudence and beneficence 
 in general, insured him the reverence of all parties. The 
 prince of Orange paid him gr^at respect, and his property and 
 honours remained unimpaired by the revolution. 
 
 The chief business of the last forty years of his life, was the 
 superintendance of his own concerns in Rutland and Huntly. 
 The functions of prince and landlord he for the most part dis- 
 charged in his own person. He made himself thoroughly ac- 
 quainted with the condition of his tenants, and his govern- 
 ment was altogether paternal. 
 
 All the inhabitants of these lordships were, previous to his 
 time, tenants at will. Each parish had a steward and jurat 
 appointed by the lord, and holding their offices at his plea- 
 sure. These decided on the life, liberty and property of the 
 tenants, without any limitation, but in certain cases an appeal 
 to the lord. The earl was not satisfied with making a judi- 
 cious choice of officers, and maintaining a rigid watch upon 
 their conduct. He had the wisdom to impose limitations in 
 his own power. He divided his land into portions, more * 
 equal than formerly ; he reduced the rent to a somewhat low- 
 er sum than had hitherto been given. He abolished all the 
 contributions in kind, and all the personal services with which 
 they had hitherto been burthened. He granted them leases 
 for fifty years, clogged with no conditions but such as were 
 beneficial to themselves, and guarded their privileges from 
 abuse. Their leases were unassignable without the consent of 
 the lord. The tenant's children succeeded him at his death, a 
 choice being made among them by a kind of jury of twelve 
 neighbouring farmers, subject to the decision of the lord. If 
 he died childless, his successors were chosen by this jury 
 among the worthy part of the community. The tenant forfeit- 
 ed his lease by conviction for certain crimes ; by the nonpay- 
 
331 
 
 ment of rent for three months after it was due, and by the 
 breach of some other conditions of the grant. 
 
 The administration of justice, was carefullv new modelled. 
 Instead of a despotic jurisdiction in the jurat, he was now re- 
 duced to a ministerial officer ; he arrested and imprisoned 
 culprits, but they were judged by a bench of twelve judges, 
 annually selected from the tenants, by the lord. Their deci- 
 sion was only subject to an appeal to the lord. 
 
 The land tenants of each parish were bound together into 
 one community by new and powerful ties. Their leases 
 bound them to deposit their names, the births and deaths in 
 their families, Avith suitable vouchers in the jurat's office. The 
 judges and the candidates for vacant farms were only taken 
 from the actual tenants and their sons. The rector of the parish 
 was in like manner to be born within the precincts of the coun- 
 ty, and descended from a tenant. 
 
 The tythe was commuted into money, was received with the 
 vent, and payable by the steward. Schools and teachers were 
 provided for the instruction of the people ; and their condition 
 in all respects was, in a few years, greatly improved. 
 
 The lordships of Huntly and Rutland were each divided into 
 twenty parishes, whose area was upon an average 6500 acres. 
 Five thousand of these was equally divided into one hundred 
 farms. The rent was fixed at half a crown an acre, for the en- 
 suing fifty years, and the rector's dues at ten shillings for each 
 farm. The whole rent of each amounted only to twelve thou- 
 sand five hundred pounds. The salaries of the steward and 
 jurat were each sixty-two pounds ten shillings a year. The 
 steward, jurat, and vicar had each an house, garden, and field 
 for a cow, rent free. 
 
 Each parish had a common or waste of about fifteen hundred 
 acres, which the earl, from a naked and unprofitable heath, con- 
 verted into an heavy forest. This forest w:ts given to the whole 
 parish, under certain conditions, and for certain uses. The 
 principal use was to supply tenants with fuel and materials for 
 building and tools. 
 
 About thirty thousand acres in Huntly, the curate retained 
 in his own hand. '1 hey principally formed the park and gar- 
 dens of Hawkshead and Ulverstone. 
 
332 
 
 The earl entertained very whimsical, and some may think, 
 very sublime notions of property. He conceived that all the mo- 
 ney received from his English estates in the form of rent, was 
 held by him merely in trust for the benefit of those who paid 
 it. He was bound, he thought, to disburse it again for their use. 
 His whole revenue therefore was expended in building a church, 
 a schoolhouse, and what he called an asvlum in each parish, in 
 repairing the calamities occasioned among his tenants by fire, 
 death, or other accidents. That equality of conditions so desirable 
 in speculation, but in practice so difficult, belaboured with the ut- 
 most diligence to preserve, not only preventing any from rising 
 above a certain level, but, by an equitable distribution of his 
 income among the needv and unfortunate, to prevent as much 
 as possible, any from falling below that salutary level. 
 
 Till the eldest son of Honoria Pamphili was of age he receiv- 
 ed the revenues of Tarsi, 20,000 ducats, or 5,000 pounds a year. 
 About four-fifths of this were regularly remitted to England. 
 
 The father of earl Edgar possessed the manor of Lodewick, 
 but this he devised to his second son Alfred. Alfred was of 
 a temper melancholy and austere. He shut himself in this re- 
 treat, and carefully avoided all connection with the world and its 
 affairs. He amused himself in his chapel and his library, and 
 died in 1683, at eighty years of age. His estate devolved to 
 his brother. 
 
 Lodewick is a wild spot in Pembrokeshire. It is a consider- 
 able demesne of 10,000 acres, which the earl embellished by a 
 mansion of considerable magnitude. It is very remarkable that 
 Lodewick is inhabited by Saxons, whose language is totally 
 distinct from that of all their neighbours. It is a vale remark- 
 ably secluded among hills and rocks, and which is scarcely acces- 
 sible except by one craggy road. Edgar visited it upon his 
 brother's death, and introduced many alterations and improve- 
 ments in this little territory. He found the people bound in 
 profound ignorance, but hcniest, laborious, and thrifty. Their 
 principal support was sheep and cattle, which they reared among 
 the mountains, and si^ld periodically to the drover. On a scan- 
 ty harvest of oats, togcthtr with cheese and milk they subsist- 
 ed. The money paid for tb.cir cattle and sheep enabled them to 
 
333 
 
 pay their moderate rent, and purchase some of the luxuries and 
 superfluities of life. An hundi-ed and fifty acres of the most 
 fertile land was cultivated by the late owner for the subsistence 
 of his family, while a park, hemmed in by a massy wall, and 
 well stocked with deer, occupied one fourth of the whole territo- 
 ry. An ancient fabric, somewhat in the castle fashion, scarcely 
 afforded shelter to civilized men. 
 
 The interior boundary of Lodewick is a large precipice, 
 which tends in a circular direction, seldom less than two hun- 
 dred feet in height. In one spot the rock slopes so as to afford 
 access by a winding road to the top. From the summit the 
 ground declines inward every way towards the centre, where 
 innumerable rivulets collect into a small lake about half a mile 
 in length and breadth. As the height of this lake is at all sea- 
 sons uniform, there must be an invisible outlet for the waters. 
 How this upland valley became inhabited by a race of Saxons 
 is a curious problem, which local traditions pretend to solve by 
 relating that Edward the First granted this valley to an hermit 
 of Essex who led hither a colony from some part of England, 
 and founded the convent whose ruins are still visible on the 
 edge of the lake. This monastery subsisted in a great degree 
 on a plan which prevented all manner of intercourse with the 
 rest of mankind. At the dissolution, Henry the Eighth pre- 
 sented it to Maj'le, a Flemish merchant, in payment of a debt 
 which' the monarch had contracted. He brought his wealth 
 along with him, and built an house, with all suitable appenda- 
 ges, in 1545. It continued in his family till the attainder of 
 Nicholas Mayle for the conspiracy called the gun-powder plot, 
 when it was granted, 1602, to the earls of Orme and Walney, 
 and made an inseparable parcel of the county of the palatine 
 of Orme Norwalk. This gift was sought by the earl at the in^ 
 stigation of his mother, who, tired of the world, was anxious to 
 withdraw from it, and who justly thought that a more absolute 
 seclusion and quiet retreat than this would be sought for in 
 vain in Europe. The son gave it to her for life, and hither she 
 came in 1610. 
 
 Catharine, daughter of Henry VII, was born in 1498. At 
 the age of eleven she was l)etrothed to the prince of Portugal, 
 '•nd was preparing to be sent to that kingdom, when her father 
 
334 
 
 died. When 19 years old (1417) she was married to Henr\ 
 Carril, earl of Rutland, produced two sons and two daughters, 
 and died 1558, at Wortlepool, in Gloucestershire, a manor given 
 to her brother Henry VIII. She died eleven years after her 
 brother. 
 
 Her sons, Edward and Felix were born 1518, and 1520, 
 and her daughters Catharine and Mary within three years af- 
 ter. Mary married the prince of Altimura, in 1544, and Ca- 
 tharine married Sir Herbert Carril Ormc of Sudleigh. Ed- 
 ward married Margaret of Florae in France, in 1537. Of six 
 sons two only, Ambrose and Felix, born in 1539 and 1545, 
 lived to reach manhood. Ambrose married his cousin Catha- 
 rine of Sudleigh, the only child of her mother, in 1577. 
 
 Catharine Tudor Carril, countess of Orme, was born in 1545. 
 She was the great grand daughter of Henry VII. Her husband 
 died 1602, and she chose to withdraw, after a busy and event- 
 ful life, to the solitudes of Lodewick. She was thirteen years 
 old at the accession of Elizabeth. Till 19 she resided pretty 
 much at court, and then married the earl of Orme. Their re- 
 ligion, their proximity to the crown, their interest in the cause 
 of the Catholics, and especiall}- of the Scottish Mary, sub- 
 jected them to innumerable dangers during Elizabeth's life. 
 
 Her eldest son, Arthur, was born in 1566, and her husband 
 died in 1602, the year before Elizabeth, w^hen she was fifty- 
 seven years old. She lived till 1646, thirty-seven years at 
 Wortlepool, so much estranged from the world and its con- 
 cerns that she knew not of the civil war and contentions between 
 king and parliament. She left Lodewick to her grand-son Al- 
 fred, who adopted her manner of life, and never passed the 
 mountains. By carefully abstaining from any part in the trou- 
 bles of the time he remained unmolested. His brother paid 
 him a visit in 1661, after a separation of twenty-five years. Al- 
 fred died in 1687, at the age of seventy-six, and the estate of 
 Lodewick went to his surviving brother. 
 
 Wortlepool was the residence of the countess of Florae, the 
 estate which the daughter of Henry VII , brought into the fa- 
 mily, and which the voyage of JNIrs. Coulthurst was necessary 
 to retain in the familv. It is a parish and manor in Devonshire, 
 of seven thousand acres. It is a rich, fertile and picturesque 
 
335 
 
 domain, adorned by a noble mansion, built for his sister, by 
 Henry VIII, and preserved in a very perfect state till the pre- 
 sent time. Many important events in the history of the Ormes' 
 have occurred at this place, and made it memorable. The halls 
 and chambers, the gardens and park have all an air of regal 
 magnificence and grandeur. 
 
 Ormesb)^ house in London, Arthursley in Middlesex, with 
 its small demesne of eight hundred acres, Wortlepool and Lo- 
 dewick are all part and parcel of the county palatine of Walney. 
 Of these Wortlepool is the only portion rendered alienable by 
 the original grant. 
 
 When the princess Catharine lost her husband in 1537, 
 she returned to Wortlepool, and died there. It afterwards 
 was successively occupied by the dowagers or unmarried la- 
 dies of this family. It became, insensibly, a custom for the 
 single females, especially in advanced life, to make this man- 
 sion their asylum. The estate with its inhabitants was ex- 
 empted from the jurisdiction of the king's officers. All 
 authority, civil, criminal and fiscal, was exercised by the stew- 
 ards of the earl, or, what usually happened, by the lady tenant 
 of the mansion. The welfare and happiness of the tenants 
 usually depended on the personal character of these ladies. 
 
 The estate was left to the countess of Florae by the will of 
 her father, and hence she derived the power of bequeathing it 
 to others. 
 
 Wortlepool castle was the first production of that singular 
 designer Albright. This artist was found by the earl of Rut- 
 land in an obscure lodging at Nurenberg in Germany, of which 
 city he was a native. His poverty, his enthusiasm, and the 
 ideal symmetry and beauty of his plans, induced the earl to 
 bring him into England. Wortlepool was the first effort of his 
 genius, and the large marriage portion given to the countess hy 
 the king, was expended in this mansion. He was subjected 
 therefore to few limitations on the score of expense. This 
 liberality, however, was displayed more on the quantity of ma- 
 terials and the labour expended in modelling and adjusting 
 them, than in the extent of the building or the gorgeousness of 
 its furniture. 
 
336 
 
 Albright built at Wortlcpool, a castle with all its oiEces 
 and ftpptndages, and a church. His gratitude to the carl, who 
 had r<'scued him from poverty, and had enabled him to marry 
 the o/oman of his choice, and settled on him a pension with- 
 out conditions of any sort, induced him to devote his invention 
 and industry entirely to his patron's service. He was anxious 
 for opportunities to exercise his skill in honour of the Carril 
 family, and never worked for others, whatever rewards were 
 offered him, but at the particular request of his patron. 
 
 Everard Albright was born of obscure parents in the ter- 
 ritory of Nurenburgh, in 1497. His talents for painting and 
 sculpture, showed themselves at a very early age, and obtained, 
 for him, the notice and protection of Araham Rednitz, a pain- 
 ter of that city. This person he accompanied to Flanders and 
 Italv, and pursued with great industry every means of improv- 
 ing himself in his favourite art. 
 
 Rednitz died at Bologna of the plague, and left his pupil, 
 as yet scarcely twenty, friendless and pennyless. The youth 
 found his way back to his native city, with great difficulty. 
 His master left a daughter, a woman of considerable beauty 
 and merit, of whom the youth became enamoured ; but her 
 mother's relations, under whose care she was placed, and who 
 were people of some rank and property, prohibited their inter- 
 course. In this extremity the young earl of Rutland fell in 
 with Albright, relieved his distresses, and aided him in carry- 
 ing off his mistress to England. The earl was, at that time, on 
 his way to Vienna, with his father, who was the English am- 
 bassador to the emperor. On his father's death, which hap- 
 pened in Geimanv, he returned to England, and found the 
 painter and his wife securely settled at his house in London. 
 From that time 1520, till his death in 1593, at the age of se- 
 venty-three, Albright passed his whole time, till incapacita- 
 ted by age and infirmii}-, in executing works in painting, sculp- 
 ture and architecture on his patron's account. His wife brought 
 him several children, but only three grandsons survived him, 
 one of whom, Caspar, inherited his talents for painting. 
 Caspar was born in 1J66: he passed his life like his grand- 
 father, in the service of the Carrils, and died, aged eighty-nine, 
 in 1655. He left no posterity. 
 
•All the works in painting, sculpture and architecture, be- 
 longing to the family, and executed from Henry VIII, to the 
 restoration, were done by these two artists and their pupils. 
 Their exertigns were chiefly confined to Ormsey, Arthursake, 
 St. Ulpha's castle, abbey and church, Wortlepool castle and 
 church, and Lodewick castle and church. St. Ulpha's castle, 
 Ormsey and Ai'thursake which they improved and adorned, 
 were destroyed with all their furniture, books and pictures dur- 
 ing the civil war. The buildings at Wortlepool and Lode- 
 wick remained, together with their furniture and pictures, 
 unimpaired to the present day, except by time. St. Ul- 
 pha's did not escape injur}-, but was less defaced by the zeal 
 and furv of the times than might have been expected. 
 
 In sculpture, the elder Albright was equal to any artist of 
 his times. In painting, his exertions were chiefly confined to 
 portraits. Of these, there are still preserved one hundred and 
 nine, including every member of the Carril family who flour- 
 ished from 1520 till 1580. In sculpture, St. Ulpha's, Wortle- 
 pool and Lodewick contain innumerable specimens of his skill 
 in stone, metal, and wood. All the intricate ornaments which 
 enrich the walls of these edifices were designed, and most of 
 them executed by him. Many busts, statues and groupes 
 representing real or ideal persons, and which are valued as 
 masterpieces of the art, are still to be seen at their places. 
 His own sepulchral monument in the church at Wortlepool 
 was among his last performances. 
 
 His style of architecture, in particular embellishments, re- 
 sembled that of the age in which he lived, but in the plans of 
 his building, the formation and distribution of its greater parts, 
 his style was altogether peculiar to himself. The great end 
 which he seems always to have kept in view, was durability. 
 In pursuit of this end little regard was paid to expense. Wood 
 and every other combustible or frail material was very sparing- 
 ly introduced. He dealt almost entirely in stone, brass and 
 marble, and of these he was prodig;tl. The stone employed 
 was modelled into masses; the largest that was manageable, was 
 hewn with the greatest nicety, and bound together by liga- 
 ments of iron. 
 
 43 
 
338 
 
 Worilepool contains within a square of 175 feet, a consi- 
 derable part of which is not occupied with building, upward of 
 twenty-four rooms, from twenty-five to thirty-two feet in di- 
 ameter, and from forty to forty-five feet in height. It also 
 contains forty-eight rooms, from 16 to 18 feet in diameter, 
 and from twenty to twenty-four feet in height : above 72 con- 
 siderable rooms in all, besides a considerably greater number 
 of circular closets, from four to six feet wide, and from eight 
 to twelve feet high. 
 
 Each of the angular towers is divided into three stories ; 
 about forty-eight feet in height. In each story is an octagonal 
 apartment, thirty feet wide. Qf these eight sides in each room, 
 two of them are occupied by windows five feet wide. One of 
 them is the door of entrance from the centre of the mansion. 
 Three of them have doors opening into passages two feet six 
 inches wide, and eleven feet high, which lead into turrets, 
 placed at these angles of the tower, where a winding staircase 
 conducts to three upper circular closets five feet wide and ele- 
 ven high! Each of these octagons, therefore are connected, 
 by these staircases, with twelve spacious closets. The whole 
 number of such closets, therefore, is 144. 
 
 To each of the principal rooms in the body of the building, 
 there are connected in like manner, two sets of closets and 
 staircases, four closets in each set : making in alU eight closets 
 to each room, and 96 in the whole. 
 
 To each of the forty-eight rooms, of the third rank, there 
 are likewise two closets of similar dimensions annexed: which 
 makes, when added together, 96. So that the whole number of 
 such closets or apartments amounts to 3^6. 
 
 The passage leading to these closets is from 2 to 2:J feet wide, 
 by 11-j; in height. Each closet has a nich or recess, from 2 to 
 2^ feet in width and depth for holding a cabinet of drawers or 
 shelves. 
 
 The height of the body of the building is 128 feet : of the 
 four urcat angul.tr towers 144 feet, and of the twelve small 
 cylindrical turrets 160 feet, exclusive of domes and spires. 
 
 There arc four principal staircases, which wind round an 
 hollow oval, 15 feet wide and 22 1 in length. This oval is 
 lightened by an oval aperture in the roof 10 feet wide and 17-^ 
 
339 
 
 fe%t long. This opening is protected by glass. The stair is 
 27 feet wide, whose exterior edge is supported and protect- 
 ed by open iron work, consisting of slender pillars of that 
 metal. 
 
 The floors and ceilings of every apartment, closet, passage 
 and staircase in this building is of fine white free stone ; flat 
 or arched wood is now here introduced as a main sujjport. 
 Even the window frames are of brass or iron. For the sake 
 of warmth or elegance, a stone floor or wall is sometimes 
 overlaid with a wooden one. The doors too are generally, 
 though not always, of timber. In some cases they are of 
 iron or brass or bronze, either plain or gilt ; of these metals 
 the architect has been astonishingly lavish. 
 
 Tis plain, from this account, that this mansion, though 
 none of its apartments are very large, has a vast number of 
 them, and is qualified to accommodate a very numerous fami- 
 ly. If employed as a convent or college, there are fort)--eight 
 rooms, 15 feet in diameter, which might serve conveniently as 
 dormitories for, at least, the same number of persons. There 
 are twelve rooms which might serve as kitchens, refectories, 
 parlours and the like, and twelve more which might serve as 
 libraries, chapels, auditories and rooms of state. 
 
 As a private dwelling, the lower story would amply accom- 
 modate a numerous domestic establishment of servants and 
 officers, while the two upper would supply no less than sixteen 
 suits of apartments. 
 
 The house has been chiefly occupied as a private dwelling. 
 The princess Catharine, however, intended it to serve the 
 double purpose of a mansion for herself and a convent for 
 nuns. This lady conceived ideas of religion wholly different 
 from those generally adopted. She made a convert of her hus- 
 band, and had this house constructed after a model peculiar to 
 herself and her architect. 
 
 The chapel is ai the east end. The interior of it is com- 
 prized within a square of eighty feet. The centre of it is form- 
 ed by a vault resting on four clustered pillars placed at the an- 
 gles of a square of forty feet. The sides of this square are, 
 severally, arcades, twenty feet in depth. The height of the 
 lateral arcades, as well as of the central vault is eighty-five 
 feet. 
 
340 
 
 The entrance of the chapel frpm the mansion, is on the 
 •western side, under a semicircular gallery, twenty-four feet 
 above the pavement, twenty feet wide and ten deep. This gal- 
 lerv is supported by eight brass columns, one foot in diameter, 
 and forms the choir of the chapel. 
 
 On the eastern side, and consequently opposite the choir, and 
 sixtv f'eet distant from it, is a niche answering in shape and di- 
 mensions that which contains the choir. The principal altar is 
 placed in the centre of this niche. It is a cylindrical pedestal 
 sustaining a statue of the full size of St. Rhoda, to whom the 
 church ?s dedicated. The statue and pedestal are of the finest 
 porphyry. The latter Is adorned with designs in relief, carved 
 with the greatest elegance, in eight compartments, representing 
 the chief events in the life of the saint. The statue was mo- 
 delled after the foundress herself. It was originally placed at 
 St. Ulpha's, and was brought hither at the restoration, to sup- 
 ply the place of an image of solid silver, originally placed here, 
 but which fell a prey to republican avarice in 1646. 
 
 The altar is five feet in diameter, by three in height. It 
 rests upon a base formed of three steps, of white marble. 
 
 The first Catharine became a widow in 1547. Her husband 
 excited the displeasure of the king, by inadvertently dissenting 
 from his theological opinions, and by a spirit which Henry sus- 
 pected might prove dangerous to his successor. Orders were 
 given to arrest him, and in resisting these orders, the earl was 
 slain. The countess, with her son, a boy, was then at Wortle- 
 pool, and there she continued, in a sort of religious seclusion to 
 her death, in 1568. 
 
 Her grand daughter Catharine of Sudleigh, lost her mother 
 in her infancy, and resided till nineteen years of age at Wor- 
 tlcpool. One of the last acts of her life was to accomplish 
 the marriage of this girl with her grandson the earl of 
 Orme. 
 
 This Catharine was left a widow in 1602, 44 years old, and 
 spent the subsequent years at Wortlepool. Her death in 1650, 
 was chiefly occasioned by that of Charles I. She was succeed- 
 ed in this mansion by her grandson Alfred, who lived here 
 till 1687. From diis time till 1702, it was left to domestics. It 
 then became the dwelling of the earl who married Miss Ten- 
 
341 
 
 brook. Here the family of his first and second wife, chiefly re- 
 sided till the death of the last survivor of the house in 1755, 
 when the runaway countess of Florae, acquired possession by 
 her father's will, and here he resided till her death in 1799. 
 The twins Mary and Elizabeth were born here. 
 
 The apartments of this house have been usually distributed as 
 follows : the whole of the lower story, containing an hall or tho- 
 roughfare, a kitchen, a refectory, a steward's room, an house- 
 keeper's room, an office for judicial business with the tenants, 
 another for pecuniary business, twelve bed (Chambers for domes- 
 tics ; the vault beneath the chapel, used for the celebration of fu- 
 neral rites ; all that die within these walls, being buried in vaults 
 beneath these two rooms for preserving implements and furni- 
 ture used in interment ; three rooms employed as sepulchres, 
 one where the inurned bones of St. Rhoda repose, a second 
 appropriated to the foundress of this house, a third the sepul- 
 chre of her grand daughter. There is a fourth room, accessi- 
 ble by a secret avenue, immediately beneath the great altar, 
 entirely dark, and considered as a sanctuary claiming the great- 
 est veneration. 
 
 Catharine Tudor was a woman of great learning, fervent pie- 
 ty, and warm imagination. She adopted certain religious tenets, 
 in consequence of certain impressions made upon her fancy 
 during sleep. The figure of St. Rhoda appeared to her in a 
 lively dream, assured her of particular protection, in return 
 for which worship and submission w.re exacted ; directed her 
 to build a temple to her honour, pointed out the spot where 
 her bones were deposited, requiring her to transport them to 
 the shrine to be prepared for h^r, and communicated the lead- 
 ing principles of true religion and acceptable worship. 
 
 The vision was repeated with no material variation, for se- 
 ven nights, and the feelings and convictions of Catharine 
 were rendered uniform and permanent, by this means. 
 
 Catharine had plunged deeply into the theological studies 
 and controversies of the times. Her keen and rigorous under- 
 standing was by no means satisfied with the evidence and argu- 
 ments she met with. She sought for better information by 
 prayer, and her intense devotion and ardent longings termina- 
 ted in what she deemed the special revelation already men- 
 tioned. 
 
342 - 
 
 She was prevailed upon to marry the earl of Orme, on the 
 secret condition of his adopting her religious sentiments, and 
 allowing her to execute the directions of her dream. Albright 
 was immediately employed in building and adorning Wortle- 
 pool. The bones of St. Rhoda were taken from her sepulchre 
 at Holioke, and placed in the apartment already mentioned : 
 her altar and statue were erected in pursuance of the directions 
 of the Saint herself. The dark sanctuary above mentioned, 
 was the scene of an actual monthly conference between this 
 divinity and her worshipper. On a certain night, on the clock's 
 striking twelve, the lady arose from her bed, and proceeded 
 alone to this sanctuary, where she held according to her own 
 belief, personal and waking communion with her patroness. 
 The interview lasted an half hour, and was interruptedly con- 
 tinued during the whole time of her residence here. 
 
 As soon as the house was prepared for her reception, she 
 made it her permanent abode. Her husband was at liberty to 
 come. and go, but, on no account, would she leave it herself. 
 She formed her family into a kind of convent, whose great duty 
 was the worship of Rhoda according to forms prescribed by 
 herself. She took fifteen companions of her own sex, who 
 made a vow to assist and obey her in quality of matron 
 abbess. Her discretion and seclusion enabled her to escape 
 the tyrannical caprices of her brother. Edward, Mary and 
 Elizabeth suiFered her to pursue her own way. She recruited- 
 her family from her immediate tenants, and thereby procured 
 domestics and companions exactly to her own taste. She was 
 a wise and beneficent mistress, and was ever considered by hei" 
 vassals as something above humanity. They adopted the re- 
 ligion she precribed to them, and their posterity adhere to it at 
 this da)'. 
 
 This religion left abstract doctrinal sentiments concerning 
 Christ and God to the choice of every individual. It merely 
 extended to modes of worship. It prescribed a general reve- 
 rence for the deity, and particular gratitude to Jeslis Christ, 
 but, v/jth regard to these, it. taught that no stated forms of 
 worship were due. The worship, which consists of particu- 
 lar observances, festivals, prayers, dresses and gestures were 
 deemed entirely superfluous and absurd so far as these relate 
 
to God and Christ. The sole object of such worship was 
 some human being, already translated to heaven, and exercis- 
 mg a sort of delegated and vicarial power over certain indivi- 
 duals. To the family of Carril, and to the vassals of that fa- 
 mily, living within the precincts of Orme, Ulpha, Agnes and 
 Rhoda were the proper objects of worship. With regard to 
 herself and her posterity, and to the inhabitants of Wortle- 
 pool, their worship was exclusively due to Rhoda, whose claim 
 to this preference was founded upon actual revelation. She 
 had taken this place and these persons under her peculiar 
 guardianship, and absolved them from the duty of worshipping 
 any other deity. 
 
 The worship she exacted was the recital of certain verses, 
 in the Latin language, before her image. This was to be done 
 at the meridian of every day. This image was to be worn in 
 the bosom, and displayed in the house. On Sundays and at 
 four festivals in each year, all who were able were to attend at 
 church, and join in the praises and prayers there addressed to 
 Rhoda ; those who could not attend were^to recite them at 
 home. 
 
 The breviary of this worship was composed by Catharine 
 herself. It consisted of hymns in Metrical Latin, and set to 
 music for the voice and the organ. Vocal music was regular- 
 ly taught to parishioners who were qualified to learn. A choir 
 was selected from the best behaved and best instructed of 
 these, consisting of either sex, and the whole of religious 
 worship consisted in singing their hymns at prescribed times 
 and places. Conservators of the church, in number twelve ' 
 were annually elected by the tenants, and approved by the lady^ 
 and by them was the due order in religious matters preserved. 
 Marriage was celebrated in presence of the tv/elve conservators, 
 and the whole congregation, on the fourth Sunday, monthly 
 through the year ; confession, penance, priesthood, baptism, 
 the eucharist, sermons, crucifixes, masses, tapus, and incense, 
 and almost all that distinguishes the Catholic worship were un- 
 known. The protestant would be nearly as little pleased as 
 the Catholic, since the divinity addressed was once a mere 
 mortal, and is now represented by a carved image. 
 
J44 , 
 
 The second story contains a room for convening the whole 
 family on domestic occasions ; two refectories for principals ; 
 four grand chambers with four closets to each. The four 
 closets consist of a lavatory, a wardrobe, a study and an ora- 
 tory. ^ 
 
 In the third story are also four chambers, each with four 
 closets : three libraries with two closets annexed to each. 
 
 The second and third story are likewise occupied by the cha- 
 pel, which is eighty feet in breadth and width. The four an- 
 gles of the chapel are rounded into towers fifteen feet in 
 diameter and one hundred and sixty in height. The two 
 easternmost of these turrets have their centres, at the height of 
 fortv^ feet hollowed out into eight small circular apartments 
 five feet in diameter and fifteen high. There is a narrow stair- 
 case connected with each tower by which is preserved the com- 
 munication between these rooms. One of these staircases is 
 connected with a passage which leads through the solid of the 
 chapel wall, to the chamber of the abbess, and downward to the 
 leuitissimus already described. 
 
 At the expulsion of Arthur Carril from the Isle in loro, 
 he wandered over the continent as far as Constantinople. By 
 signal services rendered to the reigning emperor, the recovery 
 of Rhodes from the Saracens, he attained a grant of the feu- 
 dal sovereignty of that island. Under him and his four im- 
 mediate successors, the island enjoyed considerable prosperity, 
 but the death of the fourth Arthur left a widowed daughter 
 and an infant grandson to the mercy of a treacherous minister. 
 The grandson with extreme difficulty escaped the snares laid 
 for him, and joining Richard the First of England in Palestine, 
 finally obtained the heiress and isle of Orme. He rescued his 
 mother from the efibrts of his enemy in Rhodes, and brought 
 her to England. She became abbess of St. Ulpha's, and ac- 
 quired, by her extraordinary merits and sanctities, the title 
 and honours of a saint. Her name was Rhoda. 
 
 A companion of Rhoda's escape was Alexander Alphus ; 
 this person brought away with him the Archives of Rhodes, 
 or the most important part of them. From these he afterwards 
 compiled an history of Rhodes under the Arthurs. He placed 
 it in the librarv of his convent in the year 1209. It was che- 
 
S45 
 
 rished bv the montcs with the greatest care. The convent was 
 first inhabited by Rhodian exiles, who perpetuated in their suc- 
 cessors for several generations the use of the Greek language 
 in their missals and religious services. It became extinct 
 about the beginning of the fourteenth century. A translation 
 was made of the Rhodian chronicle into Latin in the year 
 1278, by Edred, then abbot. Edred, in his poem, relates that 
 ten years before his time the Rhodian archives were destroyed 
 by a fire which broke out in the convent, and that the chroni- 
 cle of Ulpha's happened to escape by having been lent the day 
 before to the lord, who wanted some amusement in a fit of 
 sickness. Greek, he says, being almost supplanted by the La- 
 tin in his convent, he thought proper to translate it, that the 
 monks might consult it with more ease. When the abbev was 
 taken and plundered in the civil wars 1640, some part of the 
 library was preserved in the manner already mentioned. These 
 relics were replaced at the restoration of the abbey 1665, and a 
 catalogue drawn up at that time mentions among others the 
 Rhodian chronicle of Ulpha's in Latin. In 1723, Simon Tuild, 
 dean of St. Ulpha, was employed to examine and arrange all 
 the monuments extant of this family, and to compile an history 
 of the house of Carril. He accordingly thoroughly examined 
 libraries and Cabinets : arranged and printed at the Palatine 
 press, all the records discovered, and then compiled a copious 
 history from these materials. The Rhodian chronicle is con- 
 tained in this collestion, and its information is detailed in the 
 history. The original manuscript is still preserved ac the ab- 
 bey. It appears to be a copy made in the year 1480, and its 
 accuracy is attested by the signatures of several members of 
 the convent, appointed by the abbot to compare it with the 
 original. 
 
 A chronicle still extant, of the same age with the last and 
 only copy of the " Liber Rhodeanus," relates the history of 
 the convent, which the historian pretends to have collected 
 from the contents of the conventical libraiy at that time. Ac- 
 cording to liim, the first apostle of the island was St. L^lpha, 
 a female who inherited the sovereignty of the island from her 
 father Tutus. Her uncle, instigated by ambition, had her kid- 
 napped and sold to traders, who carried her a captive to Rome, 
 
 44 
 
346 
 
 about the year 400. She there became the slave oi a Koman 
 nobleman, called Marcus Vitreus : but her wisdom and beau- 
 ty soon obtained for her her liberty, and made her the nurse of 
 her former master. The death of her husband left her mistress 
 of great wealth, all which she voluntarily abandoned for the 
 sake of raising her countrymen of Tutesell from the barbarism 
 and infidelity in which they were involved. She accordingly 
 returned to the island, and her uncle being dead, was readily 
 acknowledged as the lawful successor. She speedily converted 
 her subjects to Christ, and died in this abbey, founded by her- 
 self, in 454. Her descendants, for she brought a son with her 
 from Rome, governed the island till 640, when the Northum- 
 brian Saxons invaded and subdued it. The conqueror was Ed- 
 gar, a pagan Saxon, who was converted by a miracle wrought 
 on the shrine of Uipha, and sanctified his conquest by marry- 
 ing the heiress of the native princess. The island henceforth 
 became Saxon, and continued in possession of the descendants 
 of Edgar, till 1070, when Geoifry Martil, count of Florae, a 
 companion of the conqueror, whose posterity held it till 1200, 
 when Arthur Carril, lineally descended from Ulpha and Edgar, 
 regained possession by the grant of Riqhard I, and marriage of 
 he heiress of Geoffi-y Martil. 
 
 The historians of the island relate that Ulpha was the mother 
 of a line of ten princes, of whom the great Arthur was one. 
 From the accession of Edgar till the Norman conquest there 
 reigned twenty-one kings of Tutesell. Of Rhodian princes there 
 were four of this family; and from 1200 to the present time 
 there have been thirty carls of Orme and Walney. 
 
 No family has made a more conspicuous and illustrious 
 figure in British annals than this. The heir of it has, on seve- 
 ral occasions, been allied to the royal family. Their rank has 
 always been considered as that of a sovereign house, and as su- 
 perior to that of the rest of the nobility. The second earl of 
 Orme acquired kingly power, and maintained it for several 
 years, under Henry III. On his death, and the banishment 
 and attainder of his sons, his next brother succeeded to the 
 island. He had previously been abbot of St. Ulpha's and bishop 
 of St. Orme, but in consequence of succeeding to the earldom, 
 was secularized and obtained a dispensvition to marry. The 
 
347 
 
 wife of the second earl, who was daughter of king John and sis- 
 ter to Henry, died at St. Ulpha's abbey in 1296. The earl's bo- 
 dy Avas delivered to his brother, and buried at St. Ulpha's. 
 
 During the earl's prosperity there were none of the nobles so 
 rich as he. The whole county of Leicester was bestowed upon 
 him by king Henry III, as a feudal sovereignty. Besides this 
 and his little insular kingdom, he possessed two castles with 
 land around them in different parts of England. All these 
 were forfeited at his death, and nothing but the island was left 
 to his brother. 
 
 The second earl's wife being the eldest daughter of king John, 
 and himself being lineally descended from Edgar Atheling, 
 by the marriage of Geoffry Martil, first lord of Orme under 
 the Normans, with Edgar's only child, many entertained very 
 favourable sentiments of his right to the kingdom. Having ac- 
 quired the real sovereignty, he willingly forewent the name of 
 king. The Saxon part of the community always secretly recog- 
 nized his title : the Normans were of course averse to it : but 
 had Henry had no son, or had his son been of a different cha- 
 racter from that of Edward I, there is little doubt of his success. 
 This was the true source of his popularity. The people consi- 
 dered him as martyrs do their liberties, and their veneration in- 
 creased in spite of the oppression of the pope and clergy. The 
 worship paid to him could only be checked and suppressed by 
 strenuous efforts of the govei-nmtnt ; but though it was extin- 
 guished in England, it could not be suppressed in Tutesell, 
 where his name was ranked as a divinity with Arthur, Ulpha 
 and Rhoda. 
 
 Anglesey has always been inhabited by a race whom their 
 peculiar dialect, manners and religion, as well as their insular 
 situation, have separated from the rest of the kingdom. They 
 have never been conquered, since their governors always 
 obtained the sanction of lawful hereditary right, by descent 
 from or marriage with the heirs of the primitive lords. They 
 have ever had but little intercourse, except that of trade with 
 the neighbouring coasts. For a thousand years have they been 
 blended into one mass by marriage and conversation, and there 
 is a shape, physiognomy and moral character, as well as a lan- 
 guage and law, by which they are obviously distinguished 
 
348 
 
 Irom their neighbours, and compacted as it were into one 
 body. 
 
 In ecclesiastical as well as civil ofHcers, the isle has been 
 independent of the rest of the world. Neither the claims of the 
 pope, nor ot the English prelates to superiority, have ever been 
 quietly acknowledged. Unlucky circumstances, the folly, faci- 
 lity or superstition of the lords or bishops, have on some occa- 
 sions, yielded to papal and prelatical encroachments, but these 
 have, prevailed only for a time. Much disturbance and confu- 
 sion have been sometimes excited by these claims. Papal usur- 
 pation was finally terminated by the reformation in the six- 
 teenth centurv, since which the ecclesiastical independence of the 
 island has never been molested, except during the republican 
 triumphs, in the time of Charles II. 
 
 The island is divided into thirty rectories. Some of these 
 are further divided into subrectories. This has been the case, 
 where the village Avhose inhabitants originally composed a con- 
 gregation of the due size, has swelled into a town, and requir- 
 ed more than one chapel. 
 
 There are five convents of men and five of women. At the 
 head of these is the abbey of St. Ulpha, the head or abbot of 
 which is likewise bishop of Orme. This abbey is also a college, 
 in which every rector and subrector must take his degree, and 
 be qualified, by due examination, for his office. 
 
 The monks and canons of St. Ulpha, are, in number, thirty. 
 The vacancies in this body are supplied by their own election : 
 the concurrence of tAventy being necessary to every choice. 
 The candidates must be natives of the isle, between forty and 
 fifty years of age ; must have passed a probation of fifteen years 
 in their college ; must devote themselves to celibacy, and never 
 leave the isle ; may lose their place by resignation, provided it 
 be unanimously accepted by canons and bishops, by breach of 
 coiiventical rules, provided the sentence be in like manner 
 unanimous. They choose, twenty concurring, their bishop, or 
 abbot, who appoints, with the approbation of the majority, all 
 the rectors, Irom persons under forty and above thirty, natives, 
 of the isle jaiid duly qualified by an education of ten years 
 ;it the college, and a degree. No canon can be rector or sub- 
 
349 
 
 rector, but the latter may become canons. The lord has a nega- 
 tive upon the choice of bishops, canons and rectors. 
 
 The life and conduct of the rectors and subrectors, are ame- 
 nable to synods, consisting of rectors, canons and bishops, who 
 meet in the cathedral, semi annually. These likewise form 
 rules and orders for the church. 
 
 The East riding of York wa.nts little of being an Island. 
 The Derwent, the Humber and the sea, embrace it on all 
 sides. The former takes its rise within a few miles of the sea 
 shore, and after a sinuous course of about 80 miles, joins the 
 Humber, forming its present boundary on the North and West. 
 It formerly included a tract of very rich land, about fifty thou- 
 sand acres, called Reeveland, situated between the Derwent 
 and Ouze, and near their confluence, which was the property 
 by marriage of the Carrils. The late earl sold the whole for 
 twenty pounds an acre. It was a level piece of ground, whose 
 fertility is exceeded by no district in the kingdom. At the res- 
 toration it was, notwithstanding its value, nearly desolate, but 
 earl Edgar invited improvers., by granting it on leases of sixty 
 years, at the inconsiderable price of one shilling an acre. 
 A few public spirited farmers, by repairing breaches in the 
 embankment of the Ouze, by which the whole had been in- 
 undated, and bv new and suitable drains, set an example which 
 many others followed. By this means, it was soon converted 
 into a most productive and v:ilu:ible body of meadow. The 
 leases expiring about the time when his great grandson assum- 
 ed the management of his father's estate, he seized the oppor- 
 tunity offered of selling it. The tenants, whose ancestors had 
 grown rich upon it, eagerly became the purchasers. The true 
 annual value of this ground did not fall short of thirty shil- 
 lings an acre, so that the price he set upon it, twenty pounds 
 an acre, or 13| years purchase, wa^ extremely cheap : yet it 
 produced a million sterling, the whole paid by instalments in 
 ten years. 
 
 Of this immense sum, half was loaned to government, and 
 th6 produce, 25,000 per ann. was employed in the exclusive 
 improvement of Anglesey. The lands in the Isle, in the 
 hands of others, amounted to 120 acres ; the annual value of 
 
350 
 
 which was about 26, and the gross value, at 20 )earb pur- 
 chase, 200/. 300/. therefore was sufficient to purchase 120 
 acres. The interest of the residue, 35,000 a year, was em- 
 ployed in the improvement of the property thus acquired. 
 
 The isle of Jersey was originally part of the dutchy of 
 Normandy, and the patrimony of Hugh Martil, the companion 
 of the conqueror. It remained in his descendants till his only 
 daughter and heiress, Isabella de Martil, was given by Henry 
 the Fifth in marriage to a Carril, in 1420, The new proprie- 
 tor confirmed and enlarged the privileges of its inhabitants. 
 They have immemorilaly enjoyed a kind of republican inde ■ 
 pendance, the right of being governed by their own customs, 
 administered by officers elected by themselves. One jurat, and 
 five subjurats, the first of whom is appointed by the lord, for 
 life, from among the latter, who are elected by the people of 
 each parish every five years, distribute justice. Each parish 
 has a priest chosen by the people, and some other officers. 
 
 Till the present century, the priest derived his subsistence 
 from fees due on baptisms, marriages and burials, and from a 
 sort of tythe on the oats produced. The whole value was ex- 
 tremely small ; from about fifteen to twenty pounds a year. 
 
 The jurats and subjurats profits consisted of fines imposed 
 upon certain offences, and of the costs in civil suits. From 
 these the former was able to extract about one hundred pounds 
 a year, and the latter about thirty. As they are free from all 
 national taxes and customs, commodities arc cheap, and provi- 
 sions plentiful. 
 
 The ground is considered as the lord's property, of which 
 twenty thousand acres are divided into five hundred farms 
 (forty acres each) of the residue about half is a waste or com- 
 mon, extending over the cold bleak hills in the middle of the 
 isle : the other half is the homestead or demesne of the lord. 
 The farm land paid a rent of four shillings an acre ; but the 
 tenant holds the land to him and his heirs within the third de- 
 gree. The non payment of rent for a year after it is due, tlie 
 failure of heirs and the commission of certain crimes restores 
 it. The lord hcAvever is bound immediately to confer it 
 on the same terms, on some native of the parish. All males, 
 not engaged in agriculture as farmers, betv/een tweuty-five and 
 
551 
 
 fifty, pay to the lord a capitation of twenty shillings a year. 
 These are the outlines of the constitution of Jersey at the ac- 
 cession of the present lord. 
 
 The whole revenue from land was about four thousand 
 pounds; from the capitation about two hundred and fifty pounds. 
 The latter sum paid the steward and his officers, and the for- 
 mer was regularly remitted to London in bills of exchange. 
 
 Till 1720, this isle was almost totally rejected and unvisited 
 by its proprietors. The nomination of jurats and stewards ; 
 some acts of supreme legal jurisdiction, and an acknowledg- 
 ment of the receipt of bills were generally the only circumstan- 
 ces in which the character and power of the landlord was dis- 
 played. The spirit of the government both in fiscal and judi- 
 cial matters depended entirely on the spirit of those customs 
 which time has converted into laws, and on the character and 
 habits of the officers. 
 
 At this period the indefatigable Arthur visited it in person : 
 traversed every part of the island, conversed with individuals 
 of all classes, inspected their condition with his own eyes, and 
 obtained from the priests and jurats, accurate and full amounts 
 of all things necessary to be known. After thoroughly digest- 
 ing and considering these particulars, he introduced various al- 
 terations and improvements. His measures greatly restrained 
 the manufacture and consumption of spirituous lic|uors : intro- 
 duced an improved agriculture ; abolished all fees pavable to 
 the clergy and the jurats, substituting ample stipends in their 
 stead, payable from his own coffers, and in fine secured the wel- 
 fare of the people by many wise and salutary institutions. To 
 those changes to which his own legal power was unequal he 
 obtained the popular consent by collecting the clergy and chief 
 people of the island into a kind of national assembly. A whole 
 year was passed by him within the island, engaged assiduously 
 in these arrangements ; and in subsequent years, he occasion- 
 ally visited it in order to inspect the operation of his plans. 
 
 The island has extensive quarries of salt; and of white 
 black and gray marble, of a grain litde inferior to the best 
 Italian. It has likewise excellent coal and iron. An extensive 
 manufactory of iron was established by which the island was 
 abundantly supplied with that article, and some profitable ma- 
 
352 
 
 nufacture of hardware adopted. Tlic marble has been for some 
 centuries in use in the edifices constructed by this family, but 
 earl Arthur created a demand and sale for it to an extent ex- 
 tremely advantageous to the island. Contractors for these 
 works were easily found, on the favourable terms allowed them 
 by the lord, and they furnish a regular subsistence to an hun- 
 dred families, at twenty pounds a piece ; a rent to the landlord 
 of five hundred pounds a year, and a profit to the undertakers 
 of one thousand. 
 
 The trade of the island consists in salt, coals, bar iron and 
 red marble, each of these articles is raised, and sold within the 
 island or exported by a company who rent the several pits, 
 mines and quarries of the lord. The whole sum paid in wages 
 Is about four thousand pounds a year to two hundred persons. 
 An annual profit of four thousand pounds is divided by twenty 
 proprietors, and one thousand is paid in rent. Thus the lord's 
 fix'e'l revenue became five thousand pounds a year. 
 
 The area of Jersey is about fifty square miles: of Guern- 
 sey about thirty : of Alderney five : of Sark four, and of 
 Herrn one. With each of the four last there is one or two isles 
 connected, containing from one to fifty acres. Tiiese islands 
 consist of three principal groups, whose relative position may be 
 considered as forming the points of a triangle whose sides are 
 about thirty miles long, and whose base, the extremities of 
 which are AMerney and Jersey, is about forty miles in length. 
 
 They lie in the gulf, or bay, formed by the coasts of Brittany 
 and Normandv. Jersey is placed in the midst of this bay, nearly 
 at an equai distance, about thirty miles from its bottom and 
 sides. A-ldcrne)' is separated from the French coast by a strait 
 about twelve miles wide. It is somev.hat surprising that these 
 islands, incorporated as it were i^y their position with France, 
 should have been politically disunited fron> it for near four hun- 
 dred years. It is not surprising, however, that their inhabi- 
 tants should retain the language and religion of the neighbour- 
 ing kingdom, and that the} should not form an integral part of 
 the British empire. 
 
 The political constitution of all these islands is nearly the 
 same. The land is held at an Immutable rent, of the earls of 
 Rutland, and the ci\il and criminal jurisdiction divided between 
 
353 
 
 (Officers of their own election, and of his appointment. The 
 area of these islands is about ninety square miles, or fiftv^-eight 
 thousand acres. The whole population is about ten thousand 
 persons. 
 
 " The principal edifices in these islands were erected by Am- 
 brose, earl of Rutland, who was banished hither by queen 
 Elizabeth. He was obliged to resign all his English estates to 
 his son, and was allowed to retain this portion of his territory 
 on condition of his never setting foot in Great Britain. He re- 
 tired hither, accordingly, in 1582, and his restless spirit found 
 sufficient occupation in erecting the fortresses which now remain 
 on the principal isles, and in administering the government in 
 person till his death, twenty years after. His wife refused to 
 follow him hither, and passed the remnant of her days at Wort- 
 lepool. He governed his vassals with justice, not untinctured 
 with severity : conducted himself as one wholly independent of 
 England, and maintained the post and state of a sovereign 
 prince. He brought with him a considerable treasure, and in- 
 creased it by sending vessels to trade and pillage in the Indian 
 and American seas. His presence and projects produced great 
 effects on the condition of the islands and their inhabitants. 
 
 " Though upwards of sixty years of age, he persuaded Ca- 
 tharine de Brissac, a young lady of high birth, to elope with 
 him from Paris, and retire with him to this island. In a short 
 time she brought him a son and daughter, and repenting her 
 conduct, endeavoured to escape to France. The discover)^ of 
 her purpose exposed her to the resentment and jealousy of her 
 seducer, who imprisoned her in a fortress in Sark, from the 
 walls of which she threw herself in despair, and was dashed in 
 pieces. 
 
 " The earl ascribing her discontent to the machinations of her 
 family, and having narrowly escaped assassination by one of 
 her brothers, gratified his vengeance by stealing away her only 
 remaining sister, and killing her brother who endeavoured to 
 rescue her from his attempts. The lady he prevailed upon to 
 live contented with her destiny, and even to become enamoured 
 of him. She had no children, and died of a fever caught in an 
 excursion on the water in 1592. The earl sincerely lamented 
 
 45 * 
 
356 
 
 her death, and was touched with such remorse for past miscon- 
 duct that he thenceforth became as remarkably serious and de- 
 vout as he had previously been gay and insolent. He did not 
 intermit his attention to the aifairs of his estate, but he sub- 
 jected himself to certain rigorous penances and privations. 
 
 " Catharine de Brissac had been three months a prisoner, 
 when in despair, she caused her own death. One week in 
 every year, the earl condemned himself to pass in the tower in 
 which she had been confined, without attendants, without bed, 
 and almost without food. Three hours each day in this week, 
 he passed upon his knees, in tears and supplication, in a small 
 chapel which belonged to it. He thus endeavoured to atone, 
 not only for the wrongs done to his unfortunate mistress, but 
 for the hypocrisy and irreligion of his early life. He wrote 
 conciliatory letters to the countess, and obtained her forgive- 
 ness for offences committed against her. His own constitution 
 was unimpaired by the irregularities, hardships and excesses 
 of his youth, or by the austerities and penances to which he 
 condemned himself in old age. A religious melancholy which 
 preyed upon his mind,, gradually infected his body, and he died 
 without pain or struggle in his eighty-second year, and was 
 buried according to his own directions, in the same tomb with 
 the two ladies he had seduced. 
 
 " His natural children Francis and Catharine, had been sent 
 while infants, into Italy, A kinswoman of their mother who 
 lived in retirement at Florence, consented to take charge of 
 them. An evil star appeared to reign with uninterrupted sway 
 over their destiny. The guilty circumstances of their birth 
 appeared to have entailed a curse upon them from which they 
 never covild escape. 
 
 " Ambrose Carril, was the celebrated favourite of Elizabeth. 
 That mystery in which his connections with that queen are in- 
 volved in the histories of the times, is in a great degree, re- 
 moved by the records in possession of this family. These ac- 
 quaint us that a commerce of love actually subsisted between 
 the queen and her favourite. 
 
 *' The estates of this family are found in many parts of Eng- 
 land besides Rutland and Huntley. It is more remarkable of 
 
555 
 
 them than of any other family, that chance or discretion has 
 uniformly augmented their estates since the beginning. The 
 immense personal property of Tenbrook, devolved by his will 
 on the eldest of his grandsons, and was entirely devoted by 
 him to improving Athelney. 
 
 " Arundel in Sussex, Conway in Wales, and Berkley in 
 Gloucestershire, are all surrounded by extensive domains. 
 The facility or generosity of earl Florace, hoAvever, prevented 
 him from making the most of these portions of his property. 
 He let them out, not only at very low rents, but on long terms 
 of seventy -five years. He had no avarice, no taste for the 
 arduous cares either of a steward or a governor, and in relation 
 to his property, generally chose that mode of proceeding, which 
 gave him least trouble, and required least thought. His su- 
 perfluous revenue, he expended in building the sumptuous cas- 
 tles to be found at these places, in adorning them with all the 
 productions of the arts, and in converting the grounds in their 
 immediate vicinity into a terrestrial paradise. The ancient and 
 proper patrimonial possessions of his family, he almost whol- 
 ly neglected ; visited them with great reluctance, and only when 
 absolutely necessarv. The great passion of his life attached 
 him to these three places. In the course of twenty years, he 
 finished the extensive gardens and magnificent castles belong- 
 ing to them, at the expense of 600,000 pounds. 
 
 " The Berkley estate contained eight thousand acres, of 
 which three thousand five hundred were included in the park. 
 The Conway, 16,000 acres, 10,000 being park. Of the whole, 
 13,500 were in the hands of tenants, and produced only about 
 30001. a year. He gave up all the rest of his estate to his 
 eldest son, when only eighteen years of age, in some degree 
 entailing to that son the future fortunes and destiny of the 
 rest of his children. He reserved to himself an income from 
 the fund of 100 per ann. on which he passed the rest of his 
 life, and secured the aflftuence and comforts of the family of 
 his second wife. By her he had no children. This income, 
 together with the three manors above mentioned, he left to his 
 widow and her sisters, with the remainder, first to the survivors 
 and survior of them in successioa, and then to his three daughs 
 
356 
 
 tcrs, one of them to each, with three thousand pounds annual 
 income, from his estate in the stocks. 
 
 *« Earl Vincent was born in 1678. He married Miss Ten- 
 brook in 1701. His wife died thirteen years afterwards (1714.) 
 The next year he married Julia Caloni, who left him a widow- 
 er (by her) childless, in 1730. He himself died in 1743. The 
 last of the Caloni sisters expired at Coaway, seventy-seven 
 years old (1772.) 
 
 " Till this period, according to earl Vincent's will, these three 
 manors could not revert to the Rutland family. When lady 
 Jane eloped from her husband, and came pennyless to England, 
 the order of time was voluntarily anticipated by the Caloni 
 ladies, and they put her in immediate possession of Cleves, and 
 of 50,000/. this being the estate, and the proportion of money, 
 to which she was entitled only in remainder, after the close of 
 all their lives. They would have done the same to Mary, 
 when in her widowhood, she returned to settle in England, but 
 she would not permit it. 
 
 *' After her grandfather's death, earl Vincent resided at Ar- 
 thursake, till Conway was habitable. He then removed his 
 family hither, and this became his settled and principal abode, 
 and that of his widow and her family for upward of sixty years. 
 After the death of Laura Caloni, in 1772, it devolved to Mary 
 Carril. She never visited it, but took care that the domestics 
 and furniture of the last possessor, should, according to her 
 last wishes, be properly taken care of. The house and grounds 
 were kept in perfect order. At the death of Mary (1786) k 
 devolved to the earl. 
 
 " Conway castle is an edifice of three stories, constructed of 
 massy blocks of Jersey marble, and rising from a rocky emi- 
 nence to the height of 130 feet, exclusive of turrets and pinna- 
 cles. Like Cleves and Arundel, it is planned with the great- 
 est art, and finished in a style which shows that labour and 
 expense were wholly disregarded by the builder. Beside a great 
 display of the excellencies of the chissel and pencil, of which 
 the building itself has afforded the immediate occasion, it con- 
 tains a great number of the most precious monuments of an- 
 cient and foreign art. The same praise may indeed be cor.' 
 
00 i 
 
 ferred on Cleves and Arundel, but not quite in so liberal a mea- 
 sure as on Conway- 
 
 " Earl Vincent had the merit and pleasure of the whole plan 
 and contrivance of these three buildings. They afforded occu- 
 pation and amusement to all his hours, and his plans were of 
 such a nature, that they never could be entirely completed. If 
 we could overlook the pleasure afforded by invention, we might 
 reasonably wonder why this man could not be satisfied with the 
 numerous residences, truly royal, which he already possessed in 
 his palatine estates, and most of which were considerably more 
 extensive than these. 
 
 " Earl Edgar erected and endowed three colleges, one in 
 Rutland, one in Huntley, and one at Oxford. The two former 
 were seminaries, from the members of which the latter was sup- 
 plied with pupils and fellows. The district or lordship of Cleves 
 in Yorkshire, he bestowed upon the hall of Oxford. The reve- 
 nues of this district for ten years together, he employed in erect- 
 ing and finishing the edifice, and then invested the fraternity 
 with the fee simple of the land. 
 
 " Cleves was the property of earl Edgar's mother. It was a 
 Boble patrimony, consisting of upwards of 20,000 acres, divided 
 into three parishes. He regulated this district in the same man- 
 ner with Rutland and Orme, dividing it into lands of fifty 
 farms, granting these in perpetuity at a fixed rent of ten shil- 
 lings an acre, and securing a stipend of 100/. a year to each 
 rector. The revenue hence accruing was vested in the war- 
 den and fellows of Cleves hall. 
 
 " The rules of this college were drawn up and carefully di- 
 gested by the earl himself. 
 
 " Walter Carril, the first of that name, earl of Orme, married 
 Philippa, the daughter of Arthur, duke of Brittany, in 1309. 
 Arthur was succeeded by his eldest son, John the third. Wal- 
 ter and Philippa left a son, Walter the second, bom 1310. 
 The count of Ponthieve, younger brother of John, left a 
 daughter. John chose for his successor, the daughter of his 
 brother, in prefeience to the son of his sister, and married her 
 to Charles de Blois. After John's death, a cavil ensued be- 
 tween the two claimants in l.'^41, whirh, after twenty three 
 
358 
 
 years continuance, ended in 1364, in the full establishment of 
 Walter, the third earl of Orme, in this dutchy. This Wal- 
 ter died in 1380, leaving two sons, the eldest of whom his will 
 left duke of Brittany, while the youngest Arthur acquired the 
 English estates and honours. Henceforth this great family 
 was divided into two branches, that of England and Brit- 
 tany. 
 
 " The Carrils continued in possession of Brittany, in lineal 
 male descendants for seven generations, till 1491, when the 
 marriage of Ann, eldest daughter and heiress of the last duke, 
 with Charles VIII, king of France was solemnized. The duke's 
 younger daughter Isabella, was married to the earl of Orme, 
 in 1487, and thus in some sort re-united the two branches. 
 
 " The history of Brittany, during this period of 150 years, 
 forms a part of the history of the Carril family. The greatest 
 harmony subsisted between the two branches, and frequent in- 
 termarriages took place between them. In more than one in- 
 stance, a daughter of Brittany became countess of Orme, and 
 a daughter of Orme became dutchess of Brittany. Ann the 
 last dutchess, was daughter of an Orme, and Isabella was first 
 cousin to her husband. This connection always reflected great 
 lustre and credit on the English earls, and was, on many occa- 
 sions of eminent service to them. In every disaster, Brittany 
 was a sure place of refuge to them, and aid and mediation were 
 frequently supplied by its dukes. 
 
 " Brittany was, in many respects, one of the most singular 
 states in Christendom. It was compact, insulated from the 
 neighbouring provinces by many peculiar institutions, as well as 
 by language. Its people are at this day descendants of the 
 aborigines of the country, and may be said to have never been 
 conquered. In the wreck of the Roman Empire, the descen- 
 dants of its ancient chieftains acquired sovereignty and inde- 
 pendence, and their posterity continued in possession of it, 
 amidst all the shocks and revolutions occasioned by the Goths 
 Franks and Normans, till the fifteenth century. Geoffry Mar- 
 til who accompanied the conqueror, and was first earl of Orme 
 and Athelney, was a younger son of the then duke of Brit- 
 tany. 
 
359 
 
 In the following pages on the subject of the Carrlls, the 
 author has altered his plan in several particulars from the 
 foregoing. He approaches his Utopian land, but is undeter- 
 mined whether it shall be the dutchy of Taranto or the island 
 of Sardinia. Those sketches must all be considered as in- 
 troductory to his favourite prospect of a perfect system of 
 government. 
 
 " The honours of this family are denoted by their titles of 
 duke of Bevern and Brittany, marquis of Imside, and earl of 
 Jersey, Athelney and Rhodes. The act which confers these 
 honours ordains that the four last shall also be enjoyed by 
 the four elder sons in succession respectively. In other cases, 
 the tides enjoyed by the children of peers during the life of 
 their fathers, are litde more than nominal. In this case all 
 the privileges and immunities of peers, accompany the pos- 
 session of the above tides, as soon as the possessors reach 
 majority. They may be said to inherit these titles from their 
 ancestor, but the privileges of peers they hold for their own 
 lives and that of their father, duke of Bev. and Br. With 
 respect to property they are wholly dependant on their father. 
 
 <' There are thirteen mcorporated towns or burroughs in 
 Bevernshire. They all of them owe their existence as bodies 
 politick to the grants of their ancient dukes, whose charters, 
 still extant and valid, form the oudine of their respective con- 
 stitutions. Before the act of Henry VIII. they formed, to- 
 gether with the duke, the bishop of Beverley, his twelve 
 deans, and two representatives of the country at large, a sort 
 of independent, provincial parlianient, by which almost all lo- 
 cal and legislative functions were performed. This body was 
 dissolved by the above mentioned act, and its members, ex- 
 cept the twelve deans of Beverley, were declared component 
 parts of the great national parliament. The bishop sits in the 
 house of peers, in the same character with other bishops, the 
 two representatives of each borough, and the two knights of 
 the shire, are members of the house of commons. 
 
 " The bishop is nominated by the duke. The boroughs 
 are governed each by twelve elders, who are chosen octeu- 
 
360 
 
 oially by themselves, from among those householders who 
 have been, for a year, resident within their jurisdiction, and 
 above thirty years of age, provided Ithe choice be made bv 
 nine out of the twelve, and be approved by the lord. They 
 may continue themselves in office no longer than for two 
 terms. By these elders or an actual majority of them are 
 chosen representatives in parliament, from among their own 
 members or from any other class or district, provided their 
 choice is approved by the lord, and the candidate is qualified 
 in the manner prescribed by act of parliament. 
 
 " The knights of the Shire are chosen by such as possess 
 the freehold of 100 acres of land within the same, and 
 must also be approved by the lord, as well as qualified ac- 
 cording to the statutes. 
 
 " It is evident, that, according to this system, the lord is 
 invested with despotic ppwer, in appointing representatives. 
 The influence exercised by individuals over counties and bur- 
 roughs, is generally sinister, precarious and indirect, but here 
 it is direct, absolute and constitutional. Having thus the ap- 
 pointment of no less than twenty-eight, or, including Rutland, 
 of 30 members of the house of commons, the duke cannot 
 fail to be regarded with extraordinary respect by the king and 
 his ministers. His parliamentary influence in the lower house 
 would, in many of the contests of faction, be irrcsistable. 
 Hence, by adverse parties, he has often been reverenced as one 
 capable of determining the balance. 
 
 *' A power, thus important to the general welfare, aflbrds 
 great scope for the exercise of wisdom and virtue. The 
 present duke has shcv/n the excellence of his principles in no- 
 thing more than the moderate and judicious use which he has 
 made of this influence. He has not been guided, either by 
 avarice or ambition, he has not meanly condescended to be- 
 come the tool of any minister or faction, or made his preroga- 
 tives a ladder to pensions, offices or contracts, either for him- 
 self, his dependants or his flatterers. He has chosen the path 
 which, to his unbiassed judgment, led to the general safety 
 and happiness, and to the attainment of that goal, has direct- 
 ed all the influence which his riches, power and authority 
 have given him. 
 
361 
 
 •' I'he Union of Bevern with the kingdom of England was 
 an event somewhat paralitl to that of Scotland and Ireland in 
 subsequent ages. It would be a theme not contemptible in 
 the hands of an enlightened historian. In the general history 
 of Britain it forms a subordinate episode, highly interesting 
 Iroia the nature of the circumstances attending it. The ca- 
 pricious tyranny of Henr}- the Eighth was generally submit- 
 ted to by his abject people. But the ' inhabitants of this 
 Dutchy, containing a large portion of catholics, made head 
 against his innovations, and were not finally subdued, till the 
 whole force of the kingdom was brought against them, and 
 their obstinacy was extinguished by the death or banishment 
 of three fourths of their number. 
 
 "The duke of Bevern was a compliant courtier, whose real 
 sentiments were favourable to the reformation; but whose ex- 
 ternal conduct was always moulded by the reigning policy. 
 His next brother was bishop of Beverley, a zealot of the perse- 
 cuted religion, and the soul of this rebellion of the Bevernmen. 
 By him was the standard of war raised, and upheld for up- 
 wards of three years with various success, against the whole 
 power of the crown. 
 
 " The bishop was a man of consummate talents. Historv 
 does not supply us with any instance of a more absolute power 
 obtained by one man over many, than this leader acquired over 
 his devoted followers. Though educated in the cloister, he ' 
 took the field against the enemy, and conducted the most ar- 
 duous military operations, with a skill and prudence onlv to 
 be expected from one born and bred in camps. 
 
 " From peculiar circumstances, this district was one of the 
 best cultivated and best peopled in the kingdom. It abound- 
 ed more than any other with great and opulent convents. 
 The bishop had many privileges and an extensive jurisdiction. 
 He was lineally descended from Henry the Seventh, and the 
 lustre of this descent added greatly to his influence. This in- 
 fluence somewhat justified the hatred and fear with which 
 he was regarded by the king, who naturally confounded his 
 resistance of religious edicts with a contest for the rrown 
 itself. 
 
 4(1 ^^ 
 
362 
 
 " Bevern, coutaiued at that time about 80,000 inhabitants, 
 of whom 60,000 were Romanists, and consequently all the 
 latter being zealous in their bishop's cause, they could furnish 
 upwards of ten thousand soldiers. This number was armed, 
 disciplined, and led to battle by the enterprising prelate, and 
 though unable to make any effectual opposition to their ene- 
 mies in the field, yet, by the obstinate defence of strong for- 
 tresses ; by seasonable movements and skilful retreats among 
 hills and forests, they succeeded in maintaining their footing 
 in the country for three years. They were then entirely 
 subdued, and immense and irreparable havoc was made among 
 villages and farms ; more than forty thousand of the Roman- 
 ists, including their wives and children, were destroyed by 
 the sword or the executioner ; upwards of thirty stately mon- 
 asteries were levelled with the ground ; a score of ancienr 
 and celebrated castles shared the same fate, and the country- 
 became nearly desolate. The remnant of voluntary or com- 
 pulsory conformists soon, however, bestirred themselves, and 
 the next generation was able very nearly to repair all the 
 evils which their ancestors had suffered. 
 
 *' During these troubles, the Duke of Bevern contrived 
 with great difficulty to escape the anger or suspicion of the ty- 
 rant. The bishop had equally rejected and trampled on the 
 rights of the king and the duke, and when the rebellion was 
 extinguished, the latter was reinstated in possession of his 
 lands and his prerogatives. The country, however, was de- 
 prived of its independence. It was annexed to the rest of the 
 kingdom, in consequence of its rebellion. 
 
 " This contumacious prelate was born in 1520, of Catharine, 
 daughter of Henry the Seventh. He was made bishop of 
 Beverley, in 1541. He had previously received all the advan- 
 tages of education and travel, and displayed a powerful mind 
 united to religious zeal. The king first extended his innova- 
 tions to Athelney in 1 544, and in 1545, the bishop escaped through 
 numerous perils to the continent. He was received by the pope 
 and the catholic princes, as a martyr in the cause of the true 
 faith, and was raised to the dignity of cardinal, nuncio, and 
 governor of a Koaian province. On the deatli of Edward. 
 
363 
 
 in 1553, he returned to England and was made primate, but 
 refusing to sanction the projects of Elizabeth, he again re- 
 tired, in 1558 to Italy. Two years after he was elected pope, 
 at the age of forty, and occupied the pontifical throne thirty 
 jears, when he resigned the tiara, and retired to a convent 
 of his o^vn founding. 
 
 " The life of this pontiff forms a very curious and interest- 
 ing display of the human character, and of the spirit and 
 manners of the age in which he lived. 
 
 " At the time of his resignation, he was still in the flower 
 of his age, and led a tranquil life in the bosom of his chosen 
 solitude till 1611, when he sunk serenely and without pain 
 into the arms of death, at the age of 91 years. 
 
 " He was the only pope who had ever attained the tiara 
 at so early an age, who enjoyed it so long, or who volunta- 
 rily resigned it. His conduct, on the whole, was eminently 
 distinguished for piety, humanity and justice. He excelled 
 all his predecessors in the taste and magnificence with which 
 he cherished learning and the arts. He administered justice 
 with impartialitv, combining rigour and clemency in that due 
 proportion which the public weal requires. He abolished or 
 reformed many grievous taxes and impositions with which he 
 found the Roman state burthened. He checked the fury of 
 the inquisition, and behaved with so much mildness and for- 
 bearance towards the protestant princes and sects, as to bring 
 into question tlie sincerity of his own faith, with those who 
 had no opportunity of viewing his conduct closely. In his 
 personal deportment he was a model of, devotion, charity and 
 temperance. 
 
 " His subjects were fully sensible of their happiness under 
 his government, and repaid his beneficence with unlimited de- 
 votion. When his resolution to resign the throne was pub- 
 lished, murmurs and lamentations were, every where, heard 
 in the Roman territory. Even foreign nations partook of the 
 general grief; inspired by the loss of a pope, whose reigo, 
 compared with that of any of his predecessors had been a 
 golden age of felicity. His wisdom and equity bad even 
 gained the gratitude and veneration of the protestant sects, 
 
364 
 
 and they cordially united with the catholics in their regret 
 for the past and their terror of the future. 
 
 " With all his wisdom, Felix was an arrant enthusiast. 
 Whether a peculiar constitution of nerves, or a warm imagi- 
 nation was the source of his reveries, it is not easy to deter- 
 mine, but the sincerity with which he embraced his reveries 
 and phantoms, as celestial revelations, cannot be doubted. 
 He made no boasts of tlicse favours ; he built upon them no 
 claim to extraordinary reverence from others. They seemed 
 to awaken in his heart no passion but humilit)' and graiitude. 
 They directed his own conduct on many important and criti- 
 cal junctures, but he did not borrow from them any new au- 
 thority over the conduct of others. He disclosed the intima- 
 tions he received from this divine source sometimes to ac- 
 count for and justify his ov/n personal behaviour, but never 
 with a view to enhance his power or his sanctity in the eyes 
 of the world. This indeed was a natural consequence, and 
 his person became sacred exactly in proportion as his conduct, 
 on this head was unambitious and disinterested. 
 
 " The being Vvho thus performed the office of his better 
 angel or genius was no other than St. Ulpha, the reputed 
 mother of Arthur, and, of consequence, the lineal and direct 
 ancestor of the Carril family. St. Ulpha had been worship- 
 ped time out of mind, at Beverly. According to an ancient 
 constitution, no one could rightfully be bishop of that See 
 but one of her descendants, and accordingly, it has, even to 
 this da)^, been always filled by one claiming a near or remote 
 relationship to the Carrils. Felix Avas destined for this of- 
 fice from his birth, but, till fifteen years of age, all his incli- 
 nations leaned towards the military life. This preference 
 he maintained with great obstinacy against the wishes, advice 
 and authority of all his relations, and renounced it only in 
 consequence of a mysterious interview, by night, with the 
 Saint herself, who condescended to impart to him, personal- 
 ly and orallv her commands, and the will of Heaven. In 
 pursuance of these commands he abjured all his military 
 vivjv.s, laid aside liis customary studies and levities, and 
 zealously devoted himself to the service of God and St. Ul- 
 
365 
 
 pha. He made rapid progress in the clerical sciences, and 
 his life became an exemplary pattern of humanity, piety and 
 temperance. 
 
 "- According to his own report, it was sometimes in his 
 power, by certain preparatory offices and prayers, the nature 
 of which, he never imparted to others, to obtain the presence 
 and direction of this supernatural guide. On all important 
 occasions, lie sought and obtained an interview, and fre- 
 quently derived from her the power of deciding on the merit 
 of adverse arguments on questions purely speculative. His 
 clear and impartial understanding was frequently bewildered 
 by the learned and skilful disputants of the age. He disdain- 
 ed to form his opinions, as others commonly formed theirs, 
 after the dictates of interest or education or example. He 
 lent an unbiassed ear to the advocates of the rival sects, by 
 which Christendom was then divided, and thus acquired a sort 
 of neutral or wavering conviction on religious topics, from 
 which he was extricated only by the special revelations of St. 
 Ulphii. This mode of settling his opinions had the happiest 
 influence imaginable ; since it excluded all doubt from his 
 own mind, while, at the same time, it inspired him with com- 
 passion and forbearance towards others, whose belief did not 
 in his eyes necessarily argue a weak head or a bad heart, 
 and who dissented from him merely because they wanted that 
 supernatural and infallible criterion of the truth which was 
 granted to his prayers. 
 
 " He attributed his acceptance of the bishopric ; his des- 
 perate opposition to the innovations of Henry VIII, his com- 
 pliance with IMary's invitation to return and assume the pri- 
 macy, his declining the offers of her successor, his retirement 
 in It:ily, his acceptance, and finally his resignation of the pope- 
 dom to the special commands of St. Ulpha. 
 
 " One exception has been discovered to the general in- 
 tegrity of his life, which deserves particular mention, because 
 it is a curious example of the influence of this peculiar su- 
 perstition on his mind. While a student at Fadua, he form- 
 ed a close intimacy with Giulio Terzi, the only son of the 
 prince of Altamura. Time only added strength and tender- 
 
566 
 
 ness to their mutual attachment, and their friendship was at- 
 tested by a most voluminous and confidential correspondence 
 carried on during every interval of separation. They wrote 
 and conversed in no language but Latin, in their knowledge 
 of which they were excelled by none of their contemporaries. 
 Their correspondence was carried on in a mystic character* 
 intelligible only to themselves. 
 
 " There was no third person in their friendship till 1545, 
 when the bishop paid a visit to his friend, who had some 
 years before, succeeded his father in his lordship of Alta- 
 mura. Here he found Giulio living in the deepest seclusion 
 with his only sister Giulia, a woman at that time about seven- 
 teen years old. As the bishop was still young, and equally 
 noble and graceful in his person and address, the lady's heart 
 was soon biassed in his favour ; as the lady added a most cul- 
 tivated and polished mind to the most exquisite charms of 
 person, and the most bewitching simplicity of manners, the 
 visitant could scarcely fail, in spite of all his abstemious 
 maxims and habits, to feel something more than a mere ami- 
 cable sentiment towards her. 
 
 " Previous to this visit, he had scarcely ever passed a 
 minute in the company of any female. This partly arose from 
 an early bashfulness, made inveterate by habit, which made 
 the presence of women painful and distressing to him, and 
 partly from his multiplied religious and military duties ; 
 which left him no leisure for amusement. He desired to es- 
 cape any introduction to the lady of the mansion, on the pre- 
 sent occasion, and his friend was willing enough to gratify 
 him in this particular. ' All his precautions, however, could 
 not prevent him from meeting her, one morning, in a temple 
 in the garden, which the prince had erected, in honour of 
 St. Ulpha, the favourite divinity of his friend. The bishop 
 chanced to repair thither at an hour much earlier than was 
 customary, when he caught a view of the lady kneeling at the 
 altar. She glided away at his approach, but not till he had 
 obtained a distinct view of her face and person. His fancy, 
 irresistably struck by her appearance, cherished, for a mo- 
 ment, the persuasion that the phantom was St. Ulpha her- 
 
367 
 
 self," and when undeceived in that particular, he made no 
 longer any scruple to see and converse with her. They soon 
 became familiar, and such was the bishop's visionary temper, 
 that he finally prevailed upon himself to believe that Ulpha 
 herself had condescended to animate the form of Giulia, and 
 that to love her persouj to revere her understanding, to fol- 
 low her councils, and to maintain a conjugal intimacy with 
 her were the express injunctions of his duty. He could not 
 find it difficult to remove her Scruples as easily as he had done 
 his own. What is somewhat surprising, the brother was 
 wrought upon so far^ by friendship or by reasoning, as to sanc- 
 tion their alliance. Their connection produced no children, 
 and they continued in the closest union for twenty-one years, 
 when the lady died suddenly on coming out of the bath, be- 
 ing previously in perfect health. She bequeathed her estate^ 
 which she had inherited from her brother, eight years before, 
 to the pope, and this estate was all the landed property which 
 Felix acquired, directly or indirectly, through his long pon- 
 tificate. 
 
 '' The domain of Altamura extended over some Romantic 
 hills and fertile vallies in the heart of Apulia. It was nearly 
 equal in extent to that district in Bevernshire which is called 
 " the Patrimony of St. Ulpha," and still belonging to the 
 bishops, the protestant successors of Felix. This similiarity, 
 together with the circumstance of being the birth-place and 
 residence of one whom he seriously regarded as a second ap- 
 pearance of the same beatified being in an human form, com- 
 mended it strongly to his affections, and he speedily conceiv- 
 ed the design of building a convent to her honour on this spot, 
 endowing it with this whole estate, and taking refuge in its 
 shades, at the arrival of that period at which he had previous- 
 ly resolved to resign the pontifical throne. This period was 
 the seventieth year of his age, when he would have enjoyed 
 the papacy, thirty years, a longer reign than had happened to 
 any of liis pi'edecessors. 
 
 " Felix had formed a solemii resolution never to convert 
 any part of the public revenue to his own personal use, or that 
 of any of his relations, as such. Every Englishm.an he re- 
 
36t> 
 
 garded as a brother, and those of his countrymen who were 
 condemned to exile and poverty on account of religion he held 
 it a duty to protect and relieve, but he placed their merit on 
 the same footing with that of their fellow sufferers of any 
 other nation^ and though he bestowed his bounty on theni 
 with more pleasure, he did not bestow it more promptly or 
 largely. Among the exiles from England, there were several 
 near akin to him. These, however unworthy, he rescued 
 from poverty, but he allowed them no extraordinary favour 
 or distinction unless their virtues, as well as the ties of blood, 
 pleaded for them. During the first fifteen years of his ponti- 
 ficate, he was allowed by all to have behaved, in this respect, 
 with decency and moderation, but less merit was ascribed to 
 this forbearance because none of his near kinsman had ap- 
 peared at Rome in that time. His virtue was not fully 
 tried till the year 1570, when Felix Carril, his nephev/, the 
 only brother of the duke of Bevern, the great favourite of 
 Elizabeth, became a convert to the catholic faith, and took re- 
 iuge in Italy. 
 
 " Felix was more than six years younger than his brother, 
 and joined therefore the graces of youth, to a spirit as rest- 
 less, enterprising and ambitious as the duke's. He was hand 
 some, intrepid, generous, artful and insinuating, and had aim- 
 ed at nothing less than to supplant his brother in the queen's 
 favour. In this contest, however, he w^as worsted by the 
 superior address of his brother: the influence of the lattcr 
 prevailed upon the queen to deprive him of an office which 
 he held near her person, and to banish him, for an indefinite 
 time, to the country. In this irksome retirement, revenge and 
 despair working together in the miiid of the youth, and an 
 emissary of the duke, suggesting to him erroneous counsels un- 
 der the guise of friendship, he suddenly conceived the design 
 of embracing the Rumish religion, and taking refuge with his 
 ura le the pope. The partiality the pontiff was known to have 
 for his countrymen and his relations ; the extraordinary claim 
 to his favour arising from the peculiar circumstances of the 
 convent ; his near relationship ; the sacrifices made of fortune 
 and country for conscience-sake ; his own personal graces and 
 
369 
 
 talents, all these commending him so strongly to favour, what 
 might he not expect. The nephews of former popes pointed 
 out to him the career which he imagined himself destined to 
 run. He reckoned on hereditary honours and estates scarce- 
 ly inferior to those enjoyed by the head of his family in Eng- 
 land, and even the popedom itself he flattered himself was as 
 much within his grasp, as it had been within his uncle's, whoj 
 like himself had been a younger brother, and an exile for con- 
 science sake. 
 
 ." Seduced by these plausible views, dexterously suggested 
 to him by his brother's agent, he fled to Italy, and obtained, 
 from his uncle, such a reception, as, for a time, confirmed all 
 his hopes. This illusion, however, gradually disappeared, and 
 instead of directing the councils, and distributing the bounties 
 of his uncle, he found himself carefully excluded from all in- 
 fluence and importance in the state. Instead of obtaining lands 
 and castles in his own right, or mending his condition by a 
 splendid matrimonial alliance, like the nephews of former popes, 
 he was merely allowed a decent pension, and the quiet enjoy- 
 ment of all the caresses which his personal merit, or the digni- 
 ty of his birth could procure for him from others. His artifi- 
 ces, his intreaties or his menaces were all thrown away upon 
 the inflexible pontiff. In vain did he assume the clerical life ; 
 the red hat was as much beyond his reach after he became a 
 priest as before. 
 
 " The pope had too much sagacity to be mistaken in the 
 character and views of his nephew. The young man gave no 
 such proofs of sincerity and steadiness as to affbi d him even a 
 pretext for deviating from the strict line, which it became 
 a disinterested pontiff to pursue. He readily granted his ne- 
 phew's prayers for a dispensation from his newly taken vows, 
 and permitted him, in 1577, to accept a military commis- 
 sion from the emperor. Felix's restless and enterprising 
 temper, led him to hope for glory and distinction, and even 
 for kingly power and territor5\ in a war against the Turks. 
 He attained, in the campaigns of the next five years, no 
 small portion of the former, but not one road to the latter. 
 At the end of that period, Stephen Battory, the celebrated 
 
 47 * 
 
370 
 
 king of Poland, died, and Felix entertained the bold design 
 of succeeding him. As this project was not disadvantage- 
 ous to the common cause of Christendom, the pope warmly 
 espoused his cause, and in 1585, at the age of 35, he was 
 elected and firmly seated on the throne of Poland, through 
 the influence of the emperor and the pontiff. 
 
 *' No sooner had Felix gained the summit of his ambition, 
 than his usual mutability betrayed itself. He had strained 
 every faculty and nerve to overcome the obstacles which 
 stood in the way of his election, and had slighted the dictate^ 
 of his uncle's wisdom, which had warned him of the turbu- 
 lence and misery to which the acquisition would condemn 
 him. The pope, finding his nephew inflexible in his pursuit, re- 
 luctantly afforded him all the assistance in his power, In hoper. 
 that, should his efforts be successful, his influence over his 
 kinsmen might be employed for the benefit of the Polish na- 
 tion. When Felix became king, the pope supplied him with 
 the best advice, as to the mode of conduct most conducive 
 to the happiness of his subjects and his own glory. He sup- 
 plied him with sage counsellors, skilful agents, and consider- 
 able sums of money, and the new monarch entered into the 
 part assigned him, with all the zeul and docility to be de- 
 sired. 
 
 *' The Poles at this period, were a nation scarcely emerged 
 from barbarism. A ferocious and tyrannical nobility, and a 
 race of stupid slaves composed nearly the whole mass of the 
 people. The bond of connexion between the several parts 
 and between the whole nation and the supreme head, were 
 feeble and precarious. The Turks, Muscovites and Tartars, 
 continually menaced Its tranquility and independence from 
 without, while differences of religion, inveterate feuds among 
 the great, and a passion for war, were Internal causes of in- 
 cessant commotion and destructive violence. The objects 
 which the pope strenuously recommended to his nephew, were 
 the diminution of the privileges of the nobles, the exaltation 
 of the peasants from their present abject and brutal condi- 
 tioHj the introduction and encouragement of commerce and 
 ^he useful arts, and the extirpation, by lenient roethods, n^ 
 
the new doctrines in religion. He did not discountenance his 
 nephew's project, not only of enlarging the royal power, but 
 of making it hereditary in his own person, because he con- 
 sidered the system of election as the chief cause of the mi- 
 series of Poland. 
 
 " Whether there was any defect in the means adopted for 
 this end, or whether the end was, in itself, in the present 
 state of things, unattainable, or, which is most likely, Fe- 
 lix possessed not sufficient wisdom and steadiness for so dif- 
 ficult an undertaking, certain it is that all his projects ended 
 only in driving two adverse parties into war. War was a scene 
 in which he was much more qualified to shine than in council, 
 and had fortune not been remarkably untoward he would have 
 succeeded in establishing an absolute monarchy in spite of all 
 opposition. 
 
 «' A very inconsiderable sum punctually remitted from 
 Rome, and a small but well disciplined army of foreign mer- 
 cenaries, together with valour and conduct, were sufficient 
 to surmount all opposition. A continual tide of success at- 
 tended his military operations and one desperate battle was all 
 that remained to complete his triumph. The battle was 
 fought. He gained the victory, but, venturing too far in 
 rash pursuit, he himself was made prisoner by the vanquished. 
 This unlucky accident turned the current of success ; his 
 troops deprived of their leader, were disheartened, and either 
 dispersed or deserted to the enemy. The nobles that had ad- 
 hered to him, abandoned his cause, and joined his adversaries 
 in deposing him and electing a successor. He escaped an ig- 
 nominious death only by eluding his jailers and leaving the 
 country. 
 
 " In the miserable and hopeless condition of a fugitive and 
 exile, he reached his ancient mansion at Rome, and there re- 
 ceived tidings which made him ever after consider his expul- 
 sion from Poland as the most fortunate event of his life. His 
 %vife was the fourth child and only daughter of Alphonso 
 D'Este, duke of Ferrara, Reggio and Modina. ^This alliance 
 had been formed clandestinely, before Felix left Italy in 1577. 
 The pope's refusal to make his nephew richer than he found 
 
372 
 
 him, had caused the duke to refuse his consent to the match> 
 when regularly sought by Felix. Having obtained the maiden's 
 own consent, she fled in disguise from Ferrara, was hastily 
 married on the road, and accompanied Felix into Hungary. 
 The duke had interest enough at Vienna to have his daughter 
 restored to him. She was imprisoned, and treated for three 
 years, with great rigour. The pope, though displeased with 
 his nephew's conduct, refused to annul the marriage, nor was 
 the lady released and restored to her husband, till after his 
 accession to the Polish crown. Qn the commencement of the 
 civil war, he sent her and her children ijito Italy, and, after 
 a time followed her himself in the manner above related. 
 
 " In the interval, between his escape from prison and his ar- 
 rival incognito at his wife's palace in Rome, the duke of Fer- 
 rara and his three sons were drowned while sailing on the Po 
 in a pleasure boat. The eldest son had been married long 
 enough to have one child, who perished with its father : the 
 second son had been married a few weeks, and the third was 
 on the eve of marriage. By this signal accident, Felix in 
 right of his wife, suddenly became duke of Ferrara ; a princi- 
 pality, at that time, one of the richest and most flourishing 
 in Europe, in which the regal power was thoroughly es- 
 tablished and extremely absolute, and his claim to which could 
 not fail to be maintained by the only two powers, whose good 
 will was of any importance, the pope and the emperor. Such 
 were the strange vicissitudes in the life of Felix, during the 
 ten years that elapsed from his flight from England and his 
 escape from Poland, and thus was he finally conducted to the 
 very point which his ambition originally set before him, by 
 a path that, to all human wisdom, was the most random and 
 diverse that could have been imagined. It is a remarkable 
 instance of the folly of the wise, that Felix had uniformly 
 acted in opposition to the councils of his uncle. His flight 
 from England was condemned by the pope ; his enlisting in the 
 emperor's service, his acceptance of the Polish crown, his 
 marriage, his resorting to arms in support of his political 
 projects, .were all strongly disapproved of not only as flowing 
 from wrong designs, but as means unsuitable to these designs, 
 
373 
 
 and yet by a manifest and necessary chain did all these events 
 place him in the very situation to which he most fondly 
 aspired. 
 
 " A great deal of good will and affection had always sub- 
 sisted, in spite of the nephew's perversenesses, between him 
 and his uncle. The latter rejoiced in the good fortune of hift 
 kinsman, who still endeavoured to conform himself, to his 
 uncle's advice in the government of his new territory. To 
 this disposition was chiefly owing the uncommon prosperity 
 which attended the rest of his life. He performed with great 
 success, the part of a wise and beneficent governor, and his 
 virtues met their due reward in the felicity and gratitude of 
 his people. 
 
 *' It was generally acknowledged then, considering the fee- 
 ble and exhausted state of the Spanish monarchy, and the un- 
 common riches and strength of the papacy, the conquest of 
 the kingdom of Naples would have been no very formidable 
 undertaking. There were not wanting many earnest advo- 
 cates of this project at the pontifical court. There were, in- 
 deed, not a few, who believed that a pontiff of Felix's cha- 
 racter and great fiscal and military strength would have found 
 it easy to drive all foreigners out of Italy, and have either ap- 
 propriated their dominions to the church, or bestowed it on his 
 own family. Such splendid projects were cherished with great 
 eagerness by the duke of Ferrara, but they were always instant- 
 ly and sternly rejected by the pontiff himself, who, instead of 
 feeding his fancy with such visions, had early formed the 
 resolution of resigning, before his death, the popedom itself. 
 
 " Duke Felix put his eldest son under his uncle's care at 
 Altamura, and made a will in 1595, constituting him guar- 
 dian of his son and regent of his principality, in case of his 
 own death before his heir came of age. At this time the duke 
 was only forty-seven years old, while the abdicated pontiff, 
 now abbot of St. Ulpha, was seventy-five. Six years after- 
 wards (1601) the duke was hurried to the grave by a fever 
 caught while travelling by night, over an unwholesome coun- 
 try. His son Alphonso, was only fifteen years old, and the tu- 
 tor assumed the government of his territories, and exercised 
 
374 
 
 his power with all the vigour of youth. When the lord reached 
 his twenty-second year, the period fixed for his majority in his 
 father's will, the uncle and guardian gladly resigned his au- 
 thority and once more returned to the solitudes of Altamura, 
 and here he quietly resigned his breath, in the year 1623, at 
 the great age of 103 years. 
 
 " Ferrara, Modina and Reggio have continued, with little 
 permanent alteration in this branch of the Carril family till the 
 beginning of the ninteenth century. Few families have been 
 more fortunate in producing an uninterrupted succession of 
 male heirs distinguished in general bx' their wisdom and in- 
 tegrity. Twelve princes of the names of Arthur and Felix 
 have peaceably succeeded each other, and their territories, 
 though occasionally disturbed, incroached upon, invaded or 
 pillaged by their quarrelsome neighbours, have remained near- 
 ly stationary in extent, riches and population from the death oi 
 the first Arthur in 1640. 
 
 " Arthur the Second, obtained from the pope and emperor, 
 the privilege of consolidating his territories into one principal- 
 ity, by the name of Felisca, by which name it has since been 
 generally known. 
 
 " This state contained in 1690, about 3500 square miles, and 
 500,000 people. Three hundred thousand were engaged in 
 agriculture, and two hundred thousand were distributed in 
 cities, towns and villages. The villages contained about 250 
 inhabitants each, and were in number about three hundred. 
 Each tovv'n had an average population of 5000, and were 10 
 in number. The cities of Ozlanto, Bundisi and Turantc, each 
 contained about 25,000 people. The average i-cntal of city 
 houses was 50 ducats a year ; the whole rental of 7000 such 
 houses was 350,000 ducats. Town or burgh houses brought 
 25 ducats total, of 4000 houses, 1000 ducats. A village house 
 was worth 5 ducats a year, or, for 12000 homesteads, 
 60,000 ducats. The whole rental of dwelling houses appears 
 to amount to 500,000 ducats. 
 
 " Nearly all the plains were under cultivation. The moun- 
 tainous region in the centre v/hich occupied an horizontal 
 kngth of 100 by an horizontal breadth of 10 miles, engrossed 
 
375 
 
 about 1500 square miles of the whole surface. This region 
 afforded some pasture, but principally consisted of rocks and 
 forest, the former of which afforded extensive quarries of the 
 finest marble, while the latter contained inexhaustible stores of 
 timber, for building, furniture and fuel. 
 
 "The cultivated plains consisted of about 1,300,000 acres, 
 the annual rental of which amounted to about the same num- 
 ber of ducats ; so that the annual rent of house and land ex- 
 ceeded 1 800 ducats. 
 
 " The ducal revenue consisted of one fifth of the above 
 sum ; as a perpetual land tax and valuation ; of a capitation of 
 1 ducat which produced 500 ducats of the rental of demesne 
 land, amounting to 64,000 of a profit in the domestic sale and 
 exportation of salt ; an article, wherever found, accounted pub- 
 lic property, and of which there Vv'ere very fertile mines in the 
 province. Of this commodity about 50,000 bushels were an- 
 nually consumed at home and four times that quantity ex- 
 ported. Each bushel yielding a clear profit to the exchequer of 
 1 ducat, this branch of revenue produced, at least, 250 ducats. 
 Hence it appears that the ducal revenue amounted to about 
 J, 000,000 ducats. 
 
 " On an estimation being made or the national income, it ap- 
 peared that the whole equally divided among all the individu- 
 als, amounted to 20 ducats each person, or a total of 10 mil- 
 lions, the tythe of which belonged to the prince alone. 
 
 " When this family first obtained possession, they found 
 themselves no more than the head of about three hundred 
 feudal barons, v/ho exercised all the rights of both govern- 
 ment and property over the tenants of their lands and 
 houses, and of a few republican corporations, who acted aj 
 sovereigns within their own walls. The mass of the people 
 were held in degrading bondage by the aristocracy. The pro- 
 prietors chiefly spent their time and their revenue in foreign 
 countries, and trusted their authority to ignorant, tvrannical 
 and mercenary agents. The sea coasts were rr.vaged by the 
 Turks till they had nearly become desolate. The springs of 
 government had become totally relaxed, and every species of 
 crime and outrage prevailed without restraint or punishm'rnr.. 
 
J/6 
 
 The whole population did not exceed 200,000 of whom it 
 was computed that two thousand annually died by poison 
 and the poinard. Several strong holds in the mountains 
 were possessed by banditti, whose numbers exceeded three 
 thousand, and who waged a regular predatory war on the 
 peaceful inhabitants of the vallies. The Turkish corsairs 
 carried away every year into captivity, not less than three 
 thousand persons ; while the miserable remnant, suffered all 
 the evils of superstition, ignorance and misgovernment. All 
 the internal and external causes of decay and ruin, which for 
 half a century, afflicted the kingdom of Naples, operated in 
 these islands with unusual violence, and though the most fer- 
 tile and most favourably situated for arts, commerce and 
 agriculture, it was in the most desolate and deplorable 
 condition. 
 
 " The finest wheat in the world grew in these isl.es. 
 which however, was nearly extinct as it was not allowed to 
 be exported, and as the people subsisted almost wholly oc 
 maize. Of this grain enough was raised to maintain the in- 
 habitants and no more : consequently, not above 100,000 
 acres out of 2,800,000 was cultivated with any species of 
 corn. The pastures maintained about 20,000 cattle and 
 200,000 sheep, and consisted of about 300,000 acres. Cot- 
 ton, vines, olives and fruits of which little more was raised 
 than sufficed for the wants of the people did not engross above 
 20,000 acres more. The whole cultivated or enclosed ground 
 fell considerably short of 700 square miles which was only ^-th of 
 the whole. The high lands, contained ^ths, while the rest of 
 the plains (about 1300 square miles) was consigned to the 
 lynxes, wolves, stags and wild boars, and was overrun with 
 pestilential bogs or impenetrable thickets. 
 
 " After the extortions of pirates and banditti, and the em- 
 bezzlements of agents were deducted, the whole amount of 
 rent and capitation which came into the coffers of the barons 
 did not exceed 300,000 ducats. The administration of jus- 
 tice in the cities, and a vast number of duties and customs 
 brought to the treasury of the prince about 180,000 ducats, 
 which being entirely expended in maintaining a governor and p. 
 
377 
 
 few garrisons, about 1500 men in all wretchedly armed, death- 
 ed and provided, left nothing for the king's treasury. 
 
 " The place of governor, and eight or ten of the most lucra- 
 tive offices were usually filled by Spaniards, whose flatteries 
 or services at court were rewarded by enjoying these opportu- 
 nities of enriching themselves. As their whole ingenuity was 
 employed in augmenting the regular gains of a short and pre- 
 carious office, by fees and perquisites, by selling justice and 
 commuting crimes for money ; as this system was industri- 
 ously carried on by the agents of each petty baron as well as 
 by those of the king, we may easily imagine the general havoc 
 and destruction which overwhelmed this neglected corner of 
 the Spanish empire. 
 
 " When the Normans conquered Naples and Sicily, in 1127, 
 the province of Taranto became the property of one of the 
 descendants of Tancred, who held it as a fief of the crown, 
 and whose posterity took the name of D'Oria, from a castle 
 called Oria, which he built, and which afterwards became q. 
 royal residence. In the various and destructive revolutions 
 which afterwards happened, this petty kingdom continued to 
 subsist, and the family, through twenty-two generations, in 
 some degree, maintained its ancient lustre and prerogatives, 
 till the contests between Charles VIII. and Alphonso II. 
 Ferdinand, the father of Alphonso, and the natural son of Fer- 
 dinand the catholic, by whom Naples was bequeathed to him 
 by will, in 1496, found many difficulties in attaining possession, 
 chiefly through the opposition of Rinaldo IX. prince of Ta- 
 ranto, who claimed the crown for himself as the only legiti- 
 mate descendant of the Norman princes. The prince, who 
 might have been successful in the field, was poisoned by his ad- 
 versary, and his son Rinaldo X. took refuge in France. His 
 exhortations were ihe principal cause of the invasion of Charles 
 VIII. in the successful issue of which he regained his prin- 
 cipality, with such additions of power and prerogative as to 
 make Taranto nearly a sovereign and independent state. On 
 the expulsion of the French, and the re-establishment of 
 Frederick, the nominal submission and co-operation of this 
 prince was purchased by the generosity and moderation of 
 
 48 * 
 
378 
 
 Frederick, but being thwarted in some unreasonable preten- 
 sion, he brought the French once more into the kingdom. 
 The war that was terminated by the establishment of the 
 Spaniards in Naples, in 1503, was fatal to this family. Rinal- 
 do X. was slain in battle and his children withdrew, on the 
 confiscation of their property, to Rome. Here they subsisted 
 in obscurity and poverty till the viceroyship of cardinal Ca- 
 lonna, whose sister married Rinaldo XII. the head of the 
 D'Orias. Colonna had sufficient interest with Charles V. to 
 obtain for his brother-in-law, in 1533, the restoration of Altimu- 
 ra, a lordship on Puglia, and a part of their ancient patrimony. 
 Camillo, the son of this Rinaldo, was the friend, above men- 
 tioned, of Pope Felix, whose tranquil and unambitious cha- 
 racter gave no disturbance or suspicion to the Spanish govern- 
 ment. 
 
 " When Felix returned home from Padua in 1541, to be 
 made bishop of St. Ulpha, he prevailed upon Camillo D'Oria, 
 his friend to accompany him. Mar)', the favourite sister of 
 F'^lix was an additional bond of alliance between these friends. 
 He promoted so successfully a match b&tween them that the 
 union was effected in 1544, and the prince, his father, dying, 
 he carried his bride to Italy. 
 
 *< Camillo followed his wife to the grave in the year 1573. 
 By his will he left the guardianship of his infant daughter Ca- 
 milla, jointly to his sister Julia and the pope. The lordship 
 of Altimura he left to his sister for her life, and then to the 
 pope for his life, and afterwards to his daughter, provided 
 she married agreeably to the pope's choice : otherwise the es- 
 tate was to be at the absolute disposal of the latter. At this 
 time the orphan heiress was 12 years of age. 
 
 "The younger Felix who came to Italy in 1570, and had 
 taken orders with a view of obtaining ecclesiastical prefer- 
 ment, had hitherto met with nothing but mortification and dis- 
 appointment. The military life had always been most conge- 
 nial to his habits and disposition, and this he had renounced, 
 merely through the dictates of a restless ambition. Finding 
 his uncle by no means disposed to raise him to the summit oi 
 honour, without a longer probation and a stricter scrutiny than 
 
379 
 
 his patience could brook, he quickly repented of his precipita- 
 tion, and finally resolved to resume the character of a layman. 
 While forming these resolutions, the death of Camillo D'Oria, 
 and the beauty and splendid prospects of his daughter suggest- 
 ed a new and alluring project to his fancy. 
 
 " If hereditary right were allowed its due force, the true 
 title to the throne of Naples had visibly and indisputably cen- 
 tered in this daughter of the D'Orias. The French and Ar- 
 ragonese claims to that kingdom, were founded in palpable 
 violence and usurpation. They were supported by arms and 
 by faction alone, while the veneration of the people belonged 
 only to the house of D'Oria. 
 
 " But if the claim of this family to the whole kingdom were 
 allowed to be subverted or weakened by an interruption of pos- 
 session for more than four centuries, their title to the province 
 of Taranto was exempt from a similar objection. No more 
 thah 70 years had elapsed since their quiet possession of that 
 principality, and the justice of their claim, as well as the ini- 
 quity of the Spaniards in crushing it, was fresh in the memo- 
 ry and conviction of all men. The orphan was generally and 
 familiarly known as the lineal and legitimate descendant of 
 Rogero, and was often called by a kind of custom or licence, 
 queen of Naples and princess of Taranto. Her right had as 
 many partizans within and without Italy as there were persons 
 who bestowed any reflection on the subject, and who were not 
 devoted by their interests to Spain. 
 
 " All the Italian politicians of that age considered the do- 
 minion of strangers in Italy as a glaring usurpation, and it was 
 deemed a mark of true patriotism to indulge M'ishes and suggest 
 projects for their expulsion. These reasoners, while they took 
 into their view the whole Peninsula, were particularly ardent and 
 zealous with respect to the two Sicilies where the dominion of 
 Barbarians was supported by less plausible pretexts, and had 
 been more capricious and ruinous than in any other quarter of 
 Italy. The vicinity of the pope's residence to this kingdom, 
 the extraordinary vigour of the present pontiff, the order 
 which his wisdom and energy had established within his own 
 precincts ; the magnitude of his resources and the feudal su- 
 
380 
 
 jiremacy which he already enjoyed, naturally pointed him dut 
 as the sole and proper agent in this revolution. The felicity 
 enjoyed by his subjects contrasted with the miseries endured 
 by the ill-fated slaves of Spain could not fail to inspire the 
 people of Naples with fervent wishes for such a change. The 
 overgrown empire and arrogant conduct of Spain would have 
 made all the other powers of Christendom friendly to this 
 scheme, while the declining and languishing state of that mon- 
 archy exposed them more easily to be attacked and subdued. 
 The general security from the ambition of the Turks, made a 
 wise and vigorous government more necessary in Naples, and 
 especially in the province of Taranto than elsewhere, because 
 it was the point most exposed to insult and invasion, and 
 through which lay the most practicable road to the heart of 
 Italy. This consideration obtained new force from the memo- 
 ry of Solyman's irruption, who made good his footing in the 
 kingdom more through the weakness and supineness of the 
 reigning government than from any other cause. When to all 
 these views, the plea of justice, arising from the title of the 
 D'Orias was added it seemed certain that the pontiff would 
 at length determine on hostile measures. 
 
 " When these things were revolved by the nephew, he was 
 seized with an ardent desire of securing to himself this splen- 
 did inheritance by marrying his cousin. He therefore made 
 haste to lay down the emblems of priesthood, and anticipate 
 all other aspirers to so desirable a match. He naturally 
 thought that as his personal qualities did not place him below 
 any other, his near relationship, both to the pontiff and his 
 ward, would be irresistable pleas in his favour with the most 
 impartial, and though the pope should obstinately decline any 
 attack on Naples or Taranto on his behalf, the lady's right 
 to Altimura was at least settled, and its benefits in actual 
 possession. 
 
 " On the first point, the pope readily conceded to his wish- 
 es, and unfettered him from vows to which he believed his 
 nephew would never have submitted. On the second point, 
 he did not show the same facility. With regard to his niece, 
 he declared himself determined to decline all proposals till the 
 
lady was twenty years of age, and then to sanction no wooer 
 that was not agreeable to her. As to her claims upon Na- 
 ples, he avowed his solemn resolution never to prosecute them 
 by force of arms, either on behalf of his niece or of the papa- 
 cy, and forbade his friends and ministers to urge him any fur- 
 ther on that head. On this topic, there had been always but 
 one voice among those counsellors who were not Spaniards. 
 
 *' This moderation in Felix was the more remarkable as his 
 whole ministerial and ecclesiastical life in England had been 
 spent in efforts to counteract the projects of Charles and 
 Philip, and as, since his exaltation to the popedom he had 
 secretly befriended Elizabeth and always refused assistance to 
 her enemy. In both circumstances, however, Felix had been 
 governed by a disinterested regard to justice. 
 
 " The pride of Philip could not conceal from him that he 
 owed the possession of Naples to the moderation of the pon- 
 tiff, and such renown for equity had the pope obtained that 
 Philip considered his life as the best security, he could possi- 
 bly have for possession. To this circumstance was Felix, 
 probably indebted for his long life, since it prevented those at- 
 tempts at poisoning or assassination which were then common, 
 and which were generally considered as the favourite instru- 
 ments of Spanish policy. 
 
 " The nephew, irritated as well as mortified by these refu- 
 sals, entered into a scheme for accomplishing his favourite 
 ends without the knowledge of the pontiff. He began to ru- 
 minate on plans for seizing some fortresses in Naples and Si- 
 cily and exciting a rebellion among the people, and had made 
 some progress in this plot, when his agents being detected by 
 the Spanish ministry, formal complaint was made to the pope. 
 The nephew, in consequence, received a severe reprimand 
 and was strictly enjoined to drop all such dangerous and un- 
 lawful projects, on pain of condign punishment. While writh- 
 ing under this new disappointment, the imperial ambassador in- 
 vited Felix to fight against the Turks in Hungary under his 
 banners. The uncle warmly approving the proposal and pro- 
 mising to support him by large supplies of money, he gladly 
 
382 
 
 consented to change the scene and try his fortune on a nevi 
 theatre. 
 
 " By a judicious use of the pope's liberal reniittances j by 
 improving the constitution and discipline of his troops as near 
 as possible to the standard of that of the Janissaries ; and by 
 memorable exertions of ' valour and military conduct, he 
 speedily obtained a splendid reputation, and gained gi-eater ad- 
 vantages over the infidels than any former leader. Stephen 
 Battori, king of Poland, soon acquired such esteem for him, 
 that he entrusted him with the supreme command in an ar- 
 my raised to expel the sultan from Transylvania, his native 
 principality. After many bloody campaigns in which he wag- 
 ed a, successful war against superior forces, the province was 
 freed from the invaders. The king made him his delegate, 
 and he governed that extensive province with great felicity and 
 renown. By this conduct he gained the cordial approbation of 
 his uncle, who opened his treasures for his use with less scru- 
 ple because his exertions contributed to the common security 
 of Christendom. 
 
 "On his expulsion from the throne of Poland, in 1586, he 
 repaired to Rome to enjoy some tranquillity after his recent 
 hardships and fatigues, by which his health had been greatly 
 and even dangerously effected, and to crave his uncle's assist- 
 ance in restoring him. The pope counselled him to lay aside 
 all thoughts of his lost dignity, as his rival was now too 
 firmly seated to be removed, and as the papal revenues could 
 not be justifiably employed in contests of that nature. As no 
 further opposition was made to his wishes with regard to the 
 princess of Altimura, who had remained unmarried till this 
 time, and who lent a favourable ear to his vows, he acquiesced 
 without murmuring, in these pacific councils. New events in 
 Naples opened soon after unexpected prospects to his am- 
 bition. 
 
 *' The state of things, as already described, in the island of 
 Sardinia, soon led to an extraordinary revolution. Antonio 
 Mozzi was the son of an advocate at Ostuni. He betrayed 
 even in childhood, a turbulent and vicious disposition, and all 
 his evil propensities acquired strength as he advanced in years. 
 
383 
 
 He committed many heinous crimes, which escaped pun- 
 ishment by reason of his father's influence, and the general re- 
 laxation of the laws. At length, transported with rage on the 
 advocates rebuking him from some atrocious offence, he slew 
 his father with his own hand, and this crime exposing him to 
 punishment he took refuge with the outlaws of the moun- 
 tains. Here he outstripped in courage and cruelty, the old- 
 est of his comrades, and soon became a leader. In this sta- 
 tion, his views gradually enlarged, and after drawing all the 
 dispersed troops under his own standard, he meditated no less 
 than the regular conquest of the whole country. By a series 
 of rapid and skilful enterprises he accomplished this object in 
 a short time, and defeated all the troops which the government 
 had sent against him. He proceeded in so judicious a man- 
 ner to model and strengthen his government, and to seek the 
 aid of foreign states especially that of the Turkish sultan, that 
 the court of Spain began to be seriously alarmed for the safety 
 of the whole kingdom. In this dilemma, Philip made applica- 
 tion to the pope, and offered to invest his niece and nephew 
 with the sovereignty of this province, under certain conditions, 
 provided the latter would find means to expel Casetti. The 
 pope and his nephew were well disposed to hearken to these 
 overtures, but would not consent to take the gift burthened 
 with any limitations or conditions but merely that of recover- 
 ing the province without any assistance from Philip. As Ca- 
 setti was quickening his preparations for invading the other 
 provinces, and certain advices were received that the sultan 
 was preparing to second him with a considerable force, all 
 scruples and delays were at an end, and Felix was made ab- 
 solute sovereign of the country on the sole condition of con- 
 quering it in a limited time. 
 
 <* As soon as the treaty was ratified, Felix began his prepa- 
 rations^ and the pope considering the expulsion of Mozzi as an 
 act of self-defence against the Turk, was liberal of his assist-- 
 ance. Many officers and soldiers who served under him in 
 Hungary, obeyed his summons, and in a short time, he formed 
 an army of thirty thousand men. This numerous force was 
 no more than the nature of the warfare and the strength of the 
 
enemy required. Casetti Mozzi had raised his army to fort)' 
 thousand men ; the suhan had supplied him with store of 
 arms and ammunition, and a considerable armament was dai- 
 ly expected to take possession of some convenient harbour. 
 
 *< Mozzi proved himself a skilful general, and regulated hia 
 defences in such a manner as to leave little hope of success to 
 his adversaries. He meditated a war of skirmishes and posts, 
 and so extensive was his knowledge of the country and so nu- 
 merous and impregnable his fortresses that such a plan, strict- 
 ly adhered to, would have made him invincible. The negli- 
 gence of some of his officers and the impetuosity of his troops 
 partly defeated this cautionary plan, and brought on a drawn 
 battle between 7000 of his men and 6000 of the enemy. This 
 contest was carried on with great obstinacy for three days, 
 when Casetti was compelled to retire, leaving four thousand of 
 his own men and two thousand of his enemies dead on the field. 
 This war which was prosecuted without intermission for seven 
 years and an half, and which ended in the total extermination of 
 the Banditti, abounded with deeds of valour and honour, be- 
 yond any which have ever been recorded. The crown which 
 was thus hardly earned, has since been as bravely preserved by 
 the posterity of Felix. A curious computation is found in the 
 histories of this war, of the havoc it occasioned, of which the 
 following are some of the particulars. We may observe that 
 when Mozzi clearly perceived his cause to be desperate, he 
 and his followers made up their resolution to die, but to sweet- 
 en their death by as much revenge as possible. Mozzi himself, 
 and a few followers escaped to Turkey, and his valour and 
 fortune finally conducted him to the visiership, and he finally 
 closed his tempestuous career in a peaceful death, at sixty 
 years of age. There fell by the sword, on the side of the ban- 
 ditti, 75,000. He compelled every man able to bear arms, to 
 take them up in his defence, and hence the whole community 
 became soldiers on one side or the other. 
 
 *' Felix began the war witli 30,000, and continual recruits, 
 being supplied, the whole number enlisted in the course of the 
 war, nmgunted to 70,000, of which about 10,000 deserted and 
 
385 ^ , 
 
 were afterwards slain, and of the rest only 20,000 survived to 
 accompany the- victor in his triumph. 
 
 ** Ofthe unarmed people, there were massacred 100,000. There 
 were starved in the forests, about 6000. Despair drove to 
 suicide upwards of 1000. Of houses pillaged and destroyed^ 
 there were 50,000 ; and the destruction of cattle and corn 
 was beyond computation. 
 
 " Such were the poAverful effects of good government, and 
 so rapid is the healing operation of peace and security, that in 
 twenty years almost all the vestiges of this havoc were oblite- 
 rated, a new generation arose more than twice as numerous as 
 the former ; all the inveterate evils of the ancient government 
 had disappeared, and a tide of felicity flowed over the land 
 such as no part of Italy or Europe at that time could parallel. 
 
 " On the death of pope Paul the third, in 1549, the cardinal 
 of St. Ulpha, though only twenty-nine years of age, had very 
 nearly attained the papacy. His illustrious descent, being the 
 grandson of Henry the Seventh ; his exertions and sufferings 
 in the cause of religion ; the unbounded reverence paid to his 
 virtues, pleaded strongly in his favour with those who were 
 sensible how much the dignity of the holy see had been im- 
 paired by the vices and misconduct of the late pontiff. The 
 lutheran heresy owed its rapid progress in the world to nothing 
 more than to the personal character of the heads of the church, 
 and to those abuses with which the papal government was ac- 
 knowledged, both by friends and enemies, to be infected. The 
 surest antidote therefore to this heresy, was the choice of u 
 man, who though so young, had established a character for 
 wisdom, integrity and piety beyond any of his contemporaries. 
 With such reasoners, his youth and good constitution were 
 additional recommendations, because they furnished some se- 
 curity that a salutary reign would be likewise a long one. 
 
 '* The cardinal, since his exile, had been legate of Avignon, 
 and the energy and wisdom of his government had already 
 made him the darling of the people. While lie governed 
 Avignon, he made it his whole employment to reform and be- 
 nefit the people under his care, and gave such signal instance;5 
 of beneficence and justice, as acquired for him. with the su- 
 
 49 ^'- 
 
386 
 
 perstitious, the reputation of a saint. He conducted himseli 
 with so much humanity towards the protestants within his dio- 
 cese as in a great measure to check the progress of the new 
 opinions. The gratitude and love with which he Inspired he- 
 retics made more converts than t^Tanny and persecution made 
 elsewhere. Those that v/ere invincible by gentle means, he 
 banished, but allowed them to carry awav their property or 
 dispose of it, without material injurv. During his legateship 
 none were punished with death for their religion, and vet here- 
 sy had wholly disappeared within the limits of his province. 
 In fine, he displayed at Avignon all the virtues which he after- 
 wards exhibited at Rome on a larger scale. 
 
 •' In 1548, the plague raged with great vehemence at Avig- 
 non and its neighbourhood. The legate had been called to 
 Rome, and been offered a more advantageous government in 
 Itah', but pltving the miseries of tlie Avignonese, he chose to 
 return thither, in the height of the pestilence. By entering the 
 city without fears for his own safety, putting into force various 
 salutary regulations, and inspecting and superintending ever}" 
 thing in his own person, he checked or mitigated the evik 
 which had prevailed. As he exposed himself so far as to at- 
 tend the sick in some cases and bury the dead Avlth his owa 
 hands without taking the infection, his reputation acquired 
 new lustre, and he was generally regarded as the favourite in- 
 strument of Heaven. 
 
 " Notwithstanding his great merit, the reigning pope regard- 
 ed him with suspicion and aversion. As the cardinal could 
 nevel- be brought to commend the conduct of the pontiff, and 
 on all occasions gave advice adverse to his wishes, and those of 
 his grandson, he incurred their hatred, and was deprived of his 
 legateship. He was even accused of heresy and of treason in 
 failing to execute certain orders received from Rome, respect-, 
 mg the punishment of dissidents, and being summoned thither 
 to defend himself, he set out, without deiav, on the journey. 
 On his arrival, he found the pope dead, and was offered the 
 unanimous votes of the Conclave, provided he engaged to res- 
 tore Parma to Octavio P'arnese. Steadily refusing to do this, 
 and avowing maxims of government hostile to the interests of 
 
387 
 
 those that adhered to that prince, they had address enough to 
 substitute Julias the Third in his place. 
 
 " As he disdained to be the pandar or flatterer of the new- 
 pope, he was neglected by him, and he passed the next three 
 years alternately at Rome or Altamura. While at Rome, he 
 obtained the enthusiastic veneration of the people by his devo- 
 tion and charity, and was invested by them with a miraculous 
 power over vices and diseases. He resided in a convent which 
 he built and dedicated to St. Ulpha, and which he made the 
 asylum of many of his distressed countrymen. In the pulpit 
 of this church, he was accustomed to preach, and acquired as 
 much fame for eloquence as any preacher of that age. 
 
 " During the life of Henry VIII, he was exposed to perpetu- 
 al danger of poison or assassination from the malice and re- 
 venge of that prince. These efforts, however, only served to 
 display the innocence and magnanimity of the cardinal, who 
 uniformly refused to use any precaution against such plots, and 
 more than once arrested the aim of the assassin by mere in- 
 trepidity and presence of mind. His conduct in the conclave 
 drew upon him the indignation of the house of Farnese, and 
 lie ran an imminent risk of destruction from their vengeance. 
 Against this, as well as the former danger, he provided neither 
 arms nor vigilance. He trusted to nothing but a firm and equa- 
 ble integrity, and the protection of providence. Death being 
 the universal lot, he considered the time and manner as in- 
 different circumstances ; and even maintained that what is call- 
 ed a sudden and violent death is, to the suflerer, more eligible 
 than the lingering and painful course of disease. 
 
 " When he first arrived in Italy, the public voice and the 
 good will of the pope would not suffer him to choose between 
 a public and private station. He did not hesitate, however, to 
 choose the government of some province belonging to the see, 
 in preference to any ministerial office at Rome, however lucra- 
 tive, or to any diplomatic mission however honourable and 
 important. He knew that in the former station he should be 
 less trammelled by the orders of a superior, and left more to 
 the guidance of his own understanding than in the latter. He 
 preferred the legatcship of Avignon, tn anv nrh^".", because that 
 
388 
 
 province was most remote from the capital, and the government 
 less within the view, and less liabl^ to the intermeddling super- 
 intendance of the pontiff and his ministers ; because its condi- 
 tion was more miserable and consequently stood in more need 
 of a just and beneficent ruler, than that of any other province 
 of the papal empire. 
 
 *' He bent the whole force of his mind to the duties of his 
 princely office. The general concerns, both religious and po- 
 litical, of Christendom, did not escape his attention, but he 
 carefully abstained from intermeddling with them, and thus en- 
 joyed better opportunities of protuoting the happiness of his 
 immediate subjects than any of those who had preceded 
 him. 
 
 " He was promoted to the papacy notwithstanding the in- 
 trigues of the house of Austria, but this exaltation he owed 
 more to accident than design. Notwithstanding his acknow- 
 ledged merit, there were few members of the conclave who es- 
 poused his cause, for, in the first place, he regarded the tiara 
 with terror rather than affection. Its duties appeared to him 
 arduous beyond his power to discharge them. He knew that 
 all his good resolutions would be defeated by the spirit of the 
 times. Those agents and counsellors whom he should be 
 obliged to employ, were influenced by passions, interests and 
 prejudices hostile to his favourite plans. He dreaded the ne- 
 cessity of falling down the general stream of corruption, and of 
 witnessing and sanctioning proceedings against which his rea- 
 son and conscience rebelled. His expectations on this head 
 were indeed, as faint as his hopes, since the factions which di- 
 vided the conclave had all of them interest to promote en- 
 tirely foreign to his. He embraced no party, and was active 
 neither on his own behalf nor that of any other. It was chance 
 that brought him to Rome at the critical moment. He re- 
 mained after the death of the pope, because the continuance of 
 his office depended on the will of the successor. He, at first^ 
 had determined not to enter the conclave, but was finally per- 
 suaded to change his purpose by Caprara, the only intimate 
 friend he had in the college. Caprara, though at first the 
 friend of another candidate, became afterwards the powerful 
 
389 
 
 partizan of Felix, and by the exertion of consummate address 
 and artifice accomplished his unanimous election. Three fac- 
 tions contended for several weeks for the mastery. One of 
 these was guided by the Spaniards. The second by the ne- 
 phews of the late pope, while the third embraced the cause of 
 moderation and virtue, and fixed their eyes upon Cardinal de 
 Salni, a prelate who bore a strong resemblance to the English 
 prince, in every thing but health, age and ambition. An in- 
 firm constitution and great age, for he was seventy-two, recom- 
 mended him strongly to all parties in the college, while his own 
 ambition made him as auxious to iinprove the present opportu- 
 nity as Felix had been indifferent and remiss. For him, Fe- 
 lix intended to vote, being of all the- candidates, the least ex- 
 ceptionable, but, though thus disposed himself, he made use of 
 no means to bring over others to his sentiments. 
 
 " For some time, though neither party had the requisite ma- 
 jority, the Spaniards had the greatest number of voices. The 
 CarafFas came next, while the partizans of De Salm, though 
 too small to hope for success were sufficiently numerous to de- 
 cide the election by joining either of the other factions. Though 
 t,he third party was the smallest in number, it consisted of men 
 of so much energy and zeal, and the motives of their choice 
 were so little connected with petty interests or personal attach- 
 ments, that there was little hope of winning them to any other 
 standard, and their perseverance, together with the bitter aver- 
 sion which the two other factions entertained for the object of 
 each others choi ce, might have finally prevailed, if unfortu- 
 nately for them, De Salm, who was hastening to Rome from 
 Venice, had not died by the way. The fever which destroyed 
 him, was imputed to the hurry and anxiety of his mind, and 
 the unreasonable expedition he had made use of in his journey. 
 This event reduced the friends of reformation to despair, and 
 they prepared to range themselves at the next scrutiny, with 
 the partizans of Spain. The contest was considered as decided, 
 and the faction of Caraffa hastened to enlist themselves under 
 a standard which they saw must be cro\\Tied with success in 
 spite of their opposition. ' 
 
390 
 
 " The candidate, whose cause appeared thus to be secure, 
 was a native of Toledo, of obscure birth, but of great natural 
 abilities. He became a soldier at a very early age, and rising 
 soon to command, he signalized himself in the Spanish wars 
 against the Moors as much by ferocious cruelty, as by courage 
 and good conduct. After a while, he abjured the soldier and 
 turned Monk, and being raised to an high post in the office of the 
 Inquisition in Grenada, he contrived to make his new function 
 as instrumental to death and destruction as his former one. 
 Through his own address and the favour of Spain, he rose at 
 length to his present elevated station in the church ; and though 
 his conduct was always exempt from licentiousness and levity, 
 he was generally considered as exceeding most of his contem- 
 poraries in cruelty, revenge, pride and malice. 
 
 " He attended his master Philip to England, and while there, 
 quarrelled with Felix. In this contest, however, he was worst- 
 ed, and his pride was severely mortified by the treatment he 
 received from the primate. He never forgot this imaginary 
 injury, and took every occasion of defaming and embarrassing 
 the author of it. He was accustomed to stigmatize Felix as 
 an apostate, heretic and traitor ; and the latter had, on this 
 very occasion been summoned to Rome, on charges exhibited 
 by him. If he had now been made Pope, the malicious accuser 
 would have become a relentless judge, and nothing but his 
 high rank, and the veneration of all Christendom could screen 
 him from the persecution of so rancorous an enemy. He had 
 now the certain prospect of as much calamity to himself and 
 to mankind as can flow from the character of a pope, and al- 
 ready ruminated on the plan of withdrawing entirely from all 
 public transactions, and sheltering himself in the shade of some 
 cloister, when the scrutiny commenced. The surprising re- 
 sult was that many more than the adequate proportion of suf- 
 frages were united in favour of Felix himself. He was the 
 first to alledge the possibility of some mistake in the process, 
 and desired it to be repeated. The second scrutin}' was still 
 more favourable, and thus, without the smallest previous inti- 
 maruni or suspicionj did he find himself exalted to the pinnacle 
 of honour. 
 
391 
 
 ** This surprising revolution was brought about by the mere 
 eloquence of Caprara, who in a separate assembly of his own 
 adherents and those of Caraffa, had displayed the evils result- 
 ing from the choice of the Spaniard in such vivid colours, that 
 they finally concurred in choosing Felix, and the scrutiny 
 coming on while their imagination was occupied and inflamed 
 by this rhetorick, they hurried to an irrevocable election. 
 Though no choice could be expected, with less probability, 
 from the prejudices and passions of such electors, no choice 
 could be, in itself, wiser and more prudent, and none could 
 have excited more joy throughout the christian world. It is, 
 however, as signal an instance of the triumph of eloquence 
 over the resolutions of men as has ever been recorded- 
 
 " When informed of the election of Felix, the king of Spain 
 was deepl)' alarmed. A character more adverse to his own and 
 more hostile to all his views, the whole college, he imagined 
 could not afford. His terror subsided by very slow degrees, 
 and it was not wholly dissipated but by long experience of the 
 new pontiff's inflexible integrity. 
 
 " The scenes of cruelty and bigotry which then polluted al- 
 most every kingdom in Europe, excited the horror and regret 
 of this good pontiff. He strenuously counteracted all the am- 
 bitious projects of Philip the Second. He denied his sanction 
 to the bloody persecutions of that monarch, and exerted all his 
 influence to divert him from his wars against the Flemings on 
 one side, and the Moors on the other. To every confederacy 
 and expedition against the Turks he liberally contributed. 
 Among the powers of Europe, he acted invariably the paternal 
 part of a peace-maker. To the protestant nations he behaved 
 without any of the haughtiness or rancour which distinguished 
 his predecessors, and obtained their gratitude and veneration. 
 In the government of his own territories, he anxiously consult- 
 ed the happiness of the people, and establibhed order, peace and 
 prosperity among them in a degree to which they had ever be- 
 fore, and have always since been strangers. No pontiff ever 
 acquired, in an equal degree, the reverence of his own subjects 
 and those acts of worship which tonn tlie regular ceremonial of 
 the nana! court. w<Te. with regard to iiim, accomnnnied bv sen- 
 
392 
 
 thnents of absolute idolatry. He was imagined, by the vulgar, 
 to possess a supernatural power over life and death, and those 
 miracles^ which modern saints usually perform after their death, 
 were universally believed to be performed by him while living* 
 He was beatified and canonized by his successor, contrary to 
 established usage, but with the general applause of Christendom. 
 
 " During his thirty years retirement in Sardinia, he mighty 
 with more propriety, be considered as the sovereign, than his 
 nephew. Though the latter had an impetuous ambition, which 
 in general spurned opposition and controul, his religion taught 
 him to consider his uncle as the vicar and interpreter of God> 
 to whose dictates the most implicit submission was a sacred 
 duty. He justly regarded his uncle as the sole author of his 
 greatness, first, in giving him his cousin in marriage, next in 
 obtaining a cession of the islands from Spain and Genoa ; and, 
 thirdly, in supplying him with soldiers, arms and ammunition ; 
 and, lastly, by rendering him and his posterity as indepe nden 
 of Rome as of Spain. 
 
 " It was certainly in the pope's power to have made these 
 islands the absolute property of the Roman see. In extent and 
 fertility they were not inferior to the papal territories in Italy, 
 and their insular position in the centre of the Mediterranean 
 made them much more secure from inroads and invasions than 
 the dominions on the continent. As they might be considered 
 as having been purchased by the pontifical treasures, the see 
 of Rome appeared to have an equitable right to them, and as 
 the spiritual authority of the pope's considerably depended on 
 their temporal pov,^er, this addition to their kingdom would 
 gi-eatly contribute to their weight and consequence. Their ec- 
 clesiastical empire had been vastly impaired during this century 
 by the heresies of Calvin and Luther. Their revenues had ex- 
 perienced a proportionable diminution, but these losses would 
 be more than counterbalanced by the sovereignty of these 
 islands, where not only the whole civil and sacerdotal power 
 might be vested in the pope ; but if he thought proper, the 
 very soil itself, and all that it produced or maintained. 
 
 " Though the subject was generally viev/ed in this light, 
 the pontiif reasoned in a very different manner. He consider- 
 ed the union of civil and ecclesiastical fimctions in the same 
 
;>yo 
 
 purpose as a prolific source of corruption and depravity, and 
 as the principal abuse as well as the cause of almost all the 
 abuses with which the court of Rome had been charged. The 
 character and conduct of the pontiffs had been exposed to ri- 
 dicule and detestation, by their indecent lust after riches and 
 power, by their ambition and perfidy in acquiring, and their 
 prodigality and weakness in dismembering the lands and ter- 
 ritories of their neighbours. To add to their dominions, 
 therefore, would only add to their luxury and vices, would 
 only blend and entangle still more jurisdictions that ought to 
 be left distinct and separate, and only lend to diminish the 
 veneration due to them as heads of the church. 
 
 Felix, likewise, well knew the evils and corruptions inse- 
 parable from the civil government of the popes. To sub- 
 ject these islands to the Roman see would be to ensure and 
 perpetuate the superstition, anarchy and misery in w*hich their 
 ancient nftasters had plunged them. He knew that his own 
 power would terminate with his life, and that the principles 
 by which he had conducted the government would probably 
 be laid aside and forgotten by his successor. In providing for 
 the durable welfare and felicity of his new territories he 
 conceived himself discharging the most sacred duties of his 
 station, and the treasures which belonged to him as j>ontifF 
 could not be employed in a more beneficent and salutaiy 
 manner. To erect a kingdom in these islands, absolutely 
 independent, and rendered prosperous and powerful by wise 
 institutions and laws, would be to augment essentially the 
 strength of Christendom, and raise up a bulwark against 
 the progress of the Turks far more formidable than hither- 
 to existed. 
 
 These views, though they carried irresistible evidence to 
 his own thoughts, he could not with propriety and safety, 
 publish to the world. His notions on the propriety of se- 
 vering the temporal and spiritual power of the popes would 
 have been branded as the most odious heresy. On this head, 
 therefore, he maintained a discreet silence, and allowed the po- 
 liticians of the age to arraign his motives as selfish and ambi- 
 tious. To aggrandize his nephew, and gratify his own am- 
 
 50 
 
394 * 
 
 bition by founding a new and powerful kingdom, were naturally 
 supposed to be the passions that swayed him. 
 
 To effect his purposes, he conceived it necessary not only to 
 make this new kingdom as distinct as possible from all its neigh- 
 bours, and especially from the Roman pontiffs, in political, but 
 also in ecclesiastical matters. There was no great diificulty in 
 giving it civil independence. It was easy for him to preserve 
 the princes of Sardinia from any feudal subordination or depen- 
 dence on Rome : but to deprive his successors of all spiritual 
 jurisdiction in these islands, should seem to be a most danger- 
 ous project. The bigots could hardly fail to clamour loudly 
 against this scheme. The pontiff listened with patience to their 
 reproaches, and pursued, at the same time, his own way, with 
 inflexible resolution. He restored to the monasteries their an- 
 cient discipline, and especially their right to choose their own 
 abbots. The Deans he invested with the choice of their bishop, 
 and the bishops, first with the choice of their Deans, and second- 
 ly with that of the archbishop of Tinina. He allowed none to 
 be eligible to any of these offices, but natives and residents with- 
 in the islands, and obliged them not only to pass through a long 
 probationary trial, but to subscribe to the creeds and canons 
 which he ordained and prescribed. He prescribed rules for as- 
 sembling synods and insular councils, and explained -with great 
 exactness and minuteness, their jurisdictions and privileges and 
 duties. For himself, as pope, and his successors, he solemnly 
 renounced, after a certain period, all the claims and prerogatives, 
 hitherto enjoyed by the Roman bishops, and either abolished 
 them entirely, or vested them in the archbishops, bishops and 
 abbots of the island. 
 
 Felix had certainly reason to congratulate himself on his 
 rare good fortune. Among the reveries of his youth, the fa- 
 vourite dream was that of a government, ecclesiastical and civil, 
 perfectly constituted and perfectly administered. By attaining 
 the papacy, and then acquiring, in his nephew's person, the ab- 
 solute possession of these islands, he obtained the power of 
 modelling the government and laws of a considerable territory, 
 in a degree only inferior to that which the deity himself pos- 
 sessed. He was exposed to none of the difficulties which ordi- 
 nary legislators have to encounter. As to the people them- 
 
selves, the success of his nephew's arms had put their proper- 
 ty and lives into his hands, and their implicit faith subjected 
 their most ancient customs and inveterate opinions to his abso- 
 lute controul, as supreme pontiff. By his will, their religion 
 permitted every fundamental law and moral obligation to be 
 changed or modified. As to their former masters, Felix had 
 entered the islands as the friend and ally of Spain, and Philip 
 had forever renounced all dominion and superiority over them. 
 As to the papal claims, which, in ordinary cases would have 
 been most difficult to withstand or elude, the pope himself 
 found it at once, his duty and interest to renounce them, and 
 his whole pontifical authority was exerted not to uphold or en- 
 force, but to annihilate them. 
 
 So far as a new religion consists in selecting a new object of 
 worship, and regulating the social duties and private conduct 
 of men by new maxims, he Roman pontiffs are invested with 
 considerable pov/er in prescribing and new modelling religion. 
 An order is an institution by which men bind themselves to 
 practise certain duties, either in relation to God in acts of wor- 
 ship, or in relation to their fellow men. This institution to be 
 valid must be sanctioned by the pope, after which it becomes a 
 legal obligation the observance of which is enforced by the 
 same penalties as obedience to any civil laws whatsoever. Such 
 orders may, in many respects, be considered as new sects, 
 whose birth and increase produce no jealousy or scandal, and 
 which are branches of the general religion of a nation that 
 rather add strength and beauty to the main stock than take 
 them away. 
 
 Under this view, and in virtue of this prerogative, it was 
 in the power of Felix, to bestow on the Sardinians a religion 
 as well as a government, in many respects, new and peculiar to 
 themselves. By creating a new order, whose patronness should 
 be St. Ulpha, and by dividing this order into many classes and 
 branches, there was no great difficulty in making it comprehend, 
 under the different classes, almost all the community ; and thus 
 creating a species of religion, on the object of worship : in the 
 language, symbols and rites of that worship, and in those articles 
 of faith which prescribe to us what we must do, and from what 
 we must abstain, visibly different from any prevailing in thf 
 world. 
 
396 
 
 I mentioned before that this pontiff believed himself under 
 tiie visible and direct influence of St. Ulpha, in every important 
 action of his life, and in all his religious opinions. The whole 
 system, ecclesiastical and civil, of Sardinia, flowed immediately 
 from this source, and had therefore a divine authority in the 
 minds of its disciples not inferior to that of any system of re- 
 ligion whatever. Felix not only by virtue of his office, but like- 
 wise by virtue of a special revelation, was the messenger and 
 interpreter of Heaven, and his decrees were submitted to as the 
 expressed will of God. 
 
 Notwithstanding all the abuses in their government, the two 
 Islands were extremely populous in the sixteenth century. 
 Though roughened by mountains and rocks, and embarrassed 
 by fens and pools, they contained many fertile vallies and lux- 
 uriant plains. The exti erne simplicity of the people in their 
 mode of life, and the natural nuidness of their climate, made 
 subsistence cheap and eas3% Almost their only beverage was 
 water and a weak wine, and their diet bread made of maize, 
 with the milk, butter and cheese of their flocks. An home man- 
 ufacture of coarse cotton supplied them with all their cloathing, 
 and the few articles they got from other grounds or hands than 
 their own, were obtained in barter for their silk, honey, 
 olives, the surplus produce of their dairies and increase of their 
 cattle. In spite of anarchy and turbulence, oppression and ne- 
 glect, their villages v/ere thickly strewn among rocks and pre- 
 cipices, and a cottage seemed to grow up as naturally as a chesnut 
 tree, in every hollow or crevice that afforded a footing for one. 
 A village is a cluster of houses, consisting each of one room, 
 about twelve or fifteen feet in diameter by as many high. They 
 are of a conical figure, built of loose irregular stones which 
 abound every where, and which are nicely adjusted to each other 
 so as to constitute a firm and even wall. At a distance they have 
 pretty much the appearance of tents having nearly the same 
 shape and colour. Their grapes are planted in spots favoura- 
 ble to cultivation. The grand close about the village is laid out 
 in plots of about four acres in each ; of these there are as many 
 as there are houses, and consequently families in the village. 
 Their allotments are cultivated with the hoe and fork. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 

 Date Due 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 1 
 
 
 
813.23 D921L v.l 577603 
 D un la p . 
 
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 den Brown 
 
 MAYl 
 
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 6 395^ 
 
 813,23 D921L v.l 577603