BEING ambitious of an alliance with the illustrious house of Arandina, I propose myself the ho­nour of waiting on your in a few [Page 6] days, for the purpose of soliciting the hand of the Lady Isabella your niece. Her birth and charms will adorn any station, and will ever be justly prized by him who is, with esteem and respect,

I SHALL never esteem the house of Arandina degraded by a con­nection with that of Altina. Your [Page 8] proposal will certainly be approved by my niece, since it has met the approbation of him who is

EACH day that dawns on me is attended by some new wo. This morning the Duke sent for me, and addressed me in the following [Page 10] words: "You have been in danger of degrading yourself by a marriage with a vile fellow,—who, if he has his deserts, will spend the remain­der of his days in the mines.

"As a punishment, you were con­demned to pass the remainder of your days in a convent's solitary gloom: But a brighter prospect now discloses itself to your view. The Count of Altina has notified his ambition to be allied to the house of Arandina. His family, though not of the first class, is ancient and noble. He will be here in a few days:—Prepare therefore to receive your destined Lord."

[Page 11] SCARCELY had the Duke ceased to speak, when I sunk motionless at his feet. This accident he attribu­ted to excess of joy; and in that mis­take did he continue till about an hour ago, when the receipt of the inclosed letter undeceived him.

[Page 14]I WAITED with anxiety for his answer, which arrived in about an hour; and was as follows:

THUS, O Laura, is my fate de­termined; and I now fly for refuge to those very walls which I so lately [Page 15] wished to shun. But whilst Alonzo possesses the heart, Altina shall never obtain the hand of

SINCE I last wrote, my senti­ments are changed, and you will never boast an alliance with the house of Arandina. I remain

POOR Isabella's sufferings in­crease daily. You know that she has refused the Count of Altina, and that she is now condemned, [Page 18] without hopes of a reprieve, to pass her days in the convent of Ven­tina. Her conduct has been highly proper in refusing to marry Altina, when her hand only was at her dis­posal. I endeavour to comfort her as much as possible, and to support her in all her distresses. That she may receive from Heaven that sup­port which she so much needs, shall be the constant prayer of her af­flicted friend.

SHE is to be with you in about three weeks. I think with pleasure that amidst all her distresses, Heaven has spared so amiable and so real a friend as she has ever found in you. I [Page 19] wondered much that the Duke so readily gave up all thoughts of mar­rying her to Altina. But it seems he did not think it consistent with his dignity to force her consent; as that, he said, would have appeared as if the match was an object of im­portance to his family;—now, said he, there is no family, by a con­nection with which the house of Arandina would receive additional lustre.

THUS, for once, has poor Isa­bella been benefited by that pride which has been the source of her own and her parents wo! Heaven support her, poor girl. I must go [Page 20] and comfort her; I hear her weep­ing in the next room. I remain, as usual,

I AM so uneasy at not hearing from you, and at the report of your approaching nuptials with the [Page 22] Count of Altina, as cannot well be conceived. Not that I suppose Isa­bella would bestow her hand on Altina, unless she were compelled by that tyrant her uncle, who is indebted to her for the life which he now possesses — I will not say enjoys; as it is impossible that such a tyrant should find, enjoyment in any thing but in torturing those whom fortune has subjected to him. Do, let me know how, you are. I fear you are still an invalid. For mercy's sake write without delay. All I ask, is to be told that you are well and happy; for if such is the lot of Isabella, Alonzo will be [Page 23] content to suffer. Adieu. Believe me

I HAVE been so ill, that I could not hold a pen; but, thank Heaven, am now a little better.I have refused the Count of Altina, [Page 25] and the matter is no more thought of. I am too weak to add more than that I am

HOW my heart bleeds for dear Isabella! oh how I pity and admire her! You have indeed acted [Page 27] nobly. You will at once possess the pity and the respect of those who shall become acquainted with your sad tale. Next week I shall cease to rank Isabella amongst the number of my correspondents; she shall ever possess the first place in the catalogue of my friends. That you may, within these walls, experience peace, is all which I can hope for; hap­piness will, I fear, never prove the lot of my friend on this side the grave. But rest assured, that such distinguished virtue as a­dorns Isabella will, in a future state, meet that reward which Heaven often for a time with­holds, [Page 28] but never in the end re­fuses.

WHEN our prospects in this world are overshadowed with impene­trable gloom, it is at once our inte­rest and our duty to contemplate with the eye of hope the bright prospects of a future state. There the virtuous will experience bliss unalloyed; — their pleasure will be heightened by the remembrance of past sufferings, whilst the con­templations of those bright scenes will not fail in some degree to gild the horrors of our present si­tuation.

[Page 29] THAT Isabella may experience the truth of these assertions, is the sin­cerest with of her

I HAVE just received Laura's kind letter. I am much indebt­ed to it for the small share of tran­quillity [Page 31] I now enjoy. Small, in­deed, is the portion of happiness which I ever possessed; but it was more than I deserved. This morn­ing I shall consecrate to the melan­choly employment of bidding adieu to several old friends. I think I hear you express your astonishment at the term, as you have always esteemed poor Isabella a friendless and deserted orphan; and such she is. But the friends, to whom I must now bid adieu, are the vene­rable oaks which surround these ancient walls; — those oaks which have for ages sheltered beneath their branches the ancestors of her who is now to bid them an eternal adieu.

[Page 32] I feel a regret at parting with them that may to you appear weak and childish, and perhaps is so. But when I reflect that, through the whole course of my misfortunes, they have received me under their shade, that they have never censu­red my imprudence, and have even appeared to express their sympathy with my sufferings by solemn wa­vings of their aged arms, my sorrow at leaving them is great. — But to what an excess of weakness does my grief lead me! Whither am I run­ning! With what nonsense am I pestering Laura? Adieu. I can no longer restrain my tears. Wretch­ed as I am, I can never be completely [Page 33] so till deprived of your friendship. I will write once more before I bid an eternal adieu to dear Vil­larea.

I AM, thank Heaven, so much recovered, as to propose ma­king an excursion of some miles. When I shall return to Villarea, I [Page 35] know not; but whenever I do, I will write you a longer letter. I only scribble this, left, hearing of my departure from any other than my­self, you should imagine that I had forgotten those obligations which will be remembered with eternal gratitude by

AS a few days will now termi­nate our correspondence, I cannot permit the arrival of that pe­riod [Page 37] without expressing my gratitude for the comfort I have ever experi­enced in the perusal of Laura's let­ters. As I am now to enjoy the conversation of my kind benefactress (for such I shall ever esteem you), I have, at the request of that ami­able man Father Alberto, deposited in his hands all your letters, as well as copies of all that I ever wrote to you. Those of Alonzo he has ob­tained from the Duke. He says, that, when we are parted, he shall enjoy a melancholy pleasure in per­using the letters which contain a sketch of my misfortunes. Oh how truly amiable he is! How I shall [Page 38] regret his loss! I which, however, will in some degree be compensated by his correspondence; and he like­wise assures me, that no year shall elapse without his visiting the con­vent of Ventina.

I HAVE just been visiting the apartment which was allotted to my father when he was an inhabitant of this Castle. I could not refrain from tears. Indeed I never visit that apartment without weeping, as the train of ideas which rush into my mind at the sight of it are very melancholy indeed. Oh how often have I wept, when the good old [Page 39] woman that nursed him has descri­bed him to me. She speaks of him with rapture, and mingles her tears with mine, good creature! She has never ceased to weep since the news of my departure was known. Oh, Laura, what do I not suffer!

OH Heaven, look down with pity; and, when it shall please thee, ter­minate by death the woes of a wretch to whom life is a heavy burden; a burden, however, which she hopes to bear with becoming patience, till time shall being the long-expected hour of relief. Adieu, [Page 40] my dear Laura, may happiness be still your lot; it never more on be the lot of

YESTERDAY I entered these walls; and I blush to own, that when the iron gate, grating on [Page 42] its hinges, closed with apparent re­luctance, I wept. Not even the appearance of Laura, who flew to embrace me, was sufficient to sup­port my drooping spirits. I instant­ly retired to her apartment, and there I remained till the hour of rest. Laura endeavoured to sooth my agi­tated soul, but in vain; for I have never ceased to weep since my arri­val. Oh what I felt when, in pas­sing through the saloon, I found it filled with weeping domestics! To see the poor old woman, that had nursed my father, wringing her hands in an agony of despair, and tearing those venerable locks that were silvered by the hand of time! [Page 43] Oh, it was too much! who could bear it? — And when I was enter­ing the carriage, the poor old house-dog licked my hand, and gave a short howl; as if he knew that I was wretched, and pitied me. Oh what I suffered when you waved your hand from the battlements, and bid me adieu in all the silent agony of wo! Oh God, it was too much! At our sad parting, the conscious heavens wept; all nature seemed overcast with melancholy gloom. Ah, no! not nature; but my heart was sad; and when all within is dark and gloomy, nought external will show bright. If this be true (and true it is) never shall [Page 44] I again behold the laughing fields, or the frant groves, in the gay livery of spring; to me they will be ever overcast. I am wretched indeed, but I must submit to the will of Heaven. Remember me kindly to poor old nurse, and do not forget the disconsolate

I MUST begin this letter with imploring your forgiveness of the deceit which I have practised on [Page 46] you: but I was unwilling that you should be acquainted with my in­tention of retiring to this sad retreat, till it should be too late to prevent it; as I dreaded the force of your attachment to me, unworthy as I am, might hurry you into the com­mission of some violence which would have involved both of us in fresh difficulties. When you have heard the motives that influenced, you will, I trust, approve the con­duct of Isabella. My uncle gave me the choice of two evils, and I have chosen what to me appeared the least. I was necessitated either to marry Altina or to retire to this convent. My reasons for preferring [Page 47] the latter were two. The first, that I scorn so far to injure any man as to yield my hand to his solicita­tion, when my heart was devoted to another. The second, that I ima­gined you would suffer much less from seeing me for ever secluded from the world, than from seeing me the property of another. In­deed, had I become Countess of Altina, I could not, consistently with the dictates of honour or of virtue, have fulfilled my promise of corresponding with you; a promise which I made merely to preserve the life of my uncle, as I dreaded the effects of unappeased anger. Had I not been influenced by so weighty a reason, I never would [Page 48] have granted a request, the com­pliance with which will certainly tend to embitter the remainder of our respective lives, as well as constant­ly call to our remembrance, and perhaps greatly increase, an unhappy passion, which can never now be gratisied; for whenever the year of probation shall expire, I must assume the veil, and bind myself by the most solemn vows to consecrate to Heaven the remainder of a life that has indeed been wretched. If you wish to regain that peace you have lost, and not to embitter the re­mainder of my days, you will re­lease me from my promise; — if you are so blinded by your passion as to insist on its performance, you [Page 49] shall find that the laws of honour will never be violated by me.

DIRECT your answer to me at the convent of Ventina; but do not so­licit an interview, as that will never be granted by her who is, with great regard,

OH Isabella, how have you de­ceived me! Was this the ex­cursion you so slightly mentioned in [Page 51] your last letter? You are indeed ig­norant when you are to revisit Vil­larea. Had you entertained for Alonzo that regard you prosess towards him, you would have imitated the con­duct of your heroic mother; you would have blessed Alonzo with your hand. He would have asked from Heaven no other boon; he would have supported in afflu­ence, he would, have adored Isabel­la: He does adore her; he ever must adore her. But why so obstinately cruel? why regret that she is bound by honour to correspond with Alon­zo? why mention that favour as the the price of her uncle's life? Her commands will alone be sufficient to [Page 52] prevent Alonzo from terminating the existence of such a monster. But why am I never more to behold the amiable Isabella? Why am I doomed to perpetual misery? Oh, Isabella! 'tis to the pride of your uncle, and to the cold insensibitity of your friend, that I am indebted; for my misfor­tunes.

I AM called to Madrid by business of importance, that will detain me about a week; and when I return, I will attempt to obtain at least one interview with Isabella. If the at­tempt be not crowned with success, I shall meet my fate without dread, [Page 53] as my sufferings cannot now be heightened.

I am, as much as ever,

I WAS, as you observed, greatly af­fected by your departure, and do not wonder that you were as much so; [Page 55] but I trust, that, the bitter scene once past, you will become every day more calm, and that your grief will be moderated by time. You are, undoubtedly, a great object of pity; I never knew a greater: but still, amidst all your distresses, you will find great consolation by reflect­ing on your retiring from the world so early; for, believe me, we are better calculated to struggle with, misfortune in youth than in age. At the first dawn of life the world is tolerable, because it is novel: but in the evening of our day (for the life of man, when compared with eter­nity, is no more), when life has lost its only charm of novelty; the an­chor [Page 56] of hope, unless it rest beyond die grave, proves but a slight support to the being who, oppressed with misfortune, relies on it alone for comfort and for happiness.

YOUR uncle sets out for Madrid to-morrow, having received a sudden and unexpected call to court. He proposes writing to you on his re­turn. I am to accompany him to the capital, where, he says, our stay is to be short. I am sorry to hear, that the Count of Altina is much dis­pleased with your uncle's conduct; not so much by his refusal, as by the manner of it: he has, I hear, vowed to be revenged; but I trust [Page 57] he will not put his threats in exe­cution.

I INTREATED your uncle to send a less haughty refusal: but all I said was in vain; he was determined to support the dignity of the house of Arandina by insolence, not only to his inferiors, but to those who are nearly his equals.

I HOPE he will not have cause to repent his rejecting my counsel. Adieu dear girl; you shall at all times command the prayers of

TEN thousand thanks for your kind letter. It found me in my cell, drowned in tears, and lament­ing [Page 59] a destiny which is indeed severe: but I am grateful to heaven for the comfort I receive in your friendship, and that of my Laura; and I hope that time, aided by religion, will calm my transports, and soothe my anguish.

I HAVE written to Alonzo, in­forming him of my return, and the motives that induced me to prefer it to the hand of Altina. He seems much disatisfied with my conduct, and even accuses me of treachery; but he will, I trust, in the calm mo­ments of reflection, approve the, con­duct of Isabella. I trust my uncle will not feel the effects of Altina's [Page 60] vengeance: I, alas! cannot avert them, as I did those of the injured Alonzo. I have no other heart to offer as a bribe; and if I had, Altina would not esteem the atonement to his injured honour sufficient. How fatal to repose are the effects of pride! The truth of this assertion is proved by every page of my sad tale. Pride has been the source of all my parents' wo, and of my own. Had my uncle not been proud, Isa­bella had never been wretched; or at least not so wretched as she now is. But what am I saying? am I not censuring the conduct of my uncle; and in so doing, am I not to blame? I may in private lament; [Page 61] but I must not even to you mention the errors of one whose protection I once enjoyed; though now I can, alas! rank it amongst the blessings possesed by your afflicted

SCARCE had I finished the per­usal of your last, — where you observe how fatal to happiness are [Page 63] the effects of pride, — when the Duke was brought home in the arms of two servants, covered with wounds and blood. He was followed by Alonzo, who was also wounded; but not so severely. When the Duke was placed on a couch, and the sur­geons had dressed his wounds, Alon­zo addressed him in the following words: "Learn, Don John, from this night's adventure, that a man may act with honour, though his an­cestors were not ennobled." On say­ing these words, he retired to his own house, attended by the sur­geons; who have; declared that he is not in any danger. About the Duke [Page 64] they art still doubtful; but I hope the best.

FROM Alonzo, whom I this day visited, I learned the following ac­count of the adventure. As the Duke was returning home in his coach, he passed through a retired street, where the carriage was at­tacked, by three Villains armed with daggers. They ordered the coach­man to stop instantly. The Duke, on hearing their voices, and seeing them attempt to force open the door of the carriage, opened the door on the oposite side, and jumped out. He then set his back against a wall; and, throwing his cloke over his left arm, [Page 65] stood on his defence. He was in­stantly attacked by the ruffians, who wounded him desperately; his lac­keys having in the mean time run off, leaving their master to be assas­sinated. Whilst the Duke was en­gaged in this unequal contest, Alon­zo happened to pass that way. He easily recognized the person who was calling loudly for assistance; and without delay stabbed two of the villains, who instantly fell; whilst the other is secured and has con­fessed that he was hired by the Count of Altina to murder the Duke.—You, Isabella, refused to bestow your, hand on one man when your heart was the property of another [Page 66] Heaven has, you see, rewarded you; by delivering you from being united to a man who is in fact an assassin. A character; alas! too common in Spain: The Duke's misfortune has not produced the least change in his sentiments. I flattered myself, that the person to whom he owed his life might have been rewarded with the hand of Isabella: but, on my suggesting the matter to him, he was much enraged; and said, "that he would rather have experienced a still more hateful death, than have his life prolonged only to behold the disgrace of his family! — A family that will soon be extinct; and of which it may then be said, that, du­ring [Page 67] a course of nine hundred years, it has retained its nobility unconta­minated. As to the young man (continued he) who assisted me in dispatching those villains, I shall reward him in a manner becoming his station, by bestowing on him a large sum of money; — a reward much fitter for a, merchant than an illustrious wife!"—How Alonzo will bear this fresh insult I know not; but as he is strongly attached to you, I trust you will be able to pacify his just resentment.

I. FLATTER myself that you are now somewhat more composed than when you last wrote, and that the [Page 68] hours pass less heavily than they did.

I SHALL write again in a day or two. Till then, believe me

GENEROUS Alonzo! to risk your own life in the preser­vation of him who has so grossly in­sulted [Page 70] and so seriously injured you! Receive the thanks of Isabella: A reward which, though greatly in­adequate to your deserts, is all that she has left to bestow. Her heart has long been yours; and if her hand were at her own disposal, it should soon be added: but she is not mistress of her hand; and she fears, that the only person who has a right to influence her in the dis­posal of it will never consent to her bestowing it on one who prizes it too highly.

I FLATTERED myself, that the im­portant service you have rendered [Page 71] the Duke might have been deemed by him a just claim to more valu­able marks of his favour than the hand of a poor orphan, who has no ambition but to be virtuous; and who, were she at her own disposal, would imitate her mother's conduct, and prefer Alonzo to the most illu­strious grandee of Spain. But, alas! Alberto informs me that there are no hopes of any change in his sentiments on this head. Do, write to me whenever your wounds will admit of it — but not before. I am happy to hear that the wounds you have received are only slight. Fa­ther Alberto is to send me a regu­lar [Page 72] account of your health; for the recovery of which none will be so anxious as

MY wounds are so well reco­vered as to admit of my ad­dressing the amiable benefactress, to [Page 74] whom I am indebted for the pro­longation of that life which I have lately risked in her service; for such I esteem to have been the preserva­tion of her uncle from the daggers of assassins. It was not for the Duke of Arandina I drew my sword; it was for a fellow-creature, and for the uncle of Isabella. Considered in either of these capacities, he had a right to my assistance: as Duke of Arandina, he had every thing to fear, and nothing to hope, from Alonzo. But I have just received from him a fresh insult of such a nature, that it should not go unrevenged an hour if he were not connected with you. He has sent me a considerable sum [Page 75] of money as a reward for the service I rendered him! Can you wonder if this treatment provokes me to the last degree! I have returned the money with the utmost contempt; advising him, at the same time, not to impose any fresh task on the for­bearance of one whose patience is almost exhausted. Oh Isabella, why are you so rigid in your notions of duty? Is he a parent? — is he a friend? — is he a protector? — No; he is your sole torment! Yes, he is the source of all the misfortunes that have befallen yourself and family; and yet he is to experience from Isa­bella all that obedience and respect which could only be due to an in­dulgent [Page 76] father. Oh! do not drive me, by your preposterous notions of duty, into perpetual exile: and that will be my lot, if you refuse to quit those hated walls which now seclude you from die sight of the wretched

WHY does Alonzo reproach me with cruelty, which was never reckoned among Isabella's [Page 78] faults by those who knew her? You are indeed cruel to threaten me with retiring to a perpetual banishment, if I refuse to violate the laws of duty. If I had no uncle to con­troul me, I would, as before I told you, without a moment's hesitation, bestow my hand on Alonzo: but I have ever been accustomed to con­sider the Duke as a parent; and, as such, shall ever conduct myself to­wards him. Do not press me to act in a manner that would subject me to the censure of all who know me: — do not, Alonzo, require from me so fatal a proof of my affection. Every proof consistent with duty you [Page 79] may expect: do not solicit others from her who is, with gratitude and sincerity,

THE Duke is now so well reco­vered as to propose setting out for Villarea to-morrow. Alanzo [Page 81] has informed you, he tells me, of the new affront which the Duke has offered him; and at your request he has promised not to resent it. I pity you both sincerely: You were formed for each other, and yet I fear will never be united. It is not in my power to relieve you. Oh that it were! Isabella should never then shed another tear. But we must submit to the will of Heaven; and comfort ourselves with reflecting, that this life will not prove eter­nal; that there is an hereafter; and that there the virtuous must be happy.

[Page 82] ADIEU, dear Isabella. I will write as soon as we reach Villarea Till then, believe me

I HAVE received your last — I was going to call it your cruel letter: but I must submit to my fate, I must [Page 84] be sacrificed to your ideas of duty, and must contemplate the destru­ction of all my hopes. You will not, I trust, refuse the last request I shall ever make you; and that is, to-morr­ow to bless me with an interview. If you will have the goodness to grant this, you shall never more be persecuted by the wretched

THOUGH I think it highly im­prudent in me to grant your request, as an interview will only [Page 86] increase our misery; yet at twelve to-morrow you will be expected by the wretched

TIS past — the worst is now over. I have just bid an eternal adieu to Alonzo! Oh! the [Page 88] scene was dreadful. Twice I fainted, and twice the cruel friendship of Laura recalled me to life and to wo. He is gone — never will Isabella be­hold him more. May Heaven pro­tect him. He is quite in despair. He accuses me — Yet what could I do? I am indeed wretched. Do, visit Alonzo, and try to soothe him. I am so distracted with agony, I can write no more. Do, write to me. Teach me to submit, without repi­ning, to the will of Providence: teach me to bear life; a heavy load I have found it.

[Page 89] ADIEU. Oh! my heart, how it beats! sure it will break. — Oh Heaven support me! — 'tis too much. Once more adieu.

TO-MORROW will Alonzo bid an eternal adieu to Spain; but not to misery: That will be his lot [Page 91] wherever he goes; that has been his lot ever since the appearance of Isa­bella preserved his life. Exiled by your cruelty, I have procured an appointment in. New Spain, and to-morrow I am to embark. As the ship in which I sail now lies off that part of the shore where stand Ventina's hated-walls, the last object: which I shall contemplate in Old Spain will-be the prison of Isa­bella; and may the grave, of Alonzo be the first object I behold in New Spain. What have I not suffered since our parting! It is now two long months since I have seen or even heard from Isabella. Did I not promise to terminate our correspond­ence? [Page 92] I will never write again; and you cannot reproach me with breach of promise — For, oh heaven! We never more shall meet. The thought distracts me! Farewell, a sad farewell to the brightest ornament of the sex, to cruel Isabella; who dooms to per­petual misery the wretched youth that adores her. Adieu; may you, whilst exile and misery are the lot of Alon­zo, experience every earthly happi­ness. Oh Isabella! you have for ever destroyed the peace of the wretched

YOU will not experience more pain in the perusal of this mournful letter, than I shall in wri­ting [Page 94] it; for it is with unseigned grief that I communicate to you the dread­ful intelligence.

THREE nights ago, this convent was near being reduced to ashes by the heedlessness of a servant, who neglected to extinguish the fire of the kitchen before she went to rest. About eleven at night, I was alarm­ed by the cry of fire; and as soon as I had left my apartment, I found that, owing to the violence of the wind which then blew high, the flames had made a considerable progress. I ordered the doors to be instantly thrown open; and advised every one [Page 95] to secure herself by flight: an ad­vice which was followed by all but the amiable girl, who was so lately added to our society. After we had retired to a neighbouring church, I inquired if all the sisterhood were there in safety; and was shocked to find that she was still missing. I in­stantly returned to the convent, where I found the flames still raging with the utmost violence, notwith­standing every attempt to extinguish them; but in vain I endeavoured to learn any thing concerning the love­ly Isebella. You will easily conceive what must have been my feelings. The next morning, however, I re­ceived [Page 96] the melancholy information that she was seen, after we had quit­ted the convent, lying at the foot of the altar: but the confusion was so great, that no one was sufficiently recollected to render her the least assistance; and as that part of the chapel was totally destroyed, there is, alas! no room to doubt that she pe­rished in the flames. All attempts to discover even the least remains of the dear girl have proved totally in­effectual. You will do me the ju­stice to believe, that amongst all the fatal consequences of this sad catas­trophe, the loss of that dear girl most deeply affects her, who is, with sin­cere [Page 97] respect for your character, and with the greatest pity for your mis­fortune,

THOUGH misfortune has been through life my lot; though I have been accustomed to suffer; [Page 99] I own the news you have com­municated to me has affected me beyond description. I have never ceased to weep since the perusal of your sad letter. As soon as I was a little recovered from the astonish­ment it had occasioned me — I laid your letter before the Duke; who con­doles with you on your loss, and who bears his own otherwise than I ex­pected. He has ordered a monu­ment to be erected to her memory in the family mausoleum, and an inscription to be engraved, mention­ing her descent, and the misfortune that occasioned her ever-to-be lament­ed death.

[Page 100] I REMAIN, Madam, with respect, esteem, and pity for your misfor­tune,

YOU, alas! are too well ac­quainted with the sad tale to need any fresh information on the [Page 102] subject. O! Alberto, why was Isa­bella wretched? — why did she, who merited so much, never possess a mo­ment's happiness? Never shall I be­hold her more! Dear, amiable girl! possessed of every human virtue — she is gone to join her sister seraphs in the realms of day — How selfish is it in me thus to lament her fate! Happiness was never her lot on earth; but now it is hers beyond the reach of wo. Not the least remains of our gentle friend have escaped the ravages of the fire; and I have the melancholy reflection, that her sa­cred ashes are now trampled under­foot by the clowns who are repair­ing the convent. Happily for me, [Page 103] Isabella's apartment is destroyed; so that I shall not have my grief heigh­tened (if that be possible) by con­templating the cell where she wept: For to that sad employment alone did she consecrate her hours since her quitting Villarea.

JUST heaven! for heaven still is just — what do I not suffer? Is there no spot on this vast globe that will afford to mortals a retreat secure from wo! I have sought repose in vain. I, who have spent my whole life within Ventina's now desolated walls, secluded from that world which has proved so fatal to the repose of my dear, my ever-to-be lamented [Page 104] friend, am now completely wretched! I have now no source of comfort but the certainty of death: that once past, and Isabella will again be mine. That Heaven may accelerate the ar­rival of that: wished-for hour, shall be the constant prayer of one who is, with sincere regard,

"You will have the kindness to address your answer to me at the Convent of Bellmata; as there we are received till our own be repaired."

YOUR melancholy letter arri­ved here this evening; and as I am a fellow-sufferer with, you, [Page 106] you will easily believe how sincerely I sympathise with you on your loss. The sad catastrophe, as you obser­ved, affects only those friends who are, perhaps for years, to lament the fate of the dear Isabella. You have indeed sustained a loss, in some re­spects, severer than mine; as I was, from the moment she quitted Villarea, deprived of her sweet society. Yet I should have had the pleasure of her correspondence. But she is now happy; her sorrows are no more; all her cares are past; and she is now receiving that reward her di­stinguished virtue claimed. [Page 107] I WILL not, however, by dwelling on the merits of her who is now at peace, add to the distress of her amiable friend. But I cannot lay down my pen without informing you of the manner in which the Duke received the news of her death. After per­using the fatal letter, ‘She has not (said he) disgraced her family, and shall therefore have a monument erected, to her memory in the bu­rying-place of the Dukes of Aran­dina. You (said he) shall draw up an inscription for the monument: but do not mention the names of her parents; only say, that she was niece to Don John, [Page 108] twentieth Duke of Arandina, &c. &c.’

THUS was he afficted by her death! and since that time he has never mentioned her name; though I do not so much wonder at his con­duct as his pride now nearly ap­proaches to madness; and if his life be spared much longer, I have just reason to apprehend a total loss of his reason: — A punishment that, which Heaven often inflicts on those who are so haughty as is the poor Duke.

[Page 109] WISHING that you may enjoy all the happiness of which you are now capable, I remain, Madam, with respect and esteem,

THE happiest of beings has now the pleasure to address you; and to inform you, that Isabella, [Page 111] whom you doubtless consider as no more, is in perfect health in New Spain. To explain this mystery, you must know, that after I had em­barked for that country, whence I never thought to return, I found it would be impossible to sail till one in the morning. On receiving this intelligence, I got into a boat, and went on shore to contemplate, for the last time, those hated walls that deprived me of Isabella. As the convent is, you know, almost close to the shore, I soon found myself there; and desiring the men to wait a little, I quitted them to indulge myself in walking round the walls of the garden. But as I was going to [Page 112] return to the boat, observing the convent in flames, and the doors thrown wide open, I instantly flew to the gate, and passed unobserved through the crowd of nuns who were rushing out, and who were too much engaged by attention to their own preservation even to ob­serve me. As I knew that my Isa­bella had not yet assumed the con­ventual dress, I was sure she had not escaped me in the crowd. I flew therefore to that part of the convent where she resided; and as I passed through the chapel, I ob­served a female prostrate at the foot of the altar; who, on a nearer ap­proach, proved to be that dear angel, [Page 113] who had fallen down in a swoon, and lay there without any signs of life. I, however, lost no time; but, catching the lovely burden in my arms, bore her, still senseless, to the boat that waited for me; which, as the nuns had all fled the other way, I reached totally unobserved. No sooner had I placed her in the boat, than I tried every possible means to restore her; but to no pur­pose. My agonies were now incon­ceivable, but I still continued my endeavours; and after rowing about thirteen minutes, we reached the vessel, which was just going to hoist sail. The Captain, who had ob­served the fire, easily guessed whence [Page 114] I had stolen so invaluable a treasure, and objected to receiving her for fear of consequences; till observing that she had not the dress of a nun, at my earnest entreaties he consented to receive the dear girl; who now, to my inexpressible joy, began to discover signs of life. As soon as we were on board, the vessel got under way, whilst I conveyed Isa­bella into the great cabin; where she was soon restored, owing to the kindness of a lady, who, with her husband, was going to New Spain. As soon as she recovered and learned her situation, she instantly relapsed, and it was with difficulty that she was the second time restored at all. When [Page 115] she came to herself, I informed her of the situation in which I had found her; and that, had I not arrived at the instant I did, she must have pe­rished in the flames, as every one had fled and left her to meet her fate. She in time became more re­conciled to her situation; but at first she earnestly intreated to be put on shore. This, however, the Captain assured her, was impossible; as the ship run nine notes in the hour, and our distance was then near twenty miles from the shores of Spain. She expressed her gratitude to me for preserving her life, but regretted that I had taken advantage of the general confusion to elope with her. [Page 116] I pleaded only in my defence, that I was human, and that no man could have neglected to embrace so heaven­born an opportunity of possessing all he held dear on earth. But, an­swered she, my uncle will always suspect that mine was a voluntary escape, and will never pardon me. Nay, perhaps good Alberto may even suspect me (and here she wept bitterly.) If Laura still live (Hea­ven grant she do), every she may su­spect Isabella. — I assured her, that those who knew Isabella would never suppose her capable of acting but as an angel would do, were it in her situation. As to Laura, I could only say, that I thought she passed me in [Page 117] the crowd which rushed out as I entered; and that as I saw no one in the convent, I hoped and believed she was safe. In about a week, I presumed to solicit the blessing of her hand, exerted all the persuasion I was master of, and with great difficulty prevailed on her to confer on me a reward that would have overpaid whole ages of misery. As there was a priest on board, who was also a passenger, we were married, and have now been here five months; but no ship having failed since we arrived, I could not sooner commun­icate to you the agreeable intelli­gence contained in this letter. It is [Page 118] almost superfluous to add, that the happiest of beings is

ISABELLA begs to hear from you as soon as possible; and requests you to state the case to the Duke; whose pardon we solicit, and whose com­mands we await with the greatest anxiety. If he will pardon my rash­ness, and permit me to pay my re­spects to him in person, I shall esteem myself, if possible, happier than I now am. Poor Isabella trembles at the mention of his name. She would write to you; but as [Page 119] she has only time to write one letter before the packet sails, she addresses that ^* to Laura, but inclosed to you; [Page 120] so that if her friend is no more, you will of course retain the letter. She begs you would show this to Laura. The letter is called for. Once more adieu. On your well-known good­ness we rely.

LITTLE did you know the heart of Alberto, if you thought that when the heavenly news of your [Page 122] escape reached him, he would, with all the insensibility of a Dutch pro­fessor of ethics, proceed to inquire how far you were culpable in suf­fering yourself to be so delivered. Far from making these inquiries, I had no sooner read the letter than I burst into tears of joy — of ecstacy; and have never ceased, since I heard the news, to thank the Heaven that delivered you from death and from misery.

IT is with regret I inform you, that the Duke can never be made acquainted with the; story of your escape; as he has been for some [Page 123] time delirious, and all attempts to recal his banished reason have proved ineffectual. This sad cala­mity was occasioned totally by his pride; which, of late, became ex­cessive indeed! He is now attended by a medical man, who never loses sight of him for an instant; but who says, he does not apprehend that his life will last long, as his blood is in a horrid state.

I WOULD wish you to return as soon as possible that, should any thing happen, you may be ready to claim your family possessions. Poor man! it is really dreadful to see how [Page 124] his pride increases! Even now he desires that no servant will present him any thing but on the knee; and gives every day some fresh instance of growing arrogance. He is indeed an object of pity and terror to all who see him. Heaven restore him to reason before it call him hence.

LAURA is, as you will hear from herself, in health, and happy be­yond conception to find that Isabella living over whom she had shed so many tears. As she writes by this packet, I shall now conclude with wishing, that as much happiness may be the lot of Isabella as the [Page 125] shortness of human life will ad­mit. Adieu, dear child. Believe me

TELL Alonzo I would have wri­tten to him also; but you are now one.

No sooner did I behold the well-known hand of Isabella, than I swooned for joy. No sooner [Page 127] was I recovered than I tore open the letter with the utmost anxiety. I was so much affected by the contents, that it was with difficulty I ever got through it. I wept, but it was from excess of joy. Oh, Isabella! su­spected you of having acted impro­perly! — No. Joy so wholly occu­pies my breast, that suspicion will find no admission; and if it did, at the name of Isabella it would vanish — the charm would be too powerful for it. Oh, Isabella! hasten to Old Spain: I die with anxiety to embrace you.

I HAVE read Alonzo's letter to Alberto, and have sent yours to that [Page 128] excellent man. You are to receive from him an account of the Duke's misfortune. Poor wretch! cruel as he has been, I pity him. He is a sad instance of the melancholy effect of pride, when carried to that dread­ful length. Happy had it been for him, if all his ancestors had been honest peasants, instead of illustrious Dukes. The only effect that a long train of coroneted ancestry ought to produce in the mind of their repre­sentative is, to encourage him in at­tempting to imitate the virtues of those illustrious men from whom he boasts his descent. If it produce this effect, a long train of ancestors may indeed be esteemed an import­ant [Page 129] advantage; but if it be only considered as conserring on us a power of insulting those whose ance­stors were unknown, it may be just­ly esteemed a misfortune. Of the truth of this assertion the poor Duke is too fatal an instance — But I must conclude, as Father Alberto has sent for my letter that he may inclose it with his. Do, write to me once more, ere you enable me to assure you in person how sincerely I am

ALL this appears to me like a dream. That Isabella, whose fate I have so often wept — does she still live! — and stranger still, — is she happy!

I HAVE been much questioned concerning Isabella's escape by all our sisterhood; many of whom [Page 162] now recollect having seen a young man rush into the convent the mo­ment the doors were opened. They all rejoice greatly that the dear an­gel has escaped, and are very anxious to see her in Old Spain again. They cannot, however, be so anxious as I am. I believe there is not one here who supposes that Isabella even knew where she was till the ship had fail­ed; and if she did, I do not think her conduct reprehensible. The news of her escape has been much noised about, and has every where occasioned much joy. Several people who visited the convent have desired to see me, though I was totally; un­known to them, merely that they [Page 163] might congratulate me on the joy­ful news. I now indeed am happy. How unsearchable are the ways of Providence? Had Isabella not re­turned to Ventina, she would pro­bably never have been the wife of Alonzo. I remain, with respect and esteem,

I WAS this day alarmed with a great noise issuing from the Duke's apartment. I instantly went [Page 165] to learn the reason of the tumult; and the moment I entered the room, perceived the Duke weltering in his blood. The physician who attended him told me, that he had left the Duke only an instant, whilst he went to the next apartment to bring him some medicine; and when he return­ed, he found him in this horrid con­dition, with a dagger in his hand; which it seems he had procured, but how I have not been able to disco­ver. When I arrived, there were scarce any signs of life; and in a few moments the Duke breathed his last. Poor wretched man! he is a sad instance of the fatal effects of pride.

[Page 166] I HAVE ordered several hundred masses to be offered up for his soul, that, through the infinite mercy of the Almighty, she may at last gain admission into the bright regions of eternal day; where the vain distinc­tions of birth are unknown, and where humility is preferred to ela­tion of heart. May his example warn others to shun those errors that embittered his present, and clouded his prospects of a future, life!

BY his death Isabella succeeds to his enormous property; which, had she not escaped that fatal night, would have devolved to the [Page 167] Crown. I have sent immediate intelligence to the Marchioness of Villarea (for the dukedom being extinct, that title devolves to the amiable Isabella); and have, in her name, taken possession of the estate.

THE Duke's funeral is fixed for to-morrow, and as his rank was so high, I have ordered it to be con­ducted in a pompous manner; tho', alas! I fear his spirit will receive little pleasure from the pomp with which his remains will be consigned to the grave, where all distinction ceases. You will not have an oppor­tunity [Page 168] of writing for some time, if you neglect the present one. I re­main, as usual,

YESTERDAY a vessel from New Spain arrived here; on board of which there was a lady of [Page 170] distinction, whose husband had been drowned in the course of the voyage; and I was informed that she was in a very bad state. On receiving this in­telligence, I, as was my duty, went on board the ship, and found that the lady was of Villarea; and that her only son, an infant of nine months old, was with her. She was so weak as not to be able to speak, and it was apprehended she could not survive many days. I had her landed and placed in one of the best houses here where she is attended by the faculty of the place; and they give me hopes that she may yet recover. I learnt from one of her attendants, that you are her [Page 171] particular friend, which has occa­sioned my informing you of her s­ituation.

I am, Sir,

I TOLD you in my last hurried scrawl, that our Isabella was ar­rived in Spain, and what misfortunes [Page 173] had befallen her. The instant I had scratched these few lines to you, I set off for Cadiz, and found the sad mourner in a very miserable state, as you will suppose. She had, how­ever, recovered her strength so much as to be able to speak; and showed great pleasure at my arrival. She was in bed, and appeared wan and much exhausted. On a little couch, near the bed, lay a smiling insant that seems to inherit all its mo­ther's charms. She wept bitterly on my kissing the sweet babe; and said, it was all she had by which to remember her Alonzo. It was about nine months old; [Page 174] and she has named it Frederick Alonzo.

I HOPE God will support her in all her distresses, of which Hea­ven has given her a large propor­tion. Indeed I have never ceased to weep since I arrived here. To see the mother hang in agony over her infant son, to hear her sighs, and to witness. her sorrows, is too much for me.

OF poor, amiable, Alonzo's death, I received the following account from one of her attendants. After they had embarked for Old Spain, [Page 175] and were just out of the harbour, Isabella recollected a casket, con­taining the certificate of her mar­riage, which she had left on shore. Alonzo insisted on going to fetch it himself, and got into a boat; they were about this time two miles from shore. Scarce had the boat got half way, when a hurricane overset her; all her crew perished, and the ship was driven out to sea. The hurri­cane continued for twelve hours; du­ring which time the ship was in the greatest danger of foundering. When the hurricane subsided, they found themselves far out at sea; and the wind was so contrary, that they [Page 176] could not return to inquire if the corpse of Alonzo had been driven on shore; for there were no hopes of his life being preserved, as the hurricane was so violent that no one could gain the shore. Poor Isabella was for a long time quite delirious, and accused herself as the cause of his death. I trust, however, that she will yet recover, and that the young Alonzo will not be deprived of both his parents.

SHE says, whenever she is able to hold a pen, she will write to you. She sends her love to you: and I must now lay down my [Page 177] pen, as the physicians are arrived; and I always attend her when they come.

I am, as usual,

I HAVE at length removed your Isabella hither. She was much affected on her first arrival; but time [Page 179] will, I trust, reconcile her to the place. The sight of the castle recall­d to her memory many past trans­ctions: the meeting between her and the poor old nurse, was truly affecting; the good old woman wept in silence, whilst Isabella em­raced her with the greatest affection.

HER arrival has made all the servants distracted with joy; of which there never was so much in the Castle of Villarea: But your friend herself is inconsolable for the death of Alonzo, and will, I fear, soon fol­low him; — she is at present reduced to a mere sketeton. She is ever grate­ful [Page 180] for your letters ^*, and regrets that she cannot yet answer them.

O LAURA, what ecstacy will you feel at the perusal of this letter! Yesterday, as the Marchioness [Page 182] and I were walking in the grove, a figure approached us, which so near­ly resembled Alonzo that I started; but on a nearer approach it proved to be that very Alonzo, whose sup­posed death had nearly proved fatal to Isabella. The interview, as you will suppose, was interesting in the extreme. I will not attempt to de­scribe it, lest I should not do justice to such a scene. Suffice it to say, that pleasure now reigns unrivalled within these happy walls. The escape of Alonzo was indeed nearly miraculous! He alone, of all the crew, escaped by clinging to a plank, and at length reached the shore near­ly [Page 183] dead with fatigue. His suffer­ings, during his absence from Isa­bella, were doubtless of the severest nature. Ignorant of her fate, and Unable to acquaint her with his escape, he embarked for Old Spain in the next fleet that failed; and immediately oh his arrival, wrote to me to prepare Isebella for his return: but unhappily the letter never ar­rived. Unhappily, I say, because the surprise had nearly proved fatal to Isabella.

GOD grant that the happiness which this amiable couple now en­joy, may henceforth remain unal­loyed [Page 184] by misfortune, and that the remainder of their days may be spent in a state of uninterrupted tran­quillity. In this prayer you, I am sure, will readily join, as well as in admiring the unsearchable ways of Providence. Don Alonzo joins your Isabella in every warmest wish for the happiness of Donna Laura, as does her

P. S. As soon as Isabella's spirits are at all recovered from their pre­sent [Page 185] agitated state, she means to set out for Ventina; there to embrace her much-loved Laura.