CHAPTER II.

Fòrse sé tu gustassi una sòl volta

La millésima parte délle giòje,

Ché gusta un còr amato riamando,

Diresti ripentita sospirando,

Perduto è tutto il tempo

Ché in amar non si spènde.

TASSO.

Hadst Thou but tasted once the thousandth part

Of joys, which bless the loved and loving heart,

Your words repentant and your sighs would prove,

Lost is the time which is not past in love.

The monks having attended their Abbot to the door of his Cell, He

dismissed them with an air of conscious superiority in which Humility’s

semblance combated with the reality of pride.

He was no sooner alone, than He gave free loose to the indulgence of

his vanity. When He remembered the Enthusiasm which his discourse had

excited, his heart swelled with rapture, and his imagination presented

him with splendid visions of aggrandizement. He looked round him with

exultation, and Pride told him loudly that He was superior to the rest

of his fellow-Creatures.

“Who,” thought He; “Who but myself has passed the ordeal of Youth, yet

sees no single stain upon his conscience? Who else has subdued the

violence of strong passions and an impetuous temperament, and submitted

even from the dawn of life to voluntary retirement? I seek for such a

Man in vain. I see no one but myself possessed of such resolution.

Religion cannot boast Ambrosio’s equal! How powerful an effect did my

discourse produce upon its Auditors! How they crowded round me! How

they loaded me with benedictions, and pronounced me the sole

uncorrupted Pillar of the Church! What then now is left for me to do?

Nothing, but to watch as carefully over the conduct of my Brothers as I

have hitherto watched over my own. Yet hold! May I not be tempted from

those paths which till now I have pursued without one moment’s

wandering? Am I not a Man, whose nature is frail, and prone to error? I

must now abandon the solitude of my retreat; The fairest and noblest

Dames of Madrid continually present themselves at the Abbey, and will

use no other Confessor.

I must accustom my eyes to Objects of temptation, and expose myself to

the seduction of luxury and desire. Should I meet in that world which I

am constrained to enter some lovely Female, lovely ... as yon

Madona....!”

As He said this, He fixed his eyes upon a picture of the Virgin, which

was suspended opposite to him: This for two years had been the Object

of his increasing wonder and adoration. He paused, and gazed upon it

with delight.

“What Beauty in that countenance!” He continued after a silence of some

minutes; “How graceful is the turn of that head! What sweetness, yet

what majesty in her divine eyes! How softly her cheek reclines upon her

hand! Can the Rose vie with the blush of that cheek? Can the Lily rival

the whiteness of that hand? Oh! if such a Creature existed, and existed

but for me! Were I permitted to twine round my fingers those golden

ringlets, and press with my lips the treasures of that snowy bosom!

Gracious God, should I then resist the temptation? Should I not barter

for a single embrace the reward of my sufferings for thirty years?

Should I not abandon.... Fool that I am! Whither do I suffer my

admiration of this picture to hurry me? Away, impure ideas! Let me

remember that Woman is for ever lost to me. Never was Mortal formed so

perfect as this picture. But even did such exist, the trial might be

too mighty for a common virtue, but Ambrosio’s is proof against

temptation. Temptation, did I say? To me it would be none. What charms

me, when ideal and considered as a superior Being, would disgust me,

become Woman and tainted with all the failings of Mortality. It is not

the Woman’s beauty that fills me with such enthusiasm; It is the

Painter’s skill that I admire, it is the Divinity that I adore! Are not

the passions dead in my bosom? Have I not freed myself from the frailty

of Mankind? Fear not, Ambrosio! Take confidence in the strength of your

virtue. Enter boldly into a world to whose failings you are superior;

Reflect that you are now exempted from Humanity’s defects, and defy all

the arts of the Spirits of Darkness. They shall know you for what you

are!”

Here his Reverie was interrupted by three soft knocks at the door of

his Cell. With difficulty did the Abbot awake from his delirium. The

knocking was repeated.

“Who is there?” said Ambrosio at length.

“It is only Rosario,” replied a gentle voice.

“Enter! Enter, my Son!”

The Door was immediately opened, and Rosario appeared with a small

basket in his hand.

Rosario was a young Novice belonging to the Monastery, who in three

Months intended to make his profession. A sort of mystery enveloped

this Youth which rendered him at once an object of interest and

curiosity. His hatred of society, his profound melancholy, his rigid

observation of the duties of his order, and his voluntary seclusion

from the world at his age so unusual, attracted the notice of the whole

fraternity. He seemed fearful of being recognised, and no one had ever

seen his face. His head was continually muffled up in his Cowl; Yet

such of his features as accident discovered, appeared the most

beautiful and noble. Rosario was the only name by which He was known in

the Monastery.

No one knew from whence He came, and when questioned in the subject He

preserved a profound silence. A Stranger, whose rich habit and

magnificent equipage declared him to be of distinguished rank, had

engaged the Monks to receive a Novice, and had deposited the necessary

sums. The next day He returned with Rosario, and from that time no more

had been heard of him.

The Youth had carefully avoided the company of the Monks: He answered

their civilities with sweetness, but reserve, and evidently showed that

his inclination led him to solitude. To this general rule the Superior

was the only exception. To him He looked up with a respect approaching

idolatry: He sought his company with the most attentive assiduity, and

eagerly seized every means to ingratiate himself in his favour. In the

Abbot’s society his Heart seemed to be at ease, and an air of gaiety

pervaded his whole manners and discourse. Ambrosio on his side did not

feel less attracted towards the Youth; With him alone did He lay aside

his habitual severity. When He spoke to him, He insensibly assumed a

tone milder than was usual to him; and no voice sounded so sweet to him

as did Rosario’s. He repayed the Youth’s attentions by instructing him

in various sciences; The Novice received his lessons with docility;

Ambrosio was every day more charmed with the vivacity of his Genius,

the simplicity of his manners, and the rectitude of his heart: In short

He loved him with all the affection of a Father. He could not help

sometimes indulging a desire secretly to see the face of his Pupil; But

his rule of self-denial extended even to curiosity, and prevented him

from communicating his wishes to the Youth.

“Pardon my intrusion, Father,” said Rosario, while He placed his basket

upon the Table; “I come to you a Suppliant. Hearing that a dear Friend

is dangerously ill, I entreat your prayers for his recovery. If

supplications can prevail upon heaven to spare him, surely yours must

be efficacious.”

“Whatever depends upon me, my Son, you know that you may command.

What is your Friend’s name?”

“Vincentio della Ronda.”

“’Tis sufficient. I will not forget him in my prayers, and may our

thrice-blessed St. Francis deign to listen to my intercession!—What

have you in your basket, Rosario?”

“A few of those flowers, reverend Father, which I have observed to be

most acceptable to you. Will you permit my arranging them in your

chamber?”

“Your attentions charm me, my Son.”

While Rosario dispersed the contents of his Basket in small Vases

placed for that purpose in various parts of the room, the Abbot thus

continued the conversation.

“I saw you not in the Church this evening, Rosario.”

“Yet I was present, Father. I am too grateful for your protection to

lose an opportunity of witnessing your Triumph.”

“Alas! Rosario, I have but little cause to triumph: The Saint spoke by

my mouth; To him belongs all the merit. It seems then you were

contented with my discourse?”

“Contented, say you? Oh! you surpassed yourself! Never did I hear such

eloquence ... save once!”

Here the Novice heaved an involuntary sigh.

“When was that once?” demanded the Abbot.

“When you preached upon the sudden indisposition of our late Superior.”

“I remember it: That is more than two years ago. And were you present?

I knew you not at that time, Rosario.”

“’Tis true, Father; and would to God! I had expired, ere I beheld that

day! What sufferings, what sorrows should I have escaped!”

“Sufferings at your age, Rosario?”

“Aye, Father; Sufferings, which if known to you, would equally raise

your anger and compassion! Sufferings, which form at once the torment

and pleasure of my existence! Yet in this retreat my bosom would feel

tranquil, were it not for the tortures of apprehension. Oh God! Oh God!

how cruel is a life of fear!—Father! I have given up all; I have

abandoned the world and its delights for ever: Nothing now remains,

Nothing now has charms for me, but your friendship, but your affection.

If I lose that, Father! Oh! if I lose that, tremble at the effects of

my despair!”

“You apprehend the loss of my friendship? How has my conduct justified

this fear? Know me better, Rosario, and think me worthy of your

confidence. What are your sufferings? Reveal them to me, and believe

that if ’tis in my power to relieve them....”

“Ah! ’tis in no one’s power but yours. Yet I must not let you know

them. You would hate me for my avowal! You would drive me from your

presence with scorn and ignominy!”

“My Son, I conjure you! I entreat you!”

“For pity’s sake, enquire no further! I must not ... I dare not...

Hark! The Bell rings for Vespers! Father, your benediction, and I leave

you!”

As He said this, He threw himself upon his knees and received the

blessing which He demanded. Then pressing the Abbot’s hand to his lips,

He started from the ground and hastily quitted the apartment. Soon

after Ambrosio descended to Vespers (which were celebrated in a small

chapel belonging to the Abbey), filled with surprise at the singularity

of the Youth’s behaviour.

Vespers being over, the Monks retired to their respective Cells. The

Abbot alone remained in the Chapel to receive the Nuns of St. Clare. He

had not been long seated in the confessional chair before the Prioress

made her appearance. Each of the Nuns was heard in her turn, while the

Others waited with the Domina in the adjoining Vestry. Ambrosio

listened to the confessions with attention, made many exhortations,

enjoined penance proportioned to each offence, and for some time every

thing went on as usual: till at last one of the Nuns, conspicuous from

the nobleness of her air and elegance of her figure, carelessly

permitted a letter to fall from her bosom. She was retiring,

unconscious of her loss. Ambrosio supposed it to have been written by

some one of her Relations, and picked it up intending to restore it to

her.

“Stay, Daughter,” said He; “You have let fall....”

At this moment, the paper being already open, his eye involuntarily

read the first words. He started back with surprise! The Nun had turned

round on hearing his voice: She perceived her letter in his hand, and

uttering a shriek of terror, flew hastily to regain it.

“Hold!” said the Friar in a tone of severity; “Daughter, I must read

this letter.”

“Then I am lost!” She exclaimed clasping her hands together wildly.

All colour instantly faded from her face; she trembled with agitation,

and was obliged to fold her arms round a Pillar of the Chapel to save

herself from sinking upon the floor. In the meanwhile the Abbot read

the following lines:

“All is ready for your escape, my dearest Agnes. At twelve tomorrow

night I shall expect to find you at the Garden door: I have obtained

the Key, and a few hours will suffice to place you in a secure asylum.

Let no mistaken scruples induce you to reject the certain means of

preserving yourself and the innocent Creature whom you nourish in your

bosom. Remember that you had promised to be mine, long ere you engaged

yourself to the church; that your situation will soon be evident to the

prying eyes of your Companions; and that flight is the only means of

avoiding the effects of their malevolent resentment. Farewell, my

Agnes! my dear and destined Wife! Fail not to be at the Garden door at

twelve!”

As soon as He had finished, Ambrosio bent an eye stern and angry upon

the imprudent Nun.

“This letter must to the Prioress!” said He, and passed her.

His words sounded like thunder to her ears: She awoke from her

torpidity only to be sensible of the dangers of her situation. She

followed him hastily, and detained him by his garment.

“Stay! Oh! stay!” She cried in the accents of despair, while She threw

herself at the Friar’s feet, and bathed them with her tears. “Father,

compassionate my youth! Look with indulgence on a Woman’s weakness, and

deign to conceal my frailty! The remainder of my life shall be employed

in expiating this single fault, and your lenity will bring back a soul

to heaven!”

“Amazing confidence! What! Shall St. Clare’s Convent become the retreat

of Prostitutes? Shall I suffer the Church of Christ to cherish in its

bosom debauchery and shame? Unworthy Wretch! such lenity would make me

your accomplice. Mercy would here be criminal. You have abandoned

yourself to a Seducer’s lust; You have defiled the sacred habit by your

impurity; and still dare you think yourself deserving my compassion?

Hence, nor detain me longer! Where is the Lady Prioress?” He added,

raising his voice.

“Hold! Father, Hold! Hear me but for one moment! Tax me not with

impurity, nor think that I have erred from the warmth of temperament.

Long before I took the veil, Raymond was Master of my heart: He

inspired me with the purest, the most irreproachable passion, and was

on the point of becoming my lawful husband. An horrible adventure, and

the treachery of a Relation, separated us from each other: I believed

him for ever lost to me, and threw myself into a Convent from motives

of despair. Accident again united us; I could not refuse myself the

melancholy pleasure of mingling my tears with his: We met nightly in

the Gardens of St. Clare, and in an unguarded moment I violated my vows

of Chastity. I shall soon become a Mother: Reverend Ambrosio, take

compassion on me; take compassion on the innocent Being whose existence

is attached to mine. If you discover my imprudence to the Domina, both

of us are lost: The punishment which the laws of St. Clare assign to

Unfortunates like myself is most severe and cruel. Worthy, worthy

Father! Let not your own untainted conscience render you unfeeling

towards those less able to withstand temptation! Let not mercy be the

only virtue of which your heart is unsusceptible! Pity me, most

reverend! Restore my letter, nor doom me to inevitable destruction!”

“Your boldness confounds me! Shall _I_ conceal your crime, _I_ whom you

have deceived by your feigned confession? No, Daughter, no! I will

render you a more essential service. I will rescue you from perdition

in spite of yourself; Penance and mortification shall expiate your

offence, and Severity force you back to the paths of holiness. What;

Ho! Mother St. Agatha!”

“Father! By all that is sacred, by all that is most dear to you, I

supplicate, I entreat....”

“Release me! I will not hear you. Where is the Domina? Mother St.

Agatha, where are you?”

The door of the Vestry opened, and the Prioress entered the Chapel,

followed by her Nuns.

“Cruel! Cruel!” exclaimed Agnes, relinquishing her hold.

Wild and desperate, She threw herself upon the ground, beating her

bosom and rending her veil in all the delirium of despair. The Nuns

gazed with astonishment upon the scene before them. The Friar now

presented the fatal paper to the Prioress, informed her of the manner

in which he had found it, and added, that it was her business to

decide, what penance the delinquent merited.

While She perused the letter, the Domina’s countenance grew inflamed

with passion. What! Such a crime committed in her Convent, and made

known to Ambrosio, to the Idol of Madrid, to the Man whom She was most

anxious to impress with the opinion of the strictness and regularity of

her House! Words were inadequate to express her fury. She was silent,

and darted upon the prostrate Nun looks of menace and malignity.

“Away with her to the Convent!” said She at length to some of her

Attendants.

Two of the oldest Nuns now approaching Agnes, raised her forcibly from

the ground, and prepared to conduct her from the Chapel.

“What!” She exclaimed suddenly shaking off their hold with distracted

gestures; “Is all hope then lost? Already do you drag me to punishment?

Where are you, Raymond? Oh! save me! save me!”

Then casting upon the Abbot a frantic look, “Hear me!” She continued;

“Man of an hard heart! Hear me, Proud, Stern, and Cruel! You could have

saved me; you could have restored me to happiness and virtue, but would

not! You are the destroyer of my Soul; You are my Murderer, and on you

fall the curse of my death and my unborn Infant’s! Insolent in your

yet-unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a Penitent; But God

will show mercy, though you show none. And where is the merit of your

boasted virtue? What temptations have you vanquished? Coward! you have

fled from it, not opposed seduction. But the day of Trial will arrive!

Oh! then when you yield to impetuous passions! when you feel that Man

is weak, and born to err; When shuddering you look back upon your

crimes, and solicit with terror the mercy of your God, Oh! in that

fearful moment think upon me! Think upon your Cruelty! Think upon

Agnes, and despair of pardon!”

As She uttered these last words, her strength was exhausted, and She

sank inanimate upon the bosom of a Nun who stood near her. She was

immediately conveyed from the Chapel, and her Companions followed her.

Ambrosio had not listened to her reproaches without emotion. A secret

pang at his heart made him feel, that He had treated this Unfortunate

with too great severity. He therefore detained the Prioress and

ventured to pronounce some words in favour of the Delinquent.

“The violence of her despair,” said He, “proves, that at least Vice is

not become familiar to her. Perhaps by treating her with somewhat less

rigour than is generally practised, and mitigating in some degree the

accustomed penance....”

“Mitigate it, Father?” interrupted the Lady Prioress; “Not I, believe

me. The laws of our order are strict and severe; they have fallen into

disuse of late, But the crime of Agnes shows me the necessity of their

revival. I go to signify my intention to the Convent, and Agnes shall

be the first to feel the rigour of those laws, which shall be obeyed to

the very letter. Father, Farewell.”

Thus saying, She hastened out of the Chapel.

“I have done my duty,” said Ambrosio to himself.

Still did He not feel perfectly satisfied by this reflection. To

dissipate the unpleasant ideas which this scene had excited in him,

upon quitting the Chapel He descended into the Abbey Garden.

In all Madrid there was no spot more beautiful or better regulated. It

was laid out with the most exquisite taste. The choicest flowers

adorned it in the height of luxuriance, and though artfully arranged,

seemed only planted by the hand of Nature: Fountains, springing from

basons of white Marble, cooled the air with perpetual showers; and the

Walls were entirely covered by Jessamine, vines, and Honeysuckles. The

hour now added to the beauty of the scene. The full Moon, ranging

through a blue and cloudless sky, shed upon the trees a trembling

lustre, and the waters of the fountains sparkled in the silver beam: A

gentle breeze breathed the fragrance of Orange-blossoms along the

Alleys; and the Nightingale poured forth her melodious murmur from the

shelter of an artificial wilderness. Thither the Abbot bent his steps.

In the bosom of this little Grove stood a rustic Grotto, formed in

imitation of an Hermitage. The walls were constructed of roots of

trees, and the interstices filled up with Moss and Ivy. Seats of Turf

were placed on either side, and a natural Cascade fell from the Rock

above. Buried in himself the Monk approached the spot. The universal

calm had communicated itself to his bosom, and a voluptuous

tranquillity spread languor through his soul.

He reached the Hermitage, and was entering to repose himself, when He

stopped on perceiving it to be already occupied. Extended upon one of

the Banks lay a man in a melancholy posture.

His head was supported upon his arm, and He seemed lost in mediation.

The Monk drew nearer, and recognised Rosario: He watched him in

silence, and entered not the Hermitage. After some minutes the Youth

raised his eyes, and fixed them mournfully upon the opposite Wall.

“Yes!” said He with a deep and plaintive sigh; “I feel all the

happiness of thy situation, all the misery of my own! Happy were I,

could I think like Thee! Could I look like Thee with disgust upon

Mankind, could bury myself for ever in some impenetrable solitude, and

forget that the world holds Beings deserving to be loved! Oh God! What

a blessing would Misanthropy be to me!”

“That is a singular thought, Rosario,” said the Abbot, entering the

Grotto.

“You here, reverend Father?” cried the Novice.

At the same time starting from his place in confusion, He drew his Cowl

hastily over his face. Ambrosio seated himself upon the Bank, and

obliged the Youth to place himself by him.

“You must not indulge this disposition to melancholy,” said He; “What

can possibly have made you view in so desirable a light, Misanthropy,

of all sentiments the most hateful?”

“The perusal of these Verses, Father, which till now had escaped my

observation. The Brightness of the Moonbeams permitted my reading them;

and Oh! how I envy the feelings of the Writer!”

As He said this, He pointed to a marble Tablet fixed against the

opposite Wall: On it were engraved the following lines.

INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE

Whoe’er Thou art these lines now reading,

Think not, though from the world receding

I joy my lonely days to lead in

This Desart drear,

That with remorse a conscience bleeding

Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sowrs:

Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;

For well I saw in Halls and Towers

That Lust and Pride,

The Arch-Fiend’s dearest darkest Powers,

In state preside.

I saw Mankind with vice incrusted;

I saw that Honour’s sword was rusted;

That few for aught but folly lusted;

That He was still deceiv’d, who trusted

In Love or Friend;

And hither came with Men disgusted

My life to end.

In this lone Cave, in garments lowly,

Alike a Foe to noisy folly,

And brow-bent gloomy melancholy

I wear away

My life, and in my office holy

Consume the day.

Content and comfort bless me more in

This Grot, than e’er I felt before in

A Palace, and with thoughts still soaring

To God on high,

Each night and morn with voice imploring

This wish I sigh.

“Let me, Oh! Lord! from life retire,

Unknown each guilty worldly fire,

Remorseful throb, or loose desire;

And when I die,

Let me in this belief expire,

‘To God I fly’!”

Stranger, if full of youth and riot

As yet no grief has marred thy quiet,

Thou haply throw’st a scornful eye at

The Hermit’s prayer:

But if Thou hast a cause to sigh at

Thy fault, or care;

If Thou hast known false Love’s vexation,

Or hast been exil’d from thy Nation,

Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,

And makes thee pine,

Oh! how must Thou lament thy station,

And envy mine!

“Were it possible” said the Friar, “for Man to be so totally wrapped up

in himself as to live in absolute seclusion from human nature, and

could yet feel the contented tranquillity which these lines express, I

allow that the situation would be more desirable, than to live in a

world so pregnant with every vice and every folly. But this never can

be the case. This inscription was merely placed here for the ornament

of the Grotto, and the sentiments and the Hermit are equally imaginary.

Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to the

World, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by

it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of Mankind, the Misanthrope

flies from it: He resolves to become an Hermit, and buries himself in

the Cavern of some gloomy Rock. While Hate inflames his bosom, possibly

He may feel contented with his situation: But when his passions begin

to cool; when Time has mellowed his sorrows, and healed those wounds

which He bore with him to his solitude, think you that Content becomes

his Companion? Ah! no, Rosario. No longer sustained by the violence of

his passions, He feels all the monotony of his way of living, and his

heart becomes the prey of Ennui and weariness. He looks round, and

finds himself alone in the Universe: The love of society revives in his

bosom, and He pants to return to that world which He has abandoned.

Nature loses all her charms in his eyes: No one is near him to point

out her beauties, or share in his admiration of her excellence and

variety. Propped upon the fragment of some Rock, He gazes upon the

tumbling waterfall with a vacant eye, He views without emotion the

glory of the setting Sun. Slowly He returns to his Cell at Evening, for

no one there is anxious for his arrival; He has no comfort in his

solitary unsavoury meal: He throws himself upon his couch of Moss

despondent and dissatisfied, and wakes only to pass a day as joyless,

as monotonous as the former.”

“You amaze me, Father! Suppose that circumstances condemned you to

solitude; Would not the duties of Religion and the consciousness of a

life well spent communicate to your heart that calm which....”

“I should deceive myself, did I fancy that they could. I am convinced

of the contrary, and that all my fortitude would not prevent me from

yielding to melancholy and disgust. After consuming the day in study,

if you knew my pleasure at meeting my Brethren in the Evening! After

passing many a long hour in solitude, if I could express to you the joy

which I feel at once more beholding a fellow-Creature! ’Tis in this

particular that I place the principal merit of a Monastic Institution.

It secludes Man from the temptations of Vice; It procures that leisure

necessary for the proper service of the Supreme; It spares him the

mortification of witnessing the crimes of the worldly, and yet permits

him to enjoy the blessings of society. And do you, Rosario, do _you_

envy an Hermit’s life? Can you be thus blind to the happiness of your

situation? Reflect upon it for a moment. This Abbey is become your

Asylum: Your regularity, your gentleness, your talents have rendered

you the object of universal esteem: You are secluded from the world

which you profess to hate; yet you remain in possession of the benefits

of society, and that a society composed of the most estimable of

Mankind.”

“Father! Father! ’tis that which causes my Torment! Happy had it been

for me, had my life been passed among the vicious and abandoned! Had I

never heard pronounced the name of Virtue! ’Tis my unbounded adoration

of religion; ’Tis my soul’s exquisite sensibility of the beauty of fair

and good, that loads me with shame! that hurries me to perdition! Oh!

that I had never seen these Abbey walls!”

“How, Rosario? When we last conversed, you spoke in a different tone.

Is my friendship then become of such little consequence? Had you never

seen these Abbey walls, you never had seen me: Can that really be your

wish?”

“Had never seen you?” repeated the Novice, starting from the Bank, and

grasping the Friar’s hand with a frantic air; “You? You? Would to God,

that lightning had blasted them, before you ever met my eyes! Would to

God! that I were never to see you more, and could forget that I had

ever seen you!”

With these words He flew hastily from the Grotto. Ambrosio remained in

his former attitude, reflecting on the Youth’s unaccountable behaviour.

He was inclined to suspect the derangement of his senses: yet the

general tenor of his conduct, the connexion of his ideas, and calmness

of his demeanour till the moment of his quitting the Grotto, seemed to

discountenance this conjecture. After a few minutes Rosario returned.

He again seated himself upon the Bank: He reclined his cheek upon one

hand, and with the other wiped away the tears which trickled from his

eyes at intervals.

The Monk looked upon him with compassion, and forbore to interrupt his

meditations. Both observed for some time a profound silence. The

Nightingale had now taken her station upon an Orange Tree fronting the

Hermitage, and poured forth a strain the most melancholy and melodious.

Rosario raised his head, and listened to her with attention.

“It was thus,” said He, with a deep-drawn sigh; “It was thus, that

during the last month of her unhappy life, my Sister used to sit

listening to the Nightingale. Poor Matilda! She sleeps in the Grave,

and her broken heart throbs no more with passion.”

“You had a Sister?”

“You say right, that I HAD; Alas! I have one no longer. She sunk

beneath the weight of her sorrows in the very spring of life.”

“What were those sorrows?”

“They will not excite _your_ pity: _you_ know not the power of those

irresistible, those fatal sentiments, to which her Heart was a prey.

Father, She loved unfortunately. A passion for One endowed with every

virtue, for a Man, Oh! rather let me say, for a divinity, proved the

bane of her existence. His noble form, his spotless character, his

various talents, his wisdom solid, wonderful, and glorious, might have

warmed the bosom of the most insensible. My Sister saw him, and dared

to love though She never dared to hope.”

“If her love was so well bestowed, what forbad her to hope the

obtaining of its object?”

“Father, before He knew her, Julian had already plighted his vows to a

Bride most fair, most heavenly! Yet still my Sister loved, and for the

Husband’s sake She doted upon the Wife. One morning She found means to

escape from our Father’s House: Arrayed in humble weeds She offered

herself as a Domestic to the Consort of her Beloved, and was accepted.

She was now continually in his presence: She strove to ingratiate

herself into his favour: She succeeded. Her attentions attracted

Julian’s notice; The virtuous are ever grateful, and He distinguished

Matilda above the rest of her Companions.”

“And did not your Parents seek for her? Did they submit tamely to their

loss, nor attempt to recover their wandering Daughter?”

“Ere they could find her, She discovered herself. Her love grew too

violent for concealment; Yet She wished not for Julian’s person, She

ambitioned but a share of his heart. In an unguarded moment She

confessed her affection. What was the return? Doating upon his Wife,

and believing that a look of pity bestowed upon another was a theft

from what He owed to her, He drove Matilda from his presence. He forbad

her ever again appearing before him. His severity broke her heart: She

returned to her Father’s, and in a few Months after was carried to her

Grave.”

“Unhappy Girl! Surely her fate was too severe, and Julian was too

cruel.”

“Do you think so, Father?” cried the Novice with vivacity; “Do you

think that He was cruel?”

“Doubtless I do, and pity her most sincerely.”

“You pity her? You pity her? Oh! Father! Father! Then pity me!”

The Friar started; when after a moment’s pause Rosario added with a

faltering voice,—“for my sufferings are still greater. My Sister had a

Friend, a real Friend, who pitied the acuteness of her feelings, nor

reproached her with her inability to repress them. I ...! I have no

Friend! The whole wide world cannot furnish an heart that is willing to

participate in the sorrows of mine!”

As He uttered these words, He sobbed audibly. The Friar was affected.

He took Rosario’s hand, and pressed it with tenderness.

“You have no Friend, say you? What then am I? Why will you not confide

in me, and what can you fear? My severity? Have I ever used it with

you? The dignity of my habit? Rosario, I lay aside the Monk, and bid

you consider me as no other than your Friend, your Father. Well may I

assume that title, for never did Parent watch over a Child more fondly

than I have watched over you. From the moment in which I first beheld

you, I perceived sensations in my bosom till then unknown to me; I

found a delight in your society which no one’s else could afford; and

when I witnessed the extent of your genius and information, I rejoiced

as does a Father in the perfections of his Son. Then lay aside your

fears; Speak to me with openness: Speak to me, Rosario, and say that

you will confide in me. If my aid or my pity can alleviate your

distress....”

“Yours can! Yours only can! Ah! Father, how willingly would I unveil to

you my heart! How willingly would I declare the secret which bows me

down with its weight! But Oh! I fear! I fear!”

“What, my Son?”

“That you should abhor me for my weakness; That the reward of my

confidence should be the loss of your esteem.”

“How shall I reassure you? Reflect upon the whole of my past conduct,

upon the paternal tenderness which I have ever shown you. Abhor you,

Rosario? It is no longer in my power. To give up your society would be

to deprive myself of the greatest pleasure of my life. Then reveal to

me what afflicts you, and believe me while I solemnly swear....”

“Hold!” interrupted the Novice; “Swear, that whatever be my secret, you

will not oblige me to quit the Monastery till my Noviciate shall

expire.”

“I promise it faithfully, and as I keep my vows to you, may Christ keep

his to Mankind. Now then explain this mystery, and rely upon my

indulgence.”

“I obey you. Know then.... Oh! how I tremble to name the word! Listen

to me with pity, revered Ambrosio! Call up every latent spark of human

weakness that may teach you compassion for mine! Father!” continued He

throwing himself at the Friar’s feet, and pressing his hand to his lips

with eagerness, while agitation for a moment choaked his voice;

“Father!” continued He in faltering accents, “I am a Woman!”

The Abbot started at this unexpected avowal. Prostrate on the ground

lay the feigned Rosario, as if waiting in silence the decision of his

Judge. Astonishment on the one part, apprehension on the other, for

some minutes chained them in the same attitudes, as had they been

touched by the Rod of some Magician. At length recovering from his

confusion, the Monk quitted the Grotto, and sped with precipitation

towards the Abbey. His action did not escape the Suppliant. She sprang

from the ground; She hastened to follow him, overtook him, threw

herself in his passage, and embraced his knees. Ambrosio strove in vain

to disengage himself from her grasp.

“Do not fly me!” She cried; “Leave me not abandoned to the impulse of

despair! Listen, while I excuse my imprudence; while I acknowledge my

Sister’s story to be my own! I am Matilda; You are her Beloved.”

If Ambrosio’s surprise was great at her first avowal, upon hearing her

second it exceeded all bounds. Amazed, embarrassed, and irresolute He

found himself incapable of pronouncing a syllable, and remained in

silence gazing upon Matilda: This gave her opportunity to continue her

explanation as follows.

“Think not, Ambrosio, that I come to rob your Bride of your affections.

No, believe me: Religion alone deserves you; and far is it from

Matilda’s wish to draw you from the paths of virtue. What I feel for

you is love, not licentiousness; I sigh to be possessor of your heart,

not lust for the enjoyment of your person. Deign to listen to my

vindication: A few moments will convince you that this holy retreat is

not polluted by my presence, and that you may grant me your compassion

without trespassing against your vows.”—She seated herself: Ambrosio,

scarcely conscious of what He did, followed her example, and She

proceeded in her discourse.

“I spring from a distinguished family: My Father was Chief of the noble

House of Villanegas. He died while I was still an Infant, and left me

sole Heiress of his immense possessions. Young and wealthy, I was

sought in marriage by the noblest Youths of Madrid; But no one

succeeded in gaining my affections. I had been brought up under the

care of an Uncle possessed of the most solid judgment and extensive

erudition. He took pleasure in communicating to me some portion of his

knowledge. Under his instructions my understanding acquired more

strength and justness than generally falls to the lot of my sex: The

ability of my Preceptor being aided by natural curiosity, I not only

made a considerable progress in sciences universally studied, but in

others, revealed but to few, and lying under censure from the blindness

of superstition. But while my Guardian laboured to enlarge the sphere

of my knowledge, He carefully inculcated every moral precept: He

relieved me from the shackles of vulgar prejudice; He pointed out the

beauty of Religion; He taught me to look with adoration upon the pure

and virtuous, and, woe is me! I have obeyed him but too well!

“With such dispositions, Judge whether I could observe with any other

sentiment than disgust the vice, dissipation, and ignorance, which

disgrace our Spanish Youth. I rejected every offer with disdain. My

heart remained without a Master till chance conducted me to the

Cathedral of the Capuchins. Oh! surely on that day my Guardian Angel

slumbered neglectful of his charge! Then was it that I first beheld

you: You supplied the Superior’s place, absent from illness. You cannot

but remember the lively enthusiasm which your discourse created. Oh!

how I drank your words! How your eloquence seemed to steal me from

myself! I scarcely dared to breathe, fearing to lose a syllable; and

while you spoke, Methought a radiant glory beamed round your head, and

your countenance shone with the majesty of a God. I retired from the

Church, glowing with admiration. From that moment you became the idol

of my heart, the never-changing object of my Meditations. I enquired

respecting you. The reports which were made me of your mode of life, of

your knowledge, piety, and self-denial riveted the chains imposed on me

by your eloquence. I was conscious that there was no longer a void in

my heart; That I had found the Man whom I had sought till then in vain.

In expectation of hearing you again, every day I visited your

Cathedral: You remained secluded within the Abbey walls, and I always

withdrew, wretched and disappointed. The Night was more propitious to

me, for then you stood before me in my dreams; You vowed to me eternal

friendship; You led me through the paths of virtue, and assisted me to

support the vexations of life. The Morning dispelled these pleasing

visions; I woke, and found myself separated from you by Barriers which

appeared insurmountable. Time seemed only to increase the strength of

my passion: I grew melancholy and despondent; I fled from society, and

my health declined daily. At length no longer able to exist in this

state of torture, I resolved to assume the disguise in which you see

me. My artifice was fortunate: I was received into the Monastery, and

succeeded in gaining your esteem.

“Now then I should have felt compleatly happy, had not my quiet been

disturbed by the fear of detection. The pleasure which I received from

your society, was embittered by the idea that perhaps I should soon be

deprived of it: and my heart throbbed so rapturously at obtaining the

marks of your friendship, as to convince me that I never should survive

its loss. I resolved, therefore, not to leave the discovery of my sex

to chance, to confess the whole to you, and throw myself entirely on

your mercy and indulgence. Ah! Ambrosio, can I have been deceived? Can

you be less generous than I thought you? I will not suspect it. You

will not drive a Wretch to despair; I shall still be permitted to see

you, to converse with you, to adore you! Your virtues shall be my

example through life; and when we expire, our bodies shall rest in the

same Grave.”

She ceased. While She spoke, a thousand opposing sentiments combated in

Ambrosio’s bosom. Surprise at the singularity of this adventure,

Confusion at her abrupt declaration, Resentment at her boldness in

entering the Monastery, and Consciousness of the austerity with which

it behoved him to reply, such were the sentiments of which He was

aware; But there were others also which did not obtain his notice. He

perceived not, that his vanity was flattered by the praises bestowed

upon his eloquence and virtue; that He felt a secret pleasure in

reflecting that a young and seemingly lovely Woman had for his sake

abandoned the world, and sacrificed every other passion to that which

He had inspired: Still less did He perceive that his heart throbbed

with desire, while his hand was pressed gently by Matilda’s ivory

fingers.

By degrees He recovered from his confusion. His ideas became less

bewildered: He was immediately sensible of the extreme impropriety,

should Matilda be permitted to remain in the Abbey after this avowal of

her sex. He assumed an air of severity, and drew away his hand.

“How, Lady!” said He; “Can you really hope for my permission to remain

amongst us? Even were I to grant your request, what good could you

derive from it? Think you that I ever can reply to an affection,

which...”

“No, Father, No! I expect not to inspire you with a love like mine. I

only wish for the liberty to be near you, to pass some hours of the day

in your society; to obtain your compassion, your friendship and esteem.

Surely my request is not unreasonable.”

“But reflect, Lady! Reflect only for a moment on the impropriety of my

harbouring a Woman in the Abbey; and that too a Woman, who confesses

that She loves me. It must not be. The risque of your being discovered

is too great, and I will not expose myself to so dangerous a

temptation.”

“Temptation, say you? Forget that I am a Woman, and it no longer

exists: Consider me only as a Friend, as an Unfortunate, whose

happiness, whose life depends upon your protection. Fear not lest I

should ever call to your remembrance that love the most impetuous, the

most unbounded, has induced me to disguise my sex; or that instigated

by desires, offensive to _your_ vows and my own honour, I should

endeavour to seduce you from the path of rectitude. No, Ambrosio, learn

to know me better. I love you for your virtues: Lose them, and with

them you lose my affections. I look upon you as a Saint; Prove to me

that you are no more than Man, and I quit you with disgust. Is it then

from me that you fear temptation? From me, in whom the world’s dazzling

pleasures created no other sentiment than contempt? From me, whose

attachment is grounded on your exemption from human frailty? Oh!

dismiss such injurious apprehensions! Think nobler of me, think nobler

of yourself. I am incapable of seducing you to error; and surely your

Virtue is established on a basis too firm to be shaken by unwarranted

desires. Ambrosio, dearest Ambrosio! drive me not from your presence;

Remember your promise, and authorize my stay!”

“Impossible, Matilda; _your_ interest commands me to refuse your

prayer, since I tremble for you, not for myself. After vanquishing the

impetuous ebullitions of Youth; After passing thirty years in

mortification and penance, I might safely permit your stay, nor fear

your inspiring me with warmer sentiments than pity. But to yourself,

remaining in the Abbey can produce none but fatal consequences. You

will misconstrue my every word and action; You will seize every

circumstance with avidity, which encourages you to hope the return of

your affection; Insensibly your passions will gain a superiority over

your reason; and far from these being repressed by my presence, every

moment which we pass together, will only serve to irritate and excite

them. Believe me, unhappy Woman! you possess my sincere compassion. I

am convinced that you have hitherto acted upon the purest motives; But

though you are blind to the imprudence of your conduct, in me it would

be culpable not to open your eyes. I feel that Duty obliges my treating

you with harshness: I must reject your prayer, and remove every shadow

of hope which may aid to nourish sentiments so pernicious to your

repose. Matilda, you must from hence tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, Ambrosio? Tomorrow? Oh! surely you cannot mean it!

You cannot resolve on driving me to despair! You cannot have the

cruelty....”

“You have heard my decision, and it must be obeyed. The Laws of our

Order forbid your stay: It would be perjury to conceal that a Woman is

within these Walls, and my vows will oblige me to declare your story to

the Community. You must from hence!—I pity you, but can do no more!”

He pronounced these words in a faint and trembling voice: Then rising

from his seat, He would have hastened towards the Monastery. Uttering a

loud shriek, Matilda followed, and detained him.

“Stay yet one moment, Ambrosio! Hear me yet speak one word!”

“I dare not listen! Release me! You know my resolution!”

“But one word! But one last word, and I have done!”

“Leave me! Your entreaties are in vain! You must from hence tomorrow!”

“Go then, Barbarian! But this resource is still left me.”

As She said this, She suddenly drew a poignard: She rent open her

garment, and placed the weapon’s point against her bosom.

“Father, I will never quit these Walls alive!”

“Hold! Hold, Matilda! What would you do?”

“You are determined, so am I: The Moment that you leave me, I plunge

this Steel in my heart.”

“Holy St. Francis! Matilda, have you your senses? Do you know the

consequences of your action? That Suicide is the greatest of crimes?

That you destroy your Soul? That you lose your claim to salvation? That

you prepare for yourself everlasting torments?”

“I care not! I care not!” She replied passionately; “Either your hand

guides me to Paradise, or my own dooms me to perdition! Speak to me,

Ambrosio! Tell me that you will conceal my story, that I shall remain

your Friend and your Companion, or this poignard drinks my blood!”

As She uttered these last words, She lifted her arm, and made a motion

as if to stab herself. The Friar’s eyes followed with dread the course

of the dagger. She had torn open her habit, and her bosom was half

exposed. The weapon’s point rested upon her left breast: And Oh! that

was such a breast! The Moonbeams darting full upon it enabled the Monk

to observe its dazzling whiteness. His eye dwelt with insatiable

avidity upon the beauteous Orb. A sensation till then unknown filled

his heart with a mixture of anxiety and delight: A raging fire shot

through every limb; The blood boiled in his veins, and a thousand wild

wishes bewildered his imagination.

“Hold!” He cried in an hurried faultering voice; “I can resist no

longer! Stay, then, Enchantress; Stay for my destruction!”

He said, and rushing from the place, hastened towards the Monastery: He

regained his Cell and threw himself upon his Couch, distracted

irresolute and confused.

He found it impossible for some time to arrange his ideas. The scene in

which He had been engaged had excited such a variety of sentiments in

his bosom, that He was incapable of deciding which was predominant. He

was irresolute what conduct He ought to hold with the disturber of his

repose. He was conscious that prudence, religion, and propriety

necessitated his obliging her to quit the Abbey: But on the other hand

such powerful reasons authorized her stay that He was but too much

inclined to consent to her remaining. He could not avoid being

flattered by Matilda’s declaration, and at reflecting that He had

unconsciously vanquished an heart which had resisted the attacks of

Spain’s noblest Cavaliers: The manner in which He had gained her

affections was also the most satisfactory to his vanity: He remembered

the many happy hours which He had passed in Rosario’s society, and

dreaded that void in his heart which parting with him would occasion.

Besides all this, He considered, that as Matilda was wealthy, her

favour might be of essential benefit to the Abbey.

“And what do I risque,” said He to himself, “by authorizing her stay?

May I not safely credit her assertions? Will it not be easy for me to

forget her sex, and still consider her as my Friend and my disciple?

Surely her love is as pure as She describes. Had it been the offspring

of mere licentiousness, would She so long have concealed it in her own

bosom? Would She not have employed some means to procure its

gratification? She has done quite the contrary: She strove to keep me

in ignorance of her sex; and nothing but the fear of detection, and my

instances, would have compelled her to reveal the secret. She has

observed the duties of religion not less strictly than myself. She has

made no attempts to rouze my slumbering passions, nor has She ever

conversed with me till this night on the subject of Love. Had She been

desirous to gain my affections, not my esteem, She would not have

concealed from me her charms so carefully: At this very moment I have

never seen her face: Yet certainly that face must be lovely, and her

person beautiful, to judge by her ... by what I have seen.”

As this last idea passed through his imagination, a blush spread itself

over his cheek. Alarmed at the sentiments which He was indulging, He

betook himself to prayer; He started from his Couch, knelt before the

beautiful Madona, and entreated her assistance in stifling such

culpable emotions. He then returned to his Bed, and resigned himself to

slumber.

He awoke, heated and unrefreshed. During his sleep his inflamed

imagination had presented him with none but the most voluptuous

objects. Matilda stood before him in his dreams, and his eyes again

dwelt upon her naked breast. She repeated her protestations of eternal

love, threw her arms round his neck, and loaded him with kisses: He

returned them; He clasped her passionately to his bosom, and ... the

vision was dissolved. Sometimes his dreams presented the image of his

favourite Madona, and He fancied that He was kneeling before her: As He

offered up his vows to her, the eyes of the Figure seemed to beam on

him with inexpressible sweetness. He pressed his lips to hers, and

found them warm: The animated form started from the Canvas, embraced

him affectionately, and his senses were unable to support delight so

exquisite. Such were the scenes, on which his thoughts were employed

while sleeping: His unsatisfied Desires placed before him the most

lustful and provoking Images, and he rioted in joys till then unknown

to him.

He started from his Couch, filled with confusion at the remembrance of

his dreams. Scarcely was He less ashamed, when He reflected on his

reasons of the former night which induced him to authorize Matilda’s

stay. The cloud was now dissipated which had obscured his judgment: He

shuddered when He beheld his arguments blazoned in their proper

colours, and found that He had been a slave to flattery, to avarice,

and self-love. If in one hour’s conversation Matilda had produced a

change so remarkable in his sentiments, what had He not to dread from

her remaining in the Abbey? Become sensible of his danger, awakened

from his dream of confidence, He resolved to insist on her departing

without delay. He began to feel that He was not proof against

temptation; and that however Matilda might restrain herself within the

bounds of modesty, He was unable to contend with those passions, from

which He falsely thought himself exempted.

“Agnes! Agnes!” He exclaimed, while reflecting on his embarrassments,

“I already feel thy curse!”

He quitted his Cell, determined upon dismissing the feigned Rosario. He

appeared at Matins; But his thoughts were absent, and He paid them but

little attention. His heart and brain were both of them filled with

worldly objects, and He prayed without devotion. The service over, He

descended into the Garden. He bent his steps towards the same spot

where, on the preceding night, He had made this embarrassing discovery.

He doubted not but that Matilda would seek him there: He was not

deceived. She soon entered the Hermitage, and approached the Monk with

a timid air. After a few minutes during which both were silent, She

appeared as if on the point of speaking; But the Abbot, who during this

time had been summoning up all his resolution, hastily interrupted her.

Though still unconscious how extensive was its influence, He dreaded

the melodious seduction of her voice.

“Seat yourself by my side, Matilda,” said He, assuming a look of

firmness, though carefully avoiding the least mixture of severity;

“Listen to me patiently, and believe, that in what I shall say, I am

not more influenced by my own interest than by yours: Believe, that I

feel for you the warmest friendship, the truest compassion, and that

you cannot feel more grieved than I do, when I declare to you that we

must never meet again.”

“Ambrosio!” She cried, in a voice at once expressive of surprise and

sorrow.

“Be calm, my Friend! My Rosario! Still let me call you by that name so

dear to me! Our separation is unavoidable; I blush to own, how sensibly

it affects me.— But yet it must be so. I feel myself incapable of

treating you with indifference, and that very conviction obliges me to

insist upon your departure. Matilda, you must stay here no longer.”

“Oh! where shall I now seek for probity? Disgusted with a perfidious

world, in what happy region does Truth conceal herself? Father, I hoped

that She resided here; I thought that your bosom had been her favourite

shrine. And you too prove false? Oh God! And you too can betray me?”

“Matilda!”

“Yes, Father, Yes! ’Tis with justice that I reproach you. Oh! where are

your promises? My Noviciate is not expired, and yet will you compell me

to quit the Monastery? Can you have the heart to drive me from you? And

have I not received your solemn oath to the contrary?”

“I will not compell you to quit the Monastery: You have received my

solemn oath to the contrary. But yet when I throw myself upon your

generosity, when I declare to you the embarrassments in which your

presence involves me, will you not release me from that oath? Reflect

upon the danger of a discovery, upon the opprobrium in which such an

event would plunge me: Reflect that my honour and reputation are at

stake, and that my peace of mind depends on your compliance. As yet my

heart is free; I shall separate from you with regret, but not with

despair. Stay here, and a few weeks will sacrifice my happiness on the

altar of your charms. You are but too interesting, too amiable! I

should love you, I should doat on you! My bosom would become the prey

of desires which Honour and my profession forbid me to gratify. If I

resisted them, the impetuosity of my wishes unsatisfied would drive me

to madness: If I yielded to the temptation, I should sacrifice to one

moment of guilty pleasure my reputation in this world, my salvation in

the next. To you then I fly for defence against myself. Preserve me

from losing the reward of thirty years of sufferings! Preserve me from

becoming the Victim of Remorse! _your_ heart has already felt the

anguish of hopeless love; Oh! then if you really value me, spare mine

that anguish! Give me back my promise; Fly from these walls. Go, and

you bear with you my warmest prayers for your happiness, my friendship,

my esteem and admiration: Stay, and you become to me the source of

danger, of sufferings, of despair! Answer me, Matilda; What is your

resolve?”—She was silent—“Will you not speak, Matilda? Will you not

name your choice?”

“Cruel! Cruel!” She exclaimed, wringing her hands in agony; “You know

too well that you offer me no choice! You know too well that I can have

no will but yours!”

“I was not then deceived! Matilda’s generosity equals my expectations.”

“Yes; I will prove the truth of my affection by submitting to a decree

which cuts me to the very heart. Take back your promise. I will quit

the Monastery this very day. I have a Relation, Abbess of a Covent in

Estramadura: To her will I bend my steps, and shut myself from the

world for ever. Yet tell me, Father, shall I bear your good wishes with

me to my solitude? Will you sometimes abstract your attention from

heavenly objects to bestow a thought upon me?”

“Ah! Matilda, I fear that I shall think on you but too often for my

repose!”

“Then I have nothing more to wish for, save that we may meet in heaven.

Farewell, my Friend! my Ambrosio!— And yet methinks, I would fain bear

with me some token of your regard!”

“What shall I give you?”

“Something.—Any thing.—One of those flowers will be sufficient.” (Here

She pointed to a bush of Roses, planted at the door of the Grotto.) “I

will hide it in my bosom, and when I am dead, the Nuns shall find it

withered upon my heart.”

The Friar was unable to reply: With slow steps, and a soul heavy with

affliction, He quitted the Hermitage. He approached the Bush, and

stooped to pluck one of the Roses. Suddenly He uttered a piercing cry,

started back hastily, and let the flower, which He already held, fall

from his hand. Matilda heard the shriek, and flew anxiously towards

him.

“What is the matter?” She cried; “Answer me, for God’s sake! What has

happened?”

“I have received my death!” He replied in a faint voice; “Concealed

among the Roses ... A Serpent....”

Here the pain of his wound became so exquisite, that Nature was unable

to bear it: His senses abandoned him, and He sank inanimate into

Matilda’s arms.

Her distress was beyond the power of description. She rent her hair,

beat her bosom, and not daring to quit Ambrosio, endeavoured by loud

cries to summon the Monks to her assistance. She at length succeeded.

Alarmed by her shrieks, Several of the Brothers hastened to the spot,

and the Superior was conveyed back to the Abbey. He was immediately put

to bed, and the Monk who officiated as Surgeon to the Fraternity

prepared to examine the wound. By this time Ambrosio’s hand had swelled

to an extraordinary size; The remedies which had been administered to

him, ’tis true, restored him to life, but not to his senses; He raved

in all the horrors of delirium, foamed at the mouth, and four of the

strongest Monks were scarcely able to hold him in his bed.

Father Pablos, such was the Surgeon’s name, hastened to examine the

wounded hand. The Monks surrounded the Bed, anxiously waiting for the

decision: Among these the feigned Rosario appeared not the most

insensible to the Friar’s calamity. He gazed upon the Sufferer with

inexpressible anguish; and the groans which every moment escaped from

his bosom sufficiently betrayed the violence of his affliction.

Father Pablos probed the wound. As He drew out his Lancet, its point

was tinged with a greenish hue. He shook his head mournfully, and

quitted the bedside.

“’Tis as I feared!” said He; “There is no hope.”

“No hope?” exclaimed the Monks with one voice; “Say you, no hope?”

“From the sudden effects, I suspected that the Abbot was stung by a

cientipedoro:[1] The venom which you see upon my Lancet confirms my

idea: He cannot live three days.”

[1] The cientipedoro is supposed to be a native of Cuba, and to

have been brought into Spain from that island in the vessel of

Columbus.

“And can no possible remedy be found?” enquired Rosario.

“Without extracting the poison, He cannot recover; and how to extract

it is to me still a secret. All that I can do is to apply such herbs to

the wound as will relieve the anguish: The Patient will be restored to

his senses; But the venom will corrupt the whole mass of his blood, and

in three days He will exist no longer.”

Excessive was the universal grief at hearing this decision. Pablos, as

He had promised, dressed the wound, and then retired, followed by his

Companions: Rosario alone remained in the Cell, the Abbot at his urgent

entreaty having been committed to his care. Ambrosio’s strength worn

out by the violence of his exertions, He had by this time fallen into a

profound sleep. So totally was He overcome by weariness, that He

scarcely gave any signs of life; He was still in this situation, when

the Monks returned to enquire whether any change had taken place.

Pablos loosened the bandage which concealed the wound, more from a

principle of curiosity than from indulging the hope of discovering any

favourable symptoms. What was his astonishment at finding, that the

inflammation had totally subsided! He probed the hand; His Lancet came

out pure and unsullied; No traces of the venom were perceptible; and

had not the orifice still been visible, Pablos might have doubted that

there had ever been a wound.

He communicated this intelligence to his Brethren; their delight was

only equalled by their surprize. From the latter sentiment, however,

they were soon released by explaining the circumstance according to

their own ideas: They were perfectly convinced that their Superior was

a Saint, and thought, that nothing could be more natural than for St.

Francis to have operated a miracle in his favour. This opinion was

adopted unanimously: They declared it so loudly, and vociferated,—“A

miracle! a miracle!”—with such fervour, that they soon interrupted

Ambrosio’s slumbers.

The Monks immediately crowded round his Bed, and expressed their

satisfaction at his wonderful recovery. He was perfectly in his senses,

and free from every complaint except feeling weak and languid. Pablos

gave him a strengthening medicine, and advised his keeping his bed for

the two succeeding days: He then retired, having desired his Patient

not to exhaust himself by conversation, but rather to endeavour at

taking some repose. The other Monks followed his example, and the Abbot

and Rosario were left without Observers.

For some minutes Ambrosio regarded his Attendant with a look of mingled

pleasure and apprehension. She was seated upon the side of the Bed, her

head bending down, and as usual enveloped in the Cowl of her Habit.

“And you are still here, Matilda?” said the Friar at length. “Are you

not satisfied with having so nearly effected my destruction, that

nothing but a miracle could have saved me from the Grave? Ah! surely

Heaven sent that Serpent to punish....”

Matilda interrupted him by putting her hand before his lips with an air

of gaiety.

“Hush! Father, Hush! You must not talk!”

“He who imposed that order, knew not how interesting are the subjects

on which I wish to speak.”

“But I know it, and yet issue the same positive command. I am appointed

your Nurse, and you must not disobey my orders.”

“You are in spirits, Matilda!”

“Well may I be so: I have just received a pleasure unexampled through

my whole life.”

“What was that pleasure?”

“What I must conceal from all, but most from you.”

“But most from me? Nay then, I entreat you, Matilda....”

“Hush, Father! Hush! You must not talk. But as you do not seem inclined

to sleep, shall I endeavour to amuse you with my Harp?”

“How? I knew not that you understood Music.”

“Oh! I am a sorry Performer! Yet as silence is prescribed you for eight

and forty hours, I may possibly entertain you, when wearied of your own

reflections. I go to fetch my Harp.”

She soon returned with it.

“Now, Father; What shall I sing? Will you hear the Ballad which treats

of the gallant Durandarte, who died in the famous battle of

Roncevalles?”

“What you please, Matilda.”

“Oh! call me not Matilda! Call me Rosario, call me your Friend! Those

are the names, which I love to hear from your lips. Now listen!”

She then tuned her harp, and afterwards preluded for some moments with

such exquisite taste as to prove her a perfect Mistress of the

Instrument. The air which She played was soft and plaintive:

Ambrosio, while He listened, felt his uneasiness subside, and a

pleasing melancholy spread itself into his bosom. Suddenly Matilda

changed the strain: With an hand bold and rapid She struck a few loud

martial chords, and then chaunted the following Ballad to an air at

once simple and melodious.

DURANDARTE AND BELERMA

Sad and fearful is the story

Of the Roncevalles fight;

On those fatal plains of glory

Perished many a gallant Knight.

There fell Durandarte; Never

Verse a nobler Chieftain named:

He, before his lips for ever

Closed in silence thus exclaimed.

“Oh! Belerma! Oh! my dear-one!

For my pain and pleasure born!

Seven long years I served thee, fair-one,

Seven long years my fee was scorn:

“And when now thy heart replying

To my wishes, burns like mine,

Cruel Fate my bliss denying

Bids me every hope resign.

“Ah! Though young I fall, believe me,

Death would never claim a sigh;

’Tis to lose thee, ’tis to leave thee,

Makes me think it hard to die!

“Oh! my Cousin Montesinos,

By that friendship firm and dear

Which from Youth has lived between us,

Now my last petition hear!

“When my Soul these limbs forsaking

Eager seeks a purer air,

From my breast the cold heart taking,

Give it to Belerma’s care.

Say, I of my lands Possessor

Named her with my dying breath:

Say, my lips I op’d to bless her,

Ere they closed for aye in death:

“Twice a week too how sincerely

I adored her, Cousin, say;

Twice a week for one who dearly

Loved her, Cousin, bid her pray.

“Montesinos, now the hour

Marked by fate is near at hand:

Lo! my arm has lost its power!

Lo! I drop my trusty brand!

“Eyes, which forth beheld me going,

Homewards ne’er shall see me hie!

Cousin, stop those tears o’er-flowing,

Let me on thy bosom die!

“Thy kind hand my eyelids closing,

Yet one favour I implore:

Pray Thou for my Soul’s reposing,

When my heart shall throb no more;

“So shall Jesus, still attending

Gracious to a Christian’s vow,

Pleased accept my Ghost ascending,

And a seat in heaven allow.”

Thus spoke gallant Durandarte;

Soon his brave heart broke in twain.

Greatly joyed the Moorish party,

That the gallant Knight was slain.

Bitter weeping Montesinos

Took from him his helm and glaive;

Bitter weeping Montesinos

Dug his gallant Cousin’s grave.

To perform his promise made, He

Cut the heart from out the breast,

That Belerma, wretched Lady!

Might receive the last bequest.

Sad was Montesinos’ heart, He

Felt distress his bosom rend.

“Oh! my Cousin Durandarte,

Woe is me to view thy end!

“Sweet in manners, fair in favour,

Mild in temper, fierce in fight,

Warrior, nobler, gentler, braver,

Never shall behold the light!

“Cousin, Lo! my tears bedew thee!

How shall I thy loss survive!

Durandarte, He who slew thee,

Wherefore left He me alive!”

While She sung, Ambrosio listened with delight: Never had He heard a

voice more harmonious; and He wondered how such heavenly sounds could

be produced by any but Angels. But though He indulged the sense of

hearing, a single look convinced him that He must not trust to that of

sight. The Songstress sat at a little distance from his Bed. The

attitude in which She bent over her harp, was easy and graceful: Her

Cowl had fallen backwarder than usual: Two coral lips were visible,

ripe, fresh, and melting, and a Chin in whose dimples seemed to lurk a

thousand Cupids. Her Habit’s long sleeve would have swept along the

Chords of the Instrument: To prevent this inconvenience She had drawn

it above her elbow, and by this means an arm was discovered formed in

the most perfect symmetry, the delicacy of whose skin might have

contended with snow in whiteness. Ambrosio dared to look on her but

once: That glance sufficed to convince him, how dangerous was the

presence of this seducing Object. He closed his eyes, but strove in

vain to banish her from his thoughts. There She still moved before him,

adorned with all those charms which his heated imagination could

supply: Every beauty which He had seen, appeared embellished, and those

still concealed Fancy represented to him in glowing colours. Still,

however, his vows and the necessity of keeping to them were present to

his memory. He struggled with desire, and shuddered when He beheld how

deep was the precipice before him.

Matilda ceased to sing. Dreading the influence of her charms, Ambrosio

remained with his eyes closed, and offered up his prayers to St.

Francis to assist him in this dangerous trial! Matilda believed that He

was sleeping. She rose from her seat, approached the Bed softly, and

for some minutes gazed upon him attentively.

“He sleeps!” said She at length in a low voice, but whose accents the

Abbot distinguished perfectly; “Now then I may gaze upon him without

offence! I may mix my breath with his; I may doat upon his features,

and He cannot suspect me of impurity and deceit!—He fears my seducing

him to the violation of his vows! Oh! the Unjust! Were it my wish to

excite desire, should I conceal my features from him so carefully?

Those features, of which I daily hear him....”

She stopped, and was lost in her reflections.

“It was but yesterday!” She continued; “But a few short hours have

past, since I was dear to him! He esteemed me, and my heart was

satisfied! Now!... Oh! now how cruelly is my situation changed! He

looks on me with suspicion! He bids me leave him, leave him for ever!

Oh! You, my Saint! my Idol! You, holding the next place to God in my

breast! Yet two days, and my heart will be unveiled to you.—Could you

know my feelings, when I beheld your agony! Could you know, how much

your sufferings have endeared you to me! But the time will come, when

you will be convinced that my passion is pure and disinterested. Then

you will pity me, and feel the whole weight of these sorrows!”

As She said this, her voice was choaked by weeping. While She bent over

Ambrosio, a tear fell upon his cheek.

“Ah! I have disturbed him!” cried Matilda, and retreated hastily.

Her alarm was ungrounded. None sleep so profoundly, as those who are

determined not to wake. The Friar was in this predicament: He still

seemed buried in a repose, which every succeeding minute rendered him

less capable of enjoying. The burning tear had communicated its warmth

to his heart.

“What affection! What purity!” said He internally; “Ah! since my bosom

is thus sensible of pity, what would it be if agitated by love?”

Matilda again quitted her seat, and retired to some distance from the

Bed. Ambrosio ventured to open his eyes, and to cast them upon her

fearfully. Her face was turned from him. She rested her head in a

melancholy posture upon her Harp, and gazed on the picture which hung

opposite to the Bed.

“Happy, happy Image!” Thus did She address the beautiful Madona; “’Tis

to you that He offers his prayers! ’Tis on you that He gazes with

admiration! I thought you would have lightened my sorrows; You have

only served to increase their weight: You have made me feel that had I

known him ere his vows were pronounced, Ambrosio and happiness might

have been mine. With what pleasure He views this picture! With what

fervour He addresses his prayers to the insensible Image! Ah! may not

his sentiments be inspired by some kind and secret Genius, Friend to my

affection? May it not be Man’s natural instinct which informs him... Be

silent, idle hopes! Let me not encourage an idea which takes from the

brilliance of Ambrosio’s virtue. ’Tis Religion, not Beauty which

attracts his admiration; ’Tis not to the Woman, but the Divinity that

He kneels. Would He but address to me the least tender expression which

He pours forth to this Madona! Would He but say that were He not

already affianced to the Church, He would not have despised Matilda!

Oh! let me nourish that fond idea! Perhaps He may yet acknowledge that

He feels for me more than pity, and that affection like mine might well

have deserved a return; Perhaps, He may own thus much when I lye on my

deathbed! He then need not fear to infringe his vows, and the

confession of his regard will soften the pangs of dying. Would I were

sure of this! Oh! how earnestly should I sigh for the moment of

dissolution!”

Of this discourse the Abbot lost not a syllable; and the tone in which

She pronounced these last words pierced to his heart. Involuntarily He

raised himself from his pillow.

“Matilda!” He said in a troubled voice; “Oh! my Matilda!”

She started at the sound, and turned towards him hastily. The

suddenness of her movement made her Cowl fall back from her head; Her

features became visible to the Monk’s enquiring eye. What was his

amazement at beholding the exact resemblance of his admired Madona? The

same exquisite proportion of features, the same profusion of golden

hair, the same rosy lips, heavenly eyes, and majesty of countenance

adorned Matilda! Uttering an exclamation of surprize, Ambrosio sank

back upon his pillow, and doubted whether the Object before him was

mortal or divine.

Matilda seemed penetrated with confusion. She remained motionless in

her place, and supported herself upon her Instrument. Her eyes were

bent upon the earth, and her fair cheeks overspread with blushes. On

recovering herself, her first action was to conceal her features. She

then in an unsteady and troubled voice ventured to address these words

to the Friar.

“Accident has made you Master of a secret, which I never would have

revealed but on the Bed of death. Yes, Ambrosio; In Matilda de

Villanegas you see the original of your beloved Madona. Soon after I

conceived my unfortunate passion, I formed the project of conveying to

you my Picture: Crowds of Admirers had persuaded me that I possessed

some beauty, and I was anxious to know what effect it would produce

upon you. I caused my Portrait to be drawn by Martin Galuppi, a

celebrated Venetian at that time resident in Madrid. The resemblance

was striking: I sent it to the Capuchin Abbey as if for sale, and the

Jew from whom you bought it was one of my Emissaries. You purchased it.

Judge of my rapture, when informed that you had gazed upon it with

delight, or rather with adoration; that you had suspended it in your

Cell, and that you addressed your supplications to no other Saint. Will

this discovery make me still more regarded as an object of suspicion?

Rather should it convince you how pure is my affection, and engage you

to suffer me in your society and esteem. I heard you daily extol the

praises of my Portrait: I was an eyewitness of the transports, which

its beauty excited in you: Yet I forbore to use against your virtue

those arms, with which yourself had furnished me. I concealed those

features from your sight, which you loved unconsciously. I strove not

to excite desire by displaying my charms, or to make myself Mistress of

your heart through the medium of your senses. To attract your notice by

studiously attending to religious duties, to endear myself to you by

convincing you that my mind was virtuous and my attachment sincere,

such was my only aim. I succeeded; I became your companion and your

Friend. I concealed my sex from your knowledge; and had you not pressed

me to reveal my secret, had I not been tormented by the fear of a

discovery, never had you known me for any other than Rosario. And still

are you resolved to drive me from you? The few hours of life which yet

remain for me, may I not pass them in your presence? Oh! speak,

Ambrosio, and tell me that I may stay!”

This speech gave the Abbot an opportunity of recollecting himself. He

was conscious that in the present disposition of his mind, avoiding her

society was his only refuge from the power of this enchanting Woman.

“You declaration has so much astonished me,” said He, “that I am at

present incapable of answering you. Do not insist upon a reply,

Matilda; Leave me to myself; I have need to be alone.”

“I obey you—But before I go, promise not to insist upon my quitting the

Abbey immediately.”

“Matilda, reflect upon your situation; Reflect upon the consequences of

your stay. Our separation is indispensable, and we must part.”

“But not to-day, Father! Oh! in pity not today!”

“You press me too hard, but I cannot resist that tone of supplication.

Since you insist upon it, I yield to your prayer: I consent to your

remaining here a sufficient time to prepare in some measure the

Brethren for your departure. Stay yet two days; But on the third,” ...

(He sighed involuntarily)—“Remember, that on the third we must part for

ever!”

She caught his hand eagerly, and pressed it to her lips.

“On the third?” She exclaimed with an air of wild solemnity; “You are

right, Father! You are right! On the third we must part for ever!”

There was a dreadful expression in her eye as She uttered these words,

which penetrated the Friar’s soul with horror: Again She kissed his

hand, and then fled with rapidity from the chamber.

Anxious to authorise the presence of his dangerous Guest, yet conscious

that her stay was infringing the laws of his order, Ambrosio’s bosom

became the Theatre of a thousand contending passions. At length his

attachment to the feigned Rosario, aided by the natural warmth of his

temperament, seemed likely to obtain the victory: The success was

assured, when that presumption which formed the groundwork of his

character came to Matilda’s assistance. The Monk reflected that to

vanquish temptation was an infinitely greater merit than to avoid it:

He thought that He ought rather to rejoice in the opportunity given him

of proving the firmness of his virtue. St. Anthony had withstood all

seductions to lust; Then why should not He? Besides, St. Anthony was

tempted by the Devil, who put every art into practice to excite his

passions: Whereas, Ambrosio’s danger proceeded from a mere mortal

Woman, fearful and modest, whose apprehensions of his yielding were not

less violent than his own.

“Yes,” said He; “The Unfortunate shall stay; I have nothing to fear

from her presence. Even should my own prove too weak to resist the

temptation, I am secured from danger by the innocence of Matilda.”

Ambrosio was yet to learn, that to an heart unacquainted with her, Vice

is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the Mask of Virtue.

He found himself so perfectly recovered, that when Father Pablos

visited him again at night, He entreated permission to quit his chamber

on the day following. His request was granted. Matilda appeared no more

that evening, except in company with the Monks when they came in a body

to enquire after the Abbot’s health. She seemed fearful of conversing

with him in private, and stayed but a few minutes in his room. The

Friar slept well; But the dreams of the former night were repeated, and

his sensations of voluptuousness were yet more keen and exquisite. The

same lust-exciting visions floated before his eyes: Matilda, in all the

pomp of beauty, warm, tender, and luxurious, clasped him to her bosom,

and lavished upon him the most ardent caresses. He returned them as

eagerly, and already was on the point of satisfying his desires, when

the faithless form disappeared, and left him to all the horrors of

shame and disappointment.

The Morning dawned. Fatigued, harassed, and exhausted by his provoking

dreams, He was not disposed to quit his Bed. He excused himself from

appearing at Matins: It was the first morning in his life that He had

ever missed them. He rose late. During the whole of the day He had no

opportunity of speaking to Matilda without witnesses. His Cell was

thronged by the Monks, anxious to express their concern at his illness;

And He was still occupied in receiving their compliments on his

recovery, when the Bell summoned them to the Refectory.

After dinner the Monks separated, and dispersed themselves in various

parts of the Garden, where the shade of trees or retirement of some

Grotto presented the most agreeable means of enjoying the Siesta. The

Abbot bent his steps towards the Hermitage: A glance of his eye invited

Matilda to accompany him.

She obeyed, and followed him thither in silence. They entered the

Grotto, and seated themselves. Both seemed unwilling to begin the

conversation, and to labour under the influence of mutual

embarrassment. At length the Abbot spoke: He conversed only on

indifferent topics, and Matilda answered him in the same tone. She

seemed anxious to make him forget that the Person who sat by him was

any other than Rosario. Neither of them dared, or indeed wished to make

an allusion, to the subject which was most at the hearts of both.

Matilda’s efforts to appear gay were evidently forced: Her spirits were

oppressed by the weight of anxiety, and when She spoke her voice was

low and feeble. She seemed desirous of finishing a conversation which

embarrassed her; and complaining that She was unwell, She requested

Ambrosio’s permission to return to the Abbey. He accompanied her to the

door of her cell; and when arrived there, He stopped her to declare his

consent to her continuing the Partner of his solitude so long as should

be agreeable to herself.

She discovered no marks of pleasure at receiving this intelligence,

though on the preceding day She had been so anxious to obtain the

permission.

“Alas! Father,” She said, waving her head mournfully; “Your kindness

comes too late! My doom is fixed. We must separate for ever. Yet

believe, that I am grateful for your generosity, for your compassion of

an Unfortunate who is but too little deserving of it!”

She put her handkerchief to her eyes. Her Cowl was only half drawn over

her face. Ambrosio observed that She was pale, and her eyes sunk and

heavy.

“Good God!” He cried; “You are very ill, Matilda! I shall send Father

Pablos to you instantly.”

“No; Do not. I am ill, ’tis true; But He cannot cure my malady.

Farewell, Father! Remember me in your prayers tomorrow, while I shall

remember you in heaven!”

She entered her cell, and closed the door.

The Abbot dispatched to her the Physician without losing a moment, and

waited his report impatiently. But Father Pablos soon returned, and

declared that his errand had been fruitless. Rosario refused to admit

him, and had positively rejected his offers of assistance. The

uneasiness which this account gave Ambrosio was not trifling: Yet He

determined that Matilda should have her own way for that night: But

that if her situation did not mend by the morning, he would insist upon

her taking the advice of Father Pablos.

He did not find himself inclined to sleep. He opened his casement, and

gazed upon the moonbeams as they played upon the small stream whose

waters bathed the walls of the Monastery. The coolness of the night

breeze and tranquillity of the hour inspired the Friar’s mind with

sadness. He thought upon Matilda’s beauty and affection; Upon the

pleasures which He might have shared with her, had He not been

restrained by monastic fetters. He reflected, that unsustained by hope

her love for him could not long exist; That doubtless She would succeed

in extinguishing her passion, and seek for happiness in the arms of One

more fortunate. He shuddered at the void which her absence would leave

in his bosom. He looked with disgust on the monotony of a Convent, and

breathed a sigh towards that world from which He was for ever

separated. Such were the reflections which a loud knocking at his door

interrupted. The Bell of the Church had already struck Two. The Abbot

hastened to enquire the cause of this disturbance. He opened the door

of his Cell, and a Lay-Brother entered, whose looks declared his hurry

and confusion.

“Hasten, reverend Father!” said He; “Hasten to the young Rosario.

He earnestly requests to see you; He lies at the point of death.”

“Gracious God! Where is Father Pablos? Why is He not with him? Oh! I

fear! I fear!”

“Father Pablos has seen him, but his art can do nothing. He says that

He suspects the Youth to be poisoned.”

“Poisoned? Oh! The Unfortunate! It is then as I suspected! But let me

not lose a moment; Perhaps it may yet be time to save her!”

He said, and flew towards the Cell of the Novice. Several Monks were

already in the chamber. Father Pablos was one of them, and held a

medicine in his hand which He was endeavouring to persuade Rosario to

swallow. The Others were employed in admiring the Patient’s divine

countenance, which They now saw for the first time. She looked lovelier

than ever. She was no longer pale or languid; A bright glow had spread

itself over her cheeks; her eyes sparkled with a serene delight, and

her countenance was expressive of confidence and resignation.

“Oh! torment me no more!” was She saying to Pablos, when the terrified

Abbot rushed hastily into the Cell; “My disease is far beyond the reach

of your skill, and I wish not to be cured of it”—Then perceiving

Ambrosio,— “Ah! ’tis He!” She cried; “I see him once again, before we

part for ever! Leave me, my Brethren; Much have I to tell this holy Man

in private.”

The Monks retired immediately, and Matilda and the Abbot remained

together.

“What have you done, imprudent Woman!” exclaimed the Latter, as soon as

they were left alone; “Tell me; Are my suspicions just? Am I indeed to

lose you? Has your own hand been the instrument of your destruction?”

She smiled, and grasped his hand.

“In what have I been imprudent, Father? I have sacrificed a pebble, and

saved a diamond: My death preserves a life valuable to the world, and

more dear to me than my own. Yes, Father; I am poisoned; But know that

the poison once circulated in your veins.”

“Matilda!”

“What I tell you I resolved never to discover to you but on the bed of

death: That moment is now arrived. You cannot have forgotten the day

already, when your life was endangered by the bite of a Cientipedoro.

The Physician gave you over, declaring himself ignorant how to extract

the venom: I knew but of one means, and hesitated not a moment to

employ it. I was left alone with you: You slept; I loosened the bandage

from your hand; I kissed the wound, and drew out the poison with my

lips. The effect has been more sudden than I expected. I feel death at

my heart; Yet an hour, and I shall be in a better world.”

“Almighty God!” exclaimed the Abbot, and sank almost lifeless upon the

Bed.

After a few minutes He again raised himself up suddenly, and gazed upon

Matilda with all the wildness of despair.

“And you have sacrificed yourself for me! You die, and die to preserve

Ambrosio! And is there indeed no remedy, Matilda? And is there indeed

no hope? Speak to me, Oh! speak to me! Tell me, that you have still the

means of life!”

“Be comforted, my only Friend! Yes, I have still the means of life in

my power: But ’tis a means which I dare not employ. It is dangerous! It

is dreadful! Life would be purchased at too dear a rate, ... unless it

were permitted me to live for you.”

“Then live for me, Matilda, for me and gratitude!”— (He caught her

hand, and pressed it rapturously to his lips.)—“Remember our late

conversations; I now consent to every thing: Remember in what lively

colours you described the union of souls; Be it ours to realize those

ideas. Let us forget the distinctions of sex, despise the world’s

prejudices, and only consider each other as Brother and Friend. Live

then, Matilda! Oh! live for me!”

“Ambrosio, it must not be. When I thought thus, I deceived both you and

myself. Either I must die at present, or expire by the lingering

torments of unsatisfied desire. Oh! since we last conversed together, a

dreadful veil has been rent from before my eyes. I love you no longer

with the devotion which is paid to a Saint: I prize you no more for the

virtues of your soul; I lust for the enjoyment of your person. The

Woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become a prey to the wildest of

passions. Away with friendship! ’tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosom

burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return.

Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your prayers. If I live,

your truth, your reputation, your reward of a life past in sufferings,

all that you value is irretrievably lost. I shall no longer be able to

combat my passions, shall seize every opportunity to excite your

desires, and labour to effect your dishonour and my own. No, no,

Ambrosio; I must not live! I am convinced with every moment, that I

have but one alternative; I feel with every heart-throb, that I must

enjoy you, or die.”

“Amazement!—Matilda! Can it be you who speak to me?”

He made a movement as if to quit his seat. She uttered a loud shriek,

and raising herself half out of the Bed, threw her arms round the Friar

to detain him.

“Oh! do not leave me! Listen to my errors with compassion! In a few

hours I shall be no more; Yet a little, and I am free from this

disgraceful passion.”

“Wretched Woman, what can I say to you! I cannot ... I must not ... But

live, Matilda! Oh! live!”

“You do not reflect on what you ask. What? Live to plunge myself in

infamy? To become the Agent of Hell? To work the destruction both of

you and of Myself? Feel this heart, Father!”

She took his hand: Confused, embarrassed, and fascinated, He withdrew

it not, and felt her heart throb under it.

“Feel this heart, Father! It is yet the seat of honour, truth, and

chastity: If it beats tomorrow, it must fall a prey to the blackest

crimes. Oh! let me then die today! Let me die, while I yet deserve the

tears of the virtuous! Thus will expire!”—(She reclined her head upon

his shoulder; Her golden Hair poured itself over his Chest.)— “Folded

in your arms, I shall sink to sleep; Your hand shall close my eyes for

ever, and your lips receive my dying breath. And will you not sometimes

think of me? Will you not sometimes shed a tear upon my Tomb? Oh! Yes!

Yes! Yes! That kiss is my assurance!”

The hour was night. All was silence around. The faint beams of a

solitary Lamp darted upon Matilda’s figure, and shed through the

chamber a dim mysterious light. No prying eye, or curious ear was near

the Lovers: Nothing was heard but Matilda’s melodious accents. Ambrosio

was in the full vigour of Manhood. He saw before him a young and

beautiful Woman, the preserver of his life, the Adorer of his person,

and whom affection for him had reduced to the brink of the Grave. He

sat upon her Bed; His hand rested upon her bosom; Her head reclined

voluptuously upon his breast. Who then can wonder, if He yielded to the

temptation? Drunk with desire, He pressed his lips to those which

sought them: His kisses vied with Matilda’s in warmth and passion. He

clasped her rapturously in his arms; He forgot his vows, his sanctity,

and his fame: He remembered nothing but the pleasure and opportunity.

“Ambrosio! Oh! my Ambrosio!” sighed Matilda.

“Thine, ever thine!” murmured the Friar, and sank upon her bosom.