CHAP. V.
The next morning the farmer arrived with a young woman, and necessary people to attend the dead: The Count was with Ferdinand, and appeared as the heir of the deceased, who from a long and habitual melancholy had secluded himself, until finding his end approaching he had sent for his relations, who on their arrival found he had expired that very morning. This account was given and believed, because Francis had been previously prepared to corroborate it. The Lady's weakness was accounted for from fatigue, and a very violent rheumatic cold; the young woman was to attend her, and another was ordered to officiate as a cook.—In short, in the course of the morning, every proper arrangement was made. Francis was informed that the Count was the owner of the Castle from the late Baron's memoirs, and he heartily rejoiced that he had made such a desirable change in the person he was to serve.
At noon the Lady Eugenia, assisted by her female attendant, made her appearance below: She appeared like a fine statue that had long been exposed to the injuries of time, and lost the beautiful polish that first adorned it; a most elegant form reduced to that delicate thinness which the slightest blast of air might dissolve;—a face, the contour of which was inexpressibly beautiful; but the roses and lilies that once adorned it were all fled; the eyes hollow and sunk in the head, a sickly hue over the countenance, and a solemnity in every feature, altogether gave her whole appearance such an image of a woe-worn mind, that it was impossible to behold her without being deeply affected.
She returned the civilities which Ferdinand involuntarily paid her with some hesitation, but much sweetness. "Pardon me, Sir," said she, "if I am deficient in expressing my obligations to you for liberty and life; I have almost forgotten the use of language, but to utter words of misery and despair."
"Words," cried the Count, kissing her hand, "words which, I trust, my dear Eugenia, will never have cause to utter again: We have no longer cause for sorrow, no longer an enemy to fear, we may emerge into the world, return to our country like long-absent friends, and elude curiosity by saying we have resided in a foreign state."—"But your estate," said she, "by this time may have passed into other hands, your steward may be dead, and much trouble and perplexity may still await you to prove, and to enjoy your rights."
"Fear nothing, my dear Eugenia," replied the Count, "all my friends cannot be dead; I shall find no difficulty in proving my identity, and in being acknowledged."—She sighed, but made no reply.
Ferdinand then mentioned having seen in the cabinet the will and papers relative to the estate of the late Count Zimchaw, which, said he, "I was surprised to find there."
"It is rather singular," answered the Count; "but I suppose he had them with him when he set off on his travels; with those, however, we have nothing to do. If he has any heirs, they may have possessed themselves of his fortune by this time, and in justice to them and ourselves I think a paper should be drawn up, briefly mentioning his residence here, your arrival, and his sudden death, which, with the testimony of Francis, will be sufficient, and preclude any necessity for our names being mentioned at all."
"I agree with you," said Ferdinand, 'that such a paper is absolutely proper; it awkward affair, and I think an express should be sent to the Baron's estate immediately of his demise."
In this opinion Eugenia coincided, and it was a matter concluded upon: Ferdinand resolved also to procure a messenger on his own account, to carry letters from him to his brother and his faithful Ernest. He was anxious to know what had passed in the Castle since his departure, and to hear of his little son; but how great was his surprise when questioning the farmer (who was now their oracle) of the distance to Baden on horseback, he was informed that it was five days journey.—"Five days!" repeated he, "impossible! Why, I came here in two days over the hills and through the woods."
"It may be so," replied the farmer;—"but I believe, Sir, no man but yourself would have made the attempt: I am sure I have never heard of any body that has penetrated the woods, or crossed those rugged hills, nor indeed did I think it could be done; but horses, Sir, can go no such places, and the road is a very troublesome one, because great part of the way, by the skirts of the Forest, has never yet been levelled."
"Well," cried Ferdinand, "be the distance what it may, I must have a messenger." This was promised him the next morning, and as he conceived the Count and his Lady would gladly be alone together, he retired into another apartment to write. Having given Ernest a brief recital of his travels through the woods and valleys until his arrival at the Castle, he mentioned nothing of his adventures there, though he confessed his visit to the convent, and the strange and unsatisfactory answer he had received from Claudina. He besought Ernest to be unreserved, to develop the mystery that hung over him, let the consequence be what it would, for that the most painful truths could not give him greater misery than the suspense he now endured. He recommended the old shepherd and his daughter to his care, and desired he would, if possible, procure for them a safer habitation than among those impending rocks, which seemed to threaten them with hourly destruction.
Having finished his letters he returned to the other apartment, and was surprised at his entrance to mark an increased air of trouble about the Count, and deep sorrow trembling in the eyes of Eugenia; he was too delicate to make any observations; they sat down to a slight repast, of which the others partook but very sparingly, and exchanged but a very few words.
Some time after, when they were alone, the Count addressing Ferdinand, "Your penetrating eye, my good friend, must observe the gloom that pervades my countenance, it is a transcript of my mind; from you I ought not to have any reserve, you are impartial, you shall judge fairly between us:—Now, when the heavy cloud that has so long involved us in night and wretchedness, seems to be withdrawn, and the prospects brighten to our view. Will you believe it possible that Eugenia, she who has a thousand times told me that I was dearer to her than life, who in a horrid prison felt her own woes but lightly, when she considered what her husband suffered—can you, will you believe, that this wife ever adored, and a million times dearer to me than ever from her unparallel'd sufferings, can, now that happiness is in our power, tell me, 'that on the most mature deliberation this past day and night, she has determined to retire to a convent for the remainder of her days; beseeches me to make no opposition to her choice, but rather strengthen a resolution founded on the purest principles of religion and virtue."
"I will not tell you what were my feelings, nor repeat to you the arguments I have used; as a husband I can command, and I can prevent the accomplishment of her strange unkind intention; but I disclaim all power, if her heart no longer acknowledges me, if the years of misery we have suffered together has worn out all traces of her former affection, I submit to be the victim; but let an unprejudiced person judge between us, and say whether I have deserved to lose the affection of my wife."
"Oh! Count," cried Eugenia, the tears no longer restrained from dropping on her face, "ever beloved of my heart, spare the unkind reproach: Hear me, Sir," added she to Ferdinand, "you have candour, you will judge me fairly. You know our story, you know I had vowed never to marry the Count without my father's consent: I did more, at his command I accompanied the Baron to the altar. Ah! was I not guilty of sacrilege, of profanation, when I uttered with my lips vows I rejected in my heart? Say they were compelled, could that excuse my subsequent conduct? Passion blinded me to the impropriety of my intentions; I ought never to have approached the altar, or when I had done so, I should have fulfilled my vows; my father's prejudice, or cruelty, could be no excuse for my depravity:—Heaven approved not of my broken vows, and Heaven was pleased to punish me; but was I the only sufferer? O, no! When I look back, how many innocent victims bled for my crimes! Arnulph, the faithful Agnes, Peter, and, O misery, my child! my dear innocent babe! let me not dwell on that;—even the wretch who was ordained to be my punisher, he lived, he died, miserable! And can I return to the world, can I talk of happiness, and trample on the memory of those unfortunates who suffered for me? No, it is impossible: Great have been my miseries, but great have been my faults; let me then expiate them as I ought; let me retire to peace, penitence and prayer; let me pray for the souls of those who fell by an untimely death on my account, and let me make my peace with Heaven by devoting my future days to retirement. You, who are, who ever will be dear to my heart, who will be a principal object in my orisons, you must strengthen my resolutions; you must approve of my conduct, and though the heart murmurs, the reason must be convinced. And now, Sir," concluded she, addressing Ferdinand, "now I have explained my motives, speak with candour; tell me, does not your judgment approve my determination? Do you not see that in the world my life would be embittered, by painful retrospections that must preclude happiness, and that in devoting myself to retirement, I pursue the only path that points to peace and tranquillity?"
Ferdinand was for a few moments silent, astonished at such a revolution, so little expected, from that plan of felicity he had so lately thought them possessed of, and which to him seemed an enviable situation. He paused a little, but seeing they both impatiently expected his reply:—"Forgive me, my dear Sir," said he to the Count, "if thus called upon, I confess that my esteem, my admiration for the Lady Eugenia, rises in equal proportion with my compassion for you; for the more I approve her exalted resolution, and admire her virtues, the more I feel must be your distress at the idea of being separated from an object so truly deserving your esteem; but I must be free to confess, that this Lady's reasons are unanswerable, and that however innocent she may be of any actual guilt, yet as the death of so many persons was in consequence of her flight from the Baron, a feeling mind like her's would constantly revert to the primary cause, and never cease to accuse herself;—therefore under such circumstances, her intention of retiring from a busy deceitful world, to devote her days to the duties of religion, is surely praise-worthy, and commands our approbation."
"It is well, Eugenia," said the Count, in a mournful tone, "you have found a champion to support your opinions, and I have no more to do than to acquiesce; but since you have chosen your path towards happiness, I may be allowed to chalk out one for myself. I shall take this night to consider of it, and to-morrow will acquaint you with my final resolution." "May Heaven, who knows the fervency of my affection, inspire you to choose that which may conduce both to your present and future happiness." Ending these words Eugenia desired to retire, for the weakness of her body, and the agitations of her mind, overpowered her fragile form, which could hardly support the transitions she had experienced, and was unequal to the sight of that melancholy, but too visible, in the Count's pale face, that seemed silently to reproach her of cruelty.
When she had left the room, Ferdinand observing the sorrow that seemed fixed in the features of the Count, strove to change the current of his thoughts by speaking more freely of his own affairs than he had yet done, and at length, encouraged by the interest the Count appeared to take in his concerns, he made an unreserved communication of his whole story.
"Indeed, my young friend," observed the Count, when Ferdinand had concluded his relation, "indeed, there are some very extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances in your story, that one cannot elucidate by any conjectures on the subject. I do not blame you for seeking to amuse your mind by travelling, but you are wrong in choosing this mode of doing it; wandering through woods, and over almost impassable hills, may be attended with more danger than you are aware of, and in an evil moment you may fall a sacrifice to some concealed ruffian, or a troop of banditti; besides the natural inconvenience of suffering both cold and hunger."
"What you observe is very just doubtless," answered the other; "but you should remember I am not a man of fortune, an independent man, and that it behoves me to avoid all unnecessary expenses in my rambles, for travelling, in the general sense of the word, is beyond my abilities to undertake; I wish to forget myself at present, and when the campaign opens, may possibly resume my station in the army, yet, that must depend upon circumstances.—With your leave I will remain here until my messenger returns, and then the world will be once more before me."
"This conversation," said the Count, "has given a different turn to my thoughts from what I entertained an hour ago; I already feel that interest and affection for you, that it shall not be my fault if we are separated; but more of that to-morrow."—Having sent off their different expresses, one to Baron S———'s estate, another to Count M———, and a third to Count Rhodophil's Castle, it was thought most advisable to delay the funeral of the Baron until the return of the messenger.
The following day, when they all assembled at table, the Lady Eugenia appeared less feeble, and with a more placid countenance, than on the preceding day. When the servants were withdrawn Ferdinand congratulated her on the visible amendment.
"I do indeed feel better both in mind and body," said she, 'the one is generally dependent on the other. Since I have determined on my plan, and my dear Count has given up his objections to it, I find a composure in my soul to which it has very long been a stranger. The dreadful malady which I laboured under for years, has certainly weakened my intellects, as I frequently experience a confusion in my ideas, and very odd sensations in my head; the world therefore would be a very unfit place for me, and the sooner I can find a retirement, such as I wish for, the better; the pang of separation must be felt, and I am anxious to have it over."
It instantly darted into Ferdinand's mind, that if Eugenia entered the Convent where Claudina resided, it might afford them mutual consolation, and possibly might, by mutual confidence, put it in the power of the former to develop to him that mystery so carefully and cruelly concealed from him by Ernest and Claudina. He hastily mentioned the adjoining Convent, as having been well spoken of by Father Joseph, and offered his services to make all the necessary inquiries. This offer was joyfully accepted by Eugenia, nor opposed by the Count. She said, 'that, to avoid impertinent questions, it was her intention to pass for a widow, who wished to retire into the bosom of the church for the remainder of her days. I must be a boarder, (said she) but I shall conform to all their rules, and subject myself to all their severities and self-denials. In calling myself a widow I am guilty of no deception, for from the moment I enter the gates of the Convent I am parted from the object of my affections for ever!"
The Count rose greatly agitated—"Eugenia," cried he, "you either deceive yourself when you talk of your affection for me, or you have more than female fortitude."
"Neither the one nor the other," answered she: "I know my own heart, and I feel that, in this separation, it must endure pangs worse than the stroke of death; but conscience, that all-powerful monitor, has spoken incontrovertible truths; her voice has taught me my duty, and pointed out the only way by which I can atone for my errors, and procure pardon for the death of those innocent persons that were sacrificed for me."
"I have no more to urge," replied the Count; "it is fit that I also should be a victim."
"By no means," exclaimed Eugenia;—"you have nothing to blame yourself for, you have committed no errors but pardonable ones, and I trust, my dear Count, that many, very many, happy years are in store for you: My tranquillity must, in some degree, be dependent on your's; return to the world, and to society, they have claims upon you: I hope you have here acquired a friend that may succeed in composing your mind; forget Eugenia, or if you remember her, think only that she is set off on a long, long journey, where you may at some distant period arrive also, and remember, that it is only her duty to Heaven, that she prefers to you."
Overpowered with her emotions, she rose, and with feeble steps she retired to another room.
"Exalted creature!" cried the Count,—"from this hour I will no more add to thy distress by my reflections, nor wound thee even by my looks; I will try to assume a composure, though my heart is torn with anguish." Ferdinand then mentioned his intention of going the following day to the Monastery adjoining to the Convent, and through Father Joseph get the Lady proposed as a boarder, desirous of conforming to all the rules of the house. This being agreeable to all parties, early on the next morning he went to visit Father Joseph; the Count pressed him to take a man with him through the gloomy and solitary road he had to pass; but Ferdinand chose to go alone, and after more than four hours tedious travel over the hills, and through the deep and woody valleys, he arrived in view of the Monastery. Having pulled the bell, and inquired for Father Joseph, the good man soon appeared. He uttered an exclamation of joy on seeing Ferdinand: "Heaven bless you, my young friend, this is an unexpected pleasure."
"It is a pleasure to me, my good Father, to see you in health; I have undertaken business of consequence to serve another, chiefly that I might once more behold you."
"Enter freely, my son, I will conduct you to Father Ambrose; he only is privileged to talk of worldly concerns, or transact business."
With hasty step he led the way to a private room: "Rest here," said the good Father, "and I will acquaint Father Ambrose of your visit to him; he is before this apprised of your entrance." He withdrew in a quick way, that reminded Ferdinand of his former observation relative to the envy and jealousy which pervaded through a Monastery. The Superior soon appeared, with a look so gracious, and so unbending from the natural haughtiness of his demeanour, that Ferdinand, whose soul knew no disguise, advanced to salute him with equal complacency.—"You are welcome, my son, I rejoice to see you; I trust that Heaven has directed you here as to the mansion of peace."
Ferdinand, without entering into any particular discussions, opened the business which brought him there: "A widow Lady, of family and independence, having lost all the ties which had bound her to the world, was desirous of retiring to the neighbouring Convent for the remainder of her days; but a stranger to the modes necessary to procure admittance, he had waited on Father Ambrose as the Confessor of the Convent, to acquire information on that head."
"Is the Lady related to you?" asked the Father..
"No," replied Ferdinand; "but she is nearly related to a dear friend of mine, and at their joint request I undertook this commission."
"Well, son," said the Father, with a more reserved air, "if the Lady is a woman of character, she need not fear admission: I will speak to the Abbess on the subject, and if she wishes it, and will apply to me, I will introduce her. She has no doubt sufficient to pay handsomely; the Convent admits none but such, as the expenses of the house are great, so many poor, sick and disabled, to maintain, their charity consumes a large revenue."
"The Lady will have no cause to fear a rejection on that head," answered the other; "she will readily contribute her share to enlarge their charitable beneficence."—"And you, my good son, what is your plan of life? May we hope for your society?"
"Not at present," replied Ferdinand; "I have yet some duties to perform which call me into the world; I know not how long indeed, but my mind is not now disposed to enjoy that monastic tranquillity that appears to reign here."
"I am sorry for it," returned Father Ambrose; "but believe me, son, if your mind is disturbed, this retirement is most suited to restore your peace: However, I hope you intend to pass this night here. From what distance did you come?"—Ferdinand named the village, and as he had previously disposed the Count not to be uneasy if he should be absent for the night, he very readily accepted the Father's invitation; for the walk being no small fatigue from the difficulties that impeded his passage, he was not sorry to have a place of rest.
The conversations that took place in the course of the day is not necessary to be related. Nothing was left unsaid that could give Ferdinand a favourable opinion of their society, or hold out inducements to fix a wavering mind in a situation so replete with tranquillity and comfort. He heard them with attention and complaisance, but longed earnestly for bed-time, in the hope of holding some converse with Father Joseph, to whom he had found an opportunity of conveying his wishes, which had been answered by a significant nod: Nor was this hope disappointed, in less than an hour after he had retired, the good Father softly opened the door, and appeared before him. Ferdinand took his hand with reverence: "My worthy friend, this is kind indeed!"—"My dear son, I thank your kindness in remembering me, and am glad my business has procured us the pleasure of seeing you."
"Ah!" said the former, "strange events have happened since I saw you last; but I feel too much interest for you to be prolix on other matters. Tell me, my good Father, have you connexions in the world, attachments of any kind in which I can serve you?"
"None," replied the other, "I stand a solitary being, not more cut off from the world than from connexions. I will tell you my story in a few words:
"My father was a man of family; my mother expired two years after my birth: I was, until six years of age, the darling of my surviving parent, and his chief amusement. About that time he conceived a strong affection for a haughty, dissipated woman, of high birth, but no fortune; this Lady he married: I was sent to a Jesuit's College for education; twice a year I came to see my father, but, alas! how changed, how cold the reception I experienced from the tender endearments I had been accustomed to!—Young as I was, I soon perceived the marked alteration. His Lady looked on me with an invidious eye, and the short periods I was permitted to spend at home, soon became irksome and disagreeable. When I was about fourteen, my tutor one day gave me to understand that it was my father's will that I should dedicate myself to the church.
"I was thunderstruck at this intelligence, for I had other views; my mind was active, my body strong and robust, for my age; I had long entertained a wish to be instructed in military exercises; I wished to go into the army; my father was a man of fortune; he had no children by his Lady; why then was I to be condemned to an unsocial sedentary life I had no propensities to? I reasoned with my tutor; he bid me talk to my father on the subject, and the first time, after this conversation, that I saw him, he soon afforded me the opportunity, by a communication that I little expected. My mother-in-law, after being married nine years, without having any children, was now pregnant. I was not then enough acquainted with the world to practise hypocrisy, or affect a pleasure I could not feel. He observed my silence and my countenance: 'This news does not please you, young man (said he) and you are selfish enough I see to grieve at an event likely to be productive of so much joy to me: I am glad I understand your disposition so well.'
"}Do not, Sir," I replied, "form a conclusion so unfavourable to me, Heaven knows I shall share in every joy of your's; but pardon me, my dear father (added I) if, when I reflect on the coldness which I have ever experienced from my Lady, and the information I have lately received from my tutor, pardon me if I fear the affection you once honoured me with is already greatly weakened, and that the event you allude to will, perhaps, entirely drive me from your heart; that consideration alone, not sordid interest, affects me.'
"Boy (cried he, interrupting me) 'you have at least learned to talk well; but you cannot command your features, those speak an unequivocal language, which I perfectly comprehend: however, you know my pleasure, I design you for the church, it is the proper situation for young men like you." He left me almost petrified with astonishment, there was a something altogether so strange and inexplicable in his words and looks, that I retired to my chamber overcome by a variety of painful emotions: I saw plainly that I had lost a father, and young as I was, I foresaw the consequences to myself. The few hours that I remained buried in reflection gave me months of understanding, but I resolved to make one effort more. I wrote a letter to my father in the most respectful terms, tending to remove every prejudice he had conceived against me, at the same time acknowledging my predilection for the army, and besought his permission to attend in future to military exercises."
The answer I received was short.—"Return to the College, attend to your duties there, and I shall hereafter consider on the propriety of your request."—I obeyed without hesitation; and to please my father paid the strictest attention to my tutor, not without observing, that all his lessons were calculated to inspire a dislike of the world, and to display the superior happiness of a monastic life. In due time my mother-in-law was brought to bed of a son, which was announced to me with great exultation: I heard it with a palpitating heart, as the downfall of all my hopes from parental affection.
"I continued two years longer at the College, during which time I saw my father only thrice, and had but little cause to value myself on his tenderness. I was now in my eighteenth year when I received a summons to attend him: I flew with eager expectation, his looks chilled me. "Tis high time, Louis (said he) that you should enter upon your professional duties; I have before now told you I intend you for the Church, my resolution still holds."
"Ah! Sir (I exclaimed) why must I be the sacrifice?"
"Stop (cried he) and learn who you are, and that you have no claims to sacrifice. I never was married to your mother: She was a Bourgeoise, I could not marry her, yet I loved and respected her; whilst she lived I resided in the country, to avoid disagreeable circumstances to her. This truth I was obliged to acknowledge to my wife before she would accept of my hand, having an idea that I had degraded myself; you cannot wonder therefore that she did not treat you with respect, although she has always behaved civilly. I have now a son who must inherit my fortunes. To spare you painful reflections, I wish you to choose the Church, all circumstances may then remain known only to ourselves, and you shall find I will not forget that you are the son of a woman I once loved. It becomes you to preserve her reputation by submitting to my orders." I heard this long development in a kind of stupid distraction. I replied not a word. He mistook the nature of my feelings for sullenness.
"Sir! (said he, raising his voice) I see my kindness is thrown away; hear then my commands, and my fixed determination: If you comply, and return to the Church, I will endeavour to get you a proper situation; if you refuse, and chalk out a path for yourself, I will give you five hundred Louis-d'ors; leave France, and see me no more." These last words roused me in an instant; pride, grief and indignation, took possession of my soul.—"Since I no longer have claims upon your affection, Sir, since I am to live an alien from you, I may at least be permitted to choose for myself; I will therefore accept of the money you offer me, and learn to forget that I have a father, since he disdains to acknowledge me; but have I no connexions in a humbler line of life? Had my unhappy mother no relations? Or was she too reprobated by all?"
"Your mother (answered my father) was an orphan when I first knew her; she resided with a brother, a shopkeeper; he died a short time before her, and I know not that you have any relations in the world. Had you chosen the Church, in me you would have found a parent; but as neither my wishes or commands are attended to, in giving you a sum sufficient, with prudence and economy, to settle you in a line of your own choice. I conceive I have done my duty as to every claim you can have upon me.
"There, Sir (added he, rising, and opening his cabinet) there are drafts for £500, Louis-d'ors, may they be successfully employed, and gratify your own expectations." I received the papers with such emotions of mingled pride, indignation and love, that I was incapable of speaking. At the door I turned to take a last look, tears gushed from my eyes: "Heaven's bless you!" was all I uttered, and I saw him turn with his handkerchief to his face.
"Thus was I thrown upon the world without any friends or connexions, a degraded, solitary being. I retired to an auberge in the skirts of the town, and began to consider on my situation. Without rank, fortune, or even a name, how could I think of entering into the army? My pride suggested a thousand insupportable slights I might encounter in a public line of life, and those very circumstances attending the late discovery, so humiliating, served only to render my temper more irritable and haughty.—Without being able to fix on any plan, I resolved immediately to quit France, which I did the following day, and travelled through Germany.
"Strange to say, in one so young as I was at that time, I grew morose and splenetic; I thought every man happier than myself, and I envied and hated all mankind! In this disposition I came into this neighbourhood; its wild romantic hills and valleys charmed me; in the adjacent village I resided some time, and spent my days in rambling in the woods. At length I met with a solitary hut, which seemed to have been not long uninhabited, on the side of a hill. In this spot I fixed my residence for near two years. It has been observed, 'That a person must be either a God, or a brute, who can be able to live alone.' Providence certainly designed us for a social state, and a misanthrope lives a burden to himself, and dead to every pleasure in life.
"A very severe cold, which I caught in one of my rambles, and which produced a fever that confined me near a week, and precluded me from getting even the necessaries to preserve my existence, first brought me to a sense of my extreme folly in living thus unknowing and unknown. Had my illness continued a few days longer I must have perished from actual want; but it pleased Heaven to restore me to some degree of strength; with difficulty I crawled to this Monastery, as it was much nearer than the village. A worthy Friar, long since dead, relieved my necessities, and by his kindness unlocked my heart. He sympathized with me when he heard my tale, and that sympathy gave an energy to every office of humanity that endeared him to me, and rendered his conversation a balm to heal those wounds long rankling within, and which had been productive of the most hateful passions.
"In a very short time I felt no happiness but in his society, and mistaking the nature of my emotions, I conceived that in this retirement, to which I had once such an insuperable aversion, I should find that peace and comfort the world had denied to me.—I made application here, and was soon admitted, for I had still upwards of three hundred Louis-d'ors, which spoke volumes in my favour in the most persuasive language that can be addressed to Monasteries. The novelty of every thing about me (for there is no judging of the interior management in those places by exterior appearances, even if educated in Convents) the kindness and attention I received from the Fathers, and the pomp and solemnity which accompanied our religious duties, for a time afforded me real transport, and I hourly condemned myself for resisting my father's will. In this frame of mind I wrote to him, but received no answer, and whether it reached his hands, or whether he was living or dead, I know not.
"Within six months after my entrance here my good friend died; we had a new Superieure, and things wore a different aspect. I had lost my friend and comforter, that loss could not be supplied. I had acquired a relish for society, and my heart felt a vacuity which I looked round in vain to have filled up; no one appeared interested for me, and I was permitted to wander about unheeded with the rest of the brethren. It was now that I felt how mistaken I had been in the nature of my emotions; without the converse of my friend, the performance of my duties grew cold, languid, and tiresome: I regretted my seclusion from the world, and languished to be at liberty, that I might again enjoy the blessings of society which I had so rashly renounced. In this frame of mind I continued some months, and the agitations I endured produced a long and tedious nervous fever. On the verge of the grave I was brought to a sense of my duty; a revolution took place in my heart; I soon recovered, and from that period have, with humble submission, conformed to my situation.
"Thus, my son, I have run over my short history, and from thence you may learn this important truth, 'Man was not intended for a solitary being,' and be warned never to let the disappointments of life prey upon your mind, so as to produce a temporary disgust to the world, that may, in a fit of despair, throw you into situations productive of repentance and unavailing regret."