You must know, that as soon as the noise of old _Sebastian_,

_Octavio_’. uncle’s death was noised about, and that he was thereupon

fled, they seized all the estates, both that of the uncle, and that of

_Octavio_, as belonging to him by right of law; but looking upon him

as his uncle’s murderer, they were forfeited to the _States_. This

part of ill news _Octavio_ kept from _Sylvia_, but took order, that

such a process might be begun in his name with the _States_ that might

retrieve it; and sent word, if it could not be carried on by attornies

(for he was not, he said, in health) that nevertheless he would come

into _Holland_ himself. But they being not able to prove, by the

witness of any of _Octavio_’. or _Sebastian_’. servants, that

_Octavio_ had any hand in his death; but, on the contrary all

circumstances, and the coroner’s verdict, brought it in as a thing

done by accident, and through his own fault, they were obliged to

release to _Octavio_ all his fortune, with that of his uncle, which

was this day brought to him, by those he was obliged to dine, and make

up some accounts withal: he therefore told her, he feared he should be

absent all that afternoon; which she was the more pleased at, because

if _Philander_ should return before she had ordered the method of

their visit, so as not to meet with each other (which was her only

contrivance now) she should be sure he would not see or be seen by

_Octavio_; who had no sooner taken his leave, but _Philander_ returns;

who being now fully bent upon some adventure to see _Calista_, if

possible, and which intrigue would take up his whole time; to excuse

his absence to the jealous _Sylvia_, he feigned that he was sent to by

_Cesario_, to meet him upon the frontiers of _France_, and conduct him

into _Flanders_, and that he should be absent some days. This was as

_Sylvia_ could have wished; and after forcing herself to take as kind

a leave of him as she could, whose head was wholly possessed with a

million of gold, she sent him away, both parties being very well

pleased with the artifices with which they jilted each other. At

_Philander_’., going into his chair, he was seen by the old Count of

_Clarinau_, who, cured perfectly of his wound, was come thither to

seek _Philander_, in order to take the revenge of a man of honour, as

he called it; which in _Spanish_ is the private stab, for private

injuries; and indeed more reasonable than base _French_ duelling,

where the injured is as likely to suffer as the injurer: but

_Clarinau_ durst not attack him by day-light in the open street, nor

durst he indeed appear in his own figure in the King of _Spain_’.

dominions, standing already there convicted of the murder of his first

wife; but in a disguise came to _Brussels_. The chair with _Philander_

was no sooner gone from the lodgings, but he inquired of some of the

house, who lodged there that that gentleman came to visit? And they

told him a great-bellied woman, who was a woman of quality, and a

stranger: this was sufficient, you may believe, for him to think it

Madam the Countess of _Clarinau_. With this assurance he repairs to

his lodging, which was but hard by, and sets a footman that attended

him to watch the return of _Philander_ to those lodgings, which he

believed would not be long: the footman, who had not seen _Philander_,

only asked a description of him; he told him, he was a pretty tall

man, in black clothes (for the Court was then in mourning) with long

black hair, fine black eyes, very handsome, and well made; this was

enough for the lad; he thought he should know him from a thousand by

these marks and tokens. Away goes the footman, and waited till the

shutting in of the evening, and then, running to his lord, told him,

that _Philander_ was come to those lodgings; that he saw him alight

out of the chair, and took perfect notice of him; that he was sure it

was that _Philander_ he looked for: _Clarinau_, overjoyed that his

revenge was at hand, took his dagger, sword and pistol, and hasted to

_Sylvia_’. lodgings, where he found the chair still waiting, and the

doors all open; he made no more ado, but goes in and ascends the

stairs, and passes on, without opposition, to the very chamber where

they sat, _Sylvia_ in the arms of her lover, not _Philander_, but

_Octavio_, who being also in black, tall, long, brown hair, and

handsome, and by a sight that might very well deceive; he made no more

to do, not doubting but it was _Philander_ and _Calista_, but steps to

him, and offering to stab him, was prevented by his starting at the

suddenness of his approach; however, the dagger did not absolutely

miss him, but wounded him in the left arm; but _Octavio_’. youth, too

nimble for _Clarinau_’. age, snatching at the dagger as it wounded

him, at once prevented the hurt being much, and returned a home blow

at _Clarinau_, so that he fell at _Sylvia_’. feet, whose shrieks

alarmed the house to their aid, where they found by the light of the

candle that was brought, that the man was not dead, but lay gazing on

_Octavio_, who said to him, ‘Tell me, thou unfortunate wretch, what

miserable fate brought thee to this place, to disturb the repose of

those who neither know thee, nor had done thee injury?’ ‘Ah, sir,’

replied _Clarinau_, ‘you have reason for what you say, and I ask

heaven, that unknown lady, and yourself, a thousand pardons for my

mistake and crime: too late I see my error, pity and forgive me; and

let me have a priest, for I believe I am a dead man.’ _Octavio_ was

extremely moved with compassion at these words, and immediately sent

his page, who was alarmed up in the crowd, for a Father and a surgeon;

and he declared before the rest, that he forgave that stranger,

meaning _Octavio_, since he had, by a mistake of his footman, pulled

on his own death, and had deserved it: and thereupon, as well as he

could, he told them for whom he had mistaken _Octavio_, who, having

injured his honour, he had vowed revenge upon; and that he took the

fair lady, meaning _Sylvia_, for a faithless wife of his, who had been

the authoress of all this. _Octavio_ soon divined this to be his

brother-in-law, _Clarinau_, whom yet he had never seen; and stooping

down to him, he cried, ‘It is I, sir, that ought to demand a thousand

pardons of you, for letting the revenge of _Calista_’. honour alone so

long.’ _Clarinau_ wondered who he should be that named _Calista_, and

asking him his name, he told him he was the unhappy brother to that

fair wanton, whose story was but too well known to him. Thus while

_Clarinau_ viewing his face, found him the very picture of that false

charmer; while _Octavio_ went on and assured him, if it were his

unhappiness to die, that he would revenge the honour of him and his

sister, on the betrayer of both. By this time the surgeon came who

found not his wound to be mortal, as was feared, and ventured to

remove him to his own lodgings, whither _Octavio_ would accompany him;

and leaving _Sylvia_ inclined, after her fright, to be reposed, he

took his leave of her for that evening, not daring, out of respect to

her, to visit her any more that night: he was no sooner gone, but

_Philander_, who never used to go without two very good pocket-pistols

about him, having left them under his pillow last night at _Sylvia’s_

lodgings; and being upon love-adventures, he knew not what occasion he

might have for them, returned back to her lodgings: when he came, she

was a little surprised at first to see him, but after reflecting on

what revenge was threatened him, she exposed _Octavio’s_ secret to

him, and told him the whole adventure, and how she had got his

writings, which would be all her own, if she might be suffered to

manage the fond believer. But he, whose thought ran on the revenge was

threatened him, cried out--’He has kindly awakened me to my duty by

what he threatens; it is I that ought to be revenged on his perfidy,

of shewing you my letters; and to that end, by heaven, I will defer

all the business in the world to meet him, and pay his courtesy--If I

had enjoyed his sister, he might suppose I knew her not to be so; and

what man of wit or youth, would refuse a lovely woman, that presents a

heart laden with love, and a person all over charms, to his bosom? I

were to be esteemed unworthy the friendship of a man of honour, if I

should: but he has basely betrayed me every way, makes love to my

celebrated mistress, whom he knows I love, and getting secrets,

unravels them to make his court and his access the easier.’

She foresaw the dangerous consequence of a quarrel of this nature, and

had no sooner blown the fire, (which she did, to the end that

_Philander_ should avoid her lodgings, and all places where he might

meet _Octavio_) but she hinders all her designs; and fixing him there,

he was resolved to expect him at the first place he thought most

likely to find him in: she endeavoured, by a thousand entreaties, to

get him gone, urging it all for his safety; but that made him the more

resolved; and all she could do, could not hinder him from staying

supper, and after that, from going to bed: so that she was forced to

hide a thousand terrors and fears by feigned caresses, the sooner to

get him to meet _Cesario_ in the morning, as he said he was to do; and

though she could not help flattering both, while by; yet she ever

loved the absent best; and now repented a thousand times that she had

told him any thing.

Early the next morning, as was his custom, _Octavio_ came to inquire

of _Sylvia_’. health; and though he had oftentimes only inquired and

no more, (taking excuse of ill nights, or commands that none should

come to her till she called) and had departed satisfied, and came

again: yet now, when he went into _Antonet_’. chamber, he found she

was in a great consternation, and her looks and flattering excuses

made him know, there was more than usual in his being to-day denied;

he therefore pressed it the more, and she grew to greater confusion by

his pressing her. At last he demanded the key of her lady’s chamber,

he having, he said, business of great importance to communicate to

her; she told him she had as great reason not to deliver it,--’That

is,’ said she, (fearing she had said too much) ‘my lady’s commands’.

and finding no persuasion would prevail, and rather venturing

_Sylvia_’. eternal displeasure, than not to be satisfied in the

jealousies she had raised; especially reflecting on _Philander_’.

being in town, he took _Antonet_ in his arms, and forced the key from

her; who was willing to be forced; for she admired _Octavio_’. bounty,

and cared not for _Philander_. _Octavio_ being master of the key,

flies to _Sylvia_’. door like lightning, or a jealous lover, mad to

discover what seen would kill him: he opens the chamber-door, and goes

softly to the bed-side, as if he now feared to find what he sought,

and wished to heaven he might be mistaken; he opened the curtains, and

found _Sylvia_ sleeping with _Philander_ in her arms. I need make no

description of his confusion and surprise; the character I have given

of that gallant honest, generous lover, is sufficient to make you

imagine his heart, when indeed he could believe his eyes: before he

thought--he was about to draw his sword, and run them both through,

and revenge at once his injured honour, his love, and that of his

sister; but that little reason he had left checked that barbarity, and

he was readier, from his own natural sweetness of disposition, to run

himself upon his own sword: and there the Christian pleaded----and yet

found his heart breaking, his whole body trembling, his mind all

agony, his cheeks cold and pale, his eyes languishing, his tongue

refusing to give utterance to his pressure, and his legs to support

his body; and much ado he had to reel into _Antonet_’., chamber, where

he found the maid dying with grief for her concern for him. He was no

sooner got to her bed-side, but he fell dead upon it; while she, who

was afraid to alarm her lady and _Philander_, lest _Octavio_, being

found there, had accused her with betraying them; but shutting the

door close, (for yet no body had seen him but herself) she endeavoured

all she could to bring him to life again, and it was a great while

before she could do so: as soon as he was recovered, he lay a good

while without speaking, reflecting on his fate; but after appearing as

if he had assumed all his manly spirits together, he rose up, and

conjured _Antonet_ to say nothing of what had happened, and that she

should not repent the service she would do him by it. _Antonet_, who

was his absolute, devoted slave, promised him all he desired; and he

had the courage to go once again, to confirm himself in the lewdness

of this undone fair one, whose perjuries had rendered her even odious

now to him, and he beheld her with scorn and disdain: and that she

might know how indifferently he did so, (when she should come to know

it) he took _Philander_’. sword that lay on her _toilet_, and left his

own in the place, and went out pleased; at least in this, that he had

commanded his passion in the midst of the most powerful occasion for

madness and revenge that ever was.

They lay thus secured in each other’s arms till nine o’clock in the

morning, when _Philander_ received a note from _Brilliard_, who was

managing his lord’s design of getting a billet delivered to _Calista_

by the way of a nun, whom _Brilliard_ had made some address to, to

that end, and sent to beg his lord would come to the grate, and speak

to the young nun, who had undertaken for any innocent message. This

note made him rise and haste to go out, when he received another from

an unknown hand; which was thus:

* * * * *

_To_ Philander.

My Lord, I have important business with you, and beg I may speak with

you at three of the clock; I will wait for you by the fountain in the

park: Yours.

* * * * *

_Sylvia_, who was impatient to have him gone, never asked to see

either of these notes, lest it should have deterred him; and she knew

_Octavio_ would visit her early though she knew withal she could

refuse him entrance with any slight excuse, so good an opinion he had

of her virtue, and so absolute an ascendant she had over him.--She had

given orders, if he came, to be refused her chamber; and she was glad

to know he had not yet been at her lodgings. A hundred times she was

about to make use of the lessened love _Philander_ had for her, and to

have proposed to him the suffering _Octavio_ to share her embraces,

for so good an interest, since no returns could be had from _France_,

nor any signs of amendment of their fortunes any other way: but still

she feared he had too much honour to permit such a cheat in love, to

be put even upon an enemy. This fear deferred her speaking of it, or

offering to sacrifice _Octavio_ as a cully to their interest, though

she wished it; nor knew she long how to deceive both; the business was

to put _Philander_ off handsomely, if possible, since she failed of

all other hopes. These were her thoughts while _Philander_ was

dressing, and raised by his asking for some more pistoles from her

cabinet, which she found would quickly be at an end, if one lover

diminished daily, and the other was hindered from increasing: but

_Philander_ was no sooner dressed but he left her to her repose; and

_Octavio_ (who had a _Grison_ attending the motions of _Philander_,

all that morning, and had brought him word he was gone from _Sylvia_)

went to visit her, and entering her chamber, all changed from what he

was before, and death sat in his face and eyes, maugre all his

resolves and art of dissembling. She, not perceiving it as she lay,

stretched out her arms to receive him with her wonted caresses; but he

gently put her off, and sighing, cried--’No, _Sylvia_, I leave those

joys to happier lovers.’ She was a little surprised at that--but not

imagining he had known her guilt, replied: ‘Then those caresses were

only meant for him; for if _Sylvia_ could make him happy, he was sure

of being the man;’ and by force compelled him to suffer her kisses and

embraces, while his heart was bursting, without any sense of the

pleasure of her touches. ‘Ah, _Sylvia_,’ says he, ‘I can never think

myself secure, or happy, while _Philander_ is so near you; every

absent moment alarms me with ten thousand fears; in sleep I dream thou

art false, and givest thy honour up all my absent nights, and all day

thy vows:’ and that he was sure, should she again suffer herself to

see _Philander_, he should be abandoned; and she again undone. ‘For

since I parted with you,’ continued he, ‘I heard from _Clarinau_, that

he saw _Philander_ yesterday come out of your lodgings. How can I bear

this, when you have vowed not to see him, with imprecations that must

damn thee, _Sylvia_, without severe repentance?’----At this she

offered to swear again--but he stopped her, and begged her not to

swear till she had well considered; then she confessed he made her a

visit, but that she used him with that pride and scorn, that if he

were a man of honour he could never bear; and she was sure he would

trouble her no more: in fine, she flattered, fawned, and jilted so, as

no woman, common in the trade of sinful love, could be so great a

mistress of the art. He suffered her to go on, in all that could

confirm him she thought him an errant coxcomb; and all that could

render her the most contemptible of her sex. He was pleased, because

it made him despise her; and that was easier than adoring her; yet,

though he heard her with scorn, he heard her with too much love. When

she was even breathless with eager prostitution--he cried, ‘Ah,

indiscreet and unadvised _Sylvia_, how I pity thee!’ ‘Ah,’ said

she--observing him speak this with a scornful smile--’Is it possible,

you should indeed be offended for a simple visit! which neither was by

my invitation or wish: can you be angry, if I treat _Philander_ with

the civility of a brother? Or rather, that I suffer him to see me, to

receive my reproaches?’--’Stop here,’ said he, ‘thou fair deluding

flatterer, or thou art for ever ruined. Do not charge thy soul yet

farther;--do not delude me on--all yet I can forgive as I am dying,

but should I live, I could not promise thee. Add not new crimes by

cozening me anew; for I shall find out truth, though it lie hid even

in the bottom of _Philander_’., heart.’ This he spoke with an air of

fierceness--which seeing her grow pale upon, he sunk again to

compassion, and in a soft voice cried--’Whatever injuries thou hast

done my honour, thy word, and faith to me, and my poor heart, I can

perhaps forgive when you dare utter truth: there is some honesty in

that’--She once more embracing him, fell anew to protesting her ill

treatment of _Philander_, how she gave him back his vows, and assured

him she would never be reconciled to him. ‘And did you part so,

_Sylvia_?’ replied the dying _Octavio_. ‘Upon my honour,’ said she,

’.ust so.’--’Did you not kiss at parting?’ said he faintly.--’Just

kissed, as friends, no more, by all thy love.’ At this he bursts into

tears, and cried--’Oh! why, when I reposed my heart with thee, and

lavished out my very soul in love, could I not merit this poor

recompense of being fairly dealt with? Behold this sword--I took it

from your _toilet_; view it, it is _Philander_’.; myself this morning

took it from your table: no more--since you may guess the fatal rest:

I am undone, and I am satisfied--I had a thousand warnings of my fate,

but still the beauty charmed, and my too good nature yielded: oft you

have cozened me, and oft I saw it, and still love made me willing to

forgive; the foolish passion hung upon my soul, and soothed me into

peace.’ _Sylvia_, quite confounded, (not so much with the knowledge he

had of the unlucky adventure, as at her so earnestly denying and

forswearing any love had passed between them) lay still to consider

how to retrieve this lost game, and gave him leisure to go on--’Now,’

said he, ‘thou art silent----would thou hadst still been so: ah,

hapless maid, who hast this fate attending thee, to ruin all that love

thee! Be dumb, be dumb for ever; let the false charm that dwells upon

thy tongue, be ended with my life: let it no more undo believing man,

lest amongst the number some one may conquer thee, and deaf to all thy

wit, and blind to beauty, in some mad passion think of all thy

cozenings, should fall upon thee, and forget thy sex, and by thy death

revenge the lost _Octavio_.’ At these words he would have rose from

her arms, but she detained him, and with a piteous voice implored his

pardon; but he calmly replied, ‘Yes, _Sylvia_, I will pardon thee, and

wish that heaven may do so; to whom apply thy early rhetoric and

penitence; for it can never, never charm me more: my fortune, if thou

ever wanted support to keep thee chaste and virtuous, shall still be

commanded by thee, with that usual frankness it has hitherto served

thee; but for _Octavio_, he is resolved to go where he will never more

be seen by woman--or hear the name of love to ought but

heaven--Farewell--one parting kiss, and then a long farewell--’ As he

bowed to kiss her, she caught him fast in her arms, while a flood of

tears bathed his face, nor could he prevent his from mixing with hers:

while thus they lay, _Philander_ came into the room, and finding them so

closely entwined, he was as much surprised almost as _Octavio_ was

before; and, drawing his sword, was about to have killed him; but his

honour overcame his passion; and he would not take him at such

disadvantage, but with the flat of his sword striking him on the back

as he lay, he cried, ‘Rise, traitor, and turn to thy mortal enemy.’

_Octavio_, not at all surprised, turned his head and his eyes bedewed

in tears towards his rival. ‘If thou be’est an enemy,’ said he,

’.hough never couldst have taken me in a better humour of dying.

Finish, _Philander_, that life then, which if you spare, it will

possibly never leave thine in repose; the injuries you have done me

being too great to be forgiven.’ ‘And is it thus,’ replied

_Philander_,--’thus with my mistress, that you would revenge them? Is

it in the arms of _Sylvia_, that you would repay me the favours I did

your sister _Calista_?’ ‘You have by that word,’ said _Octavio_,

’.andsomely reproached my sloth.’ And leaping briskly from the bed, he

took out his sword, and cried: ‘Come then----let us go where we may

repair both our losses, since ladies’ chambers are not fit places to

adjust debts of this nature in.’ At these words they both went

down stairs; and it was in vain _Sylvia_ called and cried out to

conjure them to come back; her power of commanding she had in one

unlucky day lost over both those gallant lovers. And both left her

with pity; to say no worse of the effect of her ill conduct.

_Octavio_ went directly to the park, to the place whither he before

had challenged _Philander_, who lost no time but followed him: as soon

as he was come to the fountain he drew, and told _Philander_ that was

the place whither he invited him in his billet that morning; however,

if he liked not the ground, he was ready to remove to any other:

_Philander_ was a little surprised to find that invitation was a

challenge; and that _Octavio_ should be beforehand with him upon the

score of revenge; and replied, ‘Sir, if the billet came from you, it

was a favour I thank you for; since it kindly put me in mind of that

revenge I ought so justly to take of you, for betraying the secrets of

friendship I reposed in you, and making base advantages of them, to

recommend yourself to a woman you knew I loved, and who hates you, in

spite of all the ungenerous ways you have taken to gain her.’ ‘Sir,’

replied _Octavio_, ‘I confess with a blush and infinite shame, the

error with which you accuse me, and have nothing to defend so great a

perfidy. To tell you, I was wrought out of it by the greatest cunning

imaginable, and that I must have seen _Sylvia_ die at my feet if I had

refused them, is not excuse enough for the breach of that friendship.

No, though I were exasperated with the relation there of my sister’s

dishonour: I must therefore adjust that debt with you as well as I

can; and if I die in the juster quarrel of my sister’s honour, I shall

believe it the vengeance of heaven upon me for that one breach of

friendship.’ ‘Sir,’ replied _Philander_, ‘you have given me so great a

satisfaction in this confession, and have made so good and gallant an

atonement by this acknowledgement, that it is with relunctancy I go to

punish you for other injuries, of which I am assured you cannot so

well acquit yourself.’ ‘Though I would not justify a baseness,’

replied _Octavio_, ‘for which there ought to be no excuse; yet I will

not accuse myself, or acknowledge other injuries, but leave you

something to maintain the quarrel on--and render it a little just on

your side; nor go to wipe off the outrage you pretend I have done your

love, by adoring the fair person who at least has been dear to you, by

the wrongs you have done my sister.’ ‘Come, sir, we shall not by

disputing quit scores,’ cried _Philander_, a little impatiently; ‘what

I have lately seen, has made my rage too brisk for long parly.’ At

that they both advanced, and made about twenty passes before either

received any wound; the first that bled was _Octavio_, who received a

wound in his breast, which he returned on _Philander_, and after that

many were given and taken; so that the track their feet made, in

following and advancing as they fought, was marked out by their blood:

in this condition, (still fighting) _Sylvia_, (who had called them

back in vain, and only in her night-gown in a chair pursued them that

minute they quitted her chamber) found them thus employed, and without

any fear she threw herself between them: _Octavio_, out of respect to

her, ceased; but _Philander_, as if he had not regarded her, would

still have been striving for victory, when she stayed his hand, and

begged him to hear her; he then set the point of his sword to the

ground, and breathless and fainting almost, attended what she had to

say: she conjured him to cease the quarrel, and told him if _Octavio_

had injured him in her heart, he ought to remember he had injured

_Octavio_ as much in that of his sister: she conjured him by all the

friendship both she and himself had received at _Octavio_’. hands; and

concluded with saying so many fine things of that cavalier, that in

lieu of appeasing, it but the more exasperated the jealous _Philander_,

who took new courage with new breath, and passed at _Octavio_. She

then addressed to _Octavio_, and cried: ‘Hold, oh hold, or make your

way through me; for here I will defend virtue and honour!’ and put

herself before _Octavio_: she spoke with so piteous a voice, and

pleaded with so much tenderness, that _Octavio_, laying his sword at

her feet, bid her dispose--false as she was, of his honour: ‘For oh,’

said he, ‘my life is already fallen a victim to your perjuries!’ He

could say no more, but falling where he had laid his sword, left

_Philander_ master of the field. By this time some gentlemen that had

been walking came up to them, and found a man lie dead, and a lady

imploring another to fly: they looked on _Octavio_, and found he had

yet life; and immediately sent for surgeons, who carried him to his

lodgings with very little hope: _Philander_, as well as his wounds

would give him leave, got into a chair, telling the gentlemen that

looked on him, he would be responsible for _Octavio_’. life, if he had

had the ill fortune to take it; that his quarrel was too just to

suffer him to fly.--So being carried to the _cabaret_, with an

absolute command to _Sylvia_ not to follow him, or visit him: for fear

of hurting him by disobeying, she suffered herself to be carried to

her lodgings, where she threw herself on her bed, and drowned her fair

eyes in a shower of tears: she advises with _Antonet_ and her page

what to do in this extremity; she fears she has, by her ill

management, lost both her lovers, and she was in a condition of

needing every aid. They, who knew the excellent temper of _Octavio_,

and knew him to be the most considerable lover of the two, besought

her, as the best expedient she could have recourse to, to visit

_Octavio_, who could not but take it kindly; and they did not doubt

but she had so absolute a power over him, that with a very little

complaisance towards him, she would retrieve that heart her ill luck

had this morning forfeited; and which, they protested, they knew

nothing of, nor how he got into her chamber. This advice she took;

but, because _Octavio_ was carried away dead, she feared, (and swooned

with the fear) that he was no longer in the world, or, at least, that

he would not long be so: however, she assumed her courage again at the

thought, that, if he did die, she had an absolute possession of all

his fortune, which was to her the most considerable part of the man,

or at least, what rendered him so very agreeable to her: however, she

thought fit to send her page, which she did in an hour after he was

carried home, to see how he did; who brought her word that he was

revived to life, and had commanded his gentleman to receive no

messages from her. This was all she could learn, and what put her into

the greatest extremity of grief. She after sent to _Philander_, and

found him much the better of the two, but most infinitely incensed

against _Sylvia_: this also added to her despair; yet since she found

she had not a heart that any love, or loss of honour, or fortune could

break; but, on the contrary, a rest of youth and beauty, that might

oblige her, with some reason, to look forward on new lovers, if the

old must depart: the next thing she resolved was, to do her utmost

endeavour to retrieve _Octavio_, which, if unattainable, she would

make the best of her youth. She sent therefore (notwithstanding his

commands to suffer none of her people to come and see him) to inquire

of his health; and in four days (finding he received other visits) she

dressed herself, with all the advantages of her sex, and in a chair

was carried to his aunt’s, where he lay. The good lady, not knowing

but she might be that person of quality whom she knew to be extremely

in love with her nephew, and who lived at the Court of _Brussels_, and

was niece to the Governor, carried her to his chamber, where she left

her, as not willing to be a witness of a visit she knew must be

supposed _incognito_: it was evening, and _Octavio_ was in bed, and,

at the first sight of her his blood grew disordered in his veins,

flushed in his pale face, and burnt all over his body, and he was near

to swooning as he lay: she approached his bed with a face all set for

languishment, love, and shame in her eyes, and sighs, that, without

speaking, seemed to tell her grief at his disaster; she sat, or rather

fell, on his bed, as unable to support the sight of him in that

condition; she in a soft manner, seized his burning hand, grasped it

and sighed, then put it to her mouth, and suffered a tear or two to

fall upon it; and when she would have spoke, she made her sobs resist

her words; and left nothing unacted, that might move the

tender-hearted _Octavio_ to that degree of passion she wished. A

hundred times fain he would have spoke, but still his rising passion

choked his words; and still he feared they would prove either too soft

and kind for the injuries he had received, or too rough and cold for

so delicate and charming a creature, and one, whom, in spite of all

those injuries, he still adored: she appeared before him with those

attractions that never failed to conquer him, with that submission and

pleading in her modest bashful eyes, that even gave his the lie, who

had seen her perfidy. Oh! what should he do to keep that fire from

breaking forth with violence, which she had so thoroughly kindled in

his heart? How should that excellent good nature assume an unwonted

sullenness, only to appear what it could not by nature be? He was all

soft and sweet, and if he had pride, he knew also how to make his

pleasure; and his youth loved love above all the other little vanities

that attend it, and was the most proper to it. Fain he would palliate

her crime, and considers, in the condition she was, she could not but

have some tenderness for _Philander_; that it was no more than what

before passed; it was no new lover that came to kindle new passions,

or approach her with a new flame; but a decliner, who came, and was

received with the dregs of love, with all the cold indifference

imaginable: this he would have persuaded himself, but dares not till

he hears her speak; and yet fears she should not speak his sense; and

this fear makes him sighing break silence, and he cried in a soft

tone: ‘Ah! why, too lovely fair, why do you come to trouble the repose

of my dying hours? Will you, cruel maid, pursue me to my grave? Shall

I not have one lone hour to ask forgiveness of heaven for my sin of

loving thee? The greatest that ever loaded my youth--and yet,

alas!--the least repented yet. Be kind, and trouble not my solitude,

depart with all the trophies of my ruin, and if they can add any glory

to thy future life, boast them all over the universe, and tell what a

deluded youth thou hast undone. Take, take, fair deceiver, all my

industry, my right of my birth, my thriving parents have been so long

a-getting to make me happy with; take the useless trifle, and lavish

it on pleasure to make thee gay, and fit for luckier lovers: take that

best part of me, and let this worst alone; it was that first won the

dear confession from thee that drew my ruin on--for which I hate

it--and wish myself born a poor cottage boor, where I might never have

seen thy tempting beauty, but lived for ever blessed in ignorance.’ At

this the tears ran from his eyes, with which the softened _Sylvia_

mixed her welcome stream, and as soon as she could speak, she replied

(with half cunning and half love, for still there was too much of the

first mingled with the last), ‘Oh, my _Octavio_, to what extremities

are you resolved to drive a poor unfortunate, who, even in the height

of youth, and some small stock of beauty, am reduced to all the

miseries of the wretched? Far from my noble noble parents, lost to

honour, and abandoned by my friends; a helpless wanderer in a strange

land, exposed to want, and perishing, and had no sanctuary but

thyself, thy dear, thy precious self, whom heaven had sent, in mercy,

to my aid; and thou, at last, by a mistaken turn of miserable fate,

hast taken that dear aid away.’ At this she fell weeping on his

panting bosom; nevertheless he got the courage to reply once again,

before he yielded himself a shameful victim to her flattery, and said;

’.h cruel _Sylvia_, is it possible that you can charge the levity on

me? Is it I have taken this poor aid, as you are pleased to call it,

from you? Oh! rather blame your own unhappy easiness, that after

having sworn me faith and love, could violate them both, both where

there was no need. It would have better become thy pride and quality,

to have resented injuries received, than brought again that scorned,

abandoned person (fine as it was and shining still with youth) to his

forgetful arms.’ ‘Alas,’ said she, ‘I will not justify my hateful

crime: a crime I loathe to think of, it was a fault beyond a

prostitution; there might have possibly been new joy in such a sin,

but here it was palled and gone--fled to eternity away:--And but for

the dear cause I did commit it, there were no expiation for my fault;

no penitent tears could wash away my crime.’ ‘Alas,’ said he--’if

there were any cause, if there be any possible excuse for such a

breach of love, give it my heart; make me believe it, and I may yet

live; and though I cannot think thee innocent, to be compelled by any

frivolous reason, it would greatly satisfy my longing soul. But, have

a care, do not delude me on--for if thou durst persuade me into

pardon, and to return to all my native fondness, and then again

shouldst play me fast and loose; by heaven--by all my sacred passion

to thee, by all that men call holy, I will pursue thee with my utmost

hate; forsake thee with my fortune and my heart; and leave thee

wretched to the scorning crowd. Pardon these rude expressions of a

love that can hardly forgive the words it utters: I blush with shame

while I pronounce them true.’ When she replied, ‘May all you have

pronounced, and all your injured love can invent, fall on me when I

ever more deceive you; believe me now, and but forgive what is past,

and trust my love and honour for the future.’ At this she told him,

that in the first visit _Philander_ made her, she, using him so

reproachfully, and upbraiding him with his inconstancy, made him

understand, that he was betrayed by _Octavio_, and that the whole

intrigue with _Calista_, confessed by him, was discovered to _Sylvia_;

which, he said, put him into so violent a rage against _Octavio_, that

he vowed that minute to find him out and kill him. Nor could all the

persuasions of reason serve to hinder him; so that she who (as she

said) loved _Octavio_ to death, finding so powerful an enemy, as her

fears made her fancy _Philander_ was, ready to have snatched from her,

in one furious moment, all she adored; she had recourse to all the

flattery of love to with-hold him from an attempt so dangerous: and it

was with much ado, with all those aids, that he was obliged to stay,

which she had forced him to do, to get time to give him notice in the

morning for his approaching danger: not that she feared _Octavio_’.

life, had _Philander_ attacked it fairly; but he looked on himself as

a person injured by close private ways, and would take a like revenge,

and have hurt him when he as little dreamed of it, as _Philander_ did

of the discovery he made of his letter to her. To this she swore, she

wept, she embraced, and still protested it true; adding withal a

thousand protestations of her future detestation of him; and that

since the worst was past, and that they had fought, and he was come

off, though with so many wounds, yet with life, she was resolved

utterly to defy _Philander_, as the most perfidious of his sex; and

assured him, that nothing in the world was so indifferent as she in

his arms. In fine, after having omitted nothing that might gain a

credit, and assure him of her love and heart, and possess him with a

belief, for the future, of her lasting vows: he, wholly convinced and

overcome, snatches her in his arms, and bursting into a shower of

tears, cried--’Take--take all my soul, thou lovely charmer of it, and

dispose of the destiny of _Octavio_.’ And smothering her with kisses

and embraces made a perfect reconciliation. When the surgeons, who

came to visit him, finding him in the disorder of a fever, though more

joy was triumphing in his face than before, they imagined this lady

the fair person for whom this quarrel was; for it had made a great

noise you may believe; and finding it hurtful for his wounds, either

to be transported with too much rage, grief, or love, besought him he

would not talk too much, or suffer any visits that might prejudice his

health: and indeed, with what had been past, he found himself after

his transport very ill and feverish, so that _Sylvia_ promised the

doctors she would visit him no more in a day or two, though she knew

not well how to be from him so long; but would content herself with

sending her page to inquire of his health. To this _Octavio_ made very

great opposition, but his aunt, and the rest of the learned, were of

opinion it ought for his health to be so, and he was obliged to be

satisfied with her absence: at parting she came to him, and again

besought him to believe her vows to be well, and that she would depart

somewhere with him far from _Philander_, who she knew was obliged to

attend the motions of _Cesario_ at _Brussels_, whom again she

imprecated never to see more. This satisfied our impatient lover, and

he suffered her to go, and leave him to that rest he could get. She

was no sooner got home, and retired to her chamber, but, finding

herself alone, which now she did not care to be, and being assured she

should not see _Octavio_, instead of triumphing for her new-gained

victory, she sent her page to inquire again of _Philander_’. health,

and to entreat that she might visit him: at first before she sent, she

checked this thought as base, as against all honour, and all her vows

and promises to the brave _Octavio_; but finding an inclination to it,

and proposing a pleasure and satisfaction in it, she was of a nature

not to lose a pleasure for a little punctilio of honour; and without

considering what would be the event of such a folly, she sent her

page, though he had been repulsed before, and forbid coming with any

messages from his lady. The page found no better success than hitherto

he had done: but being with much entreaty brought to _Philander_’.

chamber, he found him sitting in his night-gown, to whom addressing

himself--he had no sooner named his lady--but _Philander_ bid him be

gone, for he would hear nothing from that false woman: the boy would

have replied, but he grew more enraged; and reviling her with all the

railings of incensed lovers, he puts himself into his closet without

speaking any more, or suffering any answer. This message being

delivered to the expecting lady, put her into a very great rage--which

ended in as deep a concern: her great pride, fortified by her

looking-glass, made her highly resent the affront; and she believed it

more to the glory of her beauty to have quitted a hundred lovers, than

to be abandoned by one. It was this that made her rave and tear, and

talk high; and after all, to use her cunning to retrieve what it had

been most happy for her should have been for ever lost; and she ought

to have blessed the occasion. But her malicious star had designed

other fortune for her: she wrote to him several letters, that were

sent back sealed: she railed, she upbraided, and then fell to

submission. At last, he was persuaded to open one, but returned such

answers as gave her no satisfaction, but encouraged her with a little

hope that she should draw him on to a reconciliation: between whiles

she failed not to send _Octavio_ the kindest, impatient letters in the

world, and received the softest replies that the tongue of man could

utter, for he could not write yet. At last, _Philander_ having reduced

_Sylvia_ to the very brink of despair, and finding, by her passionate

importunity, that he could make his peace with her on any terms of

advantage to himself, resolved to draw such articles of agreement as

should wholly subdue her to him, or to stand it out to the last: the

conditions were, that he being a person by no means of a humour to be

imposed upon; if he were dear to her, she should give herself entirely

to his possession, and quit the very conversation of all those he had

but an apprehension would disturb his repose: that she should remove

out of the way of his troublesome rivals, and suffer herself to be

conducted whither he thought good to carry her. These conditions she

liked, all but the going away; she could not tell to what sort of

confinement that might amount. He flies off wholly, and denies all

treaty upon her least scruple, and will not be asked the explanation

of what he has proposed: so that she bends like a slave for a little

empire over him; and to purchase the vanity of retaining him, suffers

herself to be absolutely undone. She submits; and that very day she

had leave from the doctors to visit _Octavio_, and that all-ravished

lover lay panting in expectation of the blessed sight, believing every

minute an age, his apartment dressed and perfumed, and all things

ready to receive the darling of his soul, _Philander_ came in a coach

and six horses (and making her pack up all her jewels and fine things,

and what they could not carry in the coach, put up to come after them)

and hurries her to a little town in _Luke-Land_, a place between

Flanders and Germany, without giving her time to write, or letting her

know whither she was going. While she was putting up her things (I

know she has since confessed) her heart trembled, and foreboded the

ill that was to come; that is, that she was hastening to ruin: but she

had chanced to say so much to him of her passion to retrieve him, that

she was ashamed to own the contrary so soon; but suffered that force

upon her inclinations to do the most dishonourable and disinterested

thing in the world. She had not been there a week, and her trunks of

plate and fine things were arrived, but she fell in labour, and was

brought to bed, though she shewed very little of her condition all the

time she went. This great affair being well over, she considers

herself a new woman, and began, or rather continued, to consider the

advantage she had lost in _Octavio_: she regrets extremely her

conduct, and from one degree to another she looks on herself as lost

to him; she every day saw what she had decayed, her jewels sold one by

one, and at last her necessaries. _Philander_, whose head was running

on _Calista_, grudged every moment he was not about that affair, and

grew as peevish as she; she recovers to new beauty, but he grows

colder and colder by possession; love decayed, and ill humour

increased: they grew uneasy on both sides, and not a day passed

wherein they did not break into open and violent quarrels, upbraiding

each other with those faults, which both wished that either would

again commit, that they might be fairly rid of one another: it grew at

last to that height, that they were never well but when they were

absent from one another; he making a hundred little intrigues and

gallantries with all the pretty women, and those of any quality in the

town or neighbouring _villas_. She saw this with grief, shame, and

disdain, and could not tell which way to relieve herself: she was not

permitted the privilege of visits, unless to some grave ladies, or to

monasteries; a man was a rarity she had hardly seen in two months,

which was the time she had been there; so that she had leisure to

think of her folly, bemoan the effects of her injustice, and contrive,

if she could, to remedy her disagreeable life, which now was reduced,

not only to scurrilous quarrels, and hard words; but, often in her

fury, she flying upon him, and with the courage or indiscretion of her

sex, would provoke him to indecencies that render life insupportable

on both sides. While they lived at this rate, both contriving how

handsomely to get quit of each other, _Brilliard_, who was left in

_Brussels_, to take care of his lord’s affairs there, and that as soon

as he had heard of _Cesario_’. arrival he should come with all speed

and give him notice, thought every minute an hour till he could see

again the charmer of his soul, for whom he suffered continual fevers

of love. He studies nothing but how first to get her pardon, and then

to compass his designs of possessing her: he had not seen her, nor

durst pretend to it, since she left _Holland_. He believed she would

have the discretion to conceal some of his faults, lest he should

discover in revenge some of hers; and fancied she would imagine so of

his conduct: he had met with no reproaches yet from his lord, and

believed himself safe. With this imagination, he omitted nothing that

might render him acceptable to her, nor to gain any secrets he

believed might be of use to him: knowing therefore she had not dealt

very generously with _Octavio_, by this flight with _Philander_, and

believing that that exasperated lover, would in revenge declare any

thing to the prejudice of the fair fugitive, he (under pretence of

throwing himself at his feet, and asking his pardon for his ill

treating him in _Holland_) designed before he went into _Luke-Land_ to

pay _Octavio_ a visit, and accordingly went; he met first with his

page, who being very well acquainted with _Brilliard_, discoursed with

him before he carried him to his lord: he told him that his lord that

day that _Sylvia_ departed, being in impatient expectation of her, and

that she came not according to appointment, sent him to her lodgings,

to know if any accident had prevented her coming; but that when he

came, though he had been with her but an hour before, she was gone

away with _Philander_, never more to return. The youth, not being able

to carry this sad news to his lord, when he came home offered at a

hundred things to conceal the right; but the impatient lover would not

be answered, but, all enraged, commanded him to tell that truth, which

he found already but too apparently in his eyes. The lad so commanded,

could no longer defer telling him _Sylvia_ was gone; and being asked,

again and again, what he meant, with a face and voice that every

moment altered to dying; the page assured him she was gone out of

_Brussels_ with _Philander_, never more to return; which was no sooner

told him, but he sunk on the couch where he lay, and fainted: he

farther told him how long it was, and with what difficulty he was

recovered to life; and that after he was so, he refused to speak or

see any visitors; could for a long time be neither persuaded to eat

nor sleep, but that he had spoken to no body ever since, and did now

believe he could not procure him the favour he begged: that

nevertheless he would go, and see what the very name of any that had

but a relation to the family of _Sylvia_ would produce in him, whether

a storm of passion, or a calm of grief: either would be better than a

dullness, all silent and sad, in which there was no understanding what

he meant by it: whoever spoke, he only made a short sign, and turned

away, as much as to say, speak no more to me: but now resolved to try

his temper, he hastened to his lord, and told him that _Brilliard_,

full of penitence for his past fault, and grief for the ill condition

he heard he was in, was come to pay his humble respects to him, and

gain his pardon before he went to his lord and _Sylvia_; without which

he had not, nor could have, any peace of mind, he being too sensible

of the baseness of the injury he had done him. At the name of

_Philander_ and _Sylvia_, _Octavio_ shewed some signs of listening,

but to the rest no regard; and starting from the bed where he was

laid: ‘Ah! what hast thou said?’ cried he. The page then repeated the

message, and was commanded to bring him up; who, accordingly, with all

the signs of submission, cast himself at his feet and mercy; and,

though he were an enemy, the very thought that he belonged to _Sylvia_

made _Octavio_ to caress him as the dearest of friends: he kept him

with him two or three days, and would not suffer him to stir from him;

but all their discourse was of the faithless _Sylvia_; of whom, the

deceived lover spoke the softest, unheard, tender things, that ever

passion uttered: he made the amorous _Brilliard_ weep a hundred times

a day; and ever when he would have soothed his heart with hopes of

seeing her, and one day enjoying her entirely to himself, he would

with so much peace of mind renounce her, as Brilliard no longer

doubted but he would indeed no more trust her fickle sex. At last, the

news arrived that Cesario was in Brussels, and Brilliard was obliged

the next morning to take horse, and go to his lord: and to make

himself the more acceptable to Sylvia, he humbly besought Octavio to

write some part of his resentments to her, that he might oblige her to

a reason for what she had so inhumanly done: this flattered him a

little, and he was not long before he was overcome by Brilliard’s

entreaties; who, having his ends in every thing, believed this letter

might contain at least something to assist in his design, by giving

him authority over her by so great a secret: the next morning, before

he took horse he waited on Octavio for his letter, and promised him an

answer at his return, which would be in a few days. This letter was

open, and Octavio suffered Brilliard to read it, making him an

absolute confidant in his amour; which having done, he besought him to

add one thing more to it; and that was, to beg her to forgive

Brilliard, which for his sake he knew she would do: he told him, he

was obliged as a good Christian, and a dying man, one resolved for

heaven to do that good office; and accordingly did. Brilliard taking

post immediately, arrived to Philander, where he found every thing as

he wished, all out of humour, still on the fret, and ever peevish. He

had not seen Sylvia, as I said, since she went from Holland, and now

knew not which way to approach her; Philander was abroad on some of

his usual gallantries when Brilliard arrived; and having discoursed a

while of the affairs of his lord and Sylvia, he told Antonet he had a

great desire to speak with that dissatisfied fair one, assuring her,

he believed his visit would be welcome, from what he had to say to her

concerning Octavio: she told him (with infinite joy) that she did not

doubt of his pardon from her lady, if he brought any news from that

gallant injured man; and in all haste, though her lady saw no body,

but refused to rise from her couch, she ran to her, and besought her

to see Brilliard; for he came with a message from Octavio, the person,

who was the subject of their discourse night and day, when alone. She

immediately sent for Brilliard, who approached his goddess with a

trembling devotion; he knelt before her, and humbly besought her

pardon for all that was past: but she, who with the very thought that

he had something to say from Octavio, forgot all but that, hastily bid

him rise, and take all he asked, and hoped for what he wished: in this

transport she embraced his head, and kissed his cheek, and took him

up. ‘That, madam,’ said _Brilliard_, ‘which your divine bounty alone

has given me, without any merit in me, I durst not have had the

confidence to have hoped without my credential from a nobler

hand--this, madam,’ said he--and gave her a letter from _Octavio_: the

dear hand she knew, and kissed a hundred times as she opened it; and

having entreated _Brilliard_ to withdraw for a moment, that he might

not see her concern at the reading it, she sat her down, and found it

thus.

OCTAVIO _to_ SYLVIA.

I confess, oh faithless _Sylvia_! that I shall appear in writing to

you, to shew a weakness even below that of your infidelity; nor durst

I have trusted myself to have spoken so many sad soft things, as I

shall do in this letter, had I not tried the strength of my heart, and

found I could upbraid you without talking myself out of that

resolution I have taken--but, because I would die in perfect charity

with thee, as with all the world, I should be glad to know I could

forgive thee; for yet thy sins appear too black for mercy. Ah! why,

charming ingrate, have you left me no one excuse for all your ills to

me? Why have you injured me to that degree, that I, with all the

mighty stock of love I had hoarded up together in my heart, must die

reproaching thee to my last gasp of life? which hadst thou been so

merciful to have ended, by all the love that’s breaking of my heart,

that yet, even yet, is soft and charming to me, I swear with my last

breath, I had blessed thee, _Sylvia_: but thus to use me; thus to

leave my love, distracted, raving love, and no one hope or prospect of

relief, either from reason, time, or faithless _Sylvia_, was but to

stretch the wretch upon the rack, and screw him up to all degrees of

pain; yet such, as do not end in kinder death. Oh thou unhappy miner

of my repose! Oh fair unfortunate! if yet my agony would give me leave

to argue, I am so miserably lost, to ask thee yet this woeful

satisfaction; to tell me why thou hast undone me thus? Why thou

shouldst choose me out from all the crowd of fond admiring fools, to

make the world’s reproach, and turn to ridicule? How couldst thou use

that soft good nature so, that had not one ungrateful sullen humour in

it, for thy revenge and pride to work upon? No baseness in my love, no

dull severity for malice to be busy with; but all was gay and kind,

all lavish fondness, and all that woman, vain with youth and beauty,

could wish in her adorer: what couldst thou ask, but empire, which I

gave not? My love, my soul, my life, my very honour, all was resigned

to thee; that youth that might have gained me fame abroad was

dedicated to thy service, laid at thy feet, and idly passed in love.

Oh charming maid, whom heaven has formed for the punishment of all,

whose flames are criminal! Why couldst not thou have made some kind

distinction between those common passions and my flame? I gave thee

all my vows, my honest vows, before I asked a recompense for love. I

made thee mine before the sacred powers, that witness every sacred

solemn vow, and fix them in the eternal book of fate; if thou hadst

given thy faith to any other, as, oh! too sure thou hadst, what fault

was this in me, who knew it not? Why should I bear that sin? I took

thee to me as a virgin treasure, sent from the gods to charm the ills

of life, to make the tedious journey short and joyful; I came to make

atonement for thy sin, and to redeem thy fame; not add to the detested

number. I came to gild thy stains of honour over; and set so high a

price upon thy name, that all reproaches for thy past offences should

have been lost in future crowds of glory: I came to lead thee from a

world of shame, approaching ills and future miseries; from noisy

flatterers that would sacrifice thee, first to dull lust, and more

unthinking wit; possess thee, then traduce thee. By heaven, I swear it

was not for myself alone I took such pains to gain thee, and set thee

free from all those circumstances, that might perhaps debauch thy

worthier nature, and I believed it was with pain you yielded to every

buying lover: no, it was for thy sake, in pity to thy youth, heaven

had inspired me with religious flame; and when I aimed at _Sylvia_ it

was alone I might attain to heaven the surest way, by such a pious

conquest; why hast thou ruined a design so glorious, as saving both

our souls? Perhaps thou vainly thinkest that while I am pleading

thus--I am arguing still for love; or think this way to move thee into

pity; no, by my hopes of death to ease my pain, love is a passion not

to be compelled by any force of reason’s arguments: it is an

unthinking motion of the soul, that comes and goes as unaccountably as

changing moons, or ebbs and flows of rivers, only with far less

certainty. It is not that my soul is all over love, that can beget its

likeness in your heart: had heaven and nature added to that love all

the perfections that adorn our sex, it had availed me nothing in your

soul: there is a chance in love as well as life, and often the most

unworthy are preferred; and from a lottery I might win the prize from

all the venturing throng with as much reason, as think my chance

should favour me with _Sylvia_; it might perhaps have been, but it was

a wondrous odds against me. Beauty is more uncertain than the dice;

and though I ventured like a forward gamester, I was not yet so vain

to hope to win, nor had I once complained upon my fate, if I had never

hoped: but when I had fairly won, to have it basely snatched from my

possession, and like a baffled cully see it seized by a false

gamester, and look tamely on, has given me such _ideas_ of the fool, I

scorn to look into my easy heart, and loathe the figure you made me

there. Oh _Sylvia_! what an angel hadst thou been, hadst thou not

soothed me thus to my undoing! Alas, it had been no crime in thee to

hate me; it was not thy fault I was not amiable; if thy soft eyes

could meet no charms to please them, those soft, those charming eyes

were not in fault; nor that thy sense, too delicate and nice, could

meet no proper subject for thy wit, thy heart, thy tender heart was

not in fault, because it took not in my tale of love, and sent soft

wishes back: oh! no, my _Sylvia_, this, though I had died, had caused

you no reproach; but first to fan my fire by all the arts that ever

subtle beauty could invent; to give me hope; nay, to dissemble love;

yes, and so very well dissemble too, that not one tender sigh was

breathed in vain: all that my love-sick soul was panting for, the

subtle charmer gave; so well, so very well, she could dissemble! Oh,

what more proofs could I expect from love, what greater earnest of

eternal victory? Oh! thou hadst raised me to the height of heaven, to

make my fall to hell the more precipitate. Like a fallen angel now I

howl and roar, and curse that pride that taught me first ambition; it

is a poor satisfaction now, to know (if thou couldst yet tell truth)

what motive first seduced thee to my ruin? Had it been interest--by

heaven, I would have bought my wanton pleasures at as high rates as I

would gratify my real passions; at least when _Sylvia_ set a price on

pleasure: nay, higher yet, for love when it is repaid with equal love,

it saves the chafferer a great expense: or were it wantonness of youth

in thee, alas, you might have made me understood it, and I had met you

with an equal ardour, and never thought of loving, but quenched the

short-lived blaze as soon as kindled; and hoping for no more, had

never let my hasty flame arrive any higher than that powerful minute’s

cure. But oh! in vain I seek for reasons from thee; perhaps thy own

fantastic fickle humour cannot inform thee why thou hast betrayed me;

but thou hast done it, _Sylvia_, and may it never rise in judgement on

thee, nor fix a brand upon thy name for ever, greater than all thy

other guilts can load thee with: live, fair deceiver, live, and charm

_Philander_ to all the heights of his beginning flame; mayst thou be

gaining power upon his heart, and bring it repentance for inconstancy;

may all thy beauty still maintain its lustre, and all thy charms of

wit be new and gay; mayst thou be chaste and true; and since it was

thy fate to be undone, let this at least excuse the hapless maid; it

was love alone betrayed her to that ruin, and it was _Philander_ only

had that power. If thou hast sinned with me, as heaven is my witness,

after I had plighted thee my sacred vows, I do not think thou didst:

may all the powers above forgive thee, _Sylvia_; and those thou hast

committed since those vows, will need a world of tears to wash away:

it is I will weep for both; it is I will go and be a sacrifice to

atone for all our sins: it is I will be the pressing penitent, and

watch, and pray, and weep, until heaven have mercy; and may my penance

be accepted for thee;--farewell--I have but one request to make thee,

which is, that thou wilt, for _Octavio_’. sake, forgive the faithful

slave that brings thee this from thy

OCTAVIO.

_Sylvia_, whose absence and ill treatment of _Octavio_, had but served

to raise her flame to a much greater degree, had no sooner read this

letter, but she suffered herself to be distracted with all the

different passions that possess despairing lovers; sometimes raving,

and sometimes sighing and weeping: it was a good while she continued

in these disorders, still thinking on what she had to do next that

might redeem all: being a little come to herself, she thought good to

consult with _Brilliard_ in this affair, between whom and _Octavio_

she found there was a very good understanding: and resolving

absolutely to quit _Philander_, she no longer had any scruples or

doubt what course to take, nor cared she what price she paid for a

reconciliation with _Octavio_, if any price would purchase it: in

order to this resolve, fixed in her heart, she sends for _Brilliard_,

whom she caresses anew, with all the fondness and familiarity of a

woman, who was resolved to make him her confidant, or rather indeed

her next gallant. I have already said he was very handsome, and very

well made, and you may believe he took all the care he could in

dressing, which he understood very well: he had a good deal of wit,

and was very well fashioned and bred:--With all these accomplishments,

and the addition of love and youth, he could not be imagined to appear

wholly indifferent in the eyes of any body, though hitherto he had in

those of _Sylvia_, whose heart was doting on _Philander_; but now,

that that passion was wholly extinguished, and that their eternal

quarrels had made almost a perpetual separation, she being alone,

without the conversation of men, which she loved, and was used to, and

in her inclination naturally addicted to love, she found _Brilliard_

more agreeable than he used to be; which, together with the designs

she had upon him, made her take such a freedom with him, as wholly

transported this almost hopeless lover: she discourses with him

concerning _Octavio_ and his condition, and he failed not to answer,

so as to please her, right or wrong; she tells him how uneasy she was

with _Philander_, who every day grew more and more insupportable to

her; she tells him she had a very great inclination for _Octavio_, and

more for his fortune that was able to support her, than his person;

she knew she had a great power over him, and however it might seem now

to be diminished by her unlucky flight with _Philander_, she doubted

not but to reduce him to all that love he once professed to her, by

telling him she was forced away, and without her knowledge, being

carried only to take the air was compelled to the fatal place where

she now was. _Brilliard_ soothes and flatters her in all her hope, and

offers her his service in her flight, which he might easily assist,

unknown to _Philander_. It was now about six o’clock at night, and she

commanded a supper to be provided, and brought to her chamber, where

_Brilliard_ and she supped together, and talked of nothing but the new

design; the hope of effecting which put her into so good a humour,

that she frankly drank her bottle, and shewed more signs of mirth than

she had done in many months before: in this good humour, _Brilliard_

looked more amiable than ever; she smiles upon him, she caresses him

with all the assurance of friendship imaginable; she tells him she

shall behold him as her dearest friend, and speaks so many kind

things, that he was emboldened, and approached her by degrees more

near; he makes advances; and the greatest encouragement was, the

secret he had of her intended flight: he tells her, he hoped she would

be pleased to consider, that while he was serving her in a new amour,

and assisting to render her into the arms of another, he was wounding

his own heart, which languished for her; that he should not have taken

the presumption to have told her this, at such a time as he offered

his life to serve her, but that it was already no secret to her, and

that a man who loved at his rate, and yet would contrive to make his

mistress happy with another, ought in justice to receive some

recompense of a flame so constant and submissive. While he spake, he

found he was not regarded with the looks of scorn or disdain; he knew

her haughty temper, and finding it calm, he pressed on to new

submissions; he fell at her feet, and pleaded so well, where no

opposers were, that _Sylvia_ no longer resisted, or if she did, it was

very feebly, and with a sort of a wish that he would pursue his

boldness yet farther; which at last he did, from one degree of

softness and gentle force to another, and made himself the happiest

man in the world; though she was very much disordered at the

apprehension of what she had suffered from a man of his character, as

she imagined, so infinitely below her; but he redoubled his submission

in so cunning a manner, that he soon brought her to her good humour;

and after that, he used the kind authority of a husband whenever he

had an opportunity, and found her not displeased at his services. She

considered he had a secret from her, which, if revealed, would not

only prevent her design, but ruin her for ever; she found too late she

had discovered too much to him to keep him at the distance of a

servant, and that she had no other way to attach him eternally to her

interest, but by this means. He now every day appeared more fine, and

well dressed, and omitted nothing that might make him, if possible, an

absolute master of her heart, which he vowed he would defend with his

life, from even _Philander_ himself; and that he would pretend to no

other empire over her, nor presume, or pretend to engross that fair

and charming person, which ought to be universally adored. In fine, he

failed not to please both her desire and her vanity, and every day she

loved _Philander_ less, who sometimes in two or three days together

came not to visit her. At this time it so happened, he being in love

with the young daughter of an advocate, about a league from his own

lodgings, and he is always eager on the first address, till he has

completed the conquest; so that she had not only time to please and

revenge her with _Brilliard_, but fully to resolve their affairs, and

to provide all things against their flight, which they had absolutely

done before _Philander’s_ return; who, coming home, received

_Brilliard_ very kindly, and the news which he brought, and which made

him understand he should not have any long time to finish his new

amour in; but as he was very conquering both in wit and beauty, he

left not the village without some ruins behind of beauty, which ever

after bewailed his charms; and since his departure was so necessary,

and that in four or five days he was obliged to go, they deferred

their flight till he was gone; which time they had wholly to

themselves, and made as good use of it as they could; at least, she

thought so, and you may be sure, he also, whose love increased with

his possession. But _Sylvia_ longs for liberty, and those necessary

gallantries, which every day diminished; she loved rich clothes, gay

coaches, and to be lavish; and now she was stinted to good

housewifery, a penury she hated.

The time of _Philander’s_, departure being come, he took a very

careless leave of _Sylvia_, telling her he would see what commands the

Prince had for him, and return in ten or twelve days. _Brilliard_

pretended some little indisposition, and begged he might be permitted

to follow him, which was granted; and the next day, though Brilliard

pleaded infinitely for a continuation of his happiness two or three

days more, she would not grant it, but obliged him, by a thousand kind

promises of it for the future, to get horses ready for her page, and

woman, and her coach for herself; which accordingly was done, and they

left the village, whose name I cannot now call to mind, taking with

her what of value she had left. They were three days on their journey:

_Brilliard_, under pretence of care of her health, the weather being

hot, and for fear of overtaking _Philander_ by some accident on the

road, delayed the time as much as was possible, to be as happy as he

could all the while; and indeed _Sylvia_ was never seen in a humour

more gay. She found this short time of hope and pleasure had brought

all her banished beauties back, that care, sickness, and grief, had

extremely tarnished; only her shape was a little more inclining to be

fat, which did not at all however yet impair her fineness; and she was

indeed too charming without, for the deformity of her indiscretion

within; but she had broke the bounds of honour, and now stuck at

nothing that might carry on an interest, which she resolved should be

the business of her future life.

She at last arrived at _Brussels_, and caused a lodging to be taken

for her in the remotest part of the town; as soon as she came she

obliged _Brilliard_ to visit _Octavio_; but going to his aunt’s, to

inquire for him, he was told that he was no longer in the world; he

stood amazed a-while, believing he had been dead, when madam the aunt

told him he was retired to the monastery of the Order of St _Bernard_,

and would, in a day or two, without the probationary year, take Holy

Orders. This did not so much surprise him as the other, knowing that

he discoursed to him, when he saw him last, as if some such retirement

he meant to resolve upon; with this news, which he was not altogether

displeased at, _Brilliard_ returned to _Sylvia_, which soon changed

all her good humour to tears and melancholy: she inquired at what

place he was, and believed she should have power to withdraw him from

a resolution so fatal to her, and so contradictive to his youth and

fortune; and having consulted the matter with _Brilliard_, he had

promised her to go to him, and use all means possible to withdraw him.

This resolved, she writ a most insinuating letter to him, wherein she

excused her flight by a surprise of _Philander’s_, and urged her

condition, as it then was, for the excuse of her long silence; and

that as soon as her health would give her leave, she came to put

herself eternally into his arms, never to depart more from thence.

These arguments and reasons, accompanied with all the endearing

tenderness her artful fancy was capable of framing, she sent with a

full assurance it would prevail to persuade him to the world, and her

fair arms again. While she was preparing this to go, _Philander_, who

had heard at his arrival, what made so much noise, that he had been

the occasion of the world’s loss of two of the finest persons in it,

the sister _Calista_ by debauching her, and the brother by ravishing

his mistress from him, both which were entering, without all

possibility of prevention, into Holy Orders; he took so great a

melancholy at it, as made him keep his chamber for two days, maugre

all the urgent affairs that ought to have invited him from thence; he

was consulting by what power to prevent the misfortune; he now ran

back to all the obligations he had to _Octavio_, and pardons him all

the injuries he did him; he loves him more by loving _Sylvia_ less,

and remembered how that generous friend, after he knew he had

dishonoured his sister, had notwithstanding sent him Letters of Credit

to the magistrates of _Cologne_, and Bills of Exchange, to save him

from the murder of his brother-in-law, as he was likely to have been.

He now charges all his little faults to those of love, and hearing

that old _Clarinau_ was dead of the wound _Octavio_ had given him by

mistake, which increased in him new hope of _Calista_, could she be

retrieved from the monastery, he resolved, in order to this, to make

_Octavio_ a visit, to beg his pardon, and beg his friendship, and his

continuation in the world. He came accordingly to the monastery, and

was extremely civilly received by _Octavio_, who yet had not the habit

on. _Philander_ told him, he heard he was leaving the world, and could

not suffer him to do so, without endeavouring to gain his pardon of

him, for all the injuries he had done him; that as to what related to

his sister the Countess, he protested upon his honour, if he had but

imagined she had been so, he would have suffered death sooner than his

passion to have approached her indiscreetly; and that for _Sylvia_, if

he were assured her possession would make him happy, and call him to

the world again, he assured him he would quit her to him, were she ten

times dearer to him than she was. This he confirmed with so many

protestations of friendship, that _Octavio_, obliged to the last

degree, believed and returned him this answer. ‘Sir, I must confess

you have found out the only way to disarm me of my resentment against

you, if I were not obliged, by those vows I am going to take, to

pardon and be at peace with all the world. However, these vows cannot

hinder me from conserving entirely that friendship in my heart, which

your good qualities and beauties at first sight engaged there, and

from esteeming you more than perhaps I ought to do; the man whom I

must yet own my rival, and the undoer of my sister’s honour. But

oh--no more of that; a friend is above a sister, or a mistress.’ At

this he hung down his eyes and sighed--_Philander_ told him he was too

much concerned in him, not to be extremely afflicted at the resolution

he had taken, and besought him to quit a design so injurious to his

youth, and the glorious things that heaven had destined him to; he

urged all that could be said to dissuade him, and, after all, could

not believe he would quit the world at this age, when it would be

sufficient forty years hence so to do. _Octavio_ only answered with a

smile; but, when he saw _Philander_ still persist, he endeavoured to

convince him by speaking; and lifting up his eyes to heaven, he vowed,

by all the holy powers there, he never would look down to earth again;

nor more consider fickle, faithless, beauty: ‘All the gay vanities of

youth,’ said he, ‘for ever I renounce, and leave them all to those

that find a pleasure, or a constancy in them; for the fair, faithless,

maid, that has undone me, I leave to you the empire of her heart; but

have a care,’ said he (and sighing laid his arms about his neck) ‘for

even you, with all that stock of charms, she will at last betray: I

wish her well--so well, as to repent of all her wrongs to me--It is

all I have to say.’ What _Philander_ could urge, being impossible to

prevail with him: and begging his pardon and friendship (which was

granted by _Octavio_, and implored on his side from _Philander_) he

took a ring of great value from his finger, and presented it to

_Philander_, and begged him to keep it for his sake; and to remember

him while he did so: they kissed, and sighing parted.

_Philander_ was no sooner gone, but _Brilliard_ came to wait on

_Octavio_, whom he found at his devotion, and begged his pardon for

disturbing him: he received him with a very good grace, and a cheerful

countenance, embracing him; and after some discourse of the condition

he was going to reduce himself to, and his admiration, that one so

young should think of devoting himself so early to heaven, and things

of that nature, as the time and occasion required, he told him the

extreme affliction _Sylvia_ was seized with, at the news of the

resolution he had taken, and delivered him a letter, which he read

without any emotions in his heart or face, as at other times used to

be visible at the very mention of her name, or approach of her

letters. At the finishing of which, he only smiling cried: ‘Alas, I

pity her,’ and gave him back the letter. _Brilliard_ asked, if he

would not please to write her some answer, or condescend to see her;

’.o,’ replied _Octavio_, ‘I have done with all the gilded vanities of

life, now I shall think of _Sylvia_ but as some heavenly thing, fit

for diviner contemplations, but never with the youthful thoughts of

love.’ What he should send her now, he said, would have a different

style to those she used to receive from him; it would be pious

counsel, grave advice, unfit for ladies so young and gay as _Sylvia_,

and would scarce find a welcome: he wished he could convert her from

the world--and save her from the dangers that pursued her. To this

purpose was all he said of her, and all that could be got from him by

the earnest solicitor of love, who perhaps was glad his negotiation

succeeded no better, and took his leave of him, with a promise to

visit him often; which _Octavio_ besought him to do, and told him he

would take some care, that for the good of _Sylvia_’. better part, she

should not be reduced by want of necessaries for her life, and little

equipage, to prostitute herself to vile inconstant man; he yet had so

much respect for her--and besought _Brilliard_ to come and take care

of it with him, and to entreat _Sylvia_ to accept of it from him; and

if it contributed to her future happiness, he should be more pleased

than to have possessed her entirely.

You may imagine how this news pleased _Sylvia_; who trembling with

fear every moment, had expected _Brilliard_’. coming, and found no

other benefit by his negotiation, but she must bear what she cannot

avoid; but it was rather with the fury of a bacchanal, than a woman of

common sense and prudence; all about her pleaded some days in vain,

and she hated _Brilliard_ for not doing impossibilities; and it was

some time before he could bring her to permit him to speak to her, or

visit her.

_Philander_ having left _Octavio_, went immediately to wait on

_Cesario_, who was extremely pleased to meet him there, and they

exchanged their souls to each other, and all the secrets of them.

After they had discoursed of all that they had a mind to hear and know

on both sides, _Cesario_ inquired of him of _Sylvia_’. health; and

_Philander_ gave him an account of the uneasiness of her temper, and

the occasions of their quarrels, in which _Octavio_ had his part, as

being the subject of some of them: from this he falls to give a

character of that rival, and came to this part of it, where he had put

himself into the Orders of the _Bernardines_, resolving to leave the

world, and all its charms and temptations. As they were speaking, some

gentlemen, who came to make their court to the Prince, finding them

speak of _Octavio_, told them that to-morrow he was to be initiated,

without the year’s trial; the Prince would needs go and see the

ceremony, having heard so much of the man; and accordingly next day,

accompanied with the Governor, _Philander, Tomaso_, and abundance of

persons of quality and officers, he went to the great church, where

were present all the ladies of the Court, and all that were in the

town. The noise of it was so great, that _Sylvia_, all languishing,

and ill as she was, would not be persuaded from going, but so muffled

in her hoods, as she was not to be known by any.

Never was any thing so magnificent as this ceremony, the church was on

no occasion so richly adorned; _Sylvia_ chanced to be seated near the

Prince of _Mechlenburgh_, who was then in _Brussels_, and at the

ceremony; sad as she was, while the soft music was playing, she

discoursed to him, though she knew him not, of the business of the

day: he told her, she was to see a sight, that ought to make her sex

less cruel; a man extremely beautiful and young, whose fortune could

command almost all the pleasures of the world; yet for the love of the

most amiable creature in the world, who has treated him with rigour,

he abandons this youth and beauty to all the severity of rigid

devotion: this relation, with a great deal he said of _Octavio_’.

virtues and bravery, had like to have discovered her by putting her

into a swoon; and she had much ado to support herself in her seat. I

myself went among the rest to this ceremony, having, in all the time I

lived in _Flanders_, never been so curious to see any such thing. The

Order of St _Bernard_ is one of the neatest of them, and there is a

monastery of that Order, which are obliged to be all noblemen’s sons;

of which I have seen fifteen hundred at a time in one house, all

handsome, and most of them young; their habit adds a grace to their

person, for of all the Religious, that is the most becoming: long

white vests of fine cloth, tied about with white silk sashes, or a

cord of white silk; over this a long cloak without a cape, of the same

fine white broad cloth; their hair of a pretty length, as that of our

persons in _England_, and a white beaver; they have very fine

apartments, fit for their quality, and above all, every one their

library; they have attendance and equipage according to their rank,

and have nothing of the inconveniencies and slovenliness of some of

the Religious, but served in as good order as can be, and they have

nothing of the monastic,--but the name, the vow of chastity, and the

opportunity of gaining heaven, by the sweetest retreat in the world,

fine house, excellent air, and delicate gardens, grottoes and groves.

It was this Order that _Octavio_ had chosen, as too delicate to

undertake the austerity of any other; and in my opinion, it is here a

man may hope to become a saint sooner than in any other, more

perplexed with want, cold, and all the necessaries of life, which

takes the thought too much from heaven, and afflicts it with the cares

of this world, with pain and too much abstinence: and I rather think

it is necessity than choice, that makes a man a _Cordelier_, that may

be a _Jesuit_, or _Bernardine_, to the best of the _Holy Orders_. But,

to return, it was upon a _Thursday_ this ceremony began; and, as I

said, there was never any thing beheld so fine as the church that day

was, and all the Fathers that officiated at the high-altar; behind

which a most magnificent scene of glory was opened, with clouds most

rarely and artificially set off, behind which appeared new ones more

bright and dazzling, till from one degree to another, their lustre was

hardly able to be looked on; and in which sat an hundred little angels

so rarely dressed, such shining robes, such charming faces, such

flowing bright hair, crowned with roses of white and red, with such

artificial wings, as one would have said they had borne the body up in

the splendid sky; and these to soft music, turned their soft voices

with such sweetness of harmony, that, for my part, I confess, I

thought myself no longer on earth; and sure there is nothing gives an

idea of real heaven, like a church all adorned with rare pictures, and

the other ornaments of it, with whatever can charm the eyes; and

music, and voices, to ravish the ear; both which inspire the soul with

unresistible devotion; and I can swear for my own part, in those

moments a thousand times I have wished to die; so absolutely had I

forgot the world, and all its vanities, and fixed my thoughts on

heaven. While this music continued, and the anthems were singing,

fifty boys all in white, bearing silver censers, cast incense all

round, and perfumed the place with the richest and most agreeable

smells, while two hundred silver lamps were burning upon the altar, to

give a greater glory to the opened scene, whilst other boys strewed

flowers upon the inlaid pavement, where the gay victim was to tread;

for no crowd of gazers filled the empty space, but those that were

spectators, were so placed, as rather served to adorn than disorder

the awful ceremony, where all were silent, and as still as death; as

awful, as mourners that attend the hearse of some loved monarch: while

we were thus listening, the soft music playing, and the angels

singing, the whole fraternity of the Order of St _Bernard_ came in,

two by two, in a very graceful order; and going up to the shining

altar, whose furniture that day was embroidered with diamonds, pearls,

and stones of great value, they bowed and retired to their places,

into little gilded stalls, like our Knights of the Garter at

_Windsor_: after them, fifty boys that sang approached in order to the

altar, bowed, and divided on each side; they were dressed in white

cloth of silver, with golden wings and rosy chaplets: after these the

Bishop, in his pontific robes set with diamonds of great price, and

his mitre richly adorned, ascended the altar, where, after a short

anthem, he turned to receive the young devotee, who was just entered

the church, while all eyes were fixed on him: he was led, or rather,

on each side attended with two young noblemen, his relations; and I

never saw any thing more rich in dress, but that of _Octavio_ exceeded

all imagination, for the gaiety and fineness of the work: it was white

cloth of silver embroidered with gold, and buttons of diamonds; lined

with rich cloth of gold and silver flowers, his breeches of the same,

trimmed with a pale pink garniture; rich linen, and a white plume in

his white hat: his hair, which was long and black, was that day in the

finest order that could be imagined; but, for his face and eyes, I am

not able to describe the charms that adorned them; no fancy, no

imagination, can paint the beauties there: he looked indeed, as if he

were made for heaven; no mortal ever had such grace: he looked

methought, as if the gods of love had met in council to dress him up

that day for everlasting conquest; for to his usual beauties he seemed

to have the addition of a thousand more; he bore new lustre in his

face and eyes, smiles on his cheeks, and dimples on his lips: he

moved, he trod with nobler motions, as if some supernatural influence

had took a peculiar care of him: ten thousand sighs, from all sides,

were sent him, as he passed along, which, mixed with the soft music,

made such a murmuring, as gentle breezes moving yielding boughs: I am

assured, he won that day more hearts, without design, than ever he had

gained with all his toils of love and youth before, when industry

assisted him to conquer. In his approach to the altar, he made three

bows; where, at the foot of it on the lower step, he kneeled, and then

High-Mass began; in which were all sorts of different music, and that

so excellent, that wholly ravished with what I saw and heard, I

fancied myself no longer on earth, but absolutely ascended up to the

regions of the sky. All I could see around me, all I heard, was

ravishing and heavenly; the scene of glory, and the dazzling altar;

the noble paintings, and the numerous lamps; the awfulness, the music,

and the order, made me conceive myself above the stars, and I had no

part of mortal thought about me. After the holy ceremony was

performed, the Bishop turned and blessed him; and while an anthem was

singing, _Octavio_, who was still kneeling, submitted his head to the

hands of a Father, who, with a pair of scissors, cut off his delicate

hair; at which a soft murmur of pity and grief filled the place: those

fine locks, with which _Sylvia_ had a thousand times played, and wound

the curls about her snowy fingers, she now had the dying grief, for

her sake, for her infidelity, to behold sacrificed to her cruelty, and

distributed among the ladies, who, at any price, would purchase a

curl: after this they took off his linen, and his coat, under which he

had a white satin waistcoat, and under his breeches drawers of the

same. Then, the Bishop took his robes, which lay consecrated on the

altar, and put them on, and invested him with the holy robe: the

singing continuing to the end of the ceremony; where, after an anthem

was sung (while he prostrated himself before the altar) he arose, and

instead of the two noblemen that attended him to the altar, two

_Bernardines_ approached, and conducted him from it, to the seats of

every one of the Order, whom he kissed and embraced, as they came

forth to welcome him to the Society. It was with abundance of tears

that every one beheld this transformation; but _Sylvia_ swooned

several times during the ceremony, yet would not suffer herself to be

carried out; but _Antonet_ and another young lady of the house where

she lodged, that accompanied her, did what they could to conceal her

from the public view. For my part, I swear I was never so affected in

my life with any thing, as I was at this ceremony; nor ever found my

heart so oppressed with tenderness; and was myself ready to sink where

I sat, when he came near me, to be welcomed by a Father that sat next

to me: after this, he was led by two of the eldest Fathers to his

apartment, and left a thousand sighing hearts behind him. Had he died,

there had not been half that lamentation; so foolish is the mistaken

world to grieve at our happiest fortune; either when we go to heaven

or retreat from this world, which has nothing in it that can really

charm, without a thousand fatigues to attend it: and in this retreat,

I am sure, he himself was the only person that was not infinitely

concerned; who quitted the world with so modest a bravery, so entire a

joy, as no young conqueror ever performed his triumphs with more.

The ceremony being ended, _Antonet_ got _Sylvia_ to her chair,

concerned even to death; and she vowed afterwards she had much ado to

with-hold herself from running and seizing him at the altar, and

preventing his fortune and design, but that she believed _Philander_

would have resented it to the last degree, and possibly have made it

fatal to both herself and _Octavio_. It was a great while before she

could recover from the indisposition to which this fatal and

unexpected accident had reduced her: but, as I have said, she was not

of a nature to die for love; and charming and brave as _Octavio_ was,

it was perhaps her interest, and the loss of his considerable fortune

that gave her the greatest cause of grief. Sometimes she vainly

fancied that yet her power was such, that with the expense of one

visit, and some of her usual arts, which rarely fail, she had power to

withdraw his thoughts from heaven, and fix them all on herself again,

and to make him fly those enclosures to her more agreeable arms: but

again she wisely considered, though he might be retrieved, his fortune

was disposed of to holy uses, and could never be so. This last thought

more prevailed upon her, and had more convincing reason in it, than

all that could besides oppose her flame; for she had this wretched

prudence, even in the highest flights and passions of her love, to

have a wise regard to interest; insomuch, that it is most certain, she

refused to give herself up entirely even to _Philander_; him, whom one

would have thought nothing but perfect love, soft irresistible love,

could have compelled her to have transgressed withal, when so many

reasons contradicted her passion: how much more then ought we to

believe, that interest was the greatest motive of all her

after-passions? However, this powerful motive failed not to beget in

her all the pains and melancholies that the most violent of passions

could do: but _Brilliard_, who loved her to a greater degree than

ever, strove all he could to divert the thoughts of a grief, for which

there was no remedy; and believed, if he could get her out of

_Brussels_, retired to the little town, or rather village, where he

was first made happy, and where _Philander_ still believed her to be,

he should again re-assume that power over her heart he had before: in

this melancholy fit of hers he proposed it, urging the danger he

should be in for obeying her, should _Philander_ once come to know

that she was in _Brussels_; and that possibly she would not find so

civil a treatment as he ought to pay her, if he should come to the

knowledge of it: besides these reasons, he said, he had some of

greater importance, which he must not discover till she were withdrawn

from _Brussels_: but there needed not much to persuade her to retire,

in the humour she then was; and with no opposition on her side, she

told him, she was ready to go where he thought fit; and accordingly

the next day they departed the town, and in three more arrived to the

village. In all this journey _Brilliard_ never approached her but with

all the respect imaginable, but withal, with abundance of silent

passion: which manner of carriage obliged _Sylvia_ very often to take

notice of it, with great satisfaction and signs of favour; and as he

saw her melancholy abate, he increased in sighing and lover’s

boldnesses: yet with all this, he could not oblige her to those

returns he wished: when, after ten days’ stay, _Philander_ writ to him

to inquire of his health, and of _Sylvia_, to whom he sent a very kind

good-natured letter, but no more of the lover, than if there had never

been such a joy between them: he begged her to take care of herself,

and told her, he would be with her in ten or fifteen days; and desired

her to send him _Brilliard_, if he were not wholly necessary to her

service; for he had urgent affairs to employ him in: so that

_Brilliard_, not being able longer with any colour to defend his stay,

writ him word he would wait on him in two days; which short time he

wholly employed in the utmost endeavour to gain _Sylvia_’. favour; but

she, whose thoughts were roving on new designs, which she thought fit

to conceal from a lover, still put him off with pretended illness, and

thoughtfulness on the late melancholy object and loss of _Octavio_:

but assured him, as soon as she was recovered of that pressure, she

would receive him with the same joy she had before, and which his

person and his services merited from her; it was thus she soothed the

hoping lover, who went away with all the satisfaction imaginable,

bearing a letter from _Sylvia_ to _Philander_, written with all the

art of flattery. _Brilliard_ was no sooner gone, but _Sylvia_, whose

head ran on new adventures, resolved to try her chance; and being,

whenever she pleased, of a humour very gay, she resolved upon a

design, in which she could trust no body but her page, who loved his

lady to the last degree of passion, though he never durst shew it even

in his looks or sighs; and yet the cunning _Sylvia_ had by chance

found his flame, and would often take delight to torture the poor

youth, to laugh at him: she knew he would die to serve her, and she

durst trust him with the most important business of her life: she

therefore the next morning sends for him to her chamber, which she

often did, and told him her design; which was, in man’s clothes to go

back to _Brussels_, and see if they could find any adventures by the

way that might be worth the journey, and divert them: she told him she

would trust him with all her secrets; and he vowed fidelity. She bid

him bring her a suit of those clothes she used to wear at her first

arrival at _Holland_, and he looked out one very fine, and which she

had worn that day she went to have been married to _Octavio_, when the

_States’. messengers took her up for a _French_ spy, a suit

_Philander_ had never seen: she equips herself, and leaving in charge

with _Antonet_ what to say in her absence, and telling her she was

going upon a frolic to divert herself a day or two; she, accompanied

by her page only, took horse and made away towards _Brussels_: you

must know, that the half-way stage is a very small village, in which

there is most lamentable accommodation, and may vie with any part of

_Spain_ for bad inns. _Sylvia_, not used much to riding as a man, was

pretty well tired by that time she got to one of those _hotels_; and,

as soon as she alighted, she went to her chamber to refresh and cool

herself; and while the page was gone to the kitchen to see what there

was to eat, she was leaning out of the window, and looking on the

passengers that rode along, many of which took up in the same house.

Among them that alighted, there was a very handsome young gentleman,

appearing of quality, attended only by his page. She considered this

person a little more than the rest, and finding him so unaccompanied,

had a curiosity, natural to her, to know who he was: she ran to

another window that looked into the yard, a kind of balcony, and saw

him alight, and look at her; and saluted her in passing into the

kitchen, seeing her look like a youth of quality: coming in, he saw

her page, and asked if he belonged to that young cavalier in

the gallery; the page told him he did: and being asked who he was,

he told him he was a young nobleman of _France_; a stranger to all

those parts, and had made an escape from his tutors; and said he was

of a humour never to be out of his way; all places being alike to him

in those little adventures. So leaving him (with yet a greater

curiosity) he ran to _Sylvia_, and told her what had passed between

the young stranger and him: while she, who was possessed with the same

inquisitive humour, bid him inquire who he was; when the master of the

_hotel_ coming in the interim up to usher in her supper, she inquired

of him who that young stranger was; he told her, one of the greatest

persons in _Flanders_; that he was nephew to the Governor, and who had

a very great equipage at other times; but that now he was _incognito_,

being on an intrigue: this intrigue gave _Sylvia_ new curiosity; and

hoping the master would tell him again, she fell into great praises of

his beauty and his mien; which for several reasons pleased the man of

the inn, who departed with the good news, and told every word of it to

the young cavalier: the good man having, besides the pleasing him with

the grateful compliments, a farther design in the relation; for his

house being very full of persons of all sorts, he had no lodgings for

the Governor’s nephew, unless he could recommend him to our young

cavalier. The gay unknown, extremely pleased with the character he had

given him by so beautiful a gentleman, and one who appeared of so much

quality, being alone, and knowing he was so also, sent a _Spanish_

page, that spoke very good _French_, and had a handsome address, and

quick wit, to make his compliment to the young _Monsieur_; which was

to beg to be admitted to sup with him; who readily accepted the

honour, as she called it; and the young Governor, whom we must call

_Alonzo_, for a reason or two, immediately after entered her chamber,

with an admirable address, appearing much handsomer near, than at a

distance, though even then he drew _Sylvia_’. eyes with admiration on

him: there were a thousand young graces in his person, sweetnesses in

his face, love and fire in his eyes, and wit on his tongue: his

stature was neither tall nor low, very well made and fashioned; a

light-brown hair, hazel eyes, and a very soft and amorous air; about

twenty years of age: he spoke very good _French_; and after the first

compliments on either side were over, as on such occasions are

necessary; in which on both sides were nothing but great expressions

of esteem, _Sylvia_ began so very well to be pleased with the fair

stranger, that she had like to have forgot the part she was to act,

and have made discoveries of her sex, by addressing herself with the

modesty and blushes of a woman: but _Alonzo_, who had no such

apprehension, though she appeared with much more beauty than he

fancied ever to have seen in a man, nevertheless admired, without

suspecting, and took all those signs of effeminacy to unassured youth,

and first address; and he was absolutely deceived in her. _Alonzo_’.

supper being brought up, which was the best the bad inn afforded, they

sat down, and all the supper time talked of a thousand pleasant

things, and most of love and women, where both expressed abundance of

gallantry for the fair sex. _Alonzo_ related many short and pleasant

accidents and amours he had had with women.

Though the stranger were by birth a _Spaniard_; yet, while they

discoursed the glass was not idle, but went as briskly about, as if

_Sylvia_ had been an absolute good fellow. _Alonzo_ drinks his and his

mistress’s health, and _Sylvia_ returned the civility, and so on, till

three bottles were sacrificed to love and good humour; while she, at

the expense of a little modesty, declared herself so much of the

opinion of _Don Alonzo_, for gay inconstancy, and the blessing of

variety, that he was wholly charmed with a conversation so agreeable

to his own. I have heard her page say, from whom I have had a great

part of the truths of her life, that he never saw _Sylvia_ in so

pleasant a humour all his life before, nor seemed so well pleased,

which gave him, her lover, a jealousy that perplexed him above any

thing he had ever felt from love; though he durst not own it. But

_Alonzo_ finding his young companion altogether so charming (and in

his own way too) could not forbear very often from falling upon his

neck, and kissing the fair disguised, with as hearty an ardour, as

ever he did one of the other sex: he told her he adored her; she was

directly of his principle, all gay, inconstant, galliard and roving,

and with such a gusto, he commended the joys of fickle youth, that

_Sylvia_ would often say, she was then jealous of him, and envious of

those who possessed him, though she knew not whom. The more she looked

on him, and heard him speak, the more she fancied him: and wine that

warmed her head, made her give him a thousand demonstrations of love,

that warmed her heart; which he mistook for friendship, having

mistaken her sex. In this fit of beginning love (which is always the

best) and jealousy, she bethought her to ask him on what adventure he

had now been; for he being without his equipage, she believed, she

said, he was upon some affair of love: he told her there was a lady,

within an hour’s riding of that place, of quality, and handsome, very

much courted: amongst those that were of the number of her adorers, he

said, was a young man of quality of _France_, who called himself

_Philander_: this _Philander_ had been about eight days very happy in

her favour, and had happened to boast his good fortune the next night

at the Governor’s table, where he dined with the Prince _Cesario_. ‘I

told him,’ continued _Alonzo_, ‘that the person he so boasted of, had

so soon granted him the favour, that I believed she was of a humour to

suffer none to die at her feet: but this,’ said he, ‘_Philander_

thought an indignity to his good parts, and told me, he believed he

was the only man happy in her favour, and that could be so: on this I

ventured a wager, at which he coloured extremely, and the company

laughed, which incensed him more; the Prince urged the wager, which

was a pair of _Spanish_ horses, the best in the Court, on my side,

against a discretion on his: this odds offered by me incensed him yet

more; but urged to lay, we ended the dispute with the wager, the best

conclusion of all controversies. He would have known what measures I

would take; I refused to satisfy him in that; I only swore him upon

honour, that he should not discover the wager, or the dispute to the

lady. The next day I went to pay her a visit, from my aunt, the

Governor’s lady, and she received me with all the civility in the

world. I seemed surprised at her beauty, and could talk of nothing but

the adoration I had for her, and found her extremely pleased, and

vain; of which feeble resistance I made so good advantage, that before

we parted, being all alone, I received from her all the freedoms, that

I could with any good manners be allowed the first time; she firing me

with kisses, and suffering my closest embraces. Having prospered so

well, I left her for that time, and two days after I made my visit

again; she was a married lady, and her husband was a _Dutch_ Count,

and gone to a little government he held under my uncle, so that again

I found a free admittance; I told her, it was my aunt’s compliment I

brought before, but that now it was my own I brought, which was that

of an impatient heart, that burnt with a world of fire and flame, and

nonsense. In fine, so eager I was, and so pressing for something more

than dull kissing, that she began to retire as fast as she advanced

before, and told me, after abundance of pressing her to it, that she

had set a price upon her beauty, and unless I understood how to

purchase her, it was not her fault if I were not happy. At first I so

little expected it had been money, that I reiterated my vows, and

fancied it was the assurance of my heart she meant; but she very

frankly replied, “Sir, you may spare your pains, and five hundred

pistoles will ease you of a great deal of trouble, and be the best

argument of your love.” This generous conscientious humour of hers, of

suffering none to die that had five hundred pistoles to present for a

cure, was very good news to me, and I found I was not at all obliged

to my youth or beauty, but that a man with half a nose, or a single

eye, or that stunk like an old _Spaniard_ that had dined on rotten

cheese and garlic, should have been equally as welcome for the

aforesaid sum, to this charming insensible. I must confess, I do not

love to chaffer for my pleasure, it takes off the best part of it; and

were I left to my own judgement of its worth, I should hardly have

offered so sneaking a sum; but that sort of bargaining, was her

humour, and to enjoy her mind, though she had strangely palled me by

this management of the matter: all I had now to do, was to appoint my

night, and bring my money; now was a very proper time for it, her

husband being absent: I took my leave of her, infinitely well pleased

to have gained my point on any terms, with a promise to deliver myself

there the next night: but she told me, she had a brother to come

to-morrow, whom she would not have see me, and for that reason (being

however not willing to delay the receiving her pistoles) she desired I

would wait at this very house ‘till a footman should give me notice

when to come; accordingly I came, and sent her a billet, that I waited

prepared at all points; and she returned me a billet to this purpose;

that her brother with some relations being arrived, as she expected,

she begged for her honour’s sake, that I would wait till she sent,

which should be as soon as they were gone to their chambers; and they,

having rid a long journey, would early retire; that she was impatient

of the blessing, and should be as well prepared as himself, and that

she would leave her woman _Letitia_ to give me admittance.----This

satisfied me very well; and as I attended her, some of my acquaintance

chanced to arrive; with whom I supped, and took so many glasses to her

health as it passed down, that I was arrived at a very handsome pitch,

and to say truth, was as full of _Bacchus_ as of _Venus_. However, as

soon as her footman arrived, I stole away, and took horse, and by that

time it was quite dark arrived at her house, where I was led in by a

young maid, whose habit was very neat and clean, and she herself

appeared to my eyes, then dazzling with wine, the most beautiful young

creature I had ever seen, as in truth she was; she seemed all modesty,

and blushing innocence; so that conducting me into a low parlour,

while she went to tell her lady I was come, who lay ready dressed in

all the magnificences of night-dress to receive me, I sat

contemplating on this fair young maid, and no more thought of her lady

than of _Bethlehem Gaber_. The maid soon returned, and curtseying,

told me, with blushes on her face, that her lady expected me; the

house was still as sleep, and no noise heard, but the little winds

that rushed among the jessamine that grew at the window; now whether

at that moment, the false light in the room, or the true wine deceived

me, I know not; but I beheld this maid as an angel for beauty, and

indeed I think she had all the temptations of nature. I began to kiss

her, and she to tremble and blush; yet not so much out of fear, as

surprise and shame at my address. I found her pleased with my vows,

and melting at my kisses; I sighed in her bosom, which panted me a

welcome there; that bosom whiter than snow, sweeter than the nosegay

she had planted there. She urged me faintly to go to her lady, who

expected me, and I swore it was for her sake I came (whom I never saw)

and that I scorned all other beauties: she kindled at this, and her

cheeks glowed with love. I pressed her to all I wished; but she

replied, she was a maid, and should be undone. I told her, I would

marry her, and swore it with a thousand oaths; she believed, and grew

prettily fond----In fine, at last she yielded to all I asked of her,

which we had scarce recovered when her lady rung. I could not stir,

but she who feared a surprise ran to her, and told her, I was gone

into the garden, and would come immediately; she hastens down again to

me, fires me anew, and pleased me anew; it was thus I taught a longing

maid the first lesson of sin, at the price of fifty pistoles, which I

presented her; nor could I yet part from this young charmer, but

stayed so long, that her lady rung a silver bell again; but my new

prize was so wholly taken up with the pleasure of this new amour, and

the good fortune arrived to her, she heard not the bell, so that the

fair deceived put on her night-gown and slippers, and came softly down

stairs, and found my new love and I closely embracing, with all the

passion and fondness imaginable. I know not what she saw in me in that

kind moment to her woman, or whether the disappointment gave her a

greater desire, but it is most certain she fell most desperately in

love with me, and scorning to take notice of the indignity I put upon

her, she unseen stole to her chamber; where, after a most afflicting

night, she next morning called her woman to her (whom I left towards

morning, better pleased with my fifty pistoles worth of beauty, than I

should have been with that of five hundred): the maid, whose guilt

made her very much unassured, approached her lady with such

tremblings, as she no longer doubted but she was guilty, but durst not

examine her about it, lest she, who had her honour in keeping, should,

by the discovery she found she had made of her levity, expose that of

her lady. She therefore dissembled as well as she could, and examined

her about my stay; to which the maid answered, I had fallen asleep,

and it was impossible to awake me ‘till day appeared; when for fear of

discovery I posted away. This, though the lady knew was false, she was

forced to take for current excuse; and more raging with love than

ever, she immediately dispatched away her footman with a letter to me,

upbraiding me extremely; but, at the same time, inviting me with all

the passion imaginable; and, because I should not again see my young

mistress, who was dying in love with me, she appointed me to meet her

at a little house she had, a bow-shot from her own, where was a fine

decoy, and a great number of wild-fowl kept, which her husband took

great delight in; there I was to wait her coming; where lived only a

man and his old wife, her servants: I was very glad of this

invitation, and went; she came adorned with all her charms.