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DON SEBASTIAN;
OR,
THE HOUSE OF BRAGANZA.
J. M‘CREERY, Printer,
Black-Horse-Court, Fleet-Street, London.
DON SEBASTIAN;
OR,
THE HOUSE OF BRAGANZA.
AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
BY MISS ANNA MARIA PORTER.
AUTHOR OF THE HUNGARIAN BROTHERS.
Take Physic, Pomp!
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
So shalt thou shake the superflux to them,
And shew the Heavens more just.
KING LEAR.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, AND ORME,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
1809.
PREFACE.
The name of Don Sebastian immediately recals to every historical
reader, a character, which youth, faults, virtues, and misfortunes,
have rendered highly interesting: I selected such a one for my Hero,
from the wish of shewing how “sweet are the uses of adversity.”
If I may be so fortunate as to instruct and to amuse at the same time,
the utmost of my literary ambition will be gratified.
It has been my aim to keep as close to historical records, as was
consistent with a work wherein imagination is allowed to make up for
the deficiencies of actual tradition. In some places I have been
obliged to antedate an event, and to mix other motives of action with
such as were avowed by the persons then acting on the great theatre
of Europe; but I have scrupulously avoided slandering the illustrious
dead, and am not conscious of having materially altered any well-known
portrait.
Some readers may be offended or wearied with the frequent use which I
have made of religious tenets; to them I can only offer one apology;--I
had no other way of reconciling the conduct of Catholic powers,
with what I have been obliged to suppose, their conviction of Don
Sebastian’s identity when he re-appeared at Venice; and as his chief
calamity was the product of a bigotted attachment to the doctrines
of Rome, I could scarcely make that calamity effect the necessary
revolution in his general character, without changing also the nature
of his religious opinions.
In my delineation of countries, manners, &c. I have endeavoured to give
as faithful a picture as was possible to one who describes after the
accounts of others; I consulted the voyages and tours of those days; so
that the modern traveller, in journeying with me over Barbary, Persia,
and Brazil, must recollect that he is beholding those countries as they
appeared in the sixteenth century.
By accident, I met with an ancient work upon South America, in which
was the following sentence: “twelve leagues southward from St.
Salvador, appears the village of Cachoeira, formerly belonging to an
unknown Portuguese, who took great pains in reforming the savage people
Guaymures to a civil life.” This hint suggested to me the idea of
making the Portuguese, and my principal character, the same person.
I am told that there has been a novel written in French on the same
story, which forms the ground work of mine, but I have not seen it.
The materials with which I have worked, have been drawn from general
history, accounts of particular periods, the Harleian Miscellany, and
a curious old tract published in 1602, containing the letters of
Texere, De Castro, and others, with minute details of the conduct and
sufferings of the mysterious personage concerning whom it treats.
I trust the candid reader will excuse many defects in this romance,
when he considers how long was the space of time to be filled up with
events solely imaginary, and which it was indispensable so to occupy,
as to unite facts and to give the whole the semblance of probability:
he will reflect also how difficult it was for me to find any historical
action of sufficient weight and brilliancy, with which I might have
earlier concluded the adventures of Sebastian.
If my unpresuming work should disappoint the reader, he must suffer me
to assure him that neither diligence in obtaining information, and
selecting circumstances, nor industry in using them, has been spared. I
may fail from want of ability, but not from want of application.
_August, 1809._
INTRODUCTION.
Never has the pen of history had to record a more affecting event, than
that which bore the house of Braganza to another hemisphere: animated
by a noble disdain of submitting to foreign despotism, and bravely
placing his country, not in the land of Portugal, but in the hearts of
her people, the Prince Regent conquered in adversity, and triumphed
even at the moment of despair.
Like the pious Eneas, who snatched from the flames of Troy, his father
and his household Gods, he hastened to save some relics of Portugal;
he hastened to embark his family and their adherents on board the
national fleet; to launch with them on the hitherto untried deep, and
to lead them under the protection of Great Britain, to found a new
empire in a new world.
It was on the morning of the 29th of November, 1807, that these patriot
emigrants quitted the bay of Lisbon; they looked back on their forsaken
capital, with emotions too strong and too complicated for description:
every individual had left behind him some aged, or infirm, or timid
relative, whom it was agony to abandon, and whom he quitted with the
conviction of never seeing again; the scenes of their childhood, their
vineyards, and their cities, nay even the shores of their native land,
were never more to gladden their eyes!
A solemn pause had followed the noise and distraction of their
embarkation; Lisbon was motionless: profound stillness, like that
silence which surrounds the death bed of a mother, rested within her
walls: every heart felt its impression.
Advancing with majestic slowness down the Tagus, the Portuguese fleet
crossed the bar, and entered between the lines formed by the navy of
England: the cannons of the two fleets answered each other; the sounds,
doubled and redoubled by numerous echoes, were prolonged after the
smoke had cleared away, and discovered the ships of Portugal and of
Britain mingled together on the Atlantic ocean.
Having exchanged gratulation and farewel with the Embassador and the
gallant Admiral of the friendly squadron, the Prince Regent gave a
last, long look to Portugal, and forcibly tore himself from the deck of
his vessel. In the cabin, he found part of the royal family yielding
themselves up to regret and anxiety: he suffered them to weep without
interruption, till the moment in which lamentation made a pause; he
then took the united hands of his daughter, and of his nephew, the
Prince of Spain, and pressing them within his own, held them with a
look, serious, sad, yet collected.
“Let us dry our tears,” he said; “let us bravely submit to our fate,
and bless God for having allowed us to retain that which ennobles
every situation--Freedom!--We go, my children, to seek a new world;
to found there a new empire; it belongs to us to stamp the future
character of an unborn nation:--May we feel the gratitude of such
responsibility!--As our example shall persuade, as our authority shall
impel, so will vice or virtue prevail in Trans-atlantic Portugal; her
existence, her expansion, her dignity, her immortality, depend upon
her princes and nobles. Be this truth engraven on your hearts! may its
awful voice resound for ever in your ears, influencing your lives to
the exercise of all the social duties.”
Among the state treasures, I have preserved one most precious; ’tis the
history of an illustrious ancestor, more unfortunate than ourselves,
but for whom misfortune was a blessing.
“We will read this MSS together; the style and the arrangement may
offend a nice judgment, because they are the production of an humble
pen; but the story itself is interesting, and the character of our
ancestor may serve as an important lesson to ourselves: compose your
spirits my dear children--listen to me with attention.”
While the Prince was speaking, he drew from his breast a large roll
of written paper, and after such of his family, as were present, had
seated themselves eagerly around him, he read in a voice somewhat
agitated by late emotion, the following narrative.
DON SEBASTIAN,
OR
THE HOUSE OF BRAGANZA.
CHAP. I.
On the 12th of January, 1554, Juan, prince of Portugal, breathed his
last, in the palace of Ribera, at Lisbon.
At that sad moment grief and dismay seized the hearts of his royal
parents; as they alternately clasped his senseless clay in their arms,
and thought of all he had been, they almost forgot their hope of soon
possessing a memorial of his fair-promising youth.
Ignorant of her husband’s danger, his young consort had been removed to
the palace of Xabregas, in the suburbs; there, while he was struggling
between life and death, she was impatiently awaiting the hour which was
to bless her with the first pledge of their happiness and their love.
Under such circumstances the concealment of prince Juan’s death became
an act of necessity; at least as it regarded the princess, whose life,
and that of her unborn infant, would have been risked by a disclosure.
She was now tenderly deceived by all around her; the King and Queen
painfully dissembling their affliction visited her as usual, daily
bringing with them little billets from their son, whose anxious love
had early foreseen and provided against this trying occasion. He had
left behind him several letters without dates, expressive of the
fondest attachment, and pathetically lamenting the slow progress of
his recovery, which alone kept him from her society: he had ordered
these to be given her from time to time, until she should have safely
brought into the world another heir to the crown of Portugal: after
that period deception was to cease.
Soothed by this sweet error the young princess yielded to the desire
of her royal parents, that she should not attempt returning to Ribera
before the birth of her child: she yielded with tears, but they were
not tears of apprehension; she wept only because her situation denied
her the tender office of watching her husband’s returning health. Again
and again she read his letters, again and again she dwelt on their
blissful meeting, when she should have an infant to present him with:
happily unconscious that the husband and the father, the young and
beauteous prince, was laid at rest for ever, in the grave!
Lisbon became now a scene of hope and sorrow. Lamentations for one
beloved prince was mixed with anxiety for the birth of another:
solemn fasts were ordained, vows offered, pilgrimages undertaken,
processions made. On the eighth day after Juan’s decease, at the dead
of the night preceding the feast of St. Sebastian, all the religious
orders in Portugal were seen headed by the archbishop, and cardinal
Henry, walking in awful silence, barefooted and dejected, bearing in
their hands mourning torches to light them on their way to the grand
church of Bethlehem: there mass for the soul of their departed prince
was celebrated, with all the pomp of that church which affects and
overwhelms the heart by its powerful appeal to the senses. Images,
relics, incense, music, all contributed to heighten pity and grief
into madness: groans and prayers were for awhile the only sounds heard
mingling with the wailing tones of the organ: at length even these
ceased, and the priests and the people remained in silence prostrate
before the host.
At that moment a shout from the multitude without, broke the solemn
pause; the next instant this cry was heard--“a Prince! a Prince is
born!” The whole mass of suppliants started from the earth; the organ
burst into a loud swell; the priests and the people joined their
voices; and the dome of the cathedral rang with hymns and thanksgiving.
Thus in the midst of national hopes and fears was born the heir of
Portugal. His grand-uncle, the cardinal Don Henry, soon afterwards
named him Sebastian, in honor of the saint’s day upon which he was
given to their prayers; and then rejoicings and illuminations took
place all over the kingdom.
When the princess Joanna’s safety was thoroughly ascertained, the
mournful task of preparing her to hear the account of her husband’s
death was undertaken by the Queen: she gradually presented less
cheering letters from her son; till at length venturing to pronounce
the fatal truth, she called upon the princess to live for her child and
them. Joanna heard not these exhortations: she swooned repeatedly;
reviving only to call, with frantic cries, upon him whose “ear was now
stopped with dust.”
From that hour no human effort availed to comfort her: scarcely
sixteen, this heaviest of all mortal sorrows was the first suffering
her heart had known: even her infant son, though she loved him to
agony, failed to reanimate her hopes: as she held him in her arms
she would bathe him in tears and think but the more of his father. A
curtain of adamant had fallen between her and the world: she felt it;
and fearful of being urged into new engagements hereafter, determined
upon withdrawing to the sanctuary of a religious profession.
While the widowed princess was inwardly revolving how best to compass
this melancholy desire, she was summoned into Spain by her brother
Philip II., then just setting out for Flanders to negociate his
nuptials with Mary of England. By accepting the regency during his
absence, she hoped to find an opportunity for tranquillizing her mind
previous to a renunciation of all sublunary ties; and trusted, that
when far from the scene of past happiness and future anxiety--when
removed from the afflicting pleasure of her infant’s smiles, she might
succeed in giving up her whole soul to Christ and God. Aware of the
opposition which would be made to this resolution in Portugal, the
princess confined it to her own breast; but while she took an affecting
leave of the King and Queen, could not refrain from exclaiming--“O
my parents! we shall never meet again.” These words were at the time
ascribed to the forebodings of a heart which believed itself breaking,
but were afterwards remembered as proofs of a steadily pursued
resolution.
From her child the youthful mother tore herself with difficulty: in
the midst of its innocent endearments, she felt that all delightful
emotions had not been buried with her husband. For the first time her
heart whispered that she was not utterly desolate, since she had yet
something precious to relinquish.
Melted from her purpose, trembling, and bathed in tears, Joanna sunk
upon a seat: “Ah, my child!” she exclaimed, straining it to her
breast--“how can I leave thee to see thee no more?”
The King and Queen not venturing to speak, folded their arms around
her: their tremulous, yet strong pressure, spoke a joyful hope of
detaining her: at that instant she raised her eyes, overflowing with
consent; but they fell on the picture of Juan drawn in his bridal
habit. At this piercing sight, she shrieked, covered her face, wildly
repeating--“O no, no; I shall but love him and lose him too.”
Impressed with this sudden dread of living to witness the premature
death of her son, the princess broke from every attempt to detain her,
and hurried through the palace. Her retinue waited at the gates: she
threw herself into a carriage, and amidst guards and attendants left
Portugal never to return.
A destroying angel seemed at this period to be commissioned for the
affliction of that unhappy country. The death of prince Juan had been
followed by the voluntary departure of his interesting widow; and
regret for the last misfortune, was absorbed in grief for the loss of
Louis, Duke de Beja, brother to the King: the King himself, sinking
under sorrow and sickness, shortly afterwards terminated his exemplary
life, leaving a monarch of three years old, whose long minority
threatened many political calamities.
The Queen now unwillingly undertook the regency, a task imposed on
her by her late husband. For awhile she administered the laws, and
guided public measures, with a wise and impartial spirit: but at
length wearied with groundless animadversions, she grew timid of her
own counsels, and gladly transferred the reins of government into the
hands of cardinal Henry.
The new regent possessed much ability, and more integrity; but he was
a prelate of the church of Rome, and thought less of instructing his
young sovereign in the art of governing well, than of teaching him to
revere and defend all the superstitions of popery. He confided him to
the care of four preceptors: two of these were zealous Jesuits, and
were charged with his spiritual education: the others were noblemen of
distinguished reputation, who were to instruct their prince in history,
philosophy, and moral exercises.
Don Alexes de Meneses, the first of these nobles, was allied to the
Italian family of Medici, and had been nurtured at Florence, under
their auspices, in the newly-discovered learning of the ancients:
having a genius for active scenes, he devoured with avidity the works
of their historians and poets, while he coldly perused the peaceful
theories of their philosophers. He came therefore to the task of
education, with no other aim than that of making his pupil a conqueror.
His coadjutor, Gonzalez de Camera, facilitated this aim. He had served
in the wars of Germany, under Sebastian’s maternal grandfather, Charles
V., and though no longer young, talked with youthful ardor of battles,
and sieges, and victories. He failed not to paint every virtue in the
justest colours; but when he spoke of those which brighten the crown of
a hero, his language set his hearer in a blaze.
That rapid, that resistless eloquence, which rouses the passions and
impels the will, was ever at his command: he could touch every spring
of the human heart. Sebastian’s soon learned to move solely at his
direction.
From such governors the character of the young monarch received an
impetus which was fatal to its excellence. Nature had given him an
excess of sensibility, requiring the rein rather than the spur; his
virtues were of themselves too much inclined to tread a precipice: had
he fallen into the hands of men of calmer feelings, and cooler heads,
he might have risen with steady wing to the empyreal height of true
glory: as it was, he became the prey of passion, and the slave of error.
Years now rolled away: Portugal gradually recovered from her domestic
losses, and began to anticipate with eagerness the end of her young
sovereign’s minority: the regent himself panted for a more tranquil
station; and Don Sebastian burned to seize the sceptre Providence
had destined him to wield. At the age appointed by law, this was
voluntarily resigned to him.
The young monarch’s coronation was as magnificent as his spirit: all
the riches of the new world, the gold of Mexico, the diamonds of
Brazil, the pearls of Ormutz, were displayed on the persons of the
nobility. Their very horses, proudly pranced under housings of cloth of
gold and precious stones.
As the long procession passed from the palace to the cathedral, crouds
of spectators lining the streets and windows, easily distinguished
their prince by the superior nobleness of his air. In the very
flower of his youth Sebastian appeared mounted on a white Arabian,
the trappings of which were studded with rubies: his own ornaments
were few: the order of Christus, alone sparkled in brilliants upon
his majestic chest; the rest of his dress merely displayed without
seeking to decorate the symmetry of his figure. While passing one of
his minister’s houses, some ladies showered flowers upon him from a
balcony: at this act of female gallantry, he checked his horse, and
looking up, lifted off his hat. The air was immediately rent with
“Long live our King, Sebastian!” His enchanting smile, the still
sweeter smile of his eyes, his animated complexion and ingenuous
countenance, seemed to promise a character which intoxicated the
people: they shouted again, when again smiling with as much gaiety as
graciousness, he threw away his hat, and rode forward uncovered. From
that moment he became their idol. Such is the effect of youth, beauty,
and urbanity, in high stations!
At the gate of the cathedral, the cardinal Henry, attended by the
archbishop of Lisbon, and the rest of the clergy, received the King:
he was then conducted into the body of the church, where the three
estates took the oaths of fidelity, and the crown was placed on his
head. Immediately after, Sebastian went to the monastery, where his
illustrious grandmother now lived retired, in order to receive her
blessing, and to express a dutiful sense of her past kindness: he then
returned to his palace, where he directly assumed the functions of
royalty.
The first acts of the young monarch’s government were calculated
to inspirit the Portuguese: his administration of justice was so
impartial, that not even those who suffered by this impartiality,
ventured a complaint: neither friend nor enemy expected from him the
least bias on their side. In his domestic relations he was generous and
forgiving; but in his public character, inflexible. By presenting the
court of judicature with a copy of the laws, abridged and transcribed
by himself, he early informed his people that nothing was so valuable
in his eyes as their rights.
Sebastian displayed much magnificence in his court, and infinite
liberality in his gifts; yet, he was not censurable for extravagance.
By giving splendor to his own appointments, he believed himself
honoring the nation over which he reigned; and by rewarding talents,
he gratified a munificent spirit, while he secured important services
to the community.
Impressed with an exalted notion of the _divine right_ of Kings, he
would not hear that authority questioned; though indeed, he prized
absolute power, for the sake of being enabled by it to succour and to
bless others. Too keenly alive to the impressions made by his tutors,
some thirst for distinction as a warlike King, insensibly mixed with
this laudable motive: religious prejudices united to stimulate him; and
the voice of glory resounding from the depths of time, at once invited
and commanded him to seize a crown of imperishable structure.
His head was soon filled by visions of future greatness, and his heart
fired with holy zeal: he meditated the conquest and the conversion
of half the globe. To conquer from the mere mania for dominion,
was abhorrent even to him who felt that war would hereafter be his
element; but when he associated with the idea of conquest, the
prospect of rescuing whole nations from “the shadow of death,” from
Mahometanism or Paganism, he gave way to military enthusiasm, and daily
fired his fancy with plans of heroic enterprize.
Every thing with Sebastian was a passion: his friendships, his love
for his people; nay, his religion itself; they were each, so many
internal fires which sometimes blazed out, and desolated instead of
cherishing. But as it is said, that the most fertile regions are to be
found in the neighbourhood of volcanos, so the finest qualities were
connected in Sebastian’s nature, with a dangerous ardour. He would at
any time have sacrificed his crown, his life, or what is dearer than
life--his tenderest ties, “for the sake of adding one pulse breadth
to Christendom;” he would have denied himself any gratification, if
he believed it reprehensible in itself, or injurious to another; he
was at all times, and in all things, superior to _self_: his faults
therefore, were the sole product of the age he lived in, and the
education he had received; had he been born two centuries later, how
different might have been his character, how different his fate!
Embellished by many fine qualities, it was not wonderful that
Sebastian, though tinctured with imperiousness and impatience, should
be generally idolized: his people knew him only as a benefactor, and
they were not wise enough to foresee the evils which the rashness of
his disposition might produce.
Amongst the nobility, he lived with the freedom of gay and ingenuous
youth, trusting to the influence of his peculiar conduct for the
preservation of their respect. He shared their amusements and other
exercises, and without a single rebuke, purified their grosser habits,
by his temperate example. The spirit of Sebastian needed no effort to
rise superior to every debasing pleasure.
As yet, he knew little of the female character; but he would have
disdained himself had he believed his heart capable of loving the
bondage even of love: he could enjoy the light of beauty without
feeling its fire; and though courteous to all the ladies of his court,
was particular to none.
Shunning delicate amusements, he affected those only which render the
frame robust, and the spirit intrepid. By every bodily exercise he
continued to accomplish his personal advantages, while he steadily
fixed his eye upon the period in which those advantages of health and
strength would become important.
The first object he meditated, was an expedition to Goa, from whence
he might carry conquest and Christianity over the whole of India: but
towards so remote a country, even his governors Camera and Meneses,
declared it would be madness to turn his arms; they exhorted him to
weigh maturely the inadequacy of his present resources, and those evils
which must result to Portugal from her sovereign’s removal to such a
distance: finally, they prevailed on him to defer all military projects
till a few more years had given authority to his opinions.
Among the nobility by whom he was surrounded, Sebastian distinguished
Antonio, prior of Crato; who, though an illegitimate son of the
late Duke de Beja, was considered throughout Portugal as the King’s
acknowledged relation.
In conformity with the customs of those times, Antonio had taken the
vow of celibacy, in order to qualify him for holding the rich priory
of Crato, and the grand mastership of the knights of Malta: in other
respects he possessed nothing of the priest. Nature had endowed him
with an animating cheerfulness of disposition, to which every one
resorted for pleasure: he was liberal of his purse, liberal even to
carelessness in his judgments; naturally indolent and indifferent in
matters of importance; but capable of catching the fever of enthusiasm
from another. This last quality gave him his influence over Sebastian.
The king was flattered by the appearance of having roused Antonio from
a degrading apathy: for, indeed, except in the prior’s attachment to
him, he seemed devoid of any serious feeling. Every impression left
by beauty, by accomplishments, by goodness, by wisdom, by affairs
of the state or the church, passed off from his volatile mind, like
sand drifted by the wind. He laughed and trifled with Sebastian,
alternately delighted and provoked him, for ever beguiled him with the
prospect of improvement, and for ever disappointed him: but it was
this unsubstantial character which fixed him in Sebastian’s heart. A
character which received the best impressions with the most seducing
facility, yet never retained, and always lamented them, was expressly
formed to excite partial solicitude. Antonio became by degrees his
constant companion, his most intimate confidant, and at length his
chief counsellor.
The deaths of Meneses and Camera, which happened in the course of the
same year, greatly affected Sebastian, although these events left him
more freely to the bent of his own inclination: He could now renew
his resolution of plunging into a religious war, without apprehension
of being restrained by opinions to which he was used to yield. The
habit of believing this resolution highly meritorious, had given some
imperiousness to his mode of carrying it into execution; and he could
not always conceal his disdain for such persons as represented that no
zeal for general good, should make him risk the particular good of his
own subjects. But towards Antonio, he turned with redoubled favor; for
Antonio warmly embraced the revived projects, offering to accompany
him into Africa, a country now become the object of his contemplation.
The Moors, though driven out of Spain, still continued to increase in
strength and dominion among the mountains of Barbary: they frequently
attacked the fortresses belonging to Portugal, which remained to her
upon their coast, and not only treated the prisoners made in these
engagements with extreme rigour, but terrified or seduced some of
them into the profession of their impious faith. Sebastian meditated
the destruction of this growing power: he communicated his design
to Antonio alone, who consented to become his companion in a secret
excursion to the fortress of Tangier, from whence they might gather
certain information of the nature and the resources of the Mauritanian
states.
As it was the young king’s wish to avoid controversy with his
ministers, by keeping the whole affair secret till he had reconnoitred
Africa, Don Antonio was directed to make private arrangements for their
conveyance beyond sea, while under the pretence of a hunting match,
he should draw together all the young lords likely to embrace their
enterprize.
Gallantly provided, those favorite nobles met their sovereign in the
province of Algarve, where he disclosed his project of crossing over
immediately into Africa. Smit with the phrensy of chevalric adventure,
every one consented to embark their fates with those of their King; and
rather to incur the chance of being taken prisoners by the Moors, than
shrink from danger when it might lead to glory.
They set sail in a single vessel badly manned and worse armed; but to
a band of rash young men, whose leader was still younger, and more
adventurous than themselves, even hazard had charms. After a short
voyage, they landed safely at Tangier.
Sebastian was no sooner upon African ground, than he began to prosecute
his enquiries with equal vigour and ability: he learnt the military
force and resources of the Moors, their points of weakness and of
strength, their system of war and of government, the nature of their
troops, and the topography of their country; he ransomed several
Christians who had long languished in slavery, and from their accounts
of the Moorish princes began to hope that in their contests for
supremacy, he might reap solid advantage.
Having thoroughly acquainted himself with these important subjects, the
King hastened his re-embarkation: flushed with the conviction of being
now able to bear down every cautionary suggestion of his counsellors,
by arguments drawn from actual observation of the country he was going
to invade. After a short absence he set sail again with his followers
for the shores of Portugal.
In mid sea they met and engaged a Turkish vessel. The Turk was greatly
superior in size and force; but a band of brave spirits animated into
heroes by the example of their King, were not to be conquered by common
efforts, Sebastian fought like a roused lion; he fought for the first
time; he fought for the lives and liberties of men whom his rashness
had endangered; he fought too for honour, and he fought against
infidels. After a long and fierce resistance, the Turk struck his flag,
and Sebastian ordered the ensign of the cross, to take its place. His
heart hailed an omen which promised victory over Mahomet.
Elated with conquest, the royal galliot proceeded direct for Lisbon: as
they were entering the mouth of the Tagus, a sudden storm arose, and
for some hours Sebastian beheld death approaching in a more appalling
shape than when dimly seen among the flashing of arms. But his courage
did not desert him even then: nay, it shone with steadier brightness
as the danger darkened. By remaining undismayed himself, he recalled
the energies of others. Every effort and activity were exerted; and it
proved ultimately successful: they rode out the storm in safety through
a starless night, and the next morning were seen entering the Tagus in
triumph with their prize.
The return of their beloved prince thus accompanied, circulated extreme
joy throughout Lisbon:--in his safety and his conquest, the boyish
imprudence of his conduct was forgotten, and exultation alone appeared
on the faces of the Portuguese. But alas! this exultation was quickly
swallowed up in horror; for the plague, which during the King’s absence
had appeared in several provinces, now broke out in the city, and swept
away thousands with resistless fury.
Sebastian’s strenuous exertions were applied to stop the progress of
this calamity: he refused to abandon his capital, confidently reposing
on the protection of heaven, while engaged in the performance of a
duty. Often was this youthful father of his people seen passing from
house to house, to witness the execution of the orders he issued for
the relief of his suffering subjects: often was he seen to weep over
domestic wounds, which not even the hand of a munificent prince could
heal.
When the contagion had exhausted its rage, and the few remaining
inhabitants awoke from their stupefaction, the King’s safety became a
miracle in their eyes: and Sebastian himself, recollecting his conquest
over the infidel and the tempest, believed his life preserved for some
admirable purpose.
It was with bitter regret that he now saw his African enterprize
frustrated for awhile: his dominions wasted by sickness, and enfeebled
by terror, were not capable of affording him those supplies, necessary
to success; he therefore laid aside the plan, and went with his cousin
Antonio, to recover from their fatigue and mortification among the
romantic scenes of the prior’s residence near Crato.
It was in this enchanting retreat that he was startled by a proposal
from his first minister, for his marriage with a princess of France.
Though Sebastian treated the idea of love (such as he saw it amongst
his young courtiers,) with infinite scorn, and wondered how a man’s
heart could find room for any other passion than glory, he had at this
moment a confused idea, that preference at least, was necessary to
make the marriage yoke pleasant, or light. He hastily caught up the
miniature of the lady (which had been sent with the proposal,) and
looked earnestly at it: the next instant he threw it away, exclaiming
with his usual impetuosity, “’tis a peevish, _little-souled_ face, and
I would not marry the original if she had all France for her dowry.”
Antonio took up the picture, and eyed it with some admiration--“and
pray my good, insensible cousin,” he said, “what wouldst thou
have?--here is a very pretty neck, a skin like roses and lilies,
a delicate mouth, tolerable eyes!--the princess is, I dare say, a
charming little doll, with which a man might amuse himself very
agreeably, when he had nothing else to do.”
“But I shall always have something else to do,” replied Sebastian,
“I cannot bear the thought of having a contemptible play-thing for a
wife; yet I should despise myself were I ever to be fascinated by any
woman into the servile bondage of love,--no; you must all wait _my_
time: I shall marry some day; but I swear by Heaven, not before I have
combatted the infidels on their own ground.”
“That is a very foolish vow,” observed Antonio, “and I’d have you recal
it.”
“Never!” exclaimed the King, “never!” (and while he spoke, his eyes
lightened with youthful ardour) “you know my character Antonio; it is
formed of tougher materials than yours, it does not easily bend even
to necessity. Though our exhausted country now is fainting before us,
she will revive, she will recover; and then, strong in a divine cause,
conscious of no motive beyond the love of mankind, (whose bodies these
accursed Mahometans torture in slavery, and whose souls they draw into
everlasting perdition,) I will advance under the banner of the cross,
confident of victory.--What is it I seek?--not dominion, not power,
nor the mere name of conqueror? I combat for the _eternal_ good of the
human race: I pant after no earthly honour; except indeed the proud
distinction of having extirpated the enemies of Christ.”
“That is all, very admirable, and very true, my royal cousin,” replied
the prior, “but as neither priests nor laymen can pretend to read the
will of Heaven, we must not be quite so confident of success, at least
you should conceive the possibility of your being ordained, (which God
forbid!) to fall in the very moment of triumph, purchasing with your
blood the saintly distinction to which you aspire.” The young King who
was traversing the apartment, turned quickly round at this; transported
with the dazzling thought his enthusiastic spirit blazed on his face;
he looked at his cousin with rapture. “Such a death!--Antonio, would
you not envy such a death?”
“Not in the least,” replied the prior gaily, “you must excuse me if
I pray for a very different end for us both.--But if _you_ are bent
upon thus expiring like the Phœnix amidst the cloves and cinnamon of
glory, suffer me to remind you, that Portugal will then have reason to
lament the princess of France’s peevish countenance, and her monarch’s
imprudent vow.”
Sebastian was struck with the observation: after a pause he said,
“you are right; yet I am not inclined to retract. While I study the
happiness of my people, surely it is not required of me to sacrifice
my own?--Though at this instant, I could contentedly take the vow of
celibacy to please them (if that were necessary for any good purpose,)
I do not find in myself a disposition to embitter my domestic life
merely for the sake of leaving them an heir to my crown.--I can imagine
infinite happiness with a wife suited to my taste, consonant with my
principles, and capable of catching some of my own wild-fire; and I
feel a jealous something in my breast--call it pride, call it delicacy,
what you will, but it is a sentiment of abhorrence at the thought
of cherishing a woman who would have consented to fill the arms of
any other King that might have sat on the throne of Portugal.--For
this reason I cannot, I will not marry one to whom I am personally
unknown--this is my determination, carry it to Alcoçava, and let him
manage the refusal with the customary decorum.”
After a little good-humoured raillery, Antonio prepared to set out for
Lisbon, and the King, without suffering any one to attend him, mounted
a horse and rode forth.
His spirit was disturbed by that prevalent anxiety for his marriage,
which his ministry had urged in support of their late proposal; and it
was saddened by the small prospect there was, of his being speedily
able to realize the darling wish that had grown with his growth, and
strengthened with his strength. Disinterested as he firmly believed
himself, and purely actuated by zeal for the holy faith, yet he
could not conceal from his own conscience, that a boundless ambition
of fame, had its share in regretting the delay of his purposed
expedition: the enfeebled state of his dominions had prevented him
from contributing any assistance to the grand coalition then forming
against the Turks--and the splendid success of that coalition, deepened
his chagrin. The victory of Lepanto haunted his nightly dreams; he
secretly repined at the thick laurels of Don John of Austria; painfully
contrasting that young admiral’s achievements, with his own blighted
and withering hopes.
Wearied with thought and motion, Sebastian threw himself off his horse
in a solitary spot surrounded by hills, and suffering him to graze at
will, cast himself along under a shade of cork trees; there he mused
over ten thousand new prospects of vain and impracticable enterprize.
The sultry air was cooled and perfumed by the breathing of aromatic
plants, kept in all the greenness of spring, by several rills which
trickled almost unseen beneath them; not a breeze stirred the leaves
of the cork trees, and the very birds were silent: the only sound to
be heard throughout the valley, was the lulling murmur of bees coming
to feed upon the flowers. A steady heat glowed in the air: Sebastian
cast aside his mantle and his hat, and pushed away the hair from his
forehead; all the summer burned upon his cheek, but a hotter fire, the
fever of impatience was in his heart.--By degrees the enervating warmth
overpowered him, and he sunk into sleep.
He had not reposed long, when his slumbers were dispersed by the sound
of steps and a voice; he opened his eyes; at that instant a goat
twisted with flowers, and dragging along a half finished garland,
bounded past with a suddenness which made the King start up.--The
wanton animal was swiftly followed by a young virgin, who stopt
confounded at sight of a man: part of her veil was off, and filled
with the flowers she had been employed in arranging, and a profusion
of bright golden hair, picturesquely disordered by the heat and the
pursuit, was scattered on a neck that sparkled in the sun like
alabaster. The eagerness of her feelings had heightened the lustre
of her beauty to such perfection, that Sebastian almost believed the
object before him a celestial vision. The blue glory of her eyes, the
glittering bloom of her complexion, the gracefulness of her attitude,
and the animation of her whole person, gave him for the first time in
his life a complete idea of female charms.
Abashed and surprised by an exclamation which escaped him, the fair
stranger turned blushing away, hastily endeavouring to cover herself
with her veil.
Sebastian pointed to the goat now trailing his fantastic trappings
along the ridge of a steep height--“You will not go, fair creature! he
said, till you have given me permission to attempt the recovery of yon
runaway?”
Fresh beauty was diffused over the exquisite features of the lady,
while she willingly essayed to thank him: “I have imprudently ventured
too far beyond my father’s park, she added, or you would not see
me thus unattended sir. I ought not to remain here with a stranger
perhaps, but your countenance insures me respect, and I think, I hope,
I am not wrong in accepting your services!”
The King now led her to the shade, where she seated herself, while he
ascended a neighbouring hill, and soon returned with the goat: at the
playful chiding of its lovely mistress, the little animal lay down in
seeming penitence beside her, suffering Sebastian to caress, and hold
it prisoner. The panting fatigue of Donna Gonsalva, and the peculiar
freshness of the air in the valley, afforded him a plausible excuse for
seeking to detain her: Gonsalva herself, flattered with the admiration
she inspired, was in no haste to recover. She was struck with the
noble air of her companion, and felt some womanish curiosity about his
name and rank: but Sebastian, desirous of concealing himself, without
anticipating any further acquaintance, avoided her questions. He found
from her own account, that she was the only daughter of the count
Vimiosa, (his envoy at the court of France,) and was then inhabiting
the family mansion, under the protection of a maiden aunt.
An abundance of enchanting gaiety led Gonsalva into unreserved
conversation: she rallied the King upon the solitude in which she
had found him, and with arch _naiveté_ told him she should never in
future address her saint without remembering to pray for the _gallant
solitary_. “But by what name shall I pray for him?” asked she, rising
to depart: the King hesitated; as he was born upon the eve of the
joint feast of two Saints, he believed himself entitled to the name of
either, so bid her remember him by the title of Don Fabian.
Donna Gonsalva repeated the words. “I shall not forget you; said
she, remember me, when you look at this flower, that will be just
five minutes, for it is withering now.” She threw him a lily out of
her bosom with a smile of such magic beauty, that Sebastian could
not refrain from snatching the fair hand which dropped the flower,
and printing it lightly with a kiss. Gonsalva drew away her hand in
displeasure. Would she have done so, had she known that this was the
first kiss those lips had given to beauty, and that it was the King of
Portugal who gave it?
She disappeared the next moment, leaving Sebastian endeavouring to
rally himself upon so unusual an impulse of gallantry.
The beautiful Portuguese had successfully dispersed the young monarch’s
gloom; it did not return: he loitered awhile longer in the scene where
he had beheld her, then seeking his horse, returned to Crato.
CHAP. II.
As Antonio had business to transact for the King with his cabinet, he
did not return immediately from Lisbon, and Sebastian having visited
him without any of his favorite Lords, was now thrown principally upon
his own resources for amusement. The weather was too hot for hunting or
tennis, reading stirred his ardent spirit too violently, and he was not
in the mood for general society; the next day therefore, he naturally
thought of the last day’s agreeable adventure: without absolutely
proposing to do so, he rode out again unattended.
On reaching the pass leading into the valley, he left his horse in
charge with a goatherd who was stationed there to watch some flocks,
and pursued his way on foot. The heat was moderated by a slight shower
which had refreshed the verdant landscape, and now the birds sung from
every copse: but the scene wanted the presence of Gonsalva; she was
not there. Sebastian mechanically followed the track he had seen her
take, and descending the opposite side of a steep hill, saw stretched
out before him, a luxuriant and extensive vale, in which the villa and
domain of Vimiosa, were nobly conspicuous.
Proceeding through a thicket of evergreen oaks, the King soon found
himself in a labyrinth of walks; he chose one at a venture, and fortune
destined it should lead him to the entrance of a bower, where stood the
fair subject of his thoughts, occupied in reading a letter.
At sight of him, roseate blushes succeeded by entrancing smiles, passed
over her face. “Don Fabian!” she exclaimed, “for Heaven’s sake what
brings you here?”
The question was unlucky, as it was the only one perhaps, which the
King could not answer satisfactorily to himself, he looked at her,
hesitated, felt embarrassed, and at length said timidly, “to ask
forgiveness I believe, for the fault I committed yesterday.”
Donna Gonsalva now remembered that she had left him in anger. “So then,
you have the boldness to encrease that fault by following me into a
place, where if you were to be seen, it might cost you your life;
me, my reputation and peace of mind!--for pity’s sake, do not stay
here--I expect--I expect one of my relations every instant--should he
see you--a stranger--- go, for Heaven’s sake go!”--As the beautiful
Portuguese spoke, she unconsciously grasped his arm with her hand, and
impelled him towards the mountains.
Sebastian’s heart, for the first moment in his life, throbbed with a
tender emotion, nearly a-kin to love: he understood nothing in this
speech but a desire for his preservation; and he knew himself unknown:
It was not the King of Portugal then, but an obscure stranger, whom
the daughter of the count Vimiosa was thus solicitous to save. “Ah,
charming Gonsalva,” he cried with an air of mental intoxication, “if
you are as amiable as you appear, the wishes of”--my people, he was
going to add, but checking the indiscreet expression, he finished the
sentence with a sigh.
An excess of pleasure brightened the beauty of Gonsalva; she averted
her eyes to conceal it, while she repeated an intreaty that he would
consider the impropriety of her being discovered in conversation with
a young nobleman unknown to her family. Sebastian still lingered: “you
must not refuse me another meeting!”--he said; and he said it with the
air of a man to whom command is habitual, and refusal a novelty.
“I must not!” repeated Gonsalva, laughing, “do you remember, Don
Fabian, that you are speaking to a woman--and that woman the daughter
of the count Vimiosa?--our sex are not accustomed to yield, even the
slightest favors, at the mere expression of an ardent wish; we must be
sued to submissively.”