_The Same to the Same_
_Cosenza_
Alas, my friend, the greatest sublunary happiness is not untinged with
misfortune. I have no right however to exclaim. The misfortune to which
I am subject, however nearly it may affect me, makes no alteration in
the substance of my destiny. I still trust that I shall call my Matilda
mine. I still trust to have long successive years of happiness. And can
a mortal blessed as I, dare to complain? Can I give way to lamentation
and sorrow? Yes, my Rinaldo. The cloud will quickly vanish, but such is
the fate of mortals. The events, which, when sunk in the distant past,
affect us only with a calm regret, in the moment in which they overtake
us, overwhelm us with sorrow.
I mentioned in my last, that the disorder of the duke of Benevento was
succeeded by a feebleness and languor that did not at first greatly
alarm us. It however increased daily, and was attended with a kind of
listlessness and insensibility that his physicians regarded as a very
dangerous symptom. Almost the only marks he discovered of perception and
pleasure, were in the attendance of the adorable Matilda. Repeatedly
at intervals he seized her trembling hand, and pressed it to his dying
lips.
As the symptoms of feebleness increased upon him incessantly, he was
soon obliged to confine himself to his chamber. After an interval of
near ten days he became more clear and sensible. He called several of
his servants into the room, and gave them directions which were to be
executed after his decease. He then sent to desire that I would attend
him. His daughter was constantly in his chamber. He took both our hands
and joining them together, bowed over them his venerable head, and
poured forth a thousand prayers for our mutual felicity. We were
ourselves too much affected to be able to thank him for all his
tenderness and attention.
By these exertions, and the affection with which they were mingled,
the spirits and strength of the duke were much exhausted. He almost
immediately fell into a profound sleep. But as morning approached, he
grew restless and disturbed. Every unfavourable symptom appeared. A
stroke still more violent than the preceding seized him, and he expired
in about two hours.
Thus terminated a life which had been in the highest degree exemplary
and virtuous. In the former part of it, this excellent man distinguished
himself much in the service of his country, and engaged the affection
and attachment of his prince. He was respected by his equals, and adored
by the soldiery. His humanity was equally conspicuous with his courage.
When he left the public service for his retirement at this place, he did
not forget his former engagements, and his connexion with the army.
It is not perhaps easy for a government to make a complete and ample
provision for those poor men whose most vigorous years were spent in
defending their standard. Certain it is that few governments attend to
this duty in the degree in which they ought, and a wide field is left
for the benevolence of individuals. This benevolence was never more
largely and assiduously exhibited than by the duke of Benevento. He
provided for many of those persons of whose fidelity and bravery he had
been an eyewitness, in the most respectable offices in his family, and
among his retinue. Those for whom he could not find room in these
ways he gratified with pensions. He afforded such as were not yet
incapacitated for labour, the best spur to an honest industry, the
best solace under fatigue and toil, that of being assured that their
decrepitude should never stand in need of the simple means of comfort
and subsistence.
It may naturally be supposed that the close of a life crowded with deeds
of beneficence, the exit of a man whose humanity was his principal
feature, was succeeded by a very general sorrow. Among his domestics
there appeared an universal gloom and dejection. His peasants and his
labourers lamented him as the best of masters, and the kindest of
benefactors. His pensionaries wept aloud, and were inconsolable for the
loss of him, in whom they seemed to place all their hopes of comfort and
content.
You might form some idea of the sorrow of the lovely Matilda amidst this
troop of mourners, if I had been able to convey to you a better idea of
the softness and gentleness of her character. As the family had been
for some years composed only of his grace and herself, her circle of
acquaintance has never been extensive. Her father was all the world to
her. The duke had no enjoyment but in the present felicity and future
hopes of his daughter. The pleasures of Matilda were centered in the
ability she possessed of soothing the infirmities, and beguiling the
tedious hours of her aged parent.
There is no virtue that adds so noble a charm to the finest traits of
beauty, as that which exerts itself in watching over the tranquility of
an aged parent. There are no tears that give so noble a lustre to the
cheek of innocence, as the tears of filial sorrow. Oh, my Rinaldo! I
would not exchange them for all the pearls of Arabia, I would not barter
them for the mines of Golconda. No, amiable Matilda, I will not check
thy chaste and tender grief. I prize it as the pledge of my future
happiness. I esteem it as that which raises thee to a level with angelic
goodness. Hence, thou gross and vulgar passion! that wouldst tempt me
to kiss away the tears from her glowing cheeks. I will not soil their
spotless purity. I will not seek to mix a thought of me with a sentiment
not unworthy of incorporeal essences.
I shall continue at this place to regulate the business of the funeral.
I shall endeavour to put all the affairs of the lovely heiress into a
proper train. I will then wait upon my dear marquis at his palace in
Naples. For a few weeks, a few tedious weeks, I will quit the daily
sight and delightful society of my amiable charmer. At the expiration of
that term I shall hope to set out with my Rinaldo for his villa at
this place. Every thing is now in considerable forwardness, and will
doubtless by that time be prepared for your reception.