_Kingston, Jamaica._
I pass my time agreeably enough here, though I am obliged to stay in a
boarding house till madame L---- can be fixed in her own. A few days
ago a Spanish sloop of war was captured by a British frigate, and
brought into Jamaica. The officers were suffered to land, and came to
lodge in the house where I stay. When called to dinner I was surprized
at finding myself among a group of strangers. As the mistress of the
house never dines at table, and madame L---- was abroad, I would have
retreated, but curiosity prompted me to remain.
The Spanish captain is an elderly man of most respectable appearance.
All the rest are young, full of spirits, and two of them remarkably
beautiful. Taking it for granted that I was French, and not imagining
I could understand their language, as soon as they were seated at
table they indulged very freely in their remarks on myself. One said
I was not pretty; another, that I was interesting; another, that I
resembled somebody he had seen before; and one elegant young man, who
sat next me, having brushed his arm against mine made in Spanish an
apology, which I appeared not to understand. He then asked me if I
spoke English? I shook my head; and he observed to his companions,
that he had never so much regretted his ignorance of the French. They
laughed; and he continued lamenting the impossibility of making himself
understood. After dinner I withdrew, and having been engaged by Coralie
to pass the evening at her house, I forgot the strangers, and thought
of them no more till the next morning at breakfast, where they were
all assembled, and where madame L---- related to me an adventure she
had met with the day before. She spoke English, and as I was answering
her my eyes met those of the young officer, and his look covered me
with confusion. Ah! he said, you speak English, and were cruel enough
to refuse holding converse with a stranger and a prisoner. I speak
so little, I replied. No, no, he cried, your accent is not foreign;
I could almost swear that it is your native language. He looked at
the others with an air of triumph; and the one who had said I was not
pretty, observed, that he was glad I did not speak Spanish; but I
understand it perfectly, I answered in the same language.
He looked petrified; and the old captain was delighted. He made many
inquiries after his friends at Cuba, with all of whom I was acquainted.
The young officer who speaks English, is by birth an Irishman. He
entered the Spanish service at the age of fifteen; had been several
years at Lima; had returned to Europe, and was on his way to Vera Cruz
when they were taken by the English. With him my heart claimed kindred,
for in every Irishman I fancy I behold a brother and a friend. His
manners are elegant and interesting beyond expression. There is an
appearance of sadness in his face, which heightens the interest his
fine form creates; and if I had an unoccupied heart, and he a heart to
offer, I believe we should soon forget that he is a prisoner and I a
stranger!
I have learned from him, that on his arrival at Lima, he was lodged in
the house of a gentleman who had a beautiful daughter. She was a widow,
though very young. The seclusion in which the ladies of this county
live rendered such a companion as Don Carlos doubly dangerous, and the
beauty and sweetness of Donna Angelina, made an indelible impression on
his heart. Their mutual passion was soon acknowledged; but obstacles,
which appeared insurmountable, seemed to deprive them even of hope.
Angelina had inherited the immense fortune left by her husband, on
condition of remaining a widow. Her father was very rich, but avarice
was his ruling passion. He had sacrificed his only child at the age of
thirteen to an old man, merely because he was wealthy, and there was no
reason to expect that he would suffer her to abandon the fortune she
had so dearly acquired, and marry a man who had no inheritance but
his sword. Though these considerations cast a cloud over their mutual
prospects, they still cherished their mutual affection, and hoped that
some fortunate event would at length render them happy. The father of
Angelina never suspected the situation of his daughter's heart, and her
intercourse with Don Carlos was without restraint. Delightful moments
of visionary happiness how quickly ye passed; delivering in your flight
two victims to the gripe of despair!
A new viceroy arrived from Spain and Angelina was obliged to appear at
a ball given to celebrate his entry into Lima.
She danced with Don Carlos, and her beauty, eclipsing all other beauty,
attracted universal notice, but particularly that of the viceroy, who
went the next day to offer at her feet the homage of his adoration.
She received him coldly, but the father was transported with joy,
and when, a few days after, the viceroy demanded her hand, without
hesitation favoured his suit. Angelina declined, and acquainted him
with the conditions on which she inherited her husband's wealth, and
her resolution to remain a widow. He told her that his own fortune was
more than sufficient to replace that he wished her to sacrifice, but
her evident aversion raised a suspicion of other reasons than those she
avowed, and his jealous watchfulness soon discovered her attachment to
Don Carlos. He informed her father of his discovery, who, furious at
seeing his hopes of aggrandizing his family thwarted by a boy, forbad
all intercourse between them.
The means employed by the viceroy to separate them were still more
effectual. A vessel was on the point of sailing for Spain, and Don
Carlos received orders to embark instantly to bear dispatches of
importance to the court. Resistance would have been vain. He sailed
without being permitted to see the object he had so long adored.
When he arrived in Spain, he learned that his rival had taken every
precaution to prevent his return to Lima. Fortunately he knew the heart
of his Angelina, and felt assured that the hopes of that detested rival
would never be crowned with success; nor was he disappointed.
She had been deprived by her father and the viceroy of the man she
loved, but their power extended no farther. There was an asylum to
which she could retreat from their tyranny; that asylum was a convent.
She entered one, took the vows, and gave her immense fortune to the
society of which she became a member.
On the eve of entering the convent she wrote to Don Carlos, informing
him of her intention; of the impossibility of preserving herself for
him, and her determination never to belong to another. He received this
letter the day on which he sailed for Vera Cruz, and I believe, does
not regret being a prisoner, since he has found in the place of his
captivity a kind being who listens to his tale of sorrows and seeks to
pour the balm of consolation into his wounded heart.
He amuses me continually with his stories of Lima; describing the
splendour of its palaces, the magnificence of its churches, filled with
golden saints and silver angels, and the beautiful women with which it
abounds. He tells me there can be nothing more fascinating than their
manners; nor more singular and picturesque than their dress, which
consists of a petticoat, reaching no lower than the knee, and a veil
that covers the head and waist, but through which a pretty face is
often shewn in a most bewitching manner. At the same time I perceive
that he talks on every subject with reluctance, except on that nearest
his heart; and when speaking of this, he seems animated by all the
energy of despair.
I have heard of Clara by a person just arrived from Cuba, and have
written to her. My heart is torn with anxiety for her fate, and
will remain a stranger to repose till I receive more satisfactory
intelligence. I fear she was not born to be at ease. She lives
continually in an ideal world. Her enthusiastic imagination filled
with forms which it creates at pleasure, cherishes a romantic hope of
visionary happiness which never can be realized.
Yet with all my fine sentiments of correctness and propriety, and
the duty of content and resignation, my heart refuses to condemn her
for having left her husband. Never was there any thing more directly
opposite than the soul of Clara, and that of the man to whom she
was united. Their tempers, their dispositions, were absolutely
incompatible. And should I abandon this poor girl to misfortune? should
I leave her to perish among strangers? ah! no, she is twined round my
heart, and I love her with more than a sister's affection. As soon as I
hear from her again, you shall be informed of my intentions. If I can
induce her to return with me to Philadelphia, in rejoining you I shall
think myself no longer unhappy.