a distress that would not allow him to shun his own reflections ;---they presented a picture truly terrible---pride struggling with poverty, without--and not a source of consolation, within!---He at length determined to address himself to his mother's brother, who was a Chanoine of the cathedral church of Palermo; whom he had not seen since his youth, and whom he had long ceased to correspond with, on account of his having, more than once, reproved the criminal course of life which he had heard he led at Paris.-- Though it was a doubt with him, whether the Chanoine was still living, yet he wrote to him from Fribourg; communicating part of his distress, and his purpose of visiting Palermo, and throwing himself under his protection,---resolving, that should his uncle be dead, or refuse to countenance him, he would end his days in some part of Sicily, where his misconduct would be unknown ---The port of Marseilles was the most favourable to his intention; but the question was how to get thither?-His finances were low; and the apprehension of meeting in his passage through France, any one who had known him in his prosperity, was painful.---He debated the matter much, and long---and to obviate, the best in his power, every objection, he converted all he had into money,---let his beard grow,---procured a religious habit, and set forward on his journey on foot ;---making devotion for the first time, subservient to his designs.--It chanced that his road lay through Dauphine ;---and he had the severe mortification to pass over part of the noble domain of his ancestors---a territory once his own---now parted off among various proprietors.---This was indeed a scene that penetrated his heart ;---his strength almost failed him,---and he sat down on a bank by the way-side, to recruit his trembling spirits. Memory pictured to him the happy morning of his life,---and the thousand little incidents of uncorrupted innocence !---It drew in loveliest colours, the hospitality of a father, who lived the protector of the poor, and the injured,---nor failed to recall those blameless hours, when, as the youthful successor of his fortunes, he used, with cheerful step, to walk forth from the venerable mansion now just before him, to meet the homage of his surrounding tenants !---The reverse was terrible to thought -his mind glanced it over, and shuddered at the view.---He detested the world;---detested himself;---and in sullen sorrow, by long and weary journeying, found at last his way to Marseilles, where he embarked in a ship that was on the point of sailing for Sicily and Malta.-- It was the ill-fate of this vessel, after being six days at sea, to be driven by contrary winds, much nearer the coast of Barbary than was for its safety, as the regency of Tunis was then at war with the French, and a dead calm succeeding the adverse weather, the captain discovered the next morning a Tunisian corsair, bearing down upon them, which appeared to be too powerful for the little resistance he could oppose to it.---A general panic seized every one on board; and the count conceiving that the religious habit he wore, might expose him to additional ill-treatment from those barbarous people, or induce them to exact a higher ransom, threw it into the sea, cut his beard close, and procured a dress from one of the sailors.---In brief, they were boarded,---rifled,---stripped,----carried on shore,---examined, and sent to the Bagnio of Santa Lucia, which is one of the places where the slaves are usually lodged. There are adverse hours in some men's lives, that are eventually the most beneficial, by bringing home all their scattered thoughts, and giving them a just ides of themselves!---Of such a nature were those melan. choly ones Saint Julien numbered.---Though he was not (as no public works were then carrying on) condemned to bodily labour, yet he found himself plundered of every thing, doubtful of redemption, and compelled to subsist for a considerable time on food which was nauseating; till a sailor who was made captive with him, and the same who had furnished him with a mariner's garment when he cast off the religious one he had assumed, had by means of acquaintance among the slaves, obtained sufficient credit to open a little shop for selling wine to the Turks, and was moved by humanity, as well as veneration, for the Count (whom he imagined to be really one of a religious order) to take him in as an assistant, and let him live as he did himself. It was some months before Saint Julien knew by what means he could convey notice of his captivity to Palermo; which he was obliged to wait an opportunity of doing, through the channel of Leghorn; as the Sicilians were then at war with Tunis.---And it was by various accidents, near a year and a half from the time of his being made prisoner, before letter or his ransom arrived. any It was a tedious interval,----a painful uncertainty !----Imagination lengthened every hour as it passed;---and even the distant hope of future liberty, was frequently over-shadowed by the doubt of his uncle being still alive.-- The hardships he endured, the sad society of wretches about him--and the recollection of his former misused prosperity, subdued both his health and spirits.---His heart was now convinced, that it had been totally warped by the seduction of wits and libertines ;---and the reflection which tortured him most, was, that he had probably, by his own abandoned principles, involved his son in lasting misery.---He was now sensible, that virtue was a reality, and not a name; and that whoever throws away the shield of religion, becomes in the moment of adversity, a defenceless existence.---He turned back his eyes on a life of guilt, and determined, that what remained of it, should be consecrated to peni tence.-- At length a vessel arrives, and brings him a most tender invitation to Palermo,---together with a remittance, through the hands of one of the Consuls, of four hundred sequins, for his redemption and journey.--Saint Julien, having only passed for a common man, no more than two hundred sequins was demanded for his ransom.---He immediately obtained his Carta Franca, and took his passage in a Dutch ship, that was soon after to sail for Sicily. As the first-fruits of a heart awakened to virtue, he presented his humane benefactor, the sailor, with a purse of one hundred sequins, which, with what the poor fellow had saved up in his little wine trade, was somewhat more than necessary to purchase his freedom.---The Count had the satisfaction of seeing him set at liberty, and quit the shore of Barbary, in the same vessel with himself.-- It was not many days before Saint Julien arrived safe at Palermo, and expressed, in the warmest terms of gratitude, the obligation he felt to his uncle, for relieving him from his captive state.---The good old man received him with a cordiality he never could have expected; and many a tear fell down his aged cheek, when, in their frequent conversations, he found his nephew redeemed from the worse captivity of an abandoned life.---The Chanoine made him attend in all the functions of the church; and omitted no occasion to confirm him in his good resolutions. "You have known," says he, "the extremes of affluence and distress, ---have experienced that happiness is not born of riches,--and can only spring where virtue hath planted it !---It is now within your reach; and I trust you will not again let it slip your hold.---I must daily expect to be called from you ;---the poor have been my family; but what I am still able to bequeath you, will, in your present temper, be more than equal to every want." "Little---little indeed," replied Saint Julien, "have I merited the consolation I find! You see me, Sir, humbled by my vices and folly, but convinced from principle, of all my errors: every wish towards the world is extinguished; and it is my fixed resolve, to retire to some monastery, and close the evening of my life in solitude and contrition." The count resided with his uncle near a twelvemonth; during which time his choice determined him to enter into the convent of La Trappe. I had then, says the Prior, been somewhat more than two years appointed the superior of this house; and having formerly been well known to the good old Chanoine, he wrote to me on the occasion; intreating me in the most affectionate terms, that in recollection of the friendship we had once for each other, whenever his nephew should enter amongst us, that I would sometimes allow him to advise with me. There was fortunately just then a vacancy, to which I immediately named him; and bidding an eternal adieu to his benevolent uncle, he was admitted into this convent, and in due time took the cowl. In the intercourses which we had frequently together, he unfolded to me all the various occurrences of his unfortunate life; he ever spoke of them with a heart-felt sigh; and his pious example was improving to many, After he had resided among us four years, his health began gradually to decay. The vicissitudes of his fortune had probably much accelerated the approach of age; perhaps too, the austerities of our order were too severe for a constitution so early habituated to the blandish ments of luxury; though he was still able to attend most of our functions, and lived to compleat nearly his seventh year. When his dissolution was nigh, he was brought out into our church, on the matted rushes, whilst I, agreeably to our institution, convened all the convent to witness his end. His mind appeared perfectly clear; he cxhorted, with a weak voice, those around him to persevere in piety; and then addressed himself to me with an eye that bespoke all the distress of his heart. 66 'Holy Father," says he, "a little space, and I am numbered with the dead! The penitence I have exercised within these walls, hath, I trust, washed away the stains that disgraced my former life! In that confidence I sink to my grave! One only anxiety agitates my bosom;---it is for a son, whom my unhappy example may, I fear, have rendered miserable----You, Holy Father, know my story.----O! if my long-lost Frederick still be living!---Could he---but 'tis impossible---could he but ever hear that the once abandoned heart of poor Saint Julien was reformed !---could he but learn, with how many repentant tears I have wept for his forgiveness!---how ardently in death wished to bequeath him a blessing! it might haply turn his steps to virtue, and my spirit would depart without a sigh!" 66 "Gracious Heaven!"---exclaimed a monk, throwing back his cowl, gracious Heaven thy will be done !---Behold---behold thy Frederick kneels before you, as much unlike the libertine who left you, as the pa rent from whom he fled !---O let me catch a blessing from your dying lips! and in a last embrace be cancelled the remembrance of every thing that is past!" The transport and amazement of so unhoped an interview, gave a sudden impulse to the blood, and invigorated a little longer the powers of life. "A few moments," says the Count, (casting a look of the most affectionate earnestness on his son)---"a few moments, and the knowledge of the world will avail me nothing! And yet my lingering spirit fain would know, by what mysterious means we have thus met again?" 66 Briefly let me say," returned Frederick, "that on quitting Paris, I hastened with the utmost speed to Madrid, accompanied with the strongest resolution of mending an unfortunate life. After some time, I obtained a commission in his Catholic Majesty's service, and was sent into New Spain, to join my regiment. I was occasionally stationed in various garrisons on the Southern Continent; and at Mexico married the daughter of a deceased officer of Valencia, who had brought her thither with him from Europe. I began to experience the serenity and happiness of virtue, and for five years enjoyed in the society of one of the best of women, every blessing my heart could desire. Far removed from all who knew me, I here wished to have ended my days; but my regiment being called home, and the climate having much affected the health of my wife, she was anxious to return to Barcelona, which was her native air, and where she had two aunts still living, who had in her earlier years supplied a mother's loss; and to whom I had not restored her ten months, when the hand of death dissolved our union. Sick of the world, its follies, its disappointments---all that endeared it to me gone before! And no pledge of love left behind, to hold me to it!---I turned away from it without a single regret; bequeathed to the fanily of the amiable being I mourned, the little fortune she brought me ;---and nine years ago, under the assumed name of Lorenzo, withdrew into this monastery." Happy, my child," added Saint Julien, (pressing his son's hand with a look of eager tenderness) "happy is it that the Great Disposer of human events hath ordained that we meet in peace at last! Seven of those years have we lived together in this place, though mutually unknown-often kneeling side by side at the same altar---often joining in the same devotion---and perhaps soliciting heaven for each other.---Oh! my Frederick;---the crime which hath made thy heart most wretched, with the severest anguish hath tortured mine :--I have injured thee much, but all is, I hope, atoned!" "Father of mercies!" cries the young man, "the triumph's thine !--How wonderfully hast thou dealt with us!---making those very crimes which were instrumental to our mutual misfortunes, instrumental in the end to our mutual conversion !---But I talk to the dust---he is passed away like a silent vapour!" This was a scene, added the Prior, of so singular a nature, as to merit the being recorded; and I conceived it would not be uninteresting to a man of sensibility. About three years after the death of Saint Julien, a fever seized scveral of our convent, and Frederick was one among those to whom it proved fatal.---He seemed sensible from the moment he was taken ill, VOL. II. that his disorder would be mortal---he supported it with the utmost resignation; requesting with his latest breath to be buried with his father; and in yonder corner, where the two white crosses are raised on the turf. ed hillock, one grave contains them both. A FRAGMENT, IN IMITATION OF A ROMANCE of the Thirteenth Century. FROM THE UNIVERSAL MAGAZINE. HE sun was sinking below the horizon, after a calm day in the young pacing the lawn that descended in a sweep from the stately mansion of the Baron, her father, directed her steps towards the borders of an ancient forest, that, rising in awful majesty, stretched its thick impenetrable shade far towards the north of her paternal domains. The last rays of the lamp of day, fading from the foliage which they had tinged with gold, were already succeeded by the grey mists of twilight, which in doubtful obscurity veiled the surrounding scene. The plaintive cooings of the stockdove; the distant murmur of a cataract, the drowsy hum of insects winging their way towards the leafy shelter of the woods, alone broke upon the repose of the hour. Cleanthe pressed forward through the entangled underwood, her mind absorbed in tender recollections, that, conspiring with the tranquillity of the surrounding objects, gradually abstracted it from the impressions of sense. The magic of fancy, the creative power of the affections, called up the image of an absent lover, in whose aspect celestial beauty appeared to beam, the melting accents of whose voice breathed tenderness and truth; while, in flattering and endless perspective, a boundless propect presented itself of never-failing joy. Oppressed by a train of overwhelming sensations, the exhausted spirits of Cleanthe relaxed, her nerves shook, her limbs faltered, the colour on her cheek varied, languor overpowered her frame, and she sunk at the foot of a spreading beech that stretched around its ample shade. The agitations of her soul subsided by slow degrees...her eyelids gently closed...the objects of her contemplation became confused and indistinct...thought gave place to reverie...and torpor, with its benumbing powers, succeeded to the dangerous activity of her mind. From this state she was suddenly aroused by the soft and melodious tones of a lute, which, floating on the air, swelled into sublime and elevated strains; then, gradually sinking the sounds became more and more remote, and in melancholy cadence died away. A deep silence followed; not a breeze sighed in the foliage, not a leaf flitted from the trees; not a murmur broke upon the solemnity of the scene. The rising moon, through a veil of fleecy clouds that hovered |