love of his King; and the wapentakes of Sussex were given to him to reign over, || as some recompense for the many leagues of land which he had caused the Danes to relinquish. His bosom was raised high in exultation, on finding himself Lord of so goodly a territory—a territory, lost by his father's disloyalty to Athelstan, but redeemed by himself on a return to his allegiance. This hall of audience was extensive to the gaze; it was built in all the majesty of feudal time-it rose in ample grandeursimple and unadorned, save by the waving trophy, the hauberk, or the cuiarss, intermingled with the cross-bow or the glittering spear. Looks of festive joy beamed in every visage, the wassail bowl passed off, and returned, till Duke Edrick called on the minstrel. All then was hushed, as the retiring wave from the distant shore, while the hoary bard sung of deeds of valour and of wisdom, achieved by England's Solon. In the midst of a crowd of warriors, shone, like a brilliant star, Duke Edrick's daughter, on whom her father doated, and considered as the stepladder to his ambition, and in prospect as a sharer of his monarch's bed. Imma's form was the most beautiful that can be imagined; she was fair as marble-her eyes were of celestial blue, lighting a face full of the most tender, bewitching, and expressive languishment-her cheeks were fresh-tinted by the rose blossom, but her lips and teeth were such as a painter might attempt to imitate, but could never realize. Her hair, of clear flaxen, unadorned and unrestrained, strayed over her fine and falling shoulders; she bent forward to the bard's notes, as if in admiration of his theme, but the harper's strains were far from occupying her thoughts. Unhappy girl! she was dwelling on those, which told her misery must ever be her portion, and how much more she thought her fate was to be lamented than that of any other damsel. The lay finished, the bard regained his seat-the carousal again commenced, and Duke Edrick roused his daughter from vacuity by a loud and deep reproach. He demanded, why she, alone, joined not in the general joy, on beholding him in the hall of his ancestors? Imma essayed to speak, but her words were inarticulate; she burst into tears, happily unperceived by her father. Again the bard was inspired-he struck a prelude which enchanted all; they seized their arms, in rapture, as for the combat, but each tongue was silent, and all was hushed, save the repressed clank of armour, as the Knights regained their seats. The hoary musician's cheek was flushed with a hectic flush; a holy inspiration gave a fire to his eye; and while his fingers struck the chords of his harp, he sung the praise of the chieftain's daughter-he sung the praise of Imma "Fair as chaste, as chaste as fair." At such a congratulation, she rose, in virgin diffidence, and thanked him, though in a voice checked with sobs; and, overcome by the praises of her father, she cast her eyes fearfully around the hall, and sunk senseless into his arms. While the stern Edrick was chiding her, and the timid Imma was ascribing the acuteness of her feelings to some ominous cause (which, in those days of superstition, haunted, occasionally, the strongest mind), a confusion of sounds arose from that part of the hall from which Imma had withdrawn her sight; it broke out, as though the foeman had them in his toils. As the smoke of battle rolls on in destruction-as the dust of the war-horse approaches nearer and nearer still-so come the sounds of discoutent to Duke Edrick's seat.-"I heed thee not," exclaimed Lord Hildebrande, in a voice above the din; "I tell thee to thy teeth, and I'll tell it all who'll hear, Duke Edrick is deceived, and Imma is no longer chaste as fair--she is a wanton!" At such a charge, again were murmurs loud and deep; they poured through the hall of audience. A hundred helmets shook, a hundred swords left their scabbards, but Lord Hildebrande again exclaimed, aloud, “ By the Holy Ghost she's false; Imma has disgraced her sex." "Proud Hildebrande, thou liest," exclaimed Childe Edmund; the storm of passion shook his heaving frame-he snatched off his greave, it whirled in the air, and striking the accuser of Imma, who took the pledge, and demanding the ordeal, swore to prove the charge. The affrighted Imma now raised herself, in conscious innocence; she indignantly threw back those tresses which would have hid her face; he dared not subject her to another by enshe would have defended, with an undaunt- tering the castle; he, therefore, saw her ed eye, her character, but she met a father's not, and, becoming a prey to the acutest reproachful look; a chilly paleness over- anguish, he wandered about the dwelling, spread her, and she bent, like a lily in a unconscious where he bent his steps.— storm, into the arms of Childe Edmund. Childe Edmund, as he was called, had When Lady Imma awoke from her trance, long loved the gentle Imma, and, ere she every thing bore a dreadful silence; in vain was aware, she returned his love; they she attempted to raise herself from her feared it was impossible they could ever couch, her limbs appeared paralyzed; she be united, but there was such a luxury in put her hand to her head, her brain was even their cheared hopes, that they rather maddening; it is true, a refreshing breeze chose to encourage a mutual attachment, burst in upon her from the open casement, accompanied with future misery, than to yet it lasted but a moment; a hotter glow call upon the resources of sense and reasucceeded, and threatened to check all son, and to use that fortitude which teaches respiration; she gazed wildly around her; || us to endure misfortune patiently. Childe she paused, to think, but yet seemed fear-Edmund was merely the protegée of Duke ful of recalling remembrance; she put her Edrick, and, without a single quarterfinger on the blood-bursting lids of hering of nobility in his shield, had been ever eyes, distended with fever; she pored over, viewed with contempt by Lord Hildeunconsciously, the storied painting, which brande, as a protected vassal: this vassal the last rays of a setting sun emblazoned had, however, been preferred to him by and reflected from the bay window; and the Lady Imma, and he swore to be his as conviction of what was to happen dawn- ruin, by bell, book, and candle. ed in her mind, she endeavoured to shut out its reality: she shrunk into herself—a frightful slumber steeped her faculties in misery, and tortured her diseased imagination. Love, in those days, had no employment, save to chide the time with sighs and exclamations; for the life of a murderer was sacred, on being proved able to read and write; these attainments were not presumed to be those of females; and a lady was deemed a prodigy who was enabled, by her pen, to carry on a corres Such a charge as Lord Hildebrande's, was not to be made with impunity. When the first storms of indignation were over, he was allowed to speak, as follows:-pondence. "Returning last, on the eve of St. Francis, from a border post, I entered a dingle in the forest; there I saw the Lady Imma rush into the arms of a man, who wore the scarf that now Childe Edmund wears. I am not mad-I am Lord Edrick's friend: I pledge myself for the truth of what I utter, and let her disloyal Knight defend her if he can."-In saying this, each warrior slunk away, to see the decision by mutual combat. Fearful that violent emotions might rack the bosom of the gentle Imma, Edmund left the hall to seek her; love is seldom accompanied by prudence, or he had never sought a secret interview. Now the Baron Edrick trembled with passion, and he swore, if guilty, to sacrifice both to his revenge. From the maidens of her house, Childe Edmund learned Imma was in her chamber. As he was the cause of the indignity which Hildebrande had offered her, No pert chambermaid was then the conveyer of a billet-doux. Thus Imma and Childe Edmund were obliged to vent their complaints to the air, to themselves, or to inanimate things, without consolation, and without pity. "My father," said the unfortunate Imma, “believes me guilty, but I am not, and Edmund knows I am innocent: and oh! my dear mother, look down from heaven, pity your poor child, and shield her from despair." The following morning, Imma arose unrefreshed from her couch; she walked as · one whose soul was fled, but whose body was doomed to wander in unconsciousness: it was yet but twilight, and the spear and the lance trembled in the cold air; soon the guards paraded in a quicker step on their posts, and, at length, all was bustle and animation. She had walked on the battlements, and, seated like the genius of suspense, her tresses spreading in the wanton air, she started at the sound of the bugle; the chain of the draw-bridge rattles -the portcullis rises, and an host of armed men pour from the keep, and form a procession. Childe Edmund is preceded by a page, who bears his favour of azure blue; a lover gazes towards the castle-he seems to breathe a sigh towards her; a train accompanies him, and Lord Hildebrande, who, seated on a white charger, seems conscious of victory: they are followed by the herald at arms. ants, apprehensive of her fading reason, were fain to let her pursue her inclination. To paint her agonies of suspense, during a rencounter in which was engaged all she loved, is impossible-it was, indeed, intense. At length, the sound of music proclaimed, all was over-that the dreadful truth must soon be known. They play a mournful theme, and she rushes forward to behold the cause. The procession is only to be seen ever and anon in the distance, now This appearance of kuightly combat lost among the hills, and now again emergdarkens her vision.-"He is going," she ing nearer sight. On a carriage, she, at cries, "to sacrifice himself! and for me :" || length, perceives the stiffened corpse of one. she uttered a scream, and fell, unheeded, Oh! the virgin, the blue scarf is wrapped on the terrace. Ill-fated maid! thy suffer-round his body, An hysteric laugh bursts ings are, indeed, acute; if this be the from her, as she runs to meet it: it is not punishment of presumed guilt, what ought || her lover's form she would clasp, but, with to be that of conscious depravity? They wounds staunched by the trophy of love, had met, it is true, clandestinely, but Lord Hildebrande's; a victim to his own angels might have been present at the in- evil passions, who, dying, confessed the terview; they met but to breathe vows of guilty assertions of falsehood. Even this constancy, and to indulge in mutual sor- would not have procured the consent rows, dearer to them than all the jocuud of Lord Edrick, to give his daughter to hours of mirth. On returning to a sense euse Childe Edmund, had he not received letters of feeling, she crawled to her chamber, from his King, inviting him to his marriage revived by the blood which flowed from a banquet, and declaring Edmund his relawound she had met with in falling; the tive. Childe Edmund then, by royal comcut she received in her temple was healed || mand, wedded the lovely Imma: the bard's by a domestic, but the wounded heart re- song was once more heard in the hall, and jected all mortal medicine; and her attend- the foeman spoiled not their delight. DEPRECIATION OF BENEFITS RECEIVED. TELL me, Grimm, whence it is, that all my friends pretend that I ought to accompany Madame d'Epinay? Am I only in the wrong, or are they all bewitched? Are they all possessed of that base partiality which is always ready to pronounce in favour of wealth, and to burthen the indigent with an hundred useless duties, which render poverty still more hard and inevitable? I will only speak of this to yourself. Although, no doubt, you are prejudiced, like every one else, I yet think you possessed of equity enough to put yourself in my place, and to judge of what really is my duty. Listen, then, my good friend, to my reasons, and determine what part 1 ought to take; for whatever may be your opinion, I declare myself ready immediately to abide by it. What is there that obliges me to follow Madame d'Epinay? Friendship, gratitude, the use that I may be of to her. Let us examine all these points. If Madame d'Epinay has shewn me any friendship, I have shewn her yet more: the care we have mutually taken of each other is equal, quite as great on my part as on hers. Both in a declining state of health, I owe to her no more than she owes to me; no farther; unless it should be required of the one that suffers most to take charge of the other. Because my afflictions are irremediable, is that any reason that they should be regarded as nothing? I will only add one word more she has friends less sick, less poor, less jealous of their liberty, with more time on their hands, and which are quite as dear to her as I am. I do not see that any of these seem to think it a duty to follow her: why, then, should this lot fall on me alone, who am the least capable of fulfilling such a duty? If Madame d'Epinay was so dear to me that I must renounce myself to amuse her, how is it that I should be so very little so to her,|| that she would purchase, at the expence of my health, my life, my repose, and my resources, the attentions of one so awkward as myself? I know not whether I ought even to make her the offer of following her; but I know this, at least, without her having that hard-heartedness which opulence is too apt to give, but which seemed ever far from her, that she ought not to accept such an offer. As to benefits-in the first place, 1 do not like them, I will not accept them, and I value not any that are forced upon me. I have told that plainly to Madame d'Epinay, before I ever received any from her; it is not that I have escaped being drawn in, like others, by those ties so dear where friendship has formed them; but when they want to draw my chain too tight; it breaks, and I become free. What has Madame d'Epinay done for me? You know better than any one, and to you I can speak freely she built for me a small house, close to the hermitage, made me promise to dwell in it; and I must add, with pleasure, that she made the habitation as agreeable and as safe for me as possible. : What, on my part, has been left undone for Madame d'Epinay? At the time that I was about to retire to my native country, which I so ardently desire, and which is my duty to do, she urged me, by every argument she could use, to keep me here. By dint of soliciting, even by intrigue, she vanquished my too just and long resistance: my wishes, my taste, my inclination, the improbation of my friends, all made my heart yield to the voice of her friendship, and I suffered myself to be dragged to the hermitage. From that moment, I always felt myself at another person's house, and that moment of compliance was a source to me of the most bitter repentance. My tender friends, attentive only to the desolating me, without relaxation, did not leave me a moment's quiet, and often made me weep with anguish, that I was not five hundred leagues distant from them. In the || meantime, far from giving myself up to the delights of solitude, the only consolation of an unfortunate being overwhelmed with distress, and whom all the world chose to torment, I found I was no longer my own master. Madame d'Epinay, often alone when in the country, wished that I should keep her company and it was for that purpose she kept me here. After having made a sacrifice to friendship, it is requisite for me to make another to gratitude. A man must be poor, without a valet, hate restraint, and have a mind like mine, to know what it is to live in a house that belongs to another. I have, nevertheless, lived two years in her's, in continual subjection, while nothing but the blessings of liberty were spoken of-waited on by about twenty servants, and cleaning my shoes every morning, my stomach a prey to indigestion, and I sighing incessantly after my own flock bed. You know also, that it is impossible to compose at certain hours—that I require the solitude of the woods, and time for musing; but 1 am not speaking on time lost, I shall only have to die of hunger a few months the sooner. In the meantime, reflect how much money an hour of the life and time of man is worth; compare the benefits of Madame d'Epinay with the sacrifice I have made of my country, and my two years of bondage, and tell me who has most obligation to the other, she or me? We will now consider the article of utility. Madame d'Epinay has a good postchaise; she is accompanied by her husband, by her son's tutor, and by five or six servants. She is going into a populous town, full of society, where she will be only embarrassed as to the choosing of it; she is going to the house of M. Trenchin, her physician, a very sensible man—a man much respected, and sought after; she is going to dwell amongst a family of superior merit, wherein she will find resources of every kind to amend her health-resources, in friendship, and in amusement. Consider my situation, my misfortunes, my sufferings, my temper, my means, my taste, my manner of living-of more consequence to me than mankind, or even reason; then see, I beseech you, how I can serve Madame d'Epinay by taking this journey, and what I must endure, without those that she will make, will be less fit for me. I should have duties to fulfil which would take me from her; or else I should be asked, what very pressing care made me neglect them, and kept me for ever in her house; was I better clad, I might pass for her valet-de-chambre. But, what! a wretched man, overwhelmed with misfortunes, who has scarce a shoe to his foot, without clothes, without money, without resource, who only asks his dear friends to leave him miserable and free, how should such an one be requisite to Madame d'Epinay, surrounded as she is by all the comforts of life, and who has ten people in her suite! O Fortune! vile and despicable Fortune, if, in thy bosom, thy favourites cannot do without the poor, I am happier than those who possess thee, for I can do without them. being of the least use to her. Could I support a post-chaise? Could I even hope to take so long a journey, in so hasty a manner, without meeting with some accident? Must I make the drivers stop every minute to let me get out, or shall I accelerate my torments, and my last hour, to be under perpetual restraint? Let Diderot ensure my health and my life for as much as he pleases, my situation is well known, and the most celebrated surgeons in Paris can attest it; and be assured, that, with all I suffer, I am as weary of my life as many others are. Madame d'Epinay could then only look forward to what would be always unpleasant, to a melancholy spectacle, and to, perhaps, many misfortunes on the road. She is not to learn that in such a case I would sooner retire to die by myself under a hedge, than to cause the least expence, or retain one servant more, on my account; It is said, it is because she regards me, and for myself, I know her heart too well that she wants her friend. Oh! how well to be ignorant of what would be her suffer- || I know in how many senses the word friendings, if she was to leave me in such a situa-ship may be taken! It is a fine word, tion. I could, indeed, follow the carriage on foot, according to Diderot's wishes; but the mud, the rain, and the snow, would be great hindrances to me at this season of the year. Though I ran ever so fast, how could I travel twenty-five leagues a-day? And if I let the chaise get forward, of what use could I be to the person within it? When I arrive at Geneva, I should have to pass my days shut up with Madame d'Epinay; but, whatever might be my zeal in seeking to amuse her, it is impossible but that such a way of living, so confined, and so contrary to my disposition, must finish by depriving me entirely of health, or, at least, to plunge me into that melancholy I could no longer conquer. || which often causes servitude to succeed to a salary; but friendship is at an end as soon as slavery begins. I should be always foud of serving my friend, provided he was as poor as myself; if he is richer, let us both be free, or let him serve me himself, for his bread is already gained, and he has the more time to give to pleasure. I have but two words more to say about myself. If duty calls me to follow Madame d'Epinay, have not I those duties which are more imperious to keep me at home; and is Madame d'Epinay the only person on earth to whom I am indebted? Be assured, that I shall be no sooner set off on this journey, than Diderot, who finds it so wrong for me to remain here, will think much worse of me for going, and he will be in the right. He follows, he will say, At any rate, one sick person is by no means fit to be a nurse to another; and he who does not accept any care of him while he suffers, is dispensed from returning any at the expence of his health. When we are alone, and contented, Madame d'Epinay does not speak, neither do I; but what should I be, if I was both melancholy and under restraint? I do not see much amusement for her in that case. If she is a stranger at Geneva, I should be yet more so, but with money we are welcome any where; not so is the poor. The acquaintances that I have there are not fit for her;ment my own; see that ingrate, they would No. 112.-Vol. XVIII. a rich woman, well accompanied, who has not the least want of him, and to whom, after all, he owes but little, and leaves those persons to misery and neglect, who have passed their lives in his service, and who would be rendered wretched by his departure. If I allowed Madame d'Epinay to defray my expences, Diderot would immediately make me feel a fresh obligation, that would fetter me for the remainder of my days. If ever I dared to call one mo C |