The Works of Aphra Behn

Gracelove by this Time had entertain’d the sincerest Affections and noblest Passion that Man can be capable of, for Philadelphia; of which he had made her sensible, who had at that Time comply’d with his honourable Demands, had she not entreated him to expect a kind Turn of Providence, which might, (happily) e’re long, put her in Possession of her Right; without which, she told him, she could not consent to marry him, who had so plentiful a Fortune, and she nothing but her Person and Innocence. How, Madam! (cry’d he) have you no Love in Store for me! Yes, Sir, (return’d she) as much as you can wish I have in Store for you, and so I beg it may be kept ’till a better Opportunity. Well, Madam, (said he) I must leave you for some Months, perhaps for a whole Year; I have receiv’d Letters of Advice that urge the Necessity of my going to Turkey; I have not a Week’s Time to endeavour so dreaded a Separation as I must suffer; therefore, thou beautiful, thou dear, thou virtuous Creature, let me begin now! Here, thou tenderest Part of my Soul! (continu’d he, giving her a rich Diamond Ring) wear this ’till my Return! I hope the Sight of it may sometimes re-call the dying Memory of Gracelove to your better-busy’d Thoughts. Ah, Gracelove! (said she) nothing can so well, nothing I am sure can better employ my Thoughts, than thy dear self: Heaven only excepted. They enlarg’d a great deal more on this Subject at that Time; but the Night before his Departure was entirely spent in Sighs, Vows, and Tears, on both Sides. In the Morning, after he had again entreated his Cousin’s, and the Lady’s, and her Daughter’s Care and Kindness to Philadelphia, the remaining and best Part of his Soul, with one hearty Kiss, accompany’d with Tears, he took a long Farewel of his dear Mistress, who pursu’d him with her Eyes, ’till they could give her no farther Intelligence of him; and they help’d her Kindness to him, and eas’d her Grief for his Absence in weeping for above a Week together, when in private. He never omitted writing to her and his Cousin by every Opportunity, for near nine Months, as he touch’d at any Port; but afterwards they could not hear from him for above half a Year; when, by Accident, the Counsellor met a Gentleman of Gracelove’s Acquaintance at a Coffee-House, who gave him an Account, that the Ship and he were both cast away, near five Months since; that most if not all of the Ship’s Company perish’d; of which, ’twas fear’d, Gracelove was one, having never since been heard of. That his Loss in that Ship amounted to above twelve thousand Pounds: With this dreadful and amazing News the good old Gentleman returns Home, afflicts his poor sorrowful Lady and Daughter, and almost kills unhappy Philadelphia; who the next Day, by mere Chance, and from a Stranger, who came on Business to the Counsellor, heard, that one Sir William Wilding, an extravagant, mad, young Spark of such a County, who lately went by the borrow’d Name and Title of ’Squire Sportman, had mortgag’d all his Estate, which was near four thousand a Year, and carry’d the Money over with him into France on Saturday last. This, added to the former News, put so great a Check on her Spirits, that she immediately dropp’d down in a Swoon; whence she only recover’d, to fall into what was of a much more dangerous Consequence, a violent Feaver, which held her for near six Weeks, e’re she could get Strength enough to go down Stairs: In all which Time, Madam Fairlaw and Eugenia, her Daughter, attended her as carefully and constantly, as if they had been her own Mother and Sister: The good old Counsellor still commending and encouraging their Care. The Roses and Lillies at last took their Places again; but the Clouds of her Sorrow were still but too visible. Two Years more past, without one Word of Advice from Gracelove or any Account of him from any one else; insomuch, that they all concluded he was certainly dead: And, ’twas true, indeed, that his Ship and he were cast away, much about that Time that the Gentleman gave Fairlaw a Relation: That ’twas certain he had lost above 12000l. and had like to have lost his Life; but being very expert in Swimming, he got to Shoar upon the Coast of Barbary, the Wreck happening not to be above three Leagues thence; he was in almost as bad a Condition as if he had been drown’d, for here he was made a Prisoner to one of the Natives; in which miserable Circumstance he lanquish’d for above six Years, for Want of a Ransom; which he had often endeavour’d to raise by Letters, that he sent hither to his Friends (in England;) amongst which Counsellor Fairlaw was one of his most particular and assur’d. But however Providence or Accident, if you please, order’d it, not a Line came to the Hands of any of his Friends; so that had not Heaven had yet a future Blessing in Store for him, he had certainly have better perish’d in the Sea, than to have fall’n into the Power of a People less merciful than Seas, Winds, or hungry wild Beasts in Pursuit of their Prey. But this could not be learn’d (it seems) from any Man but himself, upon his Return, after his Redemption.

Two Years more pass’d on; towards the latter of which the old Lady Fairlaw took her Bed, desperately sick, insomuch that she was given over by all her Physicians; she continu’d in great Misery for near two Months; in all which Time Philadelphia was constantly with her all the Day, or all the Night; much about that Time she dy’d; and, dying, told her Husband, that she had observ’d he had a particular Esteem or Kindness for Philadelphia; which was now a great Satisfaction to her; since she was assur’d, that if he marry’d her, she would prove an excellent Nurse to him, and prolong his Life by some Years. As for Eugenia, (added she) you need not be concern’d; I’m sure she will consent to any Thing that you shall propose, having already so plentifully provided for her. The good old Gentleman answer’d, that he would fulfil her Will as far as lay in his Power: And not long after, she departed this Life. Her Burial was very handsome and honourable. Half a Year was now expir’d since her Interment, when the old Counsellor began to plead his own Cause to young Philadelphia, reminding her that now the Death of Gracelove was out of Question; and that therefore she was as much at her Liberty to make her own Choice of an Husband as he was of a Wife; not forgetting, at the same Time, to let her know, that his Widow, (whoever had the good Fortune to be so) would be worth above thirty thousand Pounds in ready Money, besides a thousand a Year. But, above all, he urg’d his dying Lady’s last Advice to him, that he would marry her; and hop’d she would see the Will of the Dead satisfy’d. The young Lady being broken in Sorrows, and having mortify’d all her Appetites to the Enjoyments of this World, and not knowing where to meet with so fair an Overture, tho’ at first, in Modesty, she seem’d to refuse it as too great an Honour, yet yielded to less than a Quarter of an Hour’s Courtship. And the next Sunday marry’d they were, with the Consent, and to the perfect Satisfaction of, his Daughter, Madam Eugenia; who lov’d Philadelphia sincerely. They kept their Wedding very nobly for a Month, at their own House in Great Lincolns-Inn-Fields; but the Memory of the old Lady was still so fresh with the young Lady Fairlaw, that she prevail’d with him to remove to another, more convenient as she fancy’d, in Covent-Garden. They had dwelt there not much more than four Months, e’re the good old Gentleman fell sick and dy’d. Whether it were the Change of an old House for a new, or an old Wife for a young, is yet uncertain, tho’ his Physicians said, and are still of Opinion, that, doubtless, it was the last. ’Tis past all Doubt, that she did really mourn for and lament his Death; for she lov’d him perfectly, and pay’d him all the dutiful respect of a virtuous Wife, while she liv’d within that State with him; which he rewarded as I have said before. His Funeral was very sumptuous and honourable indeed! and as soon as it was over, Eugenia desir’d her young beautiful Mother-in-Law to retreat a little with her into the Country, to a pleasant House she had, not twenty Miles distant from Town; urging, That she could by no Means enjoy her self under that Roof, where her dear Father dy’d. The obliging Step-mother, who might more properly have been call’d her Sister, being exactly of the same Age with her, readily comply’d, and she pass’d away all that Summer with Eugenia, at their Country-Seat, and most Part of the Winter too; for Eugenia could by no Means be prevail’d on to lie one Night in her Mother’s House; ’twas with some Reluctancy that she consented to dine there sometimes. At length the whole Year of Philadelphia’s Widowhood was expir’d; during which, you can’t but imagine that she was solicited and address’d to by as many Lovers, or pretended Lovers, as our dear King Charles, whom God grant long to reign, was lately by the Presbyterians, Independants, Anabaptists, and all those canting whiggish Brethren! But she had never lik’d any Man so well as to make him her Husband, by Inclination, unless it was Gracelove, devour’d by the greedy Inhabitants of the Sea.

Whilst her Fortune began to mend thus, her Brother’s grew worse; but that was indeed the Effect of his Extravagancy: In less than two Years Time, he had spent eight thousand Pounds in France, whence he return’d to England, and pursuing his old profuse Manner of Living, contracted above 100l. Debts here, in less than four Months Time; which not being able to satisfy, he was arrested, and thrown into a Goal, whence he remov’d himself into the King’s Bench, on that very Day that old Fairlaw dy’d. There, at first, for about a Month, he was entertain’d like a Gentleman; but finding no Money coming, nor having a Prospect of any, the Marshal and his Instruments turn’d him to the Common Side, where he learnt the Art of Peg-making, a Mystery to which he had been a Stranger all his Life long ’till then. ’Twas then he wish’d he might see his Sister, hoping that she was in a Condition to relieve him; which he was apt to believe, from the Discourse he had with Gracelove some Years past. Often he wish’d to see her, but in vain; however, the next Easter after the old Counsellor’s Death, Philadelphia, according to his Custom, sent her Steward to relieve all the poor Prisoners about Town; among the rest he visited those in the common Side of the King’s Bench, where he heard ’em call Sir William Wilding to partake of his Lady’s Charity. The poor Prodigal was then feeding on the Relief of the Basket, not being yet able to get his Bread at his new Trade: To him the Steward gave a Crown, whereas the other had but Half a Crown apiece. Then he enquir’d of some of the unhappy Gentlemen, Sir William’s Fellow-Collegians, of what Country Sir William was? How long he had been there? And how much his Debts were? All of which he receiv’d a satisfactory Account. Upon his Return to his Lady, he repeated the dismal News of her Brother’s Misfortunes to her; who immediately dispatch’d him back again to the Prison, with Orders to give him twenty Shillings more at present, and to get him remov’d to the Master’s Side, into a convenient Chamber, for the Rent of which the Steward engag’d to pay; and promis’d him, as she had commanded, twenty Shillings a Week, as long as he stay’d there, on Condition that he would give the Names of all his Creditors, and of all those to whom he had engag’d any Part of his Estate; which the poor Gentleman did most readily and faithfully: After which, the Steward enquir’d for a Taylor, who came and took Measure of Philadelphia’s unkind Brother, and was order’d to provide him Linnen, a Hat, Shoes, Stockings, and all such Necessaries, not so much as omitting a Sword: With all which he acquainted his Lady at his Return; who was very much griev’d at her Brother’s unhappy Circumstances, and at the same Time extremely well pleas’d to find her self in a Condition to relieve him. The Steward went constantly once a Week to pay him his Money; and Sir William was continually very curious to know to whom he was oblig’d for so many and great Favours; But he was answer’d, That they came from a Lady who desir’d to have her Name conceal’d. In less than a Year, Philadelphia had paid 25000l. and taken off the Mortgages on 2500l.per Annum of her Brother’s Estate; and coming to Town from Eugenia’s Country-House one Day, to make the last Payment of two thousand Pounds, looking out of her Coach on the Road, near Dartford, she saw a Traveller on Foot, who seem’d to be tir’d with his Journey, whose Face, she thought, she had formerly known: This Thought invited her to look on him so long, that she, at last, perswaded her self it was Gracelove, or his Ghost: For, to say Truth, he was very pale and thin, his Complexion swarthy, and his Cloaths (perhaps) as rotten as if he had been bury’d in ’em. However, unpleasant as it was, she could not forbear gazing after this miserable Spectacle; and the more she beheld it, the more she was confirmed it was Gracelove, or something that had usurp’d his Figure. In short, she could not rest ’till she call’d to one of her Servants, who rode by the Coach, whom she strictly charg’d to go to that poor Traveller, and mount him on his Horse, ’till they came to Dartford; where she order’d him to take him to the same Inn where she baited, and refresh him with any Thing that he would eat or drink; and after that, to hire a Horse for him, to come to Town with them: That then he should be brought Home to her own House, and be carefully look’d after, ’till farther Orders from her. All which was most duly and punctually perform’d.

The next Morning early she sent for the Steward, whom she order’d to take the Stranger to a Sale-shop, and fit him with a Suit of good Cloaths, to buy him Shirts, and other Linnen, and all Necessaries, as he had provided for her Brother; and gave him Charge to use him as her particular Friend, during his Stay there, bidding him, withal, learn his Name and Circumstances, if possible, and to supply him with Money for his Pocket Expences: All which he most faithfully and discreetly perform’d, and brought his Lady an Account of his Sufferings by Sea, and Slavery among the Turks, as I have before related; adding, that his Name was Gracelove. This was the greatest Happiness, certainly, that ever yet the dear beautiful Creature was sensible of. On t’other Side, Gracelove could not but admire and praise his good Fortune, that had so miraculously and bountifully reliev’d him; and one Day having some private Discourse with the Steward, he could not forbear expressing the Sense he had of it; declaring, That he could not have expected such kind Treatment from any Body breathing, but from his Cousin, Counsellor Fairlaw, his Lady, or another young Lady, whom he plac’d and left with his Cousins. Counsellor Fairlaw! (cry’d the Steward) why, Sir, my Lady is the old Counsellor’s Widow; she is very beautiful and young too. What was her Name, Sir, before she marry’d the Counsellor? (ask’d Gracelove) That I know not, (reply’d t’other) for the old Steward dy’d presently after the old Lady, which is not a Year and a Half since; in whose Place I succeed; and I have never been so curious or inquisitive, as to pry into former Passages of the Family. Do you know, Sir, (said Gracelove) whereabouts in Town they liv’d before? Yes, Sir, (return’d the Steward, who was taught how to answer) in Great Lincolns-Inn-Fields, I think, Alas! (cry’d Gracelove) ’twas the same Gentleman to whom I design’d to apply my self when I came to England. You need not despair now, Sir, (said t’other) I dare say my Lady will supply your Wants. O wonderful Goodness of a Stranger! (cry’d Gracelove) uncommon and rare amongst Relations and Friends! How have I, or how can I ever merit this? Upon the End of their Conference, the Steward went to Philadelphia, and repeated it almost verbatim to her; who order’d Gracelove should be taken Measure of by the best Taylor in Covent-Garden; that he should have three of the most modish rich Suits made, that might become a private Gentleman of a Thousand Pounds a Year, and Hats, Perukes, Linnen, Swords, and all Things suitable to ’em, all to be got ready in less than a Month; in which Time, she took all the Opportunity she could either find or make to see him, and not to be seen by him: She oblig’d her Steward to invite him to a Play, whither she follow’d ’em, and sate next to Gracelove, and talk’d with him; but all the while masq’d. In this Month’s Time she was daily pester’d with the Visits of her Addressors; several there were of ’em; but the chief were only a Lord of a very small Estate, tho’ of a pretty great Age; a young blustering Knight, who had a Place of 500l. a Year at Court; and a County Gentleman, of a very plentiful Estate, a Widower, and of a middle Age. These three only of her Lovers she invited to Dinner, on the first Day of the next Month: In the mean while she sent a rich Suit, and Equipage proportionable, to her Brother, with an Invitation to dine with her on the same Day. Then she writ to Eugenia to come and stay in Town, if not in the same House with her, for two or three Days before; which her affectionate Daughter obey’d; to whom Philadelphia related all her Brother’s past Extravagancies and what she had done for him in redeeming most Part of his Estate; begging of her, that if she could fancy his Person, she would take him into her Mercy and marry him. Being assur’d, that such a virtuous Wife as she would prove, must necessarily reclaim him, if yet he were not perfectly convinc’d of his Follies; which, she doubted not, his late long Sufferings had done. Eugenia return’d, That she would wholly be directed and advis’d by her in all Things; and that certainly she could not but like the Brother, since she lov’d the Sister so perfectly and truly.

The Day came, and just at Twelve, Gracelove, meeting the Steward on the Stairs coming from his Lady, Gracelove then told him, that he believ’d he might take the Opportunity of that Afternoon to go over to Putney, and take a Game or two at Bowls. The Steward return’d, Very well, Sir, I shall let my Lady know it, if she enquires for you. Philadelphia, who overheard what they said, call’d the Steward in Haste, and bid him call Gracelove back, and tell him, she expected his Company at her Table to Day, and that she desir’d he would appear like himself. The Steward soon overtook him at the Door, just going out as Eugenia came in, who look’d back on Gracelove: The poor Gentleman was strangely surpriz’d at the Sight of her, as she was at his; but the Steward’s Message did more amaze and confound him. He went directly to his Chamber, to dress himself in one of those rich Suits lately made for him; but, the Distraction he was in, made him mistake his Coat for his Wastcoat, and put the Coat on first; but, recalling his straggling Thoughts, he made Shift to get ready time enough to make his Appearance without a second Summons. Philadelphia was as pleasant at Dinner, as ever she had been all her Life; she look’d very obligingly on all the Sparks, and drank to every one of ’em particularly, beginning to the Lord – and ending to the Stranger, who durst hardly lift up his Eyes a second Time to her’s, to confirm him that he knew her. Her Brother was so confounded, that he bow’d and continu’d his Head down ’till she had done drinking, not daring to encounter her Eyes, that would then have reproach’d him with his Villany to her.

After Dinner the Cloth was taken away; She began thus to her Lovers: My Lord! Sir Thomas! and Mr. Fat-acres! I doubt not, that it will be of some Satisfaction to you, to know whom I have made Choice for my next Husband; which now I am resolv’d no longer to defer.

The Person to whom I shall next drink, must be the Man who shall ever command me and my Fortune, were it ten times greater than it is; which I wish only for his Sake, since he deserves much more. – Here, (said she to one that waited) put Wine into two Glasses: Then she took the Diamond Ring from her Finger, and put it into one of ’em. My dear Gracelove, (cry’d she) I drank to thee; and send thee back thy own Ring, with Philadelphia’s Heart. He startl’d, blush’d, and looked wildly; whilst all the Company stared on him. Nay, pledge me, (persu’d she) and return me the Ring: for it shall make us both one the next Morning. He bow’d, kiss’d, and return’d it, after he had taken off his Wine. The defeated Lovers knew not how to resent it? The Lord and Knight were for going, but the Country Gentleman oppos’d it, and told ’em, ’twas the greatest Argument of Folly, to be disturb’d at the Caprice of a Woman’s Humour. They sate down again therefore, and she invited ’em to her Wedding on the Morrow.

And now, Brother, (said she) I have not quite forgotten you, tho’ you have not been pleas’d to take Notice of me: I have a Dish in Reserve for you, which will be more grateful to your Fancy than all you have tasted to Day. Here! (cry’d she to the Steward) Mr. Rightman, do you serve up that Dish your self. Rightman then set a cover’d Dish on the Table. What! more Tricks yet? (cry’d my Lord and Sir Thomas) Come, Sir William! (said his Sister) uncover it! he did so; and cry’d out, O matchless Goodness of a virtuous Sister! here are the Mortgages of the best Part of my Estate! O! what a Villain! what a Monster have I been! no more, dear Brother; (said she, with Tears in her Eyes) I have yet a greater Happiness in Store for you: This Lady, this beautiful virtuous Lady, with twenty thousand Pounds, will make you happy in her Love. Saying this, she join’d their Hands; Sir William eagerly kiss’d Eugenia’s, who blush’d, and said, Thus, Madam, I hope to shew how much I love and honour you. My Cousin Eugenia! (cry’d Gracelove!) The same, my dear lost dead Cousin Gracelove! (reply’d she) O! (said he in a Transport) my present Joys are greater than all my past Miseries! my Mistress and my Friend are found, and still are mine. Nay, (faith, said my Lord) this is pleasant enough to me, tho’ I have been defeated of the Enjoyment of the Lady. The whole Company in general went away very well that Night, who return’d the next Morning, and saw the two happy Pair firmly united.

FINIS

Notes: Critical and Explanatory:

The Unfortunate Happy Lady

p. 43 (#happy_commtag1)Ros Solis. A potent and well-liked tipple.

We abandon all ale
And beer that is stale
Rosa-solis and damnable hum,
But we will rack
In the praise of sack
’Gainst Omne quod exit in um.

    – Witts Recreation (1654).

The Accomplished Female Instructor gives the following recipe: ‘Rossa Solis; Take of clean spirits, not too strong, two quarts and a quart of spring-water; let them seethe gently over a soft fire till about a pint is evaporated; then put in four spoonfuls of orange-flower-water, and as much of very good cinnamon-water; crush 3 eggs in pieces, and throw them in shell and all; stir it well, and when it boiles up a little take it off.’ This drink was so great a favourite with Louis XIV that a particular sort was named Rossolis du Roi.

p. 51 (#happy_commtag2)The Cheats, Mother, the Cheats. John Wilson’s excellent comedy, The Cheats, which was written and produced in 1662, attained great popularity. It ran into four editions (‘imprimatur, 5 November, 1663’); 4to, 1664; 1671; 1684; 1693. Caustically satirizing the Puritans, it became a stock piece, and was acted as late as May, 1721, when Griffin, Harper, Diggs, and Mrs. Gifford sustained the parts which had been created by Lacy, Mohun, Hart, and Mrs. Corey.

THE FAIR JILT

INTRODUCTION

Although The Fair Jilt was published in 1688, it is interesting to note that ten years earlier, Michaelmas Term, 1678, there is advertised for R. Tonson The Amorous Convert; being a true Relation of what happened in Holland, which may very well be the first sketch of Mrs. Behn’s maturer novel. The fact that she does not ‘pretend here to entertain you with a feign’d story,’ but on the contrary, ‘every circumstance to a tittle is truth’, and that she expressly asserts, ‘To a great part of the main I myself was an eye-witness’, aroused considerable suspicion in Bernbaum as to the veracity of her narration, a suspicion which, when he gravely discovers history to know no such person as her ‘Prince Tarpuin of the race of the last Kings of Rome’, is resolved into a certainty that she is romancing fully and freely throughout. It is surely obvious that such a point does not so much demonstrate Mrs. Behn’s untruthfulness as her consummate art. With all the nice skill of a born novelist she has so mingled fact and fancy, what did occur and what might have been, that any attempt to disentangle the twain would be idle indeed. The passages where she is most insistent upon the due sequence of events, most detailed in observation are not impossibly purely fictional, the incidents related without stress or emphatic assertions are probably enough the plain unvarnished happenings as she witnessed them. That the history is mainly true admits of little question; that Mrs. Behn has heightened and coloured the interest is equally certain.

The Fair Jilt must be allowed to stand in the very first rank amongst her novels. It has been aptly compared to a novella by Bandello, and is indeed more than worthy of the pen of the good Dominican Bishop of Agen. In all its incidents and motives the story is eternally true. The fateful beauty, playing now the part of Potiphar’s wife, and now the yet commoner rôle of an enchantress whose charms drive men to madness and crime, men who adore her even from their prison cell and are glad to go to a shameful death for her sake, appears in all history, in all literature, nay, in the very newspaper scandals and police courts of to-day. As a picture of untrammelled passion, culpable and corrupt, but yet terribly fascinating in her very recklessness and abandon, Miranda is indeed a powerful study. Always guilty, she is always excused, or if punished but sparingly and little, whilst the friar languishes in a foul dungeon, the page-boy is hanged, her husband stands upon the public scaffold. And then in the end, ‘very penitent for her life past’, she is received with open arms by Tarquin’s old father, who looks upon her as a very angel, and retiring to the tranquility of a country-house she passes her days in ‘as perfect a state of happiness as this troublesome world can afford’.

TO[2 - To Henry Pain, Esq. Henry Neville Payne, politician and author, was a thorough Tory and an ardent partisan of James II. Downes ascribes to him three plays: The Fatal Jealousy, produced at Dorset Garden in the winter of 1672, a good, if somewhat vehement, tragedy (4to, 1673); Morning Ramble; or, Town Humours, produced at the same theatre in 1673 (4to, 1673), which, though lacking in plot and quick incident, is far from a bad comedy; and The Siege of Constantinople, acted by the Duke’s company in 1674 (4to, 1675), a tragedy which very sharply lashes Shaftesbury as the Chancellor, especially in Act II, when Lorenzo, upon his patron designing a frolic, says: —My Lord, you know your old house, Mother Somelie’s,You know she always fits you with fresh girls.Mother Somelie is, of course, the notorious Mother Mosely.Henry Payne wrote several loyal pamphlets, and after the Revolution he became, according to Burnet, ‘the most active and determined of all King James’ agents.’ He is said to have been the chief instigator of the Montgomery plot in 1690, and whilst in Scotland was arrested. 10 and 11 December of that year he was severely tortured under a special order of William III, but nothing could be extracted from him. This is the last occasion on which torture was applied in Scotland. After being treated with harshest cruelty by William III, Payne was finally released from prison in December, 1700, or January, 1701, as the Duke of Queensbury, recognizing the serious illegalities of the whole business, urgently advised his liberation. Payne died in 1710. As Macaulay consistently confounds him with a certain Edward Neville, S.J., the statements of this historian with reference to Henry Neville Payne must be entirely disregarded.]

HENRY PAIN, ESQ;

Sir,

Dedications are like Love, and no Man of Wit or Eminence escapes them; early or late, the Affliction of the Poet’s Complement falls upon him; and Men are oblig’d to receive ’em as they do their Wives; For better, for worse; at least with a feign’d Civility.

It was not Want of Respect, but Fear, that has hitherto made us keep clear of your Judgment, too piercing to be favourable to what is not nicely valuable. We durst not awaken your Criticism; and by begging your Protection in the Front of a Book, give you an Occasion to find nothing to deserve it. Nor can this little History lay a better Claim to that Honour, than those that have not pretended to it; which has but this Merit to recommend it, That it is Truth: Truth, which you so much admire. But ’tis a Truth that entertains you with so many Accidents diverting and moving, that they will need both a Patron, and an Assertor in this incredulous World. For however it may be imagin’d that Poetry (my Talent) has so greatly the Ascendant over me, that all I write must pass for Fiction, I now desire to have it understood that this is Reality, and Matter of Fact, and acted in this our latter Age: And that in the person of Tarquin, I bring a Prince to kiss your Hands, who own’d himself, and was receiv’d, as the last of the Race of the Roman Kings; whom I have often seen, and you have heard of; and whose Story is so well known to your self, and many Hundreds more: Part of which I had from the Mouth of this unhappy great Man, and was an Eye-Witness to the rest.

’Tis true, Sir, I present you with a Prince unfortunate, but still the more noble Object for your Goodness and Pity; who never valu’d a brave Man the less for being unhappy. And whither shou’d the Afflicted flee for Refuge but to the Generous? Amongst all the Race, he cannot find a better Man, or more certain Friend: Nor amongst all his Ancestors, match your greater Soul, and Magnificence of Mind. He will behold in one English Subject, a Spirit as illustrious, a Heart as fearless, a Wit and Eloquence as excellent, as Rome it self cou’d produce. Its Senate scarce boasted of a better States-man, nor Augustus of a more faithful Subject; as your Imprisonment and Sufferings, through all the Course of our late National Distractions, have sufficiently manifested; But nothing cou’d press or deject your great Heart; you were the same Man still, unmov’d in all Turns, easie and innocent; no Persecution being able to abate your constant good Humour, or wonted Gallantry.

If, Sir, you find here a Prince of less Fortitude and Vertue than your self, charge his Miscarriages on Love: a Weakness of that Nature you will easily excuse, (being so great a Friend to the Fair;) though possibly, he gave a Proof of it too Fatal to his Honour. Had I been to have form’d his Character, perhaps I had made him something more worthy of the Honour of your Protection: But I was oblig’d to pursue the Matter of Fact, and give a just Relation of that part of his Life which, possibly, was the only reproachful part of it. If he be so happy, as to entertain a Man of Wit and Business, I shall not fear his Welcome to the rest of the World: And ’tis only with your Passport he can hope to be so.

The particular Obligations I have to your Bounty and Goodness, O Noble Friend, and Patron of the Muses! I do not so much as pretend to acknowledge in this little Present; those being above the Poet’s Pay, which is a sort of Coin, not currant in this Age: though perhaps may be esteem’d as Medals in the Cabinets of Men of Wit. If this be so happy to be of that Number, I desire no more lasting a Fame, that it may bear this Inscription, that I am,

    SIR,
    Your most Obliged, and
    Most Humble Servant,
    A. BEHN.

THE FAIR JILT:[3 - The Fair Jilt. Editio princeps, ‘London. Printed by R. Holt for Will. Canning, at his Shop in the Temple-Cloysters’ (1688), ‘Licensed 17 April, 1688. Ric. Pocock’, has as title: The Fair Jilt; or, The History of Prince Tarquin and Miranda. As half-title it prints: The Fair Hypocrite; or, The Amours of Prince Tarquin and Miranda. All subsequent editions, however, give: The Fair Jilt; or, The Amours of Prince Tarquin and Miranda. The Dedication only occurs in the first edition.]

or,

The Amours of Prince Tarquin and Miranda

As Love is the most noble and divine Passion of the Soul, so it is that to which we may justly attribute all the real Satisfactions of Life; and without it Man is unfinish’d and unhappy.

There are a thousand things to be said of the Advantages this generous Passion brings to those, whose Hearts are capable of receiving its soft Impressions; for ’tis not every one that can be sensible of its tender Touches. How many Examples, from History and Observation, could I give of its wondrous Power; nay, even to a Degree of Transmigration! How many Idiots has it made wise! How many Fools eloquent! How many home-bred Squires accomplish’d! How many Cowards brave! And there is no sort of Species of Mankind on whom it cannot work some Change and Miracle, if it be a noble well-grounded Passion, except on the Fop in Fashion, the harden’d incorrigible Fop; so often wounded, but never reclaim’d: For still, by a dire Mistake, conducted by vast Opiniatrety, and a greater Portion of Self-love, than the rest of the Race of Man, he believes that Affectation in his Mein and Dress, that Mathematical Movement, that Formality in every Action, that a Face manag’d with Care, and soften’d into Ridicule, the languishing Turn, the Toss, and the Back-shake of the Periwig, is the direct Way to the Heart of the fine Person he adores; and instead of curing Love in his Soul, serves only to advance his Folly; and the more he is enamour’d, the more industriously he assumes (every Hour) the Coxcomb. These are Love’s Play-things, a sort of Animals with whom he sports; and whom he never wounds, but when he is in good Humour, and always shoots laughing. ’Tis the Diversion of the little God, to see what a Fluttering and Bustle one of these Sparks, new-wounded, makes; to what fantastick Fooleries he has Recourse: The Glass is every Moment call’d to counsel, the Valet consulted and plagu’d for new Invention of Dress, the Footman and Scrutore (#jilt_comm3) perpetually employ’d; Billet-doux and Madrigals take up all his Mornings, till Play-time in dressing, till Night in gazing; still, like a Sun-flower, turn’d towards the Beams of the fair Eyes of his Cælia, adjusting himself in the most amorous Posture he can assume, his Hat under his Arm, while the other Hand is put carelesly into his Bosom, as if laid upon his panting Heart; his Head a little bent to one Side, supported with a World of Cravat-string, which he takes mighty Care not to put into Disorder; as one may guess by a never-failing and horrid Stiffness in his Neck; and if he had any Occasion to look aside, his whole Body turns at the same Time, for Fear the Motion of the Head alone should incommode the Cravat or Periwig: And sometimes the Glove is well manag’d, and the white Hand display’d. Thus, with a thousand other little Motions and Formalities, all in the common Place or Road of Foppery, he takes infinite Pains to shew himself to the Pit and Boxes, a most accomplish’d Ass. This is he, of all human Kind, on whom Love can do no Miracles, and who can no where, and upon no Occasion, quit one Grain of his refin’d Foppery, unless in a Duel, or a Battle, if ever his Stars should be so severe and ill-manner’d, to reduce him to the Necessity of either: Fear then would ruffle that fine Form he had so long preserv’d in nicest Order, with Grief considering, that an unlucky Chance-wound in his Face, if such a dire Misfortune should befal him, would spoil the Sale of it for ever.

Perhaps it will be urg’d, that since no Metamorphosis can be made in a Fop by Love, you must consider him one of those that only talks of Love, and thinks himself that happy Thing, a Lover; and wanting fine Sense enough for the real Passion, believes what he feels to be it. There are in the Quiver of the God a great many different Darts; some that wound for a Day, and others for a Year; they are all fine, painted, glittering Darts, and shew as well as those made of the noblest Metal; but the Wounds they make reach the Desire only, and are cur’d by possessing, while the short-liv’d Passion betrays the Cheat. But ’tis that refin’d and illustrious Passion of the Soul, whose Aim is Virtue, and whose end is Honour, that has the Power of changing Nature, and is capable of performing all those heroick Things, of which History is full.

How far distant Passions may be from one another, I shall be able to make appear in these following Rules. I’ll prove to you the strong Effects of Love in some unguarded and ungovern’d Hearts; where it rages beyond the Inspirations of a God all soft and gentle, and reigns more like a Fury from Hell.

I do not pretend here to entertain you with a feign’d Story, or any Thing piec’d together with romantick Accidents; but every Circumstance, to a Tittle, is Truth. To a great Part of the Main I myself was an Eye-witness; and what I did not see, I was confirm’d of by Actors in the Intrigue, Holy Men, of the Order of St. Francis: But for the Sake of some of her Relations, I shall give my Fair Jilt a feign’d Name, that of Miranda; but my Hero must retain his own, it being too illustrious to be conceal’d.

You are to understand, that in all the Catholick Countries, where Holy Orders are establish’d, there are abundance of differing Kinds of Religious, both of Men and Women. Amongst the Women, there are those we call Nuns, that make solemn Vows of perpetual Chastity; There are others who make but a simple Vow, as for five or ten Years, or more or less; and that time expir’d, they may contract anew for longer time, or marry, or dispose of themselves as they shall see good; and these are ordinarily call’d Galloping Nuns: Of these there are several Orders; as Canonesses, Begines, Quests, Swart-Sisters, and Jesuitesses (#jilt_comm4), with several others I have forgot. Of those of the Begines was our Fair Votress.

These Orders are taken up by the best Persons of the Town, young Maids of Fortune, who live together, not inclos’d, but in Palaces that will hold about fifteen hundred or two thousand of these Filles Devotes; where they have a regulated Government, under a sort of Abbess, or Prioress, or rather a Governante. They are oblig’d to a Method of Devotion, and are under a sort of Obedience. They wear a Habit much like our Widows of Quality in England, only without a Bando; and their Veil is of a thicker Crape than what we have here, thro’ which one cannot see the Face; for when they go abroad, they cover themselves all over with it; but they put ’em up in the Churches, and lay ’em by in the Houses. Every one of these have a Confessor, who is to ’em a sort of Steward: For, you must know, they that go into these Places, have the Management of their own Fortunes, and what their Parents design ’em. Without the Advice of this Confessor, they act nothing, nor admit of a Lover that he shall not approve; at least, this Method ought to be taken, and is by almost all of ’em; tho’ Miranda thought her Wit above it, as her Spirit was.

But as these Women are, as I said, of the best Quality, and live with the Reputation of being retir’d from the World a little more than ordinary, and because there is a sort of Difficulty to approach ’em, they are the People the most courted, and liable to the greatest Temptations; for as difficult as it seems to be, they receive Visits from all the Men of the best Quality, especially Strangers. All the Men of Wit and Conversation meet at the Apartments of these fair Filles Devotes, where all Manner of Gallantries are perform’d, while all the Study of these Maids is to accomplish themselves for these noble Conversations. They receive Presents, Balls, Serenades, and Billets; All the News, Wit, Verses, Songs, Novels, Musick, Gaming, and all fine Diversion, is in their Apartments, they themselves being of the best Quality and Fortune. So that to manage these Gallantries, there is no sort of Female Arts they are not practis’d in, no Intrigue they are ignorant of, and no Management of which they are not capable.

Of this happy Number was the fair Miranda, whose Parents being dead, and a vast Estate divided between her self and a young Sister, (who liv’d with an unmarry’d old Uncle, whose Estate afterwards was all divided between ’em) she put her self into this uninclos’d religious House; but her Beauty, which had all the Charms that ever Nature gave, became the Envy of the whole Sisterhood. She was tall, and admirably shaped; she had a bright Hair, and Hazle-Eyes, all full of Love and Sweetness: No Art could make a Face so fair as hers by Nature, which every Feature adorn’d with a Grace that Imagination cannot reach: Every Look, every Motion charm’d, and her black Dress shew’d the Lustre of her Face and Neck. She had an Air, though gay as so much Youth could inspire, yet so modest, so nobly reserv’d, without Formality, or Stiffness, that one who look’d on her would have imagin’d her Soul the Twin-Angel of her Body; and both together made her appear something divine. To this she had a great deal of Wit, read much, and retain’d all that serv’d her Purpose. She sung delicately, and danc’d well, and play’d on the Lute to a Miracle. She spoke several Languages naturally; for being Co-heiress to so great a Fortune, she was bred with the nicest Care, in all the finest Manners of Education; and was now arriv’d to her Eighteenth Year.

’Twere needless to tell you how great a Noise the Fame of this young Beauty, with so considerable a Fortune, made in the World: I may say, the World, rather than confine her Fame to the scanty Limits of a Town; it reach’d to many others: And there was not a Man of any Quality that came to Antwerp, or pass’d thro’ the City, but made it his Business to see the lovely Miranda, who was universally ador’d: Her Youth and Beauty, her Shape, and Majesty of Mein, and Air of Greatness, charm’d all her Beholders; and thousands of People were dying by her Eyes, while she was vain enough to glory in her Conquests, and make it her Business to wound. She lov’d nothing so much as to behold sighing Slaves at her Feet, of the greatest Quality; and treated them all with an Affability that gave them Hope. Continual Musick, as soon as it was dark, and Songs of dying Lovers, were sung under her Windows; and she might well have made herself a great Fortune (if she had not been so already) by the rich Presents that were hourly made her; and every body daily expected when she would make some one happy, by suffering her self to be conquer’d by Love and Honour, by the Assiduities and Vows of some one of her Adorers. But Miranda accepted their Presents, heard their Vows with Pleasure, and willingly admitted all their soft Addresses; but would not yield her Heart, or give away that lovely Person to the Possession of one, who could please it self with so many. She was naturally amorous, but extremely inconstant: She lov’d one for his Wit, another for his Face, and a third for his Mein; but above all, she admir’d Quality: Quality alone had the Power to attach her entirely; yet not to one Man, but that Virtue was still admir’d by her in all: Where-ever she found that, she lov’d, or at least acted the Lover with such Art, that (deceiving well) she fail’d not to compleat her Conquest; and yet she never durst trust her fickle Humour with Marriage. She knew the Strength of her own Heart, and that it could not suffer itself to be confin’d to one Man, and wisely avoided those Inquietudes, and that Uneasiness of Life she was sure to find in that married State, which would, against her Nature, oblige her to the Embraces of one, whose Humour was, to love all the Young and the Gay. But Love, who had hitherto only play’d with her Heart, and given it nought but pleasing wanton Wounds, such as afforded only soft Joys, and not Pains, resolv’d, either out of Revenge to those Numbers she had abandon’d, and who had sigh’d so long in vain, or to try what Power he had upon so fickle a Heart, to send an Arrow dipp’d in the most tormenting Flames that rage in Hearts most sensible. He struck it home and deep, with all the Malice of an angry God.

There was a Church belonging to the Cordeliers (#oroonoko), whither Miranda often repair’d to her Devotion; and being there one Day, accompany’d with a young Sister of the Order, after the Mass was ended, as ’tis the Custom, some one of the Fathers goes about the Church with a Box for Contribution, or Charity-Money: It happen’d that Day, that a young Father, newly initiated, carried the Box about, which, in his Turn, he brought to Miranda. She had no sooner cast her Eyes on this young Friar, but her Face was overspread with Blushes of Surprize: She beheld him stedfastly, and saw in his Face all the Charms of Youth, Wit, and Beauty; he wanted no one Grace that could form him for Love, he appear’d all that is adorable to the Fair Sex, nor could the mis-shapen Habit hide from her the lovely Shape it endeavour’d to cover, nor those delicate Hands that approach’d her too near with the Box. Besides the Beauty of his Face and Shape, he had an Air altogether great, in spite of his profess’d Poverty, it betray’d the Man of Quality; and that Thought weigh’d greatly with Miranda. But Love, who did not design she should now feel any sort of those easy Flames, with which she had heretofore burnt, made her soon lay all those Considerations aside, which us’d to invite her to love, and now lov’d she knew not why.

She gaz’d upon him, while he bow’d before her, and waited for her Charity, till she perceiv’d the lovely Friar to blush, and cast his Eyes to the Ground. This awaken’d her Shame, and she put her Hand into her Pocket, and was a good while in searching for her Purse, as if she thought of nothing less than what she was about; at last she drew it out, and gave him a Pistole; but with so much Deliberation and Leisure, as easily betray’d the Satisfaction she took in looking on him; while the good Man, having receiv’d her Bounty, after a very low Obeysance, proceeded to the rest; and Miranda casting after him a Look all languishing, as long as he remain’d in the Church, departed with a Sigh as soon as she saw him go out, and returned to her Apartment without speaking one Word all the Way to the young Fille Devote, who attended her; so absolutely was her Soul employ’d with this young Holy Man. Cornelia (so was this Maid call’d who was with her) perceiving she was so silent, who us’d to be all Wit and good Humour, and observing her little Disorder at the Sight of the young Father, tho’ she was far from imagining it to be Love, took an Occasion, when she was come home, to speak of him. ‘Madam, said she, did you not observe that fine young Cordelier, who brought the Box?’ At a Question that nam’d that Object of her Thoughts, Miranda blush’d; and she finding she did so, redoubled her Confusion, and she had scarce Courage enough to say, —Yes, I did observe him: And then, forcing herself to smile a little, continu’d, ‘And I wonder’d to see so jolly a young Friar of an Order so severe and mortify’d. – Madam, (reply’d Cornelia) when you know his Story, you will not wonder.’ Miranda, who was impatient to know all that concern’d her new Conqueror, obliged her to tell his Story; and Cornelia obey’d, and proceeded.

The Story of Prince Henrick

‘You must know, Madam, that this young Holy Man is a Prince of Germany, of the House of – , whose Fate it was, to fall most passionately in Love with a fair young Lady, who lov’d him with an Ardour equal to what he vow’d her. Sure of her Heart, and wanting only the Approbation of her Parents, and his own, which her Quality did not suffer him to despair of, he boasted of his Happiness to a young Prince, his elder Brother, a Youth amorous and fierce, impatient of Joys, and sensible of Beauty, taking Fire with all fair Eyes: He was his Father’s Darling, and Delight of his fond Mother; and, by an Ascendant over both their Hearts, rul’d their Wills.