Dorando: a Spanish tale.

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

DORANDO, A SPANISH TALE.

IN the rich and beautiful province of Andalusia lived the prince of Dorando, of the race of the ancient kings of Arragon. His family had long subsisted in splendour, and several branches of it were established in different parts of Europe. But Don Carlos, the last of the male line, having in his youth had some difference with his sovereign, quitted the court, and taking a disgust at the world, shut himself up in the castle of his ancestors.

Here he lived in retirement for upwards of thirty years; and although a prince of admirable parts, yet in this gloom of solitude his mind lost its natural vigour; and, indifferent about his affairs, he resigned himself to the guidance of people who were artful enough to insinuate themselves into his favour.

Don Carlos had no brothers; but an only sister, amiable and accomplished, educated by the princess her mother in the strictest honour and piety. This lady refused many advantageous offers of marriage from sentiments of delicacy rarely to be found in one of her rank. She was often asked by her brother to marry; but she diverted the discourse by telling him, that it was his duty to continue his illustrious line. At last she listened to the addresses of Don Spiritoso, a cavalier of good family, somewhat advanced in life, but of very engaging manners. The princess Maria herself, was then in her forty seventh year.

Their nuptials were privately celebrated by the bishop of the city where they lived: for, understanding that the prince of Dorando had taken up some prejudice against Don Spiritoso, they resolved to conceal their marriage; and accordingly set out for France, taking with them Donna Justina, who had lived both with the princess and her mother in the character of a waiting-woman.

They resided for some time in a pleasant village in France, till the princess became pregnant, and her marriage could no longer be concealed; while at the same time she hoped, that the prince her brother could not be offended at an event, of which he should no sooner hear, than he should also be informed of its happy consequences.

The princess therefore wrote an affectionate letter to her brother, acquainting him of her situation, and begging his kind protection; but alas! the worthy prince had already been most unhappily imposed upon.

For in the neighbourhood of Dorando lived the prince of Arvidoso, who by an intermarriage of the families entertained some hopes of succession to the estate of Dorando. The adherents therefore of the family of Arvidoso did all in their power to poison the ear and vex the noble spirit of the unsuspecting Dorando. The principal of these adherents were Don Stocaccio, Don Tipponi, and Don Rodomontado. These three never ceased to throw the most injurious suspicions upon the character of the absent princess. They exaggerated every imprudency in the conduct of Don Spiritoso, so as to prevent any hope of the prince being reconciled to his marriage with the lady Maria. At last the princess went to Paris, where she was safely delivered of two sons.

This event was an alarming stroke to the family of Arvidoso with all its train. They therefore formed a scheme, the most unjust and cruel both to the princess Dorando and to her brother, by which they endeavoured to prevent that lady and her sons from inheriting the family possessions, and at the same time to deprive her brother of the happiness he must have had to see his family carried down by the issue of his beloved sister.

This scheme was no other than a downright accusation against the lady Maria, of what is called in the law Partus, Suppositio counterfeiting a birth. A report of which they industriously propagated. Few indeed would give credit to so black an aspersion.—It was however fatal to the repose of the prince of Dorando. For these designing people represented him as a kind of melancholy madman, to whom no body could have access; so that they might have a full opportunity of practising upon his mind. Stocaccio who constantly resided with him in the castle, though a dull animal, had cunning and wickedness enough to affect a thorough conviction of the princess's imposture, and to repeat it continually to her brother. Tipponi told him a variety of stories which he had heard over his cups; and Rodomontado blustered and swore, that the whole matter was as clear as the sun in the firmament.—Blow out my brains, most mighty prince, would he say, and toss me from the tower of Toledo, if ever a more arrant cheat was attempted since the day that Noah went into his Ark.

The unfortunate Dorando believed the barbarous tale. He did not imagine that any man alive could have dared to tell the prince of Dorando, that his sister was an abandoned and infamous woman, had it not been true beyond a possibility of doubt. He felt the deepest anguish; but his spirit was roused with indignation; and he resolved never again to see his sister, and to show her every mark of his displeasure.

Having brought him to this state of mind, the adherents had no difficulty to accomplish their designs. The gentlest hints were sufficient; so that the prince of Dorando settled his opulent domains on the house of Arvidoso, and sunk a family which had been illustrious for ages.

The princess Maria immediately returned to Spain with her husband and children. Her brother had withdrawn from her even the appointments which he had assigned for maintaining her court; and had it not been for the generosity of some of the neighbouring princes, the lady Maria Dorando must have been reduced to actual want.

All who lived under her brother lamented her situation. They crouded to see the children, and it was universally agreed, that Don Ferdinand, the eldest, had a strong resemblance to the prince his uncle; and that Don Philip, the youngest, was the very picture of his mother. The honest peasants kissed the hands of the young princes with the sincerest marks of joy and affection, wishing that the prince could only see his nephews, as that would be sufficient to convince him how false were the suspicions against them.

But the prince had received too strong impressions, and was too closely watched. Often did the lady Maria write to him in the most moving terms; but all in vain. She at last resolved to make a desperate effort, and went to the gate of his castle with her two children. And there did the princess Dorando and her sons stand like the lowest supplicants, till the prince should return an answer to a pathetic letter which she sent up to him.—The prince began to relent. He walked through his castle musing with much agitation, while the big tear ran down his cheek. But Stocaccio, like a hellhound, dogged him from room to room, and with a villainous appearance of concern, bid him be firm, nor weakly yield to the whining of a woman, who had forfeited every claim to his regard. The prince overcome with a tumult of contending passions, retired to his closet; and Stocaccio desired the servants to tell the lady Maria, that she could have no admittance there.

Treatment so harsh and severe from him who had formerly been a fond brother, was beyond measure distressing to the princess; but she behaved with calmness and moderation, for her hope was fixed on heaven.

Soon after this her youngest son died. She was in the deepest affliction, and the bitterness of her sorrow so affected her spirits that she never recovered. When she felt the approach of death, she received the holy sacrament with much devotion. She called to her bed-side the prince Ferdinand her first born, and now only child, and, after leaving with him many pious lessons, she raised herself a little, as if animated with extraordinary life; 'My son, said she, be not cast down. God bless you. God make you a good and an honest man; for riches I despise. Take a sword in your hand, and you may one day be as great a hero as some of your predecessors.' Having thus spoke, she reclined her head with peace and complacency; while Don Ferdinand stood by her like 'the young eaglet of a valiant nest,'[*] in an attitude as if already facing all the dangers of the field, and at the same time touched with the deepest concern for his dying mother, who expired a few minutes after.

Don Spiritoso, whose liberality of disposition far exceeded his fortune, was unable to support his son; but a princess of great worth, the friend of lady Maria, took under her protection the young Don Ferdinand, and gave him an education suitable to his real birth. And in whatever way it is, that the qualities of nobility are transmitted, it is certain, that this prince by his sentiments, his manners, and his air, could not but be acknowledged as of superiour rank. His uncle however remained inexorable, and Don Ferdinand never flattered himself with any expectation of happier days.

But Providence, whose awful designs cannot be penetrated by mortals —Providence, who is sometimes pleased to manifest his justice, even in this world of imperfection, where we are not always to expect it—Providence determined to reward the piety of the princess Maria Dorando, by rescuing her memory from reproach, and vindicating the honour of her son by means the most extraordinary.

Not far from the castle of Dorando was the seat of a knight, who claimed a distant connection with the illustrious house, having the honour to bear the name; but he was never allowed to approach the castle, as he was well known to be inviolably attached to the family from whence he sprung, and had even fought several duels with persons who said in his presence, that the lady Maria had brought home supposititious children.

The daughter of this knight was Donna Eleanora, of uncommon talents, and all the high spirit of her race. Her brother was an officer in the service of Naples, during the monarchy of Don Carlos, when king of the two Sicilies, and as the prince of Dorando had been baptized the same day with his majesty, received the same name, and been ever intimate with him, Donna Eleanora determined to solicite his interest in favour of her brother, and as Stocaccio was just dead, she resolved to improve a favourable interval.

She accordingly went to the castle, and was allowed admittance to the prince.—Dorando rose and received her with an easy dignity, as if he had not been a day absent from court. 'Fair lady, said he, how am I so fortunate.—To whom am I indebted for so agreeable a visit?' Donna Eleanora told him her name and Family, and why she had presumed to come into his presence; and she spoke with such openness and unaffected vivacity, that the prince was charmed with her behaviour,—told her that she might command his services in every thing, and that he would the very next morning dispatch a special courier to Naples, with the strongest recommendations of her brother to his Sicilian majesty. He insisted that she should stay with him a day or two, and very pleasantly said, 'I hope, cousin, you are not afraid of being eaten alive by the wild man. God forbid, Sir, said Donna Eleanora, that I, whose veins are warm with the blood of Dorando, should be affected by such imaginations. I am a woman, but, I hope, I am free from the weaknesses which render our sex contemptible.—Will your highness allow me to see the castle.'

The prince conducted her through the apartments with the most courteous affability. Donna Eleanora admired their grandeur; but her attention was chiefly fixed on the portraits of the renowned heroes of the house of Dorando. 'Ah prince! said she, is it not sacrilege to let so glorious a sun set for ever?—Your highness will forgive me for mentioning the name of the lady Maria.—My tears must plead my excuse.'—The prince fetched a deep sigh, and stood for a minute or two as if looking towards heaven, but made no reply. Donna Eleanora assumed a gayer tone;—'Well then, prince, is there no lady in Spain who deserves the honour of having her picture placed in this gallery? Are women so degenerated, that the house of Dorando must fail for want of a consort?' The prince kissed her hand, and walked a-cross the room, as if he had something in his mind which he could not communicate. Donna Eleanora was not at all discomposed. Though she had heard many reports, that the prince was subject to furious fits, she considered them as the inventions of interested people; and she stood fearless and unconcerned, till he recovered from his reverie; and asking her ten thousand pardons, led her to the room where dinner was served up.

Donna Eleanora appeared at table with such gracefulness and majesty, that the prince often fixed his eyes upon her, and then hastily withdrawing them, was heard to say,—'This is strange!—This is strange!'—After dinner she was shewn to her apartment to take a siesto, or gentle sleep, as is the custom in Spain. She dreamed that a lady appeared to her with a celestial countenance, informing her, she was the princess Maria, and saying, 'Noble lady, I am come to tell you, that Donna Eleanora was born for the deliverance of my injured son.'

This vision left a wonderful impression on the mind of Donna Eleanora; she wist not well what to think of it.—She rose and went to the drawing room, where she found the prince reclined on a sofa, and playing on the lute with inimitable taste; she begged that he would continue his music, of which she was very fond. The prince did so, and touched the instrument with such delicacy, that Donna Eleanora thought herself in an enchanted region. His airs were mostly melancholy; but he would now and then entertain the lady with a favourite love-song. After this they talked together till supper; and the prince seemed more and more delighted with her conversation. When she retired to her room at night, she could hardly sleep for reflecting on the extraordinary scene of the former day: but how much was she surprized next morning, when, on coming down to breakfast, she found the knight her father sitting with the prince of Dorando.

His highness accosted her with true Spanish gallantry. 'Donna Eleanora, it would seem that heaven has destined you for my happiness. I sent an express at midnight for your father, whom I rejoice to see under this roof. If your affections are not engaged, I hope you will accept the hand of the prince of Dorando.'

Donna Eleanora was struck with wonder. The vision came full in her mind; and she adored the benignity of Providence. Then turning to the prince; 'My affections, said she, are no otherways engaged than to this illustrious house. They have long been so engaged; and they are now a thousand times more so since I have seen the representative of the family.—Your highness does me an honour which I cannot find words to express.—It shall be the study of my life to deserve it.'—His highnesses priest was called in to his presence, and the ceremony was immediately performed. Now madam, said the prince, I can show you my gallery without being afraid of any reproof from you.

The news of this marriage flew over the country, and filled every honest heart with joy: but it was like a clap of thunder to the house of Arvidoso. They feared that their hopes were blasted. The adherents could not conceal their vexation, but went about cursing the day that Stocaccio died, and imprecating vengeance on Donna Eleanora.

The prince Dorando now resumed in a great measure his former chearfulness. All the nobility around came and paid their court to him: and he found himself as fit for society as ever. He went to Sevile with his princess, and resided a part of the winter. His levee was continually crouded. A celebrated tragedy, in honour of his family, was performed in the public theatre, where the prince himself appeared amidst the acclamations of the audience.

Something was still wanting to render the felicity compleat. The princess Dorando could have wished to have brought the prince a son of his own to take up his succession; but in the mean time she was anxious to undeceive him with regard to his nephew; and when she despaired of her own offspring, she became still more anxious. She took every opportunity of talking to the prince concerning his sister, and she convinced him of the falsity of many of the stories that had been told him.

It was now ten years since his nephew's birth, but Donna Justina was still alive in obscure apartments at Sevile. The prince was prevailed with to visit her, and was alone with her for a considerable time, when he examined her as to the whole affair, with that keen penetration for which he was distinguished. The accounts which he heard from Donna Justina, were so direct, and enforced with such serious and solemn asseverations, while his strict attention made it impossible for her to dissemble, that the prince was much persuaded of his sister's innocence, and of the honour of his nephew.

He owned this to the princess his consort, who insisted that he was called upon to show his conviction to the world, and to do justice to his injured heir. And when the prince seemed still to hesitate, her eagerness for the young Don Ferdinand would sometimes throw her into transports of passion, which her enemies represented as gross affectation, but which the prince saw to be real. He therefore committed to the flames his settlements on the house of Arvidoso, and devised his succession to his nephew Don Ferdinand.

He was often asked by the princess to see his nephew, but he would not agree to it, crying, 'Ah madam! These wretches—These wretches—They have planted thorns in my mind, which have taken root for so many years, that I cannot entirely pull them out, without tearing myself to pieces. Let me alone! I cannot bear to think of the subject. It opens afresh the wounds of my heart—I have been imposed upon—I have been unjust—I have been cruel—But God knows, my intentions were upright—I have made reparation, and my soul shall rest in peace.'

Soon after this, the prince Carlos Dorando died, and was carried in great funeral pomp to the tomb of his ancestors.

The family of Arvidoso would not yet give over their designs upon the wealth of Dorando. Its prince was then in minority, and he had several guardians of high rank and character, but so extravagantly keen to aggrandize their pupil, that they grasped at a tempting appearance, without perceiving that it was only a bubble raised by the breath of malignity.—They fondly wished to commence a process of Partus Suppositio, against Don Ferdinand; and to make enquiries for it, they sent privately to Paris Don Stivalbo, a lawyer, who lay under great obligations to the family of Arvidoso, and was prevailed with to undertake the ungracious task.

Don Stivalbo was a man of principle, and he resolved to conduct himself with the utmost impartiality; but when he arrived at Paris, he was soon surrounded by French priests, advocates, and agents of all kinds, who wished no better than so fat a subject as the domains of Arvidoso and Dorando to feed upon. The gallant Stivalbo understanding little of their language, with true Spanish generosity, trusted to the reports of these gentry; who with many bows, shrugs, and compliments, pretended they had made astonishing discoveries, till Stivalbo had his imagination so warmed, that he himself gave credit to the imposture, and a suit was immediately raised before the senate of Sevile.

In the meantime the guardians of Don Ferdinand began to be somewhat apprehensive, knowing that it was not difficult to bring very extraordinary proofs from the Gavaccios, as the Spaniards call the French, whom they detest.—The princess dowager was determined to be at the bottom of the affair, and set out herself for Paris, carrying with her several lawyers of great eminence in their profession, and remarkable for their honour as private gentlemen. She had the satisfaction to find, upon a careful enquiry, that the house of Arvidoso had been led a wild-goosechace, and that there was nothing to fear.

The Arvidoso party, however, still continued their pursuit, changing their ground, and taking up a variety of different plans; so that the princess was obliged to make no less than three or four journeys a-cross the Pyrenees, in order to get every new story refuted; and indeed this was easy enough, for no sooner did the priests of Arvidoso conjure up a spectre, than the princess Dorando found priests who as cleverly laid it. Such, however, was the ingenuity of the sharpset emissaries in France, that they contrived to keep the affair afloat for several years, while they were magnificently entertained by both parties, who, according to the Parisian phrase, avoient beaucoup d'esprit, et donnoient bien à manger.

While all this was transacting, it was thought proper to call Don Spiritoso before the senate of Sevile, to have him examined concerning the particulars of the delivery of the princess his spouse. He was then very old, and brought low with sickness; but the liveliness of his temper still continued, and he answered every question that was put to him with frankness and readiness; at the same time telling the judges, that he had all his life-long had an irregular and imperfect memory, which was now grown still worse; and therefore it would not be fair should every advantage be taken of his inconsistencies against his son, whom he had always acknowledged. Not long after this examination, Don Spiritoso died, and with his dying breath confirmed the legitimacy of Don Ferdinand.—Donna Justina also died, and stept into eternity declaring, that she had been present at the birth of the prince.

During the dependance of this tedious process, Don Ferdinand behaved with a manly composure and decent gravity, which showed his good sense and proper feelings. He one day called aside one of his lawyers, and insisted with him to tell his real opinion of the cause; 'For, said he, whatever opulence I might gain by it, I should be sorry to contaminate the blood of a family which I revere. But I have another reason for insisting to know the event of the cause; I am yet a young man, and if you think I shall be proved an impostor, I would lose no time, but go immediately to the Indies, where my disgrace will not be known, and where I may pass my days with some reputation.'—The lawyer was greatly moved by this speech of the prince; but assured him that he need be under no concern.

The cause was at length ready for determination; volumes of proofs and memorials were laid before the judges; and a day was appointed for its decision in the senate of Sevile.

Never was there a more interesting scene. The judgment-hall was filled with a croud of spectators, mostly people of rank, who waited in the greatest anxiety and trepidation, to hear the fate of Dorando. When the senators took their places, not a murmur was heard, all was fixed attention.—The senators sat for some minutes in awful silence.

The chief justice was a man of great knowledge in the laws of his country; of a clear head and a sound understanding. He was descended of a distinguished house in Andalusia, which had produced so many senators, that the office seemed to be hereditary in the family.—He at last addressed his brethren—'It is not my custom, respected signors, to speak in this court, till I have first heard your worshipful sentiments; but I now feel myself called upon to take the lead, and to offer, with humble deference to your mightinesses, my opinion on the manner in which we should take up this very important cause.—I am a lawyer it is true,—but I am also a nobleman,—and it is for the honour of Spain that our lawyers are such.—I find here before me, a process, the intention of which is to stigmatize with infamy a princess of the noblest blood in Europe. We have the continued acknowledgment of parents.—We have their positive and dying testimony; with the positive and dying testimony of a woman who was present at the birth of the defendant.—I lay my hand upon my heart, and I judge as I would wish to be judged. Can I then suppose all this to be a complication of guilt, of deliberate and downright perjury?—No, signors;—I cannot, unless upon a strong proof indeed. And what is the proof that has been brought? These testimonies remain untouched.—They are uniform and consistent in the grand point. Upon what then do the plaintiffs rest their extraordinary plea?—They have embarked us in a mare magnum of circumstances, picked up at the distance of fourteen years. And I must say, picked up from the streets of Paris, from the very dregs of the French Canaille. It is true, that the defendant has also his ragged evidences; but let us consider who first called in the lame and the blind. Had not the plaintiffs built, the defendant had not been obliged to pull down.—Signors, I am only surprised to see Don Pedro here. I know him, and I regard him; and it has all along been most difficult for me to reconcile the cause and the lawyer; but when I consider how imperceptibly he has been led away, I excuse him; and I here publickly acquit his honour. For my own part, signors, I have no difficulty; and were not the prince of Arvidoso a minor, these plaintiffs should not go without paying costs of suit.'

Thus spoke the chief justice, with a warmth of feeling which went to the heart of every spectator. Several of the senators delivered their sentiments in terms a little different, but to the same purpose with their head; and only one or two remained still under the cloud of prejudice, but did not venture to say one word.

The spectators could not contain their joy, but shouted as at a bullfight, or any other of the superb spectacles of Spain. Most of the windows of Sevile were that evening illuminated, and bonefires blazed in every corner of the city, while health and prosperity was drunk to the prince Ferdinand of Dorando.

Stung to the quick, the Arvidoso train gnashed their teeth in rage and despair. They however carried their cause by appeal, before the grandees of Spain at Madrid; but it only served to make their desperate scheme fall upon their own heads with redoubled vengeance. That illustrious assembly could hardly hear them with patience. One of the grandees muttered, that the Arvidoso party had said strong things,—that they had a heavy memorial.—'Heavy! cryed the chancellor of Spain, with a violence that made his brother shrink within himself.—Heavy! yes it is heavy; but heavy as was chaos,'

Nec quicquam, nise pondus iners, congestaque eodem

Non bene junctarum discordia semina rerum.

An illustrious grandee—the greatest minister that Spain ever saw, and whose eloquence vied with that of the orators of Greece and Rome, rose up, and looking around him with a piercing eye—he thus began—'Though long accustomed to hold with a steady hand the balance of Europe, and mark the fate of nations; I confess, most mighty signors, that I have at no time been more affected than I now am by this private question—Private, did I say?—I recall the expression—It is a question of the most public nature—in the event of which every thing that is dear and valuable to humanity is concerned—What is Spain? What is our country? It is not the valleys though ever so gay—It is not the fields, though ever so rich, that attach us to our native land—No. It is our family—It is our wives—It is our children—And what have we before us? A daring attempt to render our children uncertain. If adulterers have been thought worthy of death, what punishment do those deserve, who would introduce what is still more dangerous to society? A few wives may be unfaithful; but every wife may be attacked like the princess of Dorando. Have we not here the constant acknowledgment of parents unredargued, unconcussed; but by vague suspicions mustered up twice seven years after the birth of the prince? And must we then prove the birth of our children? I tremble—I shudder at the consequences. They are big with danger and destruction to society. Shall those brave officers whom I have chosen—whom I have sent out—whom I have inspirited—shall those souls of fire who have carried the Spanish arms to the most distant corners—who have been victorious—who have shook the thrones of Europe—shall those brave officers, nay shall any of the gallant soldiers who have had children born abroad—shall they, when returned home to enjoy the blessings of peace, every man under his own vine, and every man under his own fig-tree—shall they be obliged to bring legal evidence of the legitimacy of the children whom they acknowledge, before they can be received as citizens? And if a succession should open to these children—shall we at the distance of twelve, fourteen, or perhaps twenty years, allow foreign proofs to be imported to deprive them of their estate, and their very name? No, signors! While my blood is warm, I hope Spain shall never adopt such unjustifiable measures. I speak with more confidence, that upon this occasion, I see not the least doubt. The defendant's honour is cleared from every stain; and as I heartily disapprove of the temerity of the plaintiffs, I think we should award the defendant very large costs of suit, that those who bring such odious actions before us may see what sort of a reception they are to meet with—The court of Sevile has been too indulgent—It is true, the prince of Arvidoso is a minor; but let him call his guardians to account when he comes of age. In this great assembly we are moved by no particular considerations—we know no private parties—our views are enlarged and extensive—let our sentence be issued with the proper authority of the grandees of Spain.'

The whole assembly, except a very few, unanimously agreed with the eloquent minister—and by a great majority it was carried, that the plaintiff should pay 50000 zechins as costs of suit. Thus was the prince Ferdinand of Dorando raised to the illustrious state of which he had been so long deprived. His dignity sat very easy upon him, for it was natural to him. Envy and malevolene gradually decayed; and even his bitterest enemies began to repent.

He was one day out a hunting in a large forest, which belonged in common to him and to the prince of Arvidoso, who was now come of age, and was a prince of great virtue and accomplishments; but was prevented by those about him from ever having any intercourse with the prince of Dorando, though they had often seen each other at court. The prince of Arvidoso was also out a hunting that morning, and his dogs happened to catch the scent of the wild boar which was pursued by the prince of Dorando. The spirited Arvidoso followed hard in the chace; but just as the boar stopped to turn upon the dogs, his horse fell within half a yard of the furious animal. At that instant the prince of Dorando came up, and seeing the prince Arvidoso engaged with the boar, in whose mouth he had broke his sword, and was now in the most imminent danger; he run to his relief, and attacking the boar with great strength and agility, he soon laid him dead upon the ground.

During the heat and hurry of this adventure, the two princes had totally forgot all family differences; and indeed had hardly time to recollect their own quality.—They now stood for a minute and looked at each other, when Arvidoso, with tears of gratitude in his eyes, run up, and throwing himself into the arms of Dorando; 'Generous prince, said he, forgive what is past, I am not to blame; let there be henceforth an everlasting friendship between us.'—Dorando embraced him with equal cordiality and told him 'That he wished for nothing more than what he now had obtained—The friendship of so amiable a prince.'

In the mean time the attendants of Arvidoso, who had been left far behind, came up.—They had been in great apprehensions for their prince. But how were they astonished and confounded, when they saw him with the prince of Dorando!—They stopt short and were at a loss what to do.—The prince of Arvidoso perceived it, and calling to them to approach, he advanced walking arm in arm with the prince of Dorando, and told his attendants what had happened, saying, 'Gentlemen, you now see my deliverer and best friend.'

The prince of Dorando saluted the company with a graceful ease; and turning to the prince of Arvidoso, 'Sir, said he, your highness has been pleased to call me your friend—Let me have a proof that you are in earnest. My castle is nearer than yours, and I hope you will do me the honour to be my guest for this night? And I insist upon it that your company shall also go with us.'

It was accordingly agreed, and they all went to the castle of Dorando, where they were sumptuously entertained.—After supper, when warm a little with wine, the two princes retired to a window, where, after talking a few minutes in private, prince Arvidoso made a sign to Don Pedro to join them. When he came, the prince Arvidoso said to the prince Dorando, 'Allow me to present to your highness this gentleman, he is worthy of your esteem, and his candour is such, that I have convinced him he was in the wrong to you; for young as I am, I have studied with great application the cause in which both of us were so much concerned; and I give you my word, that I have always declared my opinion, that it was an injurious process. I have only to ask one favour of you, my dear prince, which is, that you may not give my mother as much trouble as our family has given yours.'

Dorando assured Don Pedro that he heartily forgave him, and as he knew him to be a man of parts would be glad to show him every mark of his attention. This done, they returned to the table. Dorando grew exceedingly g•y. He gave them several strokes of pleasantry on their famous cause; and turning to Rodomontado, said with a very sly look, ?'What say you to it, my old Trojan? Will you be tossed from the tower of Toledo now?'

From that time foreward, the greatest intimacy subsisted between the two families. The prince of Dorando married a lady of great beauty and merit and continued in dignity and in lustre the race of his ancestors.

FINIS.

Notes

*
Douglas a Tragedy.
↵

DORANDO, A SPANISH TALE.

—Lydorum quidquid Etruscos

Incoluit fines, nemo generosior est te;

HOR.

(PRICE ONE SHILLING.)

DORANDO, A SPANISH TALE.

Contester à un citoyen l'état dont il a toujours été en possession, qu'il a trouvé établi par les titres de sa filiation, qu'une longue suite d'actes, que des reconnoissances réïterées à chaque instant de sa vie, et qu'une possession publique et non interrompue de cemême état, ont confirmé, c'est une action toujours odieuse, qui porte le trouble dans les familles, et qui par la contagion de l'example peut devenir funeste à la société.
COCHIN.

LONDON, PRINTED FOR J. WILKIE AT THE BIBLE IN ST. PAUL'S CHURCH-YARD. SOLD ALSO BY J. DODSLEY IN PALL-MALL, T. DAVIES IN RUSSEL-STREET COVENT-GARDEN, AND BY THE BOOKSELLERS OF SCOTLAND. M.DCC.LXVII.

Information about this book

Title statement

Dorando: a Spanish tale.

Boswell, James, 1740-1795.

Publication

Distributor

University of Oxford Text Archive
Oxford University Computing Services
13 Banbury Road
Oxford
OX2 6NN
ota@oucs.ox.ac.uk

ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3966

ID [isbn10]

1106009657

ID [isbn13]

9781106009654

ID [TCP]

K036921.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3311745815

ID [ECLL]

0345900400

Availability

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— Dorando: a Spanish tale., Boswell, James, 1740-1795.. 50p. ; 8⁰. London :: printed for J. Wilkie. Sold also by J. Dodsley, T. Davies, and by the booksellers of Scotland,. 1767.. [Anonymous. By James Boswell.] [With a half-title.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT34841.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

Creation

Created by converting TCP files to TEI P5 using tcp2p5.xsl, TEI @ Oxford.

Editorial practices

This electronic text file was keyed from page images and partially proofread for accuracy. Character capture and encoding have been done following the guidelines of the ECCO Text Creation Partnership, which correspond roughly to the recommendations found in Level 4 of the TEI in Libraries Guidelines. Digital page images are linked to the text file.