LETTER XLI.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOUISA CLIFTON.

AT laſt, my dear Louiſa, the charm is broken: the ſpell of ſilence is diſ⯑ſolved. Incapable any longer of re⯑ſtraint, paſſion has burſt its bounds, and ſtrong though the conteſt was, victory has declared for reaſon.

[2] My change of behaviour has produced this effect. Not that I applaud myſelf: on the contrary, I am far from pleaſed with my own want of fortitude. I have even aſſumed an auſterity which I did not feel.

I do not mean to ſay that all appear⯑ances, relative to myſelf, were falſe. No. I was uneaſy; deſirous to ſpeak, deſirous that he ſhould ſpeak, and could accompliſh neither. I accuſed myſelf of having given hopes that were ſeductive, and wiſhed to retract. In ſhort, I have not been altogether ſo conſiſtent as I ought to be; as my letters to you, my friend, will witneſs.

Various little incidents preceded and indeed helped to produce this ſwell and overflow of the heart, and the eclair⯑ciſſement [3] that followed. In the morn⯑ing at breakfaſt, Frank took the cakes I uſually eat to hand to me; and Clifton, whoſe watchful ſpirit is ever alert, caught up a plate of bread and butter, to offer me at the ſame inſtant. His looks ſhewed he expected the preference. I was ſorry for it, and pauſed for a moment. At laſt the principle of not encouraging Frank prevailed, and I took ſome bread and butter from Clifton. It was a repe⯑tition of ſlights, which Frank had lately met with, and he felt it; yet he bowed with a tolerable grace, and put down his plate.

He ſoon after quitted the room, but returned unperceived by me.

The young marchioneſs had break⯑faſted, and retired to her toilet; where [4] ſome of the gentlemen were attending her. She had left a ſnuff-box of conſi⯑derable value with me, which I had for⯑gotten to return; and, with that kind of ſportive cheerfulneſs which I rather en⯑courage than repreſs, I called—‘Here! Where are all my eſquires? I want a meſſenger.’

Clifton heard me, and Frank was unexpectedly at my elbow. Had I known it, I ſhould not have ſpoken ſo thoughtleſsly. Frank came forward and bowed. Clifton called—‘Here am I, ready, fair lady, to execute your be⯑heſts.’

I was a ſecond time embarraſſed. After a ſhort heſitation, I ſaid—‘No—I have changed my mind.’

Frank retired; but Clifton advanced, [5] with his uſual gaiety, anſwering,—‘Nay, nay! I have not earned half a crown yet this morning, and I muſt not be cheated of my fare.’ I would ſtill have refuſed, but I perceived Clifton be⯑gan to look ſerious, and I ſaid to him—‘Well, well, good man, here then, take this ſnuff-box to the marchioneſs, ſhe may want it: but do not blunder, and break it; for if you do I ſhall diſmiſs you my ſervice. Recollect the picture in the lid, ſet with dia⯑monds!’

It was fated to be a day of mortifica⯑tion to Frank. His complaiſance had induced him to comply with the requeſt of the marchioneſs, that he would read one of the mad ſcenes in Lear, though he knew ſhe had not the leaſt acquaint⯑ance [6] with the Engliſh language. But ſhe wanted amuſement, and was pleaſed to mark the progreſs of the paſſions; which I never ſaw ſo diſtinctly and highly expreſſed as in his countenance, when he reads Shakeſpeare.

I happened to come into her apart⯑ment, for the French are delightfully eaſy of acceſs, and the reading was in⯑ſtantly interrupted. I was the very per⯑ſon ſhe wanted to ſee. How ſhould we ſpend the evening? The country was horribly dull! There had been no new viſitors theſe two days! Should we have a dance? I gave my aſſent, and away ſhe ran to tell every body.

I followed; Frank came after me, and with ſome reluctance, foreboding a repulſe, aſked whether he ſhould have [7] the pleaſure to dance with me. His manner and the foregone circumſtances made me gueſs his queſtion before he ſpoke. ‘My anſwer was—I have juſt made a promiſe to myſelf that I will dance with Mr. Clifton.’ It was true: the thought had paſſed through my mind.

Mr. Clifton, madam!

Yes—

You—you—

I have not ſeen Mr. Clifton? Right—But I ſaid I had made the promiſe to myſelf.

Poor Frank could contain no longer! I ſee, madam, ſaid he, I am deſpiſed; and I deſerve contempt; I crouch to it, I invite it, and have obtained a full por⯑tion of it—Yet why?—What have I [8] done?—Why is this ſudden change?—The falſe glitter that deceives mankind then is irreſiſtible!—But ſurely, ma⯑dam, juſtice is as much my due as if my name were Clifton. Spurn me, trample on me, when I ſully myſelf by vice and infamy! But till then I ſhould once have hoped to have eſcaped being hum⯑bled in the duſt, by one whom I regarded as the moſt benignant, as well as the moſt deſerving and equitable of earthly creatures!

This is indeed a heavy charge: and I am afraid much of it is too true. Here is company coming. I am ſorry I can⯑not anſwer it immediately.

I can ſuffer any thing rather than exiſt under my preſent tortures. Will you favour me ſo far, madam, as to grant me half an hour's hearing?

[9] Willingly. It is what I wiſh. Come to my apartment after dinner.

Clifton came up, and I have no doubt read in our countenances that ſomething more than common had paſſed. Indeed I perceived it, or thought ſo; but his ima⯑gination took another turn, in conſe⯑quence of my informing him, that I had been juſt telling Frank I had promiſed myſelf to be his (Clifton's) partner. He thanked me, his countenance ſhewed it as well as his words, for my kindneſs. He was coming, he ſaid, to petition, the inſtant he had heard of the dance. But ſtill he looked at Frank, as if he thought it ſtrange that I ſhould condeſcend to account to him for my thoughts and pro⯑miſes.

Dinner time came, and we ſat down [10] to table. But the mind is ſometimes too buſy to attend to the appetites. I and Frank ate but little. He roſe firſt from table, that he might not ſeem to follow me. His delicacy never ſlumbers. I took the firſt opportunity to retire. Frank was preſently with me, and our dialogue began. The ſtruggle of the feelings ordained that I ſhould be the firſt ſpeaker.

I have been thinking very ſeriouſly, Frank, of what you ſaid to me this morning.

Would to heaven you could forget it, madam!

Why ſo?

I was unjuſt! A madman! A vain fool! An idiot!—Pardon this rude ve⯑hemence, but I cannot forgive myſelf [11] for having been ſo ready to accuſe one whom—! I cannot ſpeak my feelings!—I have deſerted myſelf!—I am no longer the creature of reaſon, but the child of paſſion!—My mind is all tumult, all in⯑congruity!

You wrong yourſelf. The error has been mutual, or rather I have been much the moſt to blame. I am very ſenſible of, and indeed very ſorry for my miſtake—Indeed I am—I per⯑ceived you indulging hopes that cannot be realized, and—

Cannot, madam?

Never!—I can ſee you think yourſelf deſpiſed; but you do yourſelf great wrong.

My mind is ſo diſturbed, by the abrupt and abſurd folly with which I [12] accuſed you, unheard, this morning, that it is leſs now in a ſtate to do my cauſe juſtice than at any other time—Still I will be a man—Your word, ma⯑dam, was—Cannot!—

It was.

Permit me to aſk, is it perſon—?

No—certainly not. Perſon would with me be always a diſtant conſider⯑ation. [You, Louiſa, know how very far from exceptionable the perſon of Frank is, if that were any part of the queſtion.]

You are no flatterer, madam, and you have thought proper occaſionally to ex⯑preſs your approbation of my morals and mind.

Yet my expreſſions have never equal⯑led my feelings!—Never!

[13] Then, madam, where is the impoſſi⯑bility? In what does it conſiſt? The world may think meanly of me, for the want of what I myſelf hold in contempt: but ſurely you cannot join in the world's injuſtice?

I cannot think meanly of you.

I have no titles. I am what pride calls nobody: the ſon of a man who came pennyleſs into the ſervice of your family; in which to my infinite grief he has grown rich. I would rather ſtarve than acquire opulence by the efforts of cun⯑ning, flattery, and avarice; and if I bluſh for any thing, relative to family, it is for that. I am either above or below the wiſh of being what is inſolently called well born.

You confound, or rather you do not ſeparate, two things which are very diſ⯑tinct; [14] that which I think of you, and that which the world would think of me, were I to encourage hopes which you would have me indulge.

Your actions, madam, ſhew how much and how properly you diſregard the world's opinion.

But I do not diſregard the effects which that opinion may have, upon the happineſs of my father, my family, my⯑ſelf, and my huſband, if ever I ſhould marry.

If truth and juſtice require it, ma⯑dam, even all theſe ought to be diſre⯑garded.

Indubitably.

Did I know a man, upon the face of the earth, who had a ſtill deeper ſenſe of your high qualities and virtues than I [15] have, who underſtood them more inti⯑mately, would ſtudy them, emulate them more, and profit better by them, I have con⯑fidence enough in myſelf to ſay I would reſign you without repining. But, when I think on the union between mind and mind—the aggregate—! I want language, madam—!

I underſtand you.

When I reflect on the wondrous happineſs we might enjoy, while mutu⯑ally exerting ourſelves in the general cauſe of virtue, I confeſs the thought of renouncing ſo much bliſs, or rather ſuch a duty to myſelf and the world, is excru⯑ciating torture.

Your idea of living for the cauſe of virtue delights me; it is in full concord with my own. But whether that great [16] cauſe would beſt be promoted by our union, or not, is a queſtion which we are incapable of determining: though I think probabilities are for the negative. Facts and obſervation have given me reaſon to believe that the too eaſy grati⯑fication of our deſires is pernicious to mind; and that it acquires vigour and elaſticity from oppoſition.

And would you then upon principle, madam, marry a man whom you muſt deſpiſe?

No, not deſpiſe. If indeed I were all I could wiſh to be, I am perſuaded I ſhould deſpiſe no one. I ſhould endea⯑vour to inſtruct the ignorant, and re⯑form the erroneous. However, I will tell you what ſort of a man I ſhould wiſh to marry. Firſt he muſt be a per⯑ſon [17] of whom no prejudice, no miſtake of any kind, ſhould induce the world, that is, the perſons neareſt and moſt connected with me in the world, to think meanly—Shall I be cited by the thoughtleſs, the ſimple, and the perverſe, in juſtification of their own improper conduct?—You cannot wiſh it, Frank!—Nor is this the moſt alarming fear—My friends!—My relations!—My father!—To incur a father's reproach for having diſhonoured his family were fearful: but to meet, to merit, to live under his curſe!—God of heaven forbid!

Muſt we then never dare to counteract miſtake? Muſt mind, though enlighten⯑ed by truth, ſubmit to be the eternal ſlave of error?—What is there that is thus dreadful, madam, in the curſe of [18] prejudice? Have not the greateſt and the wiſeſt of mankind been curſed by ignorance?

It is not the curſe itſelf that is terri⯑ble, but the torture of the perſon's mind by whom it is uttered!—Nor is it the torture of a minute, or a day, but of years!—His child, his beloved child, on whom his hopes and heart were fixed, to whom he looked for all the bliſs of filial obedience, all the energies of virtue, and all the effuſions of affec⯑tion, to ſee himſelf deſerted by her, un⯑feelingly deſerted, plunged in ſorrows unutterable, eternally diſhonoured, the index and the bye-word of ſcandal, ſcoffed at for the fault of her whom his fond and fatherly reveries had painted faultleſs, whiſpered out of ſociety be⯑cauſe [19] of the ſhame of her in whom he gloried, and I this child!

Were the conflict what your imagina⯑tion has figured it, madam, your terrors would be juſt—But I have thought deeply on it, and know that your very virtues miſguide you. It would not be torture, nor would it be eternal—On the contrary, madam, I, poor as I am in the eſteem of an arrogant world, I proudly affirm it would be the leſs and not the greater evil.

You miſtake!—Indeed, Frank, you miſtake!—The fear of poverty, the ſneers of the world, ignominy itſelf, were the pain inflicted but confined to me, I would deſpiſe. But to ſtretch my father upon the rack, and with him every creature that loves me, even you [20] yourſelf!—It muſt not be!—It muſt not be!

I too fatally perceive, madam, your mind is ſubjected by theſe phantoms of fear.

No, no—not phantoms; real exiſt⯑ences; the palpable beings of reaſon!—Beſide what influence have I in the world, except over my friends and fa⯑mily? And ſhall I renounce this little influence, this only power of doing good, in order to gratify my own paſ⯑ſions, by making myſelf the outcaſt of that family and of that world to whom it is my ambition to live an exam⯑ple?—My family and the world are prejudiced and unjuſt: I know it. But where is the remedy? Can we work mi⯑racles? Will their prejudices vaniſh at [21] our bidding?—I have already mortally offended the moſt powerful of my rela⯑tions, Lord Fitz-Allen, by refuſing a fooliſh peer of his recommendation. He is my maternal uncle; proud, preju⯑diced, and unforgiving. Previous to this refuſal I was the only perſon in our family whom he condeſcended to notice. He propheſied, in the ſpleen of paſſion, I ſhould ſoon bring ſhame on my fa⯑mily; and I as boldly retorted I would never diſhonour the name of St. Ives—I ſpoke in their own idiom, and meant to be ſo underſtood—Recollect all this!—Be firm, be juſt to yourſelf and me!—Indeed indeed, Frank, it is not my heart that refuſes you; it is my underſtanding; it is principle; it is a determination not to do that which my [22] reaſon cannot juſtify—Join with me, Frank—Reſolve—Give me your hand—Let us diſdain to ſet mankind an example which would indeed be a virtuous and a good one, were all the conditions underſtood; but which, under the appearances it would aſſume, would be criminal in the extreme.

My hand and heart, madam, are ever⯑laſtingly yours: and it is becauſe this heart yearns to ſet the world an example, higher infinitely than that which you propoſe, that thus I plead!—This op⯑portunity is my firſt and laſt—I read my doom—Bear with me therefore while I declare my ſenſations and my thoughts.—The paſſion I feel is as unlike what is uſually meant by love as day to night, grace to deformity, or truth to falſehood.

[23] It is not your fine form, madam, ſu⯑premely beautiful though you are, which I love. At leaſt I love it only as an excellent part of a divine whole. It is your other, your better, your more hea⯑venly ſelf, to which I have dared to aſpire. I claim relationſhip to your mind; and again declare I think my claims have a right, which none of the falſe diſtinc⯑tions of men can ſuperſede. Think then, madam, again I conjure you, think ere you decide.—If the union of two people whoſe pure love, founded on an unerring conviction of mutual worth, might promiſe the reality of that heaven of which the world delights to dream; whoſe ſouls, both burning with the ſame ardour to attain and to diffuſe excel⯑lence, would mingle and act with inceſ⯑ſant [24] energy, who, having riſen ſuperior to the miſtakes of mankind, would diffe⯑minate the ſame ſpirit of truth, the ſame internal peace, the ſame happineſs, the ſame virtues which they themſelves poſ⯑ſeſs among thouſands; who would ad⯑mire, animate, emulate each other; whoſe wiſhes, efforts, and principles would all combine to one great end, the general good; who, being deſirous only to diſpenſe bleſſings, could not fail to enjoy; if a union like this be not ſtrictly conformable to the laws of eter⯑nal truth, or if there be any arguments, any perils, any terrors which ought to annul ſuch a union, I confeſs that the arguments, the perils, the terrors, and eternal truth itſelf are equally unknown to me.

[25] We pauſed for a moment. The beauty, force, and grandeur of the pic⯑ture he had drawn ſtaggered me. Yet it was but a repetition of what had fre⯑quently preſented itſelf to my mind, in colours almoſt as vivid as thoſe with which he painted. I had but one an⯑ſwer, and replied—

The world!—My family!—My fa⯑ther!—I cannot encounter the male⯑diction of a father!—What! Behold him in an agony of curſing his child?—Imagination ſhudders and ſhrinks from the guilty picture with horror!—I cannot!—I cannot!—It muſt not be!—To foreſee this miſery ſo clearly as I do, and yet to ſeek it, would ſurely be deteſtable guilt!

Again we pauſed—He perceived my [26] terrors were too violent to cede to any efforts of ſuppoſed reaſon. His counte⯑nance changed; the energy of argument diſappeared, and was ſucceeded by all the tenderneſs of paſſion. The deciſive moment, the moment of trial was come. His features ſoftened into that form which never yet failed to melt the heart, and he thus continued.

To the ſcorn of vice, the ſcoffs of ig⯑norance, the uſurpations of the preſum⯑ing, and the contumelies of the proud, I have patiently ſubmitted: but to find my great and as I thought infallible ſup⯑port wreſted from me; to perceive that divine eſſence which I imagined too much a part of myſelf to do me wrong, overlooking me; rejecting me; dead to thoſe ſenſations which I thought mutu⯑ally [27] pervaded and filled our hearts; to hear her, whom of all beings on earth I thought myſelf moſt akin to, diſclaim me; poſitively, perſiſtingly, un—

Unjuſtly?—Was that the word, Frank?—Surely not unjuſtly!—Oh, ſure⯑ly not!

And could thoſe heavenly thoſe heart⯑winning condeſcenſions on which I founded my hopes be all illuſory?—Could they?—Did I dream that your ſoul held willing intercourſe with mine, beaming divine intelligence upon me? Was it all a viſion when I thought I heard you pronounce the ecſtatic ſen⯑tence—You could love me if I would let you?

No; it was real. I revoke nothing that I have ſaid or done. Do not, [28] Frank, for the love of truth and juſtice do not think me inſenſible of your ex⯑cellence, dead to your virtues, or blind to mind and merit which I never yet ſaw equalled!—Think not it is pride, or baſe inſenſibility of your worth! Where is the day in which that worth has not increaſed upon me?—Unjuſt to you?—Oh!—No, no, no!—My heart bleeds at the thought!—No!—It is my love of you, my love of your virtues, your principles, and theſe alone are lovely, which has rendered me thus inflexible. If any thing could make you dearer to me than you are, it muſt be weakneſs; it muſt be ſomething which neither you nor I ought to approve. All the good, or rather all the opportunities of doing good which mortal or immortal being can en⯑joy [29] do I wiſh you! Oh that I had prayers potent enough to draw down bleſſings on you!—Love you?—Yes!—The very idea burſts into paſſion. [The tears, Louiſa, were ſtreaming down my cheeks.] Why ſhould you doubt of all the affection which virtue can beſtow? Do you not deſerve it?—Oh yes!—Love you in the manner you could wiſh I muſt not, dare not, ought not: but, as I ought, I love you infinitely! Ay, dear, dear Frank, as I ought, infinitely!

Louiſa!—Blame me if thou wilt—But I kiſſed him!—The chaſtity of my thoughts defied miſconſtruction, and the purity of the will ſanctified the extrava⯑gance of the act. A daring enthuſiaſm ſeized me. I beheld his paſſions ſtrug⯑gling [30] to attain the very pinnacle of ex⯑cellence. I wiſhed to confirm the no⯑ble emulation, to convince him how dif⯑ferent the pure love of mind might be from the meaner love of paſſion, and I kiſſed him! I find my affections, my ſenſibilities, peculiarly liable to theſe ſtrong ſallies. Perhaps all minds of a certain texture are ſubject to ſuch rapid and almoſt reſiſtleſs emotions; and whe⯑ther they ought to be encouraged or counteracted I have not yet diſcovered. But the circumſtance, unexpected and ſtrange as it was, ſuffered no wrong in⯑terpretation in the dignified ſoul of Frank. With all the ardour of affec⯑tion, but chaſtened by every token of delicacy, he claſped me in his arms, re⯑turned [31] my kiſs, then ſunk down on one knee, and exclaimed—Now let me die—

After a moment's pauſe, I anſwered—No, Frank! Live! Live to be a bleſ⯑ſing to the world, and an honour to the human race!

I took a turn to the window, and after having calmed the too much of feeling which I had ſuffered to grow upon me, I continued the converſation.

I hope, Frank, we now underſtand each other; and that, as this is the firſt, ſo it will be the laſt contention of the paſſions in which we ſhall indulge our⯑ſelves.

Madam, though I ſtill think, nay feel a certainty of conviction, that you act from miſtaken principles, yet you ſupport what [32] you are perſuaded is truth with ſuch high ſuch ſelf-denying virtue, that not to applaud, not to imitate you would be contemptible. You have and ought to have a will of your own. You prac⯑tiſe what you believe to be the ſevereſt precepts of duty, with more than human fortitude. You reſolve, in this particu⯑lar, not to offend the prejudices of your family, and the world. I ſubmit. To indulge ſenſibility but a little were to be heart-broken! But no perſonal grief can authoriſe me in deſerting the poſt I am placed in; nor palliate the crime of neg⯑lecting its duties. To the end of time I ſhall perſiſt in thinking you mine by right; but I will never trouble you more with an aſſertion of that right—Never!—Unleſs ſome new and unexpected claim [33] ſhould ſpring up, of which I ſee no pro⯑bability.

He bowed and was retiring.

Stay, Frank, I have ſomething more to ſay to you—I have a requiſition to make which after what has paſſed would to common minds appear unfeeling and almoſt capricious cruelty; but I have no fear that yours ſhould be liable to this miſ⯑take. Recollect but who and what you are, remember what are the beſt pur⯑poſes of exiſtence, the nobleſt efforts of mind, and then refuſe me if you can—I have formed a project, and call upon you for aid—Cannot you gueſs?

Mr. Clifton, madam—?

Yes.

I fear it is a dangerous one; and, whether my fears originate in ſelfiſhneſs [34] or in penetration, they muſt be ſpoken. Yes, madam, I muſt warn you that the paſſions of Mr. Clifton are, in my opi⯑nion, much more alarming than the re⯑ſentment of your father.

But they are alarming only to myſelf. And ought danger to deter me?

Not if the good you deſign be practi⯑cable.

And what is impracticable, where the will is reſolved?

Perhaps nothing—But the effort muſt be great, muſt be uncommon.

Has he not a mind worthy of ſuch an effort? Would not his powers highly honour truth and virtue?

They would.

Will not you give me your aſſiſtance?

I would, madam, moſt willingly, [35] would he but permit me. But I am his antipathy; a ſomething noxious; an evil augury.

You have been particular in your at⯑tentions to me.

And muſt thoſe attentions ceaſe, ma⯑dam?

They muſt be moderated; they muſt be cool, diſpaſſionate, and then they will not alarm.—I cannot poſſibly be de⯑ceived in ſuppoſing it a duty, an indiſ⯑penſable duty to reſtore the mind of Clifton to its true ſtation. If I fail, the fault muſt be my own. I am but young, yet many men have addreſſed me with the common-place language of admira⯑tion, love, and I know not what; or rather they knew not what; and, except yourſelf, Frank, I have not met with one [36] from whom half ſo much might be hoped as from Clifton. He is the brother of my boſom friend. Surely, Frank, it is a worthy taſk—Join with me!—There is but one thing I fear. Clifton is haughty and intemperate. Are you a duelliſt, Frank?

No, madam.

Then you would not fight a duel?

Never, madam. No provocation, not the brand of cowardice itſelf, ſhall ever induce me to be guilty of ſuch a crime.

Frank!—Oh excellent, noble youth!

Here, Louiſa, our converſation ab⯑ruptly ended. The company had riſen from table, and we heard them in the corridor. I requeſted him to retire, and he inſtantly obeyed.

[37] Oh! Louiſa, with what ſenſations did he leave my mind glowing!—His con⯑viction equals certainty, that I act from miſtaken principles!—To the end of time he ſhall perſiſt in thinking me his by right!—Can the power of language afford words more ſtrong, more poſitive, more point⯑ed?—How unjuſt have I been to my cauſe!—For ſurely I cannot be in an error!—'Tis afflicting, 'tis painful, nay it is almoſt terrifying to remember!—Perſiſt to the end of time?—Why did I not think more deeply?—I had a dark kind of dread that I ſhould fail!—It cannot be the fault of my cauſe!—Wrong him!—Guilty of injuſtice to him!—Surely, ſurely, I hope not!—What! Become an example to the fee⯑ble and the fooliſh, for having indulged [38] my paſſions and neglected my duties?—I?—His mind had formed a favourite plan, and could I expect it ſhould be in⯑ſtantly relinquiſhed?—I cannot conceive torment equal to the idea of doing him wrong!—Him?—Again and again I hope not! I hope not! I hope not!

Then the kiſs, Louiſa? Did I or did I not do right, in ſhewing him how truly I admire and love his virtues? Was I or was I not guilty of any crime, when, in the very acme of the paſſions, I ſo total⯑ly diſregarded the cuſtoms of the world? Or rather, for that is the true queſtion, could it produce any other effect than that which I intended? I am perſuaded it could not. Nor, blame me who will, do I repent. And yet, my friend, if you ſhould think it wrong, I confeſs I ſhould [39] then feel a pang which I ſhould be glad not to deſerve. But be ſincere. Though I need not warn you. No falſe pity can or ought to induce you to deſert the cauſe of truth.

Adieu—My mind is not ſo much at its eaſe as I hoped, from this converſa⯑tion; but at all times, and in all tem⯑pers, believe me to be, ever and ever,

LETTER XLII.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

ALL is over!—My hopes are at an end!—I am awakened from a dream, in which pain and pleaſure were mingled to ſuch exceſs as to render its continu⯑ance impoſſible.

Nor is this all. This trial, ſevere as it was, did not ſuffice. To the deſtruc⯑tion [41] of hope has been added the aſſault of inſolence, accompanied with a por⯑tion of obloquy which heart ſcarcely can ſuſtain—Oh, this Clifton!—But—Pati⯑ence!

Yet let me do her juſtice. Miſtaken though I am ſure ſhe is, the motives of her conduct are ſo pure that even miſtake itſelf is lovely in her; and aſſumes all the energy, all the dignity of virtue. Oh what a ſoul is hers! Her own paſſions, the paſſions of others, when ſhe acts and ſpeaks, are all in ſubjection to principle. Yes, Oliver, of one thing at leaſt ſhe has convinced me: ſhe has taught me, or rather made me feel, how poor a thing it is to be the ſlave of deſire.

Not that I do not ſtill adore her!—Ay, more than ever adore! But from [42] henceforth my adoration ſhall be worthy of herſelf, and not degrading to me. From her I have learned what true love is; and the leſſon is engraven on my heart. She can conſider perſonal grati⯑fication with apathy, yet burn with a martyr's zeal for the promotion of uni⯑verſal good.

And ſhall I not riſe equal to the bright example which ſhe has ſet me? Shall I admire yet not imitate?

Did ſhe deſpiſe me? Did ſhe reject me for my own ſake?—No!—All the affection which mind can feel for mind ſhe has avowed for me! And ſhall I grieve becauſe another may be more happy?—And why more?—In what?—Is not the union of ſouls the firſt the moſt permanent of all alliances? That [43] union is mine! No power can ſhake it. She openly acknowledges it; and has done, daily, hourly, in every word, in every action. Whither then would my wiſhes wander?

Oliver, I am a man, and ſubject to the ſhakes and agues of his fragile na⯑ture!—Yet it is a poor, a wretched plea; a fooliſh, and a falſe plea. Man is weak becauſe he is willing to be weak. He crouches to the whip, and like a coward pities while he laſhes himſelf. His wil⯑ful phrenſy he calls irreſiſtible, and weeps for the torments which he himſelf inflicts.

But once again this Clifton!—Read and tell me how I ought to act—I have received a blow from him, Oliver!—Yes, [44] have tamely ſubmitted to receive a blow!—

What intolerable prejudices are theſe! Why does my heart rebel ſo ſternly, at what virtue ſo poſitively approves?

I had juſt left her; had that inſtant been rejected by her for his ſake; had been ſummoned to aid her, in weeding out error from his mind. She ſhewed me it was a noble taſk, and communi⯑cated to me her own divine ardour. Yes, Oliver; I came from her, with a warmed and animated heart; partici⯑pating all her zeal. The moſt rigid, the moſt painful of all abſtinence was de⯑manded from me; but ſhould I ſhrink from a duty becauſe I pity or becauſe I love myſelf? No. Such puſillanimity [45] were death to virtue. I left her, while my thoughts glowed with the ardour of emulating her heroiſm; and burned to do him all the good which ſhe had pro⯑jected.

He was at the end of the corridor, and ſaw me quit her apartment. His hot ſpirit caught the alarm inſtantaneouſly, and blazed in his countenance. He ac⯑coſted me—

So, ſir! You are very familiar with that lady! What right have you to in⯑trude into her apartments?

When ſhe herſelf deſires me, ſir, I have a right.

She deſire you! 'Tis falſe!

Sir?

'Tis falſe, ſir!

[46] Falſe?

Yes, ſir. And falſehood deſerves to be chaſtiſed!

Chaſtiſed? [It is in vain, Oliver, to endeavour to conceal the truth from my⯑ſelf; my folly incurred its own puniſh⯑ment—I repeated] Chaſtiſed? [I was lunatic enough to walk up to him, with a ridiculous and deſpicable air of defiance. He re-echoed my words, and inſtantly in contempt ſtruck me on the cheek with the back of his hand.]

Yes, ſir; chaſtiſed!

His raſhneſs reſtored me to ſome ſenſe of the farcical heroiſm which I had been aping. I hurried from him, without ano⯑ther word.

Oliver, I can conceive nothing more [47] painful than this wreſting, this tearing of paſſion from its purpoſe.

I walked a few minutes to calm my thoughts, and wrote him the following note.

My forbearance and this letter miti⯑gated my ſenſe of pain. Yet I am very ill ſatisfied with myſelf. Am I ſo eaſily [49] to be moved? 'Tis true the ſcene I had juſt quitted was fermenting, as it were, in my veins, and ſhaking my whole ſyſ⯑tem.

What is worſe, I am child enough to be tormented, in my own deſpite, by the recollection of having received a blow! And why? In many countries, and even in my own, among the claſs in which I was born, the ſtigma is none, or trifling—Stigma? Abſurd!—Cowardice!—Mur⯑der!—If vanity were ever becoming, I have perhaps more reaſon to be vain, conſidering the danger to which I had expoſed myſelf, of this than of any act of my life.

Well, well, Oliver—I hope theſe agi⯑tations are over; and that from this time thou wilt begin to think better of me.

[50] I communicate my whole thoughts to thee. If the experiments made upon my mind can be of any uſe to thine, my letters will then anſwer the beſt of the purpoſes for which they are written.

LETTER XLIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

YOUR laſt, Fairfax, pleaſed me. You ſay truly, and I like your remark, ‘Such fellows ought not to claim a moment's attention from me. I ſhould bruſh them away, like flies from my forehead, when they preſume to teaſe or ſettle themſelves upon me.’ I have taken [52] your advice, and fly-flapped the waſp that was more willing than able to ſting.

I have lately grown diſſatisfied with myſelf; I know not how, or why. I ſuſpect this youth, in part, has made me ſo, with his viſionary morality. I hate ſuch ſermonizing. Who has a right to control me? Whoſe ſlave am I? I was born to rule, not to be ruled. My appetites are keen, my deſires vaſt, and I would enjoy. Why elſe am I here? Delay to me is inſufferable; ſuſpenſe diſtracts me; and the poſſibility that another ſhould be preferred to myſelf drives me mad! I too heartily deſpiſe the tame creatures, that crawl upon the earth, to ſuffer oppoſition from them. Who would be braved by bats and bee⯑tles, buzzing in his ears?

[53] I never before ſaw a woman whom any temptation could have induced me to marry; and now I have found one I am troubled with doubts, infeſted with fears, and ſubjected to the intolerable penance of procraſtination. Impeded in my courſe; and by what? Why, I am told to ſcrutinize myſelf, and to diſcover whether I am quite as perfect as it is ne⯑ceſſary I ſhould be! 'Tis unjuſt! 'Tis unkind! I did not doubt of her per⯑fections; and both love and pride, equally jealous of their honour, demand that mine ſhould have been taken for granted.

The time has been when this would have been revenged. But I ſeem to be half ſubdued. My fierce ſpirit, before ſo untameable, declines contending with [54] her. Not but I frequently feel it ſtrug⯑gling with ſuffocation, kindling, and again ready to burſt into a more furious blaze.

Yet let me do her juſtice. Mild, gentle, and affectionate, ſhe conquers my impetuoſity with prayers, and ſooth⯑ing, and with kindneſs irreſiſtible. Still ſhe conquers.

Then ſhe ſuffers theſe animals to tor⯑ment me. I am angry to think that, in ſo ſhort a ſpace, I ſhould have ſo en⯑tirely loſt all power over myſelf!

But where is the mortal that can look and not love? Were I myſelf not an actor in the play, how ſhould I enjoy the perplexity of theſe French amoureux! There are I know not how many of them; each more buſy than the other. [55] 'Tis laughable to ſee with what induſtry they labour to make love according to her liking; for they find that their own trifling manner is inefficient, and can never ſucceed with her. One of them, that ſaid crazy Provençal Count, is very earneſt indeed, in his endeavours; but ſhe keeps him in due awe. And it is well per⯑haps for him that ſhe does, or I would. Still however he is damned troubleſome and impertinent; and I could wiſh ſhe were more peremptory. Yet it is unjuſt to blame her, for the animal is ſo full of antics, that it is impoſſible to be angry.

After all, I am far from ſatisfied re⯑ſpecting myſelf and this youth, whom I condeſcended to chaſtiſe. It was beneath me. It gave him a ſort of right to de⯑mand ſatisfaction: but he affects forbear⯑ance, [56] becauſe, as he pretends, he deſpiſes duelling. And I hear he has actually given proofs of the moſt undaunted cou⯑rage. He wrote a ſhort note of only three or four ſentences on the ſubject, after I had ſtruck him, which produced a very uncommon effect upon me, and made me half repent, and accuſe myſelf of haughtineſs, raſhneſs, and inſult.

But theſe things torture me. I am out of patience with them. What right has any pedant, becauſe he thinks proper to vex and entangle his own brain with doubts, to force his gloomy dogmas upon me? Let thoſe who love ſack⯑cloth wear it. Muſt I be made miſera⯑ble, becauſe an over-curious booby be⯑wilders himſelf in inquiry, and galls his conſcience, till, like the wrung withers [57] of a battered poſt-horſe, it ſhrinks and ſhivers at the touch of a fly's foot? What, ſhall I not enjoy the free air, the glorious ſun, the flowers, the fruits, the viands, the whole ſtores of nature? Who ſhall impede, who ſhall dare diſturb the banquet? Were it even a dream, the meddling fool that waked me ſhould dearly repent his raſhneſs.—Let ſpecu⯑lative blockheads brew metaphyſical nec⯑tar, make a haſh of axioms, problems, corollaries and demonſtrations, and feed on ideas and fatten. Be theirs the feaſt of reaſon and the flow of ſoul. But let me banquet with old Homer's jolly gods and heroes, revel with the Maho⯑metan houris, or gain admiſſion into the ſavoury ſanctorum of the gormandizing [58] prieſthood, ſnuff the fumes from their altars, and gorge on the fat of lambs. Let cynic Catos truſs up each his ſlo⯑venly toga, rail at Heliogabalus, and faſt; but let me receive his card, with—‘Sir, your company is requeſted to dine and ſup.’

I cannot forget this gardener's ſon. I am ſometimes angry that I ſhould for a ſingle inſtant trouble myſelf with a fel⯑low ſo much beneath me; and at others equally angry, for not ſhewing him the reſpect which he claims. There are moments in which I have even feared him as a rival; for when ſhe ſpeaks to him, which ſhe is very ready to do, the uſual mildneſs and benevolence of her voice and features are evidently in⯑creaſed. [59] She muſt, ſhe ſhall be more circumſpect. Indeed I have made her ſo within theſe few days.

Prithee forgive all this. My mind is not at eaſe; but I know not why I ſhould infect you with its malady. Write, relate ſomething pleaſant; tell me what has happened to you laſt, and relieve the diſſatisfaction — I feel by your unaf⯑fected flow of gaiety. Adieu.

LETTER XLIV.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOUISA CLIFTON.

I CANNOT ſufficiently applaud the reſolute propriety of Frank, ſince our laſt converſation. Indeed, Louiſa, his fortitude is admirable! He does not in⯑dulge ſelf-compaſſion, by brooding over his own loſs. Nor does he, like other miſtaken people whoſe affections have [61] met diſappointment, ſuppoſe himſelf in⯑to ſufferings, which ſwell into exiſtence in proportion as they are imagined to be real. His evident determination is not to permit any ſelfiſh motive to detach him from the great purpoſes of life; but cheerfully to ſubmit to what is inevita⯑ble, without thinking it an evil.

In the mean time, I have been indulg⯑ing a hope, which at moments has ap⯑peared almoſt a certainty, that Clifton, by our mutual efforts, ſhall acquire all this true ardour, which is ſo lovely in Frank. How forry am I to obſerve that the haughtineſs of Clifton and the cold⯑neſs of Frank ſeem to be increaſing! To what can this be attributed? Their behaviour is ſo peculiar that I almoſt [62] dread ſomething has happened, with which I am unacquainted.

But perhaps it is the preſent temper of my mind: the effect of ſenſations too irritable, doubts too tremulous, and fears too eaſily excited. I cannot forget the converſation: it haunts me; and, did not Frank ſet me the example of fortitude, I have ſometimes doubted of my own perſeverance.

Oh, how mean is this in me! Is not the taſk I have propoſed to myſelf a worthy and a high one? Am I not convinced it is an inevitable duty? And ſhall he, even under a contrary conviction, out⯑ſtrip me in the career?—Generous and excellent youth, I will imitate thy moſt eminent virtues!

[63] The Count de Beaunoir ſtill conti⯑nues to be particular, in what he calls his adoration of me; but his tone and ſtyle are too romantic to authorize me in any ſerious remonſtrance. Clifton is not pleaſed, and the Count and he have fallen into a habit of rallying each other, and vaunting of what lovers dare do, to prove their affection. Their irony took ſo ſerious a turn, yeſterday, that Clifton propoſed they ſhould load their piſtols, and both holding by the corner of a handkerchief, fire at each other. Conſi⯑dering the temper in which they were, and the conſtitutional extravagance of the Count, the propoſal was terrifying: but I had the preſence of mind to give it [64] an air of ridicule, by ſaying—You do not underſtand the true point of gal⯑lantry, gentlemen. You ſhould go to Japan, where one noble-blooded perſon draws his ſabre, and diſpatches himſelf, to prove he is acquainted with the high punctilio and very eſſence of honour; while another, enraged that he ſhould be in waiting and have a diſh to carry up to the emperor's table, requeſts he would condeſcend to live till he can come down again, that he may ſhew he knows what honour is as well as his diſingenu⯑ous enemy, who had taken ſuch an un⯑fair advantage.

The Count laughed, and Clifton I ſhould hope was not diſpleaſed that it was impoſſible the converſation ſhould again [65] aſſume the ſame deſperate and abſurd tone.

I took an opportunity to aſk him pri⯑vately how he could indulge ſuch intem⯑perate paſſions; but I was obliged to ſoften my admonition by all poſſible mild⯑neſs. I know not whether I did right, but I even took his hand, preſſed it be⯑tween mine, and requeſted of him, with an ardour which I think muſt ſink deeply in his mind, to do juſtice to himſelf, to exert thoſe powers of thought which he certainly poſſeſſed, and to reſtrain paſ⯑ſions which, if not reſtrained, muſt deter me, or any woman worthy of him, from a union that would be ſo dangerous.

The impreſſion would have been ſtronger, but that unfortunately his quick ſenſations took a different turn. Feeling [66] me claſp his hand, he dropped on his knee, and with an ecſtaſy which he ſeemed unable to reſiſt kiſſed both mine, talked ſomething of bliſs unutterable, and, recollecting the concluſion of my ſentence, added that the very thought of loſing me was madneſs. We were in⯑terrupted, and I began to fear leſt my true motive ſhould have been miſunder⯑ſtood.

Oh! Louiſa, what a world is this! Into what falſe habits has it fallen! Can hypocriſy be virtue? Can a deſire to call forth all the beſt affections of the heart be miſconſtrued into ſomething too de⯑grading for expreſſion?

I know not, but I begin to fear that no permanent good can be effected at preſent, without peril. If ſo, ſhall I [67] liſten only to my fears; ſhrink into ſelf; and ſhun that which duty bids me en⯑counter? No. Though the prejudices of mankind were to overwhelm me with ſorrows, for ſeeking to do good, I will ſtill go on: I will perſevere, will accom⯑pliſh or die.

Yet I know not why I am in this mood! But ſo I am, and Louiſa will for⯑give me. I talk of ſufferings? What have I ſuffered? What can thoſe who, mature in reaſon, are ſuperior to preju⯑dice ſuffer?

But who are they? My prejudices hourly riſe up in arms againſt me. Every day am I obliged to combat what the day before I thought I had deſtroyed. Could we, at the ſame moment that we correct our own miſtakes, correct thoſe [68] of the whole world, the work were done at once. But we have to ſtruggle and to ſtruggle; and, having to-day ſhaken off the burs that hung about us, to-mor⯑row we give a glance and perceive them ſticking as cloſely and as thick as ever!

I wiſh to queſtion Frank, concerning theſe alarms; but he ſeems purpoſely to avoid giving me an opportunity. Per⯑haps however I am miſtaken; and I hope I am. The reſtleſs fancy is frequently too full of doubts and fears. Oh, how beautiful is open, artleſs, undiſguiſed truth! Yet how continually are diſſimu⯑lation and concealment recommended as virtues! Whatever miſtakes, public or private, they may think they have diſco⯑vered, and however beneficial it might be to correct them, men muſt not pub⯑ſiſh [69] their thoughts; for that would be to libel, to defame, to ſpeak or to write ſcandal!

When will the world learn that the unlimited utterance of all thoughts would be virtuous? How many half-diſcovered half-acknowledged truths would then be promulgated; and how immediately would miſtake, of every kind, meet its proper antidote! How affectionately and unitedly would men ſoon be brought to join, not in puniſh⯑ing, nor even in reproving, but in re⯑forming falſehood! Aided and encou⯑raged by your dear and worthy mother, we have often diſcourſed on theſe things, Louiſa: and the common accidents of life, as well as thoſe peculiar to myſelf, [70] render ſuch converſations ſweet to recol⯑lection.

I muſt conclude: for though we write beſt when thoughts flow the moſt freely, yet at preſent I find myſelf more inclined to think than to write.

LETTER XLV.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOUISA CLIFTON.

I KNOW not, Louiſa, how to begin! I have an accident to relate which has alarmed me ſo much that I am half afraid it ſhould equally alarm my friend. Yet the danger is over, and her ſenſations cannot equal ours. She can but imagine what they were. But it is ſo incredible, [72] ſo mad, ſo dreadful! Clifton is ſtrangely raſh!

He had been for ſome days diſſatiſ⯑fied, reſtleſs, and diſturbed. I knew not why, except that I had deſired time for mutual conſideration, before I would per⯑mit him to ſpeak to Sir Arthur. He has half terrified me from ever permitting him to ſpeak—But then he has more than repaired all the wrong he had done. There is ſomething truly magnanimous in his temper, but it has taken a very erroneous bent. The chief ſubject of my laſt was the diſtance which I obſerved between him and Frank Henley. Lit⯑tle did I know the reaſon. But I will not anticipate: only, remember, be not too much alarmed.

Frank was but one of the actors, [73] though the true and indeed ſole hero of the ſcene I am going to relate. Indeed he is a wonderful, I had almoſt ſaid a divine youth! It took birth from the Count de Beaunoir.

In my laſt, I mentioned the ſtrange defiance of the piſtols and the handker⯑chief: and would you think, Louiſa, a converſation ſo frantic could be re⯑newed? It is true it ſhewed itſelf under a new though ſcarcely a leſs horrible aſpect.

We were yeſterday walking in the park, in which there is a remarkable lake, ſmall but romantic. I before ſpoke I believe of our rowing on it in boats. We were walking beſide it on a ſteep rock, which continues for a conſiderable [74] length of way to form one of its banks. The Count and Clifton were before: I, Frank Henley, and a party of ladies and gentlemen were following at a little diſ⯑tance, but not near enough to hear the converſation that was paſſing between your brother and the Count.

It ſeems the latter had firſt begun once again to talk of times of knight errantry, and of the feats which the preux cheva⯑liers had performed for their ladies. The headlong Clifton, utterly deſpiſing the pretended admiration of what he was perſuaded the Count durſt in no manner imitate, after ſome ſarcaſtic expreſſions of his contempt, madly but ſeriouſly aſked the Count if he durſt jump off the rock into the lake, to prove his own cou⯑rage. [75] Shew your ſoul, ſaid he, if you have any! Jump you firſt, ſaid the Count—!******!

Imagine, Louiſa, if you can, the ſhock I received when, not knowing what had paſſed, but in an apparent fit of frenzy, I ſaw him deſperately ruſh to the ſide of the rock, and daſh himſelf headlong down into the water! It was at an angle, and we had a full view of him falling!

Every ſoul I believe ſhrieked, except myſelf and perhaps Frank Henley. Never had I ſo much need of the forti⯑tude to which I have endeavoured to ha⯑bituate my mind.

The gentlemen all ran to the ſide of the rock.—They ſaw Clifton, after riſing to the ſurface, ſink! He had jumped [76] from a place where the ſhelving of the rock, under water, by projecting had ſtunned him as he fell.

Frank perceived the danger: he threw off his hat and coat, and ran to another part, where the height was ſtill more dreadful! Indeed, Louiſa, it ex⯑cites horror to look at the place! But he ſeems to be ſuperior to fear. He plunged down what might well be called an abyſs; and, after riſing for a few ſe⯑conds to breathe, dived again in ſearch of poor Clifton.

He was twice obliged to riſe and take breath. The third time he found him, roſe with him, turned him upon his own back, and ſwam with him a very conſi⯑derable diſtance before he could find a place ſhallow enough to land.

[77] To all appearance Clifton was lifeleſs! But the excellent, moſt excellent when you ſhall hear all, the heroic Frank immediately applied himſelf to the re⯑mainder of his office. He ſtayed not a moment to reſt, but lifted him a ſeeming corpſe from the earth, threw him once more on his back, and ran faſter than any of us to the chateau, carried him up ſtairs, undreſſed him himſelf, put him between the blankets, and gave every neceſſary order with as much preſence of mind as if there had been neither acci⯑dent nor danger. Wet as he was he loſt not a thought upon himſelf.

Never ſhall I forget the indefatigable aſſiduity with which he laboured to re⯑ſtore your brother to life; the anxiety which he ſtruggled to conceal; the va⯑riety [78] of means he employed; the inge⯑nuity of his conjectures and the huma⯑nity of every motion!

Two hours were I and he and all of us held in this dreadful ſuſpenſe. At laſt he was ſucceſsful; and the relief I felt, the load that ſeemed removed from my heart, it is impoſſible to deſcribe!

When your brother was perfectly come to himſelf, Frank ſuffered him to be bled. For it had been propoſed before; but Frank, with a determination that could not be withſtood, refuſed to admit of it; though he had been intreated, and at laſt openly and loudly blamed, by the ſur⯑geon and thoſe who believed in him, for his pertinacity. But Frank was not to be ſhaken, even by the very ſerious fear of future accuſation. He followed, as [79] he tells me, the opinion of John Hun⯑ter; and well might he think it of more worth than that of the perſon who pre⯑tended to adviſe. But it requires no common degree of reſolution to perſiſt, in this manner, in the right; and wholly to deſpiſe calumny and its conſequences.

If you think, Louiſa, that after this I can add nothing in praiſe of Frank you are greatly miſtaken; for what is to come raiſes his character almoſt to an enviable dignity.

Could you imagine that this very Frank Henley, this undaunted, deter⯑mined, high-ſouled Frank, who had flung himſelf down the horrid precipice after your brother, who had ſwum with him, run with him, riſked being ſuppoſed in ſome ſort his murderer, and at laſt re⯑ſtored [80] him to life, had the very day be⯑fore received from the hand of this ſame brother—a blow!—If, Louiſa, there be one being upon earth capable of at⯑taining virtues more than human, it is ſurely Frank Henley!

Much praiſe however, as well as blame, is juſtly due to Clifton. I never ſaw a heart more painfully wrung, by the ſenſe of an injury committed and of a good ſo unexampled received, as his has been. It was he who told of his own behaviour. His total want of power to make retribution is the theme by which he is pained and oppreſſed.

Frank, uniform in generoſity, diſ⯑claims any ſuperiority, and affirms Clif⯑ton would have done the ſame, had he been in the ſame danger. I think I [81] would, anſwered Clifton, in a tone that ſhewed he felt what he ſpoke: but I know myſelf too well to ſuppoſe I ſhould have ſo unremittingly perſevered, like you, in the performance of an office of humanity which ſeemed hopeleſs.

The diſtinction was juſt, diſintereſted, and worthy the diſcernment of a mind like that of your brother.

Clifton ſays that, though he cannot think like Frank [We hope to make him, Louiſa.] yet he cannot but admire the magnanimity with which he acts up to his principles, and proves his ſince⯑rity.

Oh, my friend! You can conceive all the terrors of the ſcene! So fine a youth, ſo accompliſhed, ſo brave, the brother of my Louiſa, brought to Paris [82] to meet an untimely death! I the cauſe of his coming thither! I the innocent inſtigator of this laſt raſh act! The eyes of all upon me! The horror of ſuſ⯑penſe!—It was indeed a trial!

Yet who knows what accidents may occur in life? Who can ſufficiently cheriſh fortitude; and by anticipating defy misfortune? Violently as my feel⯑ings were aſſaulted, there yet may be, there are, ſhocks more violent, ſcenes more dreadful in the world. Nor is it impoſſible but that ſuch may be my lot. And if they were, I hope I ſtill ſhould bear up againſt them all.

It is true I may not always have a Frank Henley to cheriſh and inſpire hope. His conſtant theme was—"He is not dead!" And I once heard him [83] murmuring to himſelf, with a kind of prophetic energy—"He ſhall not die!"—It was this ſhall not by which he was ſaved: for, with any other crea⯑ture upon earth, I am perſuaded he had been gone for ever. Oh this noble perſeverance! It is indeed a godlike virtue!

The Count is leſs in ſpirits, leſs extra⯑vagant, ſince this accident. It ſeems to hang upon his mind, as if he had been out-braved. His anxiety, as might well be expected from ſuch a temper, was exceſſive, while Clifton was in dan⯑ger: but he ſeems to repent now, that he did not follow the mad example. Parbleu! Madame, je ſuis Provençal; on dit que j'ai la tête un peu chaude; mais Meſſieurs les Anglois vont diablement vite [84] aux épreuves! Mes compatriotes même ne ſont pas ſi fous!—Je ne ſuis pas content de moi—J'aurais du faire le ſaut—J'aurais ſauvé la vie à mon rival!—Voilà une belle occaſion manquée, et beaucoup de gloire à jamais perdue pour moi! ^*

My mind at preſent is not entirely tranquil. The recollection of a temper ſo raſh as Clifton's preys upon me. Yet, where there are qualities ſo high, and powers ſo uncommon, ſhall I defpair? [85] Shall I ſhrink from an act of duty? It is a taſk I have preſcribed to myſelf. Shall I witneſs the fortitude of Frank, and be myſelf ſo eaſily diſcomfited? No, Louiſa. Clifton ſhall be ours—Shall be!—Shall be the brother of Lou⯑iſa, the friend of Frank, and the better part of Anna. Yes, I too will be de⯑termined! I like Frank will ſay—"He is not dead! He ſhall not die!"

LETTER XLVI.
THE HONOURABLE MRS. CLIFTON TO FRANK HENLEY.

IF the praiſes, prayers, and thanks, of a woman whom diſeaſe has robbed of more than half her faculties, could be of any value, if the overflowing heart of a mother could but ſpeak its throbs, if ad⯑miration of gifts ſo aſtoniſhing and vir⯑tues [87] ſo divine could be worthy your ac⯑ceptance, or could reward you for all the good you have done us, I would endea⯑vour to diſcharge the unexampled and unmerited obligation.

But no, ſir; you are ſuperior to theſe. I write not for your ſake, but for my own; that I may endeavour to relieve myſelf of ſenſations that oppreſs me. I feel it incumbent on me to write; yet what can I ſay? I have no words. I deſpair of any opportunity of retribution: I am aged, infirm, and feeble. I am going down to the grave; but ſtill I have life enough to revive and feel a new exiſtence, at the recital of your vir⯑tues!

Forgive this ſhort effuſion, from the [88] exuberant heart of a mother, who wiſhes but is wholly unable to ſay how much ſhe admires you.

LETTER XLVII.
LOUISA CLIFTON TO FRANK HENLEY.

I, LIKE my dear mamma, am im⯑pelled to endeavour to return thanks for benefits, at the recollection of which the heart ſinks, and all thanks become ina⯑dequate and vain. Yet ſuffer a ſiſter's thanks for a brother ſpared, pardoned, [90] and reſtored to life! Reſtored at the ha⯑zard of your own, and after a mortal af⯑front received! Reſtored by the energies of fortitude, ſagacity, and affection!

Indeed, ſir, I cannot tell you what I feel. It is utterly impoſſible. Imagine me your friend, your ſiſter. Command my life, it is yours. Yours not ſo much becauſe the youth you have ſaved hap⯑pened to be my brother, as for the true eſteem I have for qualities ſo exalted. This is not the firſt time you have ex⯑cited my admiration, and permit me to add my love. Your heart is too noble to miſunderſtand me. I love virtue, in man or woman; and if that be ſin may I be ever ſinful

I would wiſh you the joys of heaven, but my wiſhes are vain; you have them [91] already: nor can a mind like yours be robbed of them, by all the powers of man or accident.

LETTER XLVIII.
LOUISA CLIFTON TO ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES.

YOUR three laſt letters, my dear Anna, have affected me in a very un⯑common manner. The pure paſſion, the noble reſignation, and the fortitude of Frank Henley are unparalleled. Not to admire, not to eſteem, not to love ſuch virtues is impoſible. His unſhaken [93] patience, his generoſity, his forgiveneſs, his courage, his perſeverance, are inimi⯑table proofs of his ſuperiority. Who can forbear wiſhing him ſucceſs? Ought he not to command it; to ſay it is mine; truth and juſtice dare not deny it to me?

Indeed, Anna, my mind is ſtrangely in doubt. To be guilty of injuſtice to ſuch worth is ſurely no common guilt. And yet my brother—Headlong luna⯑tic! Whoſe intemperance is every mo⯑ment hurrying him into extremes.—I grant, my friend, his mind is worthy of being retrieved; and it is a generous, a noble enterprize. Nay I own I ſome⯑times perſuade myſelf it cannot fail, when Anna St. Ives and Frank Henley, from motives ſo pure and with ſo much [94] determination, engage in the cauſe. But at others, I ſee peril at every ſtep! I find my heart reproaching me for not ad⯑juring my friend to deſiſt; for not ex⯑citing her to beſtow her hand on the man who of all others can moſt juſtly claim it, as his right.

That I deſire to ſee my brother all that emulation and wiſdom could make him, the friend and huſband of my Anna, the rival of her virtues, and the boſom intimate of him whom ſhe is willing to forego for this brother's ſake; that I de⯑ſire this, ardently, vehemently, is moſt true. If the end be attainable, it is a noble enterprize. But the difficulties! What are they? Have they been well examined?—I, with my Anna, ſay mind can do all things with mind: truth is ir⯑reſiſtible, [95] and muſt finally conquer. But it has many modes of conquering, and ſome of them are tragical, and dreadful.

To ſee my Anna married to ſtrife, waſting her fine powers to reform habits which, though they may be checked, may perhaps be too deep ever to be eradicated, to ſee all her exquiſite ſenſibilities hourly preyed upon by in⯑efficient attempts to do good, for which inſtead of praiſe and love ſhe might meet neglect, reproach, or perhaps ſtern inſult—Oh! It is a painful thought! She would not pine; ſhe would not weakly ſink into dejection, and deſert her duties, in pity to her own misfor⯑tunes.—No—But ſtill it is an unhappy, nay, it is an abhorred ſtate.

I am bewildered. One train of rea⯑ſoning [96] overturns another, and I know not what to adviſe. There are times in which theſe conſequences appear moſt probable; and there are others in which I ſay no, it is impoſſible! Brutality it⯑ſelf could not be ſo ſenſeleſs, ſo deſtruc⯑tive of its own felicity! Anna St. Ives would win a ſavage heart! And my brother evidently has quick and delicate ſenſations; capable of great good. But then are they not capable of great harm? Yes: but are they, would they be ca⯑pable of harm with her? Would not ſhe command them, regulate them, har⯑monize them? Again, and again. I know not.

One thing however let me add. Let me conjure the friend of my boſom not to ſuffer herſelf to be ſwayed, by the re⯑membrance [97] of that friendſhip. Nay, if ſhe do not feel a certainty of ſucceſs, let me intreat, let me admoniſh her to deſiſt, before it be too late; and before further encouragement ſhall ſeem to authorize the preſuming Clifton, for preſuming I am convinced he will be, to found claims upon her kindneſs.

Oh that he were indeed worthy of her! Would that he could but riſe to ſome⯑thing like that enviable dignity! And can he not?—Indeed I would not plead againſt him; but neither would I be in⯑ſtrumental in rendering my friend, who is ſurely born a bleſſing to the earth, miſerable.

I am angry with myſelf for my own indeciſion: but in vain; I have no re⯑medy. I ſometimes conclude this inde⯑ciſion [98] ought to act as a warning, and for that reaſon I have painted my feel⯑ings as they are. If yours ſhould re⯑ſemble them, I firmly and loudly ſay—Anna, deſiſt! If not, I then have no advice to give. For this I blame my⯑ſelf, but ineffectually.

Be aſſured however that, under all circumſtances of future life, be they ad⯑verſe or proſperous, my beſt wiſhes will be with you, and my heart and ſoul ever yours.

P. S. My mamma and I have mutu⯑ally written to Frank Henley: you may eaſily imagine in what tone and ſtyle. But I could wiſh my brother to ſee our letters. We have both thought it beſt [99] to forbear writing to him; his temper being wayward, and tetchy. We would much rather he ſhould be obliged to feel, indirectly, what our opinions and ſenſations are, than learn them from any formal addreſs, which he is ſo liable to miſconſtrue. It is moſt probable that Frank will not mention theſe letters. But, if you ſhew him this, and being of my opinion will join in the requeſt, I have no doubt he will then comply. There is one ſentence in my letter which makes me likewiſe wiſh that Clifton ſhould know I have requeſted Frank would permit him to ſee what I have written; otherwiſe that ſentence might very probably by him be miſinterpreted. When you read the letter, you will in⯑ſtantly know which I mean; the word [100] love makes it conſpicuous; and you will then perceive my reaſon. To raiſe the mind, which is habituated to the ſuſpi⯑cious practices of the world, above thoſe practices, and to make it feel that the pure heart defies the puſillanimous im⯑putation of want of delicacy, is a diffi⯑cult taſk. But let us, my Anna, continue to act and ſpeak all that our thoughts approve, void of the fear of accuſation.

LETTER XLIX.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOUISA CLIFTON.

WE are returned to Paris. The Marquis and his bride have taken leave of their country pleaſures, and are gone to Fontainebleau, to be preſented at court.

The ſtrange incident of Clifton excited much converſation, in which my name [102] and his were frequently joined. The Count de Beaunoir became leſs particular in his behaviour to me, in conſequence of the reſerve which I thought it right to aſſume. I find however that he told Sir Arthur, after running over a great num⯑ber of enthuſiaſtic epithets, in his wild way, all in my praiſe, that he perceived at preſent I preferred another; and that he had too high a ſenſe of honour to put any reſtraint on a lady's inclinations. But if my mind ſhould change, and his per⯑ſon, fortune, ſword, and life could give me pleaſure, they ſhould eternally be at my command. He likewiſe means in a few days to follow the court to Fontaine⯑bleau, as he ſaid; and he again repeated he had loſt a fine opportunity of con⯑vincing [103] me how he adored me; and that he was diablement fâché.

Clifton has entirely altered his beha⯑viour to Frank; he now treats him with unaffected freedom and reſpect. But his impatience relative to me has not abated. Tomorrow we are to have ſome conver⯑ſation, after which I imagine he wiſhes to make propoſals to Sir Arthur.

Would you think, Louiſa, that I ſome⯑times ſuffer myſelf to be ſurpriſed into fears; and that I then find myſelf ready to retract, or at leaſt queſtioning whether I ought to proceed.

There is ſomething fatally erroneous in the impatient propenſities of the hu⯑man mind. How ſeldom does it ſtay ſo fully to examine a queſtion as to leave no remaining doubt, and to act on a [104] preconcerted and conſiſtent plan! Yet it never acts with ſafety, or with ſatiſ⯑faction, except when it has or imagines it has made this examination. If our motives be few, ſlow, and feeble, we then are heavy, dull, and ſtupid: if they be quick, numerous, and ſtrong, we are too apt implicitly to obey firſt impulſes, and to hurry headlong into folly and extra⯑vagance. Yet theſe laſt only can give energy; and, having them, wiſdom will conſiſt in being able to curb them, ſo as to give full time for conſideration.

The conſcious want of this in myſelf is what I blame. How often am I ſur⯑priſed by unexpected circumſtances, which I ought to have foreſeen, and againſt which I ought to have provided! If I have any doubts of myſelf, if I am [105] not certain of producing thoſe effects on the mind of Clifton which I know I ought to be able to produce, it becomes me to recede. Or rather it becomes me to apply myſelf, with the reſolution of which I am ſo ready to vaunt, to attain that which is attainable, to diſcover the true means, the clue to his mind, and to perſevere.

I have ſometimes ſuſpected myſelf of being influenced by his fine form, and the charms of his wit and gaiety. At others I have even doubted whether I were not more actuated by an affection for my Louiſa, than by a ſenſe of incum⯑bent duty. But, conſider the ſubject how I will, that there is a duty, and that I am called upon to fulfil it, is an uner⯑ring deciſion.

[106] There muſt be no concealment. I muſt explain my whole chain of reaſon⯑ings to him: for nothing appears more indubitable to me than that duplicity never can conduce to good. The only fear is that I ſhould be deficient in my detail, and preſent my plan ſo as to give it a falſe appearance. Truth partially told becomes falſehood: and it was a kind of blind conſciouſneſs of this which firſt induced men to countenance diſſi⯑mulation. They felt their inability to do juſtice to truth, and therefore con⯑cluded hypocriſy was a virtue, and, ſtrange to tell, truth itſelf ſometimes a vice. It was a lamentable miſtake. It is partial truth, or in other words falſe⯑hood, which is the vice.

Clifton has from the beginning been a [107] great favourite with Sir Arthur. He contradicts none of my father's preju⯑dices; he admires grounds and parks beautifully laid out; has a taſte for archi⯑tecture; points out the defects and excel⯑lencies of the buildings of France with much diſcrimination; has a great reſpect, like Sir Arthur, for family, and prides himſelf in being the ſon of an honourable mother; recounts, in a pleaſant and lively manner, the anecdotes he has heard; and relates his own adventures, ſo as to render them amuſing. There is therefore no fear of oppoſition from Sir Arthur.

He has another advantage with the family. My uncle, Lord Fitz-Allen, is at preſent in Paris, on his return from Switzerland, and Clifton has been intro⯑duced [108] to him by his kinſman, Lord Evelyn, who is making a ſhort excurſion to the ſouth of France. The near rela⯑tionſhip of your brother to this noble lord has given him great conſequence with my uncle, who has once more con⯑deſcended to reſtore me to favour. Could I or did it become me entirely to conceal thoſe feelings which his arrogance in⯑ſpires, I ſhould ſtand much higher in his eſteem. As it is, he acts more from the love of his rank and family, that is of himſelf, than of me; and has accordingly ſignified his mandatory approbation to Sir Arthur. As nothing however in the way of family advantage is to be ex⯑pected from him, he having ſeveral children and a prodigious quantity of dignity to maintain, his beheſt is not [109] altogether ſo omnipotent as it might otherwiſe be.

My brother, agreeably to his grand⯑father's will, has taken poſſeſſion of the Edgemoor eſtate, which is eight hundred a year. This I imagine will oblige Sir Arthur, in deſpite of his predilection, to retrench ſome of his improving ex⯑pences. He mentioned the circum⯑ſtance to me, and I thought that a good opportunity once more to attack his ruling paſſion. Our converſation ſoon became animated. I boldly deſcanted on the uſe and abuſe of riches, on the claims of honeſt diſtreſs, and on the tur⯑pitude of ſeeking ſelf-gratifications, and neglecting to promote the great ends for which men ought to live, the ſpreading [110] of truth, the rewarding of genius, and the propagation of mind.

But it was to little purpoſe. Sir Ar⯑thur did not underſtand me; and I was more angry at myſelf than at him, as well I might be, for wanting the power to ren⯑der myſelf intelligible. He as uſual was amazed to hear he had not a right to do what he pleaſed with his own, and to be told it was not his own. Nor was he ſparing in pettiſh reproof to the ſelf⯑ſufficient young lady, who thought pro⯑per to diſpute the propriety and wiſdom of his projects.

The queſtion that continually occurs to me is, when ſhall thoſe beings who juſtly claim ſuperiority of underſtanding, and thence a right to direct the world, [111] find ſome ſimple and eaſy mode of con⯑vincing the miſtaken, and by conviction of eradicating error?

Adieu. Bleſſings be with you. I ſhall moſt probably write by the next poſt, for I wiſh you to be as perfectly acquainted as poſſible with every thing that paſſes, that I may profit by the ad⯑vice of a friend ſo dear, ſo true, and ſo diſcerning.

P. S. Your laſt letter is this moment come to hand, and has ſtrongly revived trains of ideas that of late have repeat⯑edly paſſed through my own mind. It confirms me in the reſolution of being very ſincere with your brother. But, unleſs my ſincerity ſhould ſo far offend [112] him, as to induce him voluntarily to re⯑cede, it likewiſe ſhews me it is my duty to perſiſt. At leaſt ſuch is the reſult of all the arguments I hold with myſelf, whenever the ſubject preſents itſelf to me, either through the medium of my own imagination, or pictured by others. I will write ſoon. I approve the reaſon⯑ing in your poſtſcript, will ſhew it to Frank, and will aſk him to let me and Clifton ſee the letters, who ſhall likewiſe know it is by your deſire.

LETTER L.
SIR ARTHUR ST. IVES TO ABIMELECH HENLEY.

I HAVE received yours of the 30th ult. ^* honeſt Aby, and it gave me great pleaſure to hear you had made ſo much diſpatch. Wenbourne-Hill is the gar⯑den of Eden. The more I ſee the more I am convinced. What is there here to [114] be compared to my temples, and my groves, and my glades? Here a mount and a ſhrubbery! There a dell concealed by brambles! On your right a ſtatue! On your left an obeliſk, and a ſun-dial! The obeliſk is fixed, yet the dial ſhews that time is ever flying. Did you ever think of that before, Aby?

Apropos of this dial: Sir Alexander I remember ſaid it was uſeleſs half the day; becauſe it was ſhaded from the ſun to the weſt and the north, by the old grove. His advice was that the grove ſhould be grubbed up; but it certainly would be much eaſier to remove the ſun dial, obeliſk, and all.

I am ſo delighted with the recollection of theſe things, Abimelech, that I had half forgotten the reaſon of my writing [115] to you. The ſubject is diſagreeable enough; and I ſhould not be ſorry if I were never to remember it more.

I very much fear we muſt ſtop our im⯑provements. My ſon has claimed and entered upon the Edgemoor eſtate. I thought myſelf ſure that he would re⯑main ſatisfied as he was till my death. What could be more reaſonable? I ar⯑gued with him to the very utmoſt, but to no purpoſe. He is in great haſte to ſet up for himſelf; and I don't know whe⯑ther he would not eject me out of Wen⯑bourne-Hill, if he had the power. In vain did I tell him that his pay in the guards, added to the three hundred a-year which I had before allowed him, was more than any young man knew how properly to ſpend. He has only himſelf [116] to think of; and he very poſitively de⯑clares he never means to have a family, for he will never marry. I believe he is quite ſerious in his declaration: and if ſo, what does he want with an eſtate of eight hundred a-year? He ought to con⯑ſider that; and to remember that a pro⯑viſion muſt be made for his ſiſter. But no; he conſiders only himſelf.

Indeed I hear but an indifferent ac⯑count of him: he is a faſhionable gen⯑tleman, and would rather ſquander his money at the gaming-table, than ſuffer it to remain in the family. He has been a wild youth. I have ſometimes won⯑dered where he got all the money which I am told he has ſpent. Not from me I am ſure. And though I have often heard of his deep play, I do not remem⯑ber [117] to have ever heard of his winning. But he follows his own courſe. My arguments that I had the family dignity to ſupport, his ſiſter to marry, and mortgages to pay off, were all in vain.

He was equally deaf when I pleaded the improvements that I was making; all for his ſake. For you know, Aby, he is to have them when I am gone: and go I muſt, ſome time or another.

He had even the confidence to tell me that, if Wenbourne-Hill were his, he would quickly undo every thing that I have been doing.

Is not this a ſad thing, Aby? For what have I been labouring? Have not we both ſpent our lives in contriving? How many charming thoughts have we [118] had! What pleaſure have we taken in planting and pulling up, digging and ſcattering, watering and draining, turf⯑ing and gravelling!

Talking of water, Aby, I cannot for⯑bear mentioning a moſt delightfully ro⯑mantic lake, which I have met with in the park of the Marquis de Villebrun. It is the only thing, in the laying out of grounds, that I have ſeen to pleaſe me in all France. One part of it a fine le⯑vel: ſuch a ſweep! At the other extre⯑mity nothing but rocks and precipices. Your ſon Frank threw himſelf headlong down one of them, into the water, to ſave a gentleman's life. Were you but to ſee it, you would be aſtoniſhed. They have called it the Engliſhman's leap. I [119] would not do ſuch a thing for a million of money. I ſhould be dead enough if I did.

But Frank is a bold young man, and I aſſure you, Aby, highly eſteemed by my daughter; ay and by myſelf too, and by every body: very highly indeed. He was the whole talk for I know not how many days.

But about this money, Aby. I ſhall ſoon want a good round ſum, if I am not miſtaken. I may venture, Aby, to give you a hint that I expect very ſoon, indeed I don't know how ſoon, a propoſal ſhould be made to me for my daugh⯑ter: and if it be, I am ſo pleaſed with the party, who let me tell you is a fine ſpirited young fellow, that I aſſure you I ſhall not think of refuſing my conſent; [120] eſpecially as he is ſo much in the good graces of my daughter. In this caſe, I cannot do leſs than pay twenty thouſand pounds down.

I am afraid, honeſt Aby, we muſt re⯑nounce the wilderneſs! But when you know the party, I think you will allow I could not act otherwiſe.

Indeed, I find, however we may pleaſe ourſelves, we can never ſatisfy our chil⯑dren. Here too has Anna been lectur⯑ing me, about money thrown away, as ſhe is pleaſed to conceive; and has ſaid a great deal indeed, againſt what I thought could not have been found fault with. But ſo it is! Friends, relations, children, all are wiſer than ourſelves! All are ready enough to diſcover or to ſuppoſe blemiſhes! Would you think it [121] poſſible for any body to be acquainted with Wenbourne-Hill and do any thing but admire? My hope, nay my deter⯑mination was to have made it the para⯑diſe of England, and to have drawn ſtrangers far and near to come and be delighted with its beauties. But theſe rubs and croſſes put one out of heart with the moſt excellent thoughts and contrivances.

Let me know what you think can be done in theſe money matters, if things ſhould be as I expect. You are per⯑fectly acquainted with the ſtate of my affairs. I ſee no way but that of mort⯑gaging more deeply.

It is exceedingly vexatious to think of ſtopping our proceedings, Aby. But [122] what can be done? However, as I do not intend to ſtay much longer here, we can talk more to the purpoſe on theſe matters when we meet in England.

Perhaps it would be better to begin by diſcharging the workmen gradually; which you will find proper opportunities to do, Aby. And if you were, by way of talk in the neighbourhood, to ſay that you thought nothing more could be done to Wenbourne-Hill, and that you had reaſon to believe that was my opinion likewiſe, ſuch a report might tie the tongues of cavillers: for I would not have it thought we ſtop for want of money.

You may write to me here, in anſwer to this; for we ſhall not leave Paris be⯑fore [123] your letter will come to hand. And ſo, good Abimelech, farewell.

P. S. I will not tell you the name of the party from whom I expect the pro⯑poſal, honeſt Aby; becauſe if he ſhould be ſhy of ſpeaking, as youngſters ſome⯑times are, it might come to nothing; but I may hint to you, that you are well ac⯑quainted with his family; and I dare ſay you will not be ſorry for the match, it being ſo agreeable to my daughter's in⯑clination; though I grant it may not be ſo good a one as my ſiſter Wenbourne, and others of the family, have been ex⯑pecting; becauſe of Anna's beauty and accompliſhments, which I own might well merit a man of higher birth and [124] fortune. But the little huffy has been ſo nice, and ſqueamiſh, that I began to fear ſhe would take up her ſilly ſpend⯑thrift brother's whim, and determine to live ſingle: therefore I ſhall not balk her, now ſhe ſeems in the humour.

LETTER LI.
ABIMELECH HENLEY TO FRANK HENLEY.

WHY ay! To be ſure! This will do! I ſhall be fain to think a ſummut of ee, now you can flamgudgin 'em a thiſn. I did'nt a think it was innee. Why you will become a ſon of my own begettin. I write to tellee the good news, and that [126] ee mightn't a kick down the milk. You have a ſifflicated Sir Arthur. I could a told ee afore that you had a ſifflicated Miſſee. But I was afeard as that you wur a too adaſht. But I tellee it will do! Father's own lad! An ear-tickler! Ay, ay! That's the trade! Sugar the ſauce, and it goes down glibly.

Liſten to me. I a learnt the ſecret on't. What was I, I pray you? Penny⯑leſs Aby! Wet and weary! And what am I now? A tell me that. Why I'm a worth—But that's a nether here nor there, I tellee. And what may you be an you pleaſe? What ſhould I a bin, an I ad had your ſettins out? Why Ide a bin what Ide a pleaſed. A dooke, mayhap; or a lord mayor of Lunnun?—No—A fekittary prime miniſter?—No—A mem⯑ber [127] of parliament?—No—Ide a bin treaſurer!—Treaſurer of the three kink⯑dums. Ide a handled the kole!—I've a feathered my neſt as it is; and what would I a done then thinkee?

Stick cloſe to Sir Arthur. Mind your hits, and you have him a ſafe enough. Didn't I always tellee you muſt catch 'n by the ear? A cunnin curr always catches a pig by the ear. He expects a propo⯑ſal for Miſſee; he does not a know how ſoon. And who does he expect to pro⯑poſe? Gueſs, Nicodemus, if you can. Do you mind me? He ſhan't refuſe his conſent. Mark you me that! They are his own words. Twenty thouſand pounds down! His own words again. What do you ſay to me now? It's all your own! I mean it's all our own—Do you [128] mind me? For who have you to thank for it? I tellee it is but aſk and have—And how do I know that?—What's that to you, Dolt?—No, no—You are a no dolt now—You are a good lad.

I tellee I'm in the ſecret! So do you flamdazzle Miſſee. I a heard of your jumpins and ſwimmins: and ſo that you do but ſwim to the main chance, why ay! That's a ſummut! I a bin to Clifton-Hall. For why? I begind to ſmell a rat! And there I talked with t'other Miſſee. I a palavered her over. I a ferretted and a feagued and a worked and a wormed it all out of ſhe. Your name is up! You may go to bed! Do you mind me? You may go to bed to twenty thouſand pounds! It is as good as all your own.

[129] I am a to find the kole: that is, I firſt havin and holdin the wherewithalls, and the whys, and the wherefores. And ſo do you ſee me, I expect to have the han⯑dlin ont—But that's a nether here nor there. Sir Arthur as good as ſaid it to me—So don't a ſtand like a Gabriel Gal⯑lymaufry all a mort, ſhilly-ſhally, I would if I durſt—A dip in the ſkimmin diſh and a lick of the fingur—That's a not the way with a maiden—What! A don't I know?—Make up to Miſſee, and ſay to her, Miſſee! Here am I! My name is Frank Henley! My fa⯑ther's name is Abimelech Henley! A's a cunnin warm old codger—A tell her that—And ſays you, here Miſſee ſays you am I, at your onnurable Ladyſhip's reverend ſarvice. My father has a got [130] the rhino—A don't forget to tell her that—Smug and ſnug and all go ſnacks—Do you mind me? And ſo, ſays you, I have a paradventerd umbelly to ſpeak my fooliſh thofts, ſays you. That is take me ritely, your Ladyſhip, ſays you; under your Ladyſhip's purtection and currection, and every think of that there umbel and very ſubmiſſive obedient kind, ſays you. And ſo ſays you, do ee ſee me Miſſee, I onnurs and glorifies your Ladyſhip; and am ready to have and to hold, ſays you; go fairly go fouly, be happy be lucky, any day o'the week, ſays you; I and my father, honeſt Aby, ſays you. He can raiſe the wind, ſays you! He can ſind the wherewithalls to pay for lawyer's parchment, ſays you—But mind, that's a nether here not there—So [131] a here Miſſee ſtands I, ſays you; I and my honeſt old father—A's got the marygolds, ſays you! The gilly flowers, the yellow boys, ſays you! Golore!—But that's a nether here nor there.

So do you tell her all a that I bid ee, and a mind your pees and cues. Who knows but Wenbourne-Hill itſelf may be one day all our own? I ſay who knows? There be old fools and young fools—I tellee that—Old planners, and improvers, and bite bubbles; and young ſquitter ſquanders, gamblers, and chouſe chits—Mark you me that—And there be wax and parchment too—Ay and poſt obits ^*; and beſides all dooſoors [132] and perkiſſits. A what is money good for but to make money? A tell me that.

And ſo in the name and the lovin kindneſs of the mercifool ſufferins of almighty goodneſs, and peace and glory and heavenly joys, no more at preſent.

LETTER LII.
ABIMELECH HENLEY TO SIR ARTHUR ST. IVES.

FOR certainly your noble onnur knows beſt. And thof I have paradven⯑terd, now and tan, umbelly to ſpeak my fooliſh thofts, and haply may again a paradventer, when your moſt exception⯑able onnur ſhall glorify me with a hear⯑ing, [134] in ſitch and ſitch like cramp caſes and queerums as this here; yet take me ritely, your noble onnur, it is always and evermore with every think of that there umbel and very ſubmiſſive obedi⯑ent kind.

My younk Lady Miſſee is as elegunt a my Lady younk Miſſee as any in the three kink's kinkdums. A who can gain ſay it? She is the flour of the flock, I muſt a ſay that. The whole country ſays it. For why, as aforeſaid, a who can gain ſay it? A tell me that! Always a ſavin and exceptin your noble onnur, as in rite and duty boundin. What, your moſt gracious onnur, a han⯑not I had the glory and the magnifiſunce to dangle her in my arms, before ſhe was a three months old? A hannot I a [135] known her from the hour of her birth? Nay, as a I may ſay, afore her bleſſed peepers a twinkled the glory everlaſtin of infinit mercifool commiſeration and ſun-ſhine? A didn't I bob her here, and bob her there; a up and a down, aback and afore and about, with a ſweet gra⯑cious a krow and a kiſs for honeſt poor Aby, as your onnur and your onnurable Madam, my Lady, ever gracious to me a poor ſinner uſed then to call me?

Not but thoſe times are a paſst. But, a ſavin and exceptin your noble onnur, that's a nether here nor there. I may hold up my head as well as another. A why not? When ſo be as a man has no money, why then, a ſavin and exceptin your onnur's reverence, a's but a poor dog. But when ſo be as a man as a got [136] the rhino, why then a may begin to hold up his head. A why not? Always a ſavin and exceptin your noble onnur, as aforeſaid.

Your noble onnur knows that I'm a be apt to let my tongue mag a little, when my wits be a ſet a gaddin; and whereupon the caſe is as witch your no⯑ble onnur was pleaſed to ſifflicate me upon, in your laſt rite onnurable and mercifool letter. For why? A man's ſon as I may ſay is himſelf; and twenty thouſand pounds, thof it be not a penny too much, is ſomethink. For witch the bleſſin and glory of goodneſs and praiſe be with the donors. Nevertheleſs that there will likewiſe be the wherewithalls, mayhap, notwithſtandin, when my head comes to be laid low. Thof if ſo be I [137] cannot but ſay that a man would rather a not think of that there, if a could help it. A ſavin and exceptin that the bleſſin and glory and power and praiſe of the ſaints, and the martyrs, and the profits, and the cherubims and ſerafims, and the amen allelujahs, might a be ſummut to a dyin ſoul; when a has had, god be mercifool unto us, time for repentance, and the waſhin away of the ſins of this wickedneſs world, by good deeds, and charity, and mercy, and lovin kindneſs unto all men; when the poor miſerable ſinner, with groans, and tears, and eter⯑nal terrifyins of the flamin prince Luci⯑fer Belzebub of darkneſs everlaſtin is at laſt obliged to take leave of the ſoul from the body. Ah, a well a day! Man is a reprobation race! A's a given over [138] to ſin, and to ſhame, and to backſlidins, and to the ſlough of deſpond, and to the valley of the ſhaddow of death, and if a has not, miſerable ſinner, a time to repent, of a witch be evermore granted unto us all, world without end. Amen! Amen!

Ah, dear a me, what have I a bin talkin to your moſt gracious onnur? I was a meant to tell your noble onnur that the twenty thouſand pounds mayhap might a be forth cummin; on proper occaſions, and certificates, and ſecurities, and dooſoors, and perkiſſits; all of the witch, as my ever onnurd maſter afore⯑time knows, there is no a doin a buſi⯑neſs without. For why?—Money is money, and land is land; and there be troubles, and takins, and ſeekins, and enquirins, and profit and loſs, and ifs [139] and mayhaps, and all a that there; of the witch there is no a doing without. But nevertheleſs I dares to ſay, likewiſe and notwithſtandin as aforeſaid, that the mo⯑ney may be a forth cummin.

Nay and if ſo be the witch that I might a paradventer to adviſe, but that to be ſure I ſhould not a like to have it a thoft that I ſhould perk and put in my oar, all agog to my betters, and more⯑over one of his majeſty's baronets, other⯑wiſe I ſhould ſay nevertheleſs as afore⯑ſaid that the younk lady is the flour of the flock; and if ſo be as I had the on⯑nurable grace and bleſſin to be her fa⯑ther, I would a give her and a make over to her, now and evermore hereafter, all a that the law would a let me. And a let 'em tell me, your noble onnur, who [140] deſarves it better. What! Is n't ſhe, as I may ſay, the very firmament of the power and glory of praiſe? What is ivory and alablaſter a parallel to her? Let 'em a tell me that! If I wus the onnura⯑ble father of ſitch ever mercifool affabi⯑bility, would a not I be fain to give her gems and rubies, and carbuncles, if I had 'em? Who ſhould gain ſay me? A ſavin and exceptin your ever exception⯑able and noble onnur. I would n't a be meant to be thoft to put in a word for meſelf, by no manner of account; no, no; far be it from me; but in other partikillers, if ſo be that it wus me me⯑ſelf, I ſhould n't a grutch her kinkdums. And aſt to thwartin and knatterin and croſſin the kindly ſweet virginal ſoul, ever bleſſed as ſhe is, in love, for what [141] truly? Your noble onnur has too much bowels of fatherly miſeration. No, no!—Your noble onnur has a clencht it; take her now ſhe is in the humour. Whereby maidens be wayward and fain and froward and full of ſkittiſh tricks, when they be happen to be croſſed in love. Take her in the humour your wiſe and alwiſe noble onnur.

Whereof your onnur was a menſhin⯑nin a ſtagnation to be put in the ſpoke of the wheel of improvements. Where⯑of if I might a paradventer to put in my oar, I ſhould ſay why that ſhould be as it might a be happen. When if as I ſhould ever live to ſee the glorious day of this marriage match rejoice the heart of Wenbourne-Hill, why then I ſhould know how to ſpeak my poor thofts.

[142] For why? All would then be clear and above board; and we ſhould all a know who and who was together. That would be ſummut! We might then a be happen to raiſe the wind; and the wherewithalls might a be forth cummin.

And ſo, as matters and thinks is likely to turn out, to be ſure I muſt ſay that your onnur has a hit the nail on the head. Whereof as your onnur has a uſhered your commands, I ſhall begin to take care of the kole, and ſend them there rapſcallions a packin.

And as to the flickers and fleers of the neighbours, your onnurable onnur, a leave me to humdudgin they. I'll a ſend their wits a wool-gatherin. For why? Your onnurable onnur has always a had my lovin kindneſs of bleſſins of [143] praiſe, as in duty boundin. For cer⯑tainly I ſhould be fain to praiſe the bridge that a carries me ſafe over. And now that your onnur is a thinkin of a more of lovin kindneſs and mercies, to me and mine, why a what ſhould I ſay now? Why I ſhould ſay and ſhould glorify, to all the world, that your on⯑nur is my ever onnured and rite moſt mercifool bountifool faithfool and diſre⯑ſpectfool kind maſter; and that I be your ever rite and moſt truſty true ho⯑neſt Aby; and every think of that there umbel and very ſubmiſſive obedient kind, as in duty boundin.

But I a bin a thinkin, your ever gra⯑cious onnur, that a behap the kintlin may ſtand alooft, and a hang ******, [144] and a be adaſht. And a what is to be done then? Why then, whereupon if that your ever gracious onnur would but be ſo all mercifool in goodneſs as to ſay the word, why we ſhould be upon ſure ground, and all our quips and quanda⯑ries and afterclaps would a be chouſe clickt. I moſt umbelly pray and be⯑ſiege your onnur to be ſo mercifool as to think o' that there! Do ee, your ever gracious onnur! I pray your on⯑nur, doo ee! Then we ſhould a be all ſound and ſafe over, and it would all a be holiday at Wenbourne-Hill! A that would be a glorified day! The lawjus mighty, ay! It would!

Witch is all in praiſe and onnur of the glory and peace to come, thankſgivin [145] and gladneſs; umbelly beggin leave to ſuper ſcribe me ſelf,

I needn't a ſay nothink of a concernin of a dockin of the entail, to your on⯑nur. For why? As your onnur knows, nothink can be done, in the way of the kole and the wherewithalls, without a that there. But aſt for that, a that ar⯑gufies nothink. For why? His younk onnur, I knows, will be a willin enough; that is, ſettin the caſe of a proviſo of a dooſoor conſideration in ready rhino for himſelf. A told me himſelf, his younk onnur, that a will have that. A ſays a will ſell his chance, and a does n't a care how ſoon; but a wonnot give it away. Witch if ſo be as it be not to be helpt, why a what be to be done, your onnur?

LETTER LIII.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOUISA CLIFTON.

YOUR brother has this moment left me. Our converſation has been ani⯑mated; and, as uſual, I ſit down to com⯑mit what has paſſed to paper, while it is freſh on my memory.

He began with the warmeſt expreſ⯑ſions of the force of his paſſion. I have [147] no reaſon to doubt of their ſincerity; and, if affection can be productive of the end which I hope, its ſtrength ought to give me pleaſure. He would ſcarcely ſuffer me to ſuppoſe it poſſible there could be any cauſe of difference between us: let me but name my conditions and they ſhould be fulfilled. He would un⯑dertake all that I did, all that I could require; and it was with difficulty that I could perſuade him of the poſſibility of promiſing too faſt. This introduced what was moſt material in our dialogue.

My heart aſſures me, madam, ſaid he, that I never gave you the leaſt cauſe to ſuſpect the ſincerity and ardour of my paſſion: and I ſhould hope that the ſears, which I have ſometimes thought [148] you too readily entertained, are now diſſipated.

My fears are chiefly for, or rather of, myſelf. I doubt whether any perſon has ſo high an opinion of the powers and energy of your mind as I have: but I think thoſe powers ill directed, and in danger of being loſt.

I own, madam, I have been ſome⯑times grieved, nay piqued, to perceive that you do not always think quite ſo well of me as I could wiſh.

You wrong me. You yourſelf do not think ſo highly of yourſelf as I do.

Yet you ſuppoſe me to be in danger?

Of being miſled. Some of my opi⯑nions and principles, or ſome of yours, are erroneous, for they differ; I cannot [149] at this moment but perceive how liable I am to be miſunderſtood. I cannot be inſenſible of the awkwardneſs of the ſitu⯑ation in which I now place myſelf. My age, my ſex, the cuſtoms of the world, a thouſand circumſtances contribute to caſt an air of ridicule upon what ought to be very ſerious. But I muſt perſiſt. Do you endeavour to forget theſe cir⯑cumſtances; and conſider only the words, not the girl by whom they are ſpoken.

It is not you, madam, but I who ought to dread appearing ridiculous. But for your ſake—Let me but obtain your favour, and make me as ridiculous as you pleaſe.

I told you ſo!—Should the lordly lettered man ſubmit to have his prin⯑ciples [150] queſtioned, by an untutored wo⯑man? Be ſincere: your mind revolts at it?

I feel the juſtneſs of your ſatire. Men are tyrants.

Prejudice is a tyrant: there is no other tyranny.

Madam!

That is one of my ſtrange opinions.

It may be true; I am willing to think it is. Such things are indifferent to me. Let me but have your conſent, to ſpeak to Sir Arthur, and I have accompliſhed all I wiſh. I do not deſire to trouble myſelf with examining opinions, true or falſe. I am determined to be of your opinion, be it what it will.

That is, you avow that the gratifica⯑tion [151] of your deſires is the chief purſuit of your life. We have now found the eſ⯑ſential point on which we differ.

Is not happineſs, madam, the univer⯑ſal purſuit? Muſt it not, ought it not to be?

Yes. But the grand diſtinction is be⯑tween general and individual happineſs. The happineſs that centres in the good of the whole may for the preſent find momentary interruption, but never can be long ſubverted: while that individual happineſs, of which almoſt the whole world is in purſuit, is continually blun⯑dering, miſtaking its object, loſing its road, and ending in diſappointment.

Then, madam, we muſt all turn monks, preach ſelf-denial, faſt, pray, [152] ſcourge away our ſins, live groaning, and die grieving.

[I ſmiled. It is his uſual way, when he thinks I am got a little in the clouds, to draw ſome humorous or ſatirical picture, to bring me down to what he eſteems common-ſenſe. But, as I am convinced that truth only need to be re⯑peated, and inſiſted on, whenever there is an opportunity, in order finally to be received, the beſt way is always to join in the laugh, which is inoffenſive, unleſs pettiſhneſs give it a ſting.]

You find yourſelf obliged at preſent to conſider me as a whimſical girl, with a certain flow of ſpirits, and much va⯑nity, deſiring to diſtinguiſh herſelf by ſingularity?

[153] No, madam. Whatever you may think of me, my heart will not endure a thought to your diſadvantage.

Nay, nay, forbear your kind re⯑proaches. Every time you differ with me in ſentiment, you cannot but think ſomething to my diſadvantage. It is ſo with all of us. The very end of this preſent explanation is ſincerity. We each think well of the other: but do we think ſufficiently well? Is there a certainty that our thoughts are in no danger of changing? Of all the actions of private life, there is not one ſo ſolemn as that of vowing perpetual love: yet the heedleſs levity with which it is daily performed, proves that there is ſcarcely one on which leſs ſerious reflection is beſtowed. Can we be too careful not to deceive our⯑ſelves? [154] Ought we not minutely to ex⯑amine our hopes and expectations? Ought not you and I, in particular, to be cir⯑cumſpect? Our imaginations are vivid, our feelings ſtrong, our views and de⯑ſires not bounded by common rules. In ſuch minds, paſſions, if not ſubdued, be⯑come ungovernable, and fatal.

I am very conſcious, madam—

Nay, do not fancy I ſeek to accuſe: my purpoſe is very different. My mind is no leſs ardent than yours, though edu⯑cation and habit may have given it a different turn. It glows with equal zeal to attain its end. Where there is much warmth, much enthuſiaſm, I ſuſpect there is much danger. We had better never meet more, than meet to be miſe⯑rable.

[155] For heaven's ſake, madam, do not torture me with ſo impoſſible a ſuppo⯑ſition!

You expect one kind of happineſs, I another. Can they coaleſce? You imagine you have a right to attend to your appetites, and purſue your plea⯑ſures. I hope to ſee my huſband for⯑getting himſelf, or rather placing ſelf-gratification in the purſuit of univerſal good, deaf to the calls of paſſion, willing to encounter adverſity, reproof, nay death, the champion of truth, and the determined the unrelenting enemy of error.

I think, madam, I dare do all that can be required of me.

I know your courage is high. I know too that courage is one of the firſt and [156] moſt eſſential qualities of mind. Yet perhaps I might and ought to doubt, nay to aſk, whether you dare do many things.

What is it, madam, that I dare not do?

Dare you receive a blow, or ſuffer yourſelf falſely to be called lair, or cow⯑ard, without ſeeking revenge, or what honour calls ſatisfaction? Dare you think the ſervant that cleans your ſhoes is your equal, unleſs not ſo wiſe or good a man; and your ſuperior, if wiſer and better? Dare you ſuppoſe mind has no ſex, and that woman is not by nature the inferior of man?—

Madam—

Nay, nay, no compliments; I will not be interrupted—Dare you think that [157] riches, rank, and power, are uſurpations; and that wiſdom and virtue only can claim diſtinction? Dare you make it the buſineſs of your whole life to over-turn theſe prejudices, and to promote among mankind that ſpirit of univerſal benevolence which ſhall render them all equals, all brothers, all ſtripped of their artificial and falſe wants, all participating the labour requiſite to produce the ne⯑ceſſaries of life, and all combining in one univerſal effort of mind, for the pro⯑greſs of knowledge, the deſtruction of error, and the ſpreading of eternal truth?

There is ſuch energy, madam, in all you ſay, that, while I liſten to you, I dare do any thing, dare promiſe any thing.

Nay, but the daring of which I ſpeak, [158] muſt be the energy of your own mind, not of mine.

Do not diſtreſs yourſelf and me with doubts, madam. I have heard you yourſelf ſay that truth ultimately muſt prevail. I may differ with you in ſome points; but I am willing to hear, wil⯑ling to diſcuſs; and, if truth be on your ſide, there can be no danger.

The only danger is in the feeble or falſe colouring which the defenders of truth may give it, and not in truth it⯑ſelf.

I am too well convinced of your power to feel your doubts. You oblige me to ſee with your eyes, hear with your ears, believe what you believe, and reject what you think incredible. I am and [159] [...] [158] [...] [159] muſt be whatever you pleaſe to make me. You have but to preſcribe your own conditions.

Preſcribe I muſt not. If I can per⯑ſuade, if I can win upon your mind—

If—! You won my whole ſoul the very firſt moment I ſaw you! Not a word or action of mine but what has proclaimed the burning impatience of my paſſion!

True: the burning impatience—Your eagerneſs to aſſent will not ſuffer you to examine. Your opinions and principles are thoſe which the world moſt highly approves, and applauds: mine are what it daily calls extravagant, impracticable, and abſurd. It would be weak in me to expect you ſhould implicitly receive remote truths, ſo contradictory to this general practice, till you have firſt deeply [160] conſidered them. I aſk no ſuch miracle. But if I can but turn your mind to ſuch conſiderations, if I can but convince you how ineſtimable they are, even to your⯑ſelf as well as to the world at large, I ſhall then have effected my purpoſe.

Of that, madam, be ſure—You ſhall ſee!—Upon my honour, you ſhall!—I will order a fur-cap, a long gown, a white wand, and a pair of ſandals this very day! No Grecian ever looked more grave than I will! Nay, if you deſire it, razor ſhall never touch my chin more.

Well, well; equip yourſelf ſpeedily, and I will provide you with a wooden diſh, a lanthorn, and a tub.

But then, having made your condi⯑tions, you now grant me your conſent?

[161] That is obliging me once more to put on my ſerious face—The danger in which I ſo lately ſaw you hangs heavily on my mind; that and the warm paſſions by which it was occaſioned.

And my exceſs of ardour, to demon⯑ſtrate my love, you regard as a proof of my having none.

How paſſion overſhoots itſelf! Your concluſion is as precipitate as was your proof.

I cannot be cool, madam, on this ſub⯑ject. I wonder to ſee you ſo! Did af⯑fection throb and burn in your boſom, as it does in mine, I am perſuaded it would be otherwiſe.

We are neither of us ſo entirely ſatiſ⯑fied with each other as we ought to be, [162] to induce either me to conſent or you to apply to Sir Arthur.

For heaven's ſake, madam—

Hear me patiently, for a moment. Previous to this converſation, I was con⯑vinced of the folly and danger of exceſ⯑ſive haſte. Should you imagine I have any ſelf-complacency or caprice to gra⯑tify, by delay, you will do me great in⯑juſtice: I ſolemnly proteſt I have none. My own intereſt, had I no better motive, would make me avoid ſuch conduct. The inconſiſtencies and vain antics of the girl, which are juſtly enough ſtigma⯑tized by the epithets flirting and co⯑quetry, are repaid tenfold upon the wife. I would deal openly, honeſtly, and gene⯑rouſly; but not raſhly. I have every [163] predilection in your favour which you could wiſh; ſuch doubts excepted as I have declared. But I muſt not give ei⯑ther you or the world cauſe to accuſe me of levity. My conſent to ſpeak to Sir Arthur would be generally underſtood as a pledge to proceed; not it is true by me, if I ſaw juſt cauſe to retract: but, though I earneſtly deſire to reform, I almoſt as earneſtly wiſh not unneceſſarily to offend the prejudices of mankind.

Nay let me beg, let me conjure you—[He took both my hands with great ar⯑dour.]

And let me beg too, let me conjure you, not to think meanly or unkindly of me, when I tell you that I muſt inſiſt on a ſhort delay.

I will kneel! I will do any thing—!

[164] Do nothing which your heart does not approve; it never can be the way to forward any worthy ſuit. For my part, I muſt tell you, which you may reckon among my faults, that when I have once conſidered a ſubject, I am a very poſi⯑tive and determined girl. This may be thought obſtinacy; but ſuch I am, and ſuch therefore you ought to ſee me.

And when, madam, may I now pre⯑ſume to hope?

Do not ſpeak as if you were diſpleaſed. Indeed it is far from my intention to of⯑fend.

You are too well acquainted, madam, with your own power of pleaſing, to fear giving offence.

Far the contrary, for I fear it at this moment.

[165] You are kind and killing both in a breath.—Be doubly kind, and ſuffer me immediately to ſpeak to Sir Arthur.

I told you I am fixed, and I aſſure you it is true.

When then may I hope?

I could have wiſhed to have ſeen my friend, your ſiſter, firſt: but perhaps Sir Arthur may make ſome ſtay in London, and I ſhould be ſorry to delay a moment longer than ſeems abſolutely neceſſary. Let us both conſider what has paſſed this morning, and provided no new accident ſhould intervene—

Another leap from a rock?

Provided our approbation and eſteem for each other ſhould continue, and in⯑creaſe, I will aſk for no further delay, after we come to London.

[166] Well, well. It is the poor lover's duty to thank his miſtreſs for the great⯑neſs of her condeſcenſion, even when he thinks ſhe uſes him unkindly.

I was going to reply, but my enter⯑priſing gentleman—[Indeed, Louiſa, your brother is a bold youth]—ſnatched an unexpected embrace, with more ea⯑gerneſs than fear, and then fell on one knee, making ſuch a piteous face for forgiveneſs, ſo whimſical, and indeed I may ſay witty, that it was impoſſible to be ſerious. However, I hurried away, and thus the conference ended.

And now, after reviewing what has paſſed, tell me, Louiſa, ought I to re⯑cede? Are not my hopes well founded? Muſt not the reiteration of truth make its due impreſſion, upon a mind like [167] Clifton's? Can it fail? Is he not the man who, for all the reaſons formerly given, truly merits preference?

I muſt not forget to tell you that Frank readily complied with your requeſt, and Clifton has ſeen the letters. He ſeems oppreſſed, as it were, with a ſenſe of ob⯑ligation to Frank; which the latter en⯑deavours to convince him is wrong. Re⯑ciprocal duties, he ſays, always muſt exiſt among mankind; but as for obliga⯑tions, further than thoſe, there are none. A grateful man is either a weak or a proud man, and ingratitude cannot exiſt; unleſs by ingratitude injuſtice be meant. Frank's opinions appear to Clifton to be equally novel with mine; and muſt be well underſtood, to eſcape being treated with mockery.

[168] It is infinitely pleaſing to me to per⯑ceive the fortitude with which Frank reſiſts inclination. He is almoſt as cheerful, and quite as communicative, and deſirous of making all around him happy, as ever. His conſtancy, how⯑ever, is not to be ſhaken, in one particu⯑lar. I could wiſh it were! It pains me to recollect that he will perſiſt, to the end of time, in thinking me his, by right!

I cannot proceed!

LETTER LIV.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

LAUGH at me if you will, Fairfax. Hoot! Hiſs me off the ſtage! I am no longer worthy of the confraternity of ho⯑neſt, bold, free and ſucceſsful fellows. I am dwindling into a whining, ſubmiſſive, crouching, very humble, yes if you pleaſe, no thank you Madam, dangler! I have [170] been to ſchool! Have had my taſk ſet me! Muſt learn my leſſon by rote, or there is a rod in pickle for me! Yes! I! That identical Clifton; that bold, gay, ſpirited fellow, who has ſo often vaunted of and been admired for his daring! You may meet me with my ſatchel at my back; not with a ſhining, but a whindling, lackadai ſy, green⯑ſickneſs face; blubbering a month's ſorrow, after having been flogged by my maſter, beaten by my chum, and drop⯑ped my plum cake in the kennel.

'Tis very true, and I cut a damned ridiculous figure! But I'll remember it. The time will come, or ſay my name is not Clifton.

Yet what am I to do? I am in for it, flounder how I will. Yes, yes! She has [171] hooked me! She dangles me at the end of her line, up the ſtream and down the ſtream, fair water and foul, at her good pleaſure! So be it. But I will not forget.

Then ſhe has ſuch a way of affront⯑ing, that curſe me if ſhe does not look as if ſhe were doing me a favour: nay and, while ſhe is preſent, I myſelf actu⯑ally think ſhe is; and, if vexation did not come to my relief, I believe I ſhould ſo continue to think. She is the moſt extraordinary of all heaven's creatures: and, in deſpite of my railing, I cannot help declaring a moſt heavenly creature ſhe is! Every body declares the ſame. I wiſh you could but ſee her; for a ſingle moment, Fairfax; and, having gazed, could you but liſten!—Her very ſoul is muſic. Form, features, [172] voice, all are harmony. Then were you to hear her ſing, and play—

But why the devil does ſhe treat me thus? It is ſomething to which I am un⯑accuſtomed, and it does not ſit eaſily upon me. If I tamely ſubmit to it may I—! I lie, in my teeth! Submit I muſt, bounce how I will. I have no re⯑medy—

She gives me the preference, 'tis true. But what ſort of a preference? Why a cold, ſcrutinizing, very conſiderative, all wiſdom and no paſſion preference. I do not think there is, upon the face of the whole earth, ſo nauſeous a thing as an over doſe of wiſdom; mixed up, ac⯑cording to the modern practice, with a quantum ſufficit of virtue, and a large double handful of the good of the whole. [173] Yet this is the very doſe ſhe preſcribes for me! Ay, and I muſt be obliged to ſwallow it too, let me make what wry faces I pleaſe, or my very prudent lady is not ſo deeply in love but ſhe can re⯑cede! And ſhall I not note down this in my tablets?—

I was ſufficiently piqued at the firſt delay. Why delay, when I offer? Would you have thought, Fairfax, I ſhould have been ſo very ready with a tender of this my pleaſant perſon, and my dear freedom? And could you moreover have thought it would have been ſo haughtily rejected?—No—Curſe it! Let me do her juſtice, too. It is not haughtily. She puts as many ſmiles, and as much ſweetneſs, and plauſibility, [174] into her refuſal as heart could deſire. But refuſal it is, nevertheleſs.

I muſt be further juſt to her: I muſt own that I have acted like a lunatic—I am mad at the recollection!—

I told you of the young fellow—Frank Henley—Whom I talked of chaſ⯑tiſing. Curſe on my petulance! He has doubly chaſtiſed me ſince! He has had his full revenge! And in ſuch a generous, noble manner—I am aſhamed of myſelf—He has ſaved my life, and damn me if I do not feel as if I could never forgive him. There was an end of me and my paſſions. What buſineſs had he to interfere?—He did it too in ſuch an extraordinary ſtyle! He appears to have riſked more, laboured more, [175] performed more for me than man almoſt ever did for his deareſt and ſworn friend.

Mine was an act of ſuch ridiculous phrenſy that I am half aſhamed to tell what it was. I jumped headlong down a declivity, becauſe I knew I was a good ſwimmer, into a lake; but, like a block-head, never perceived that I ſhould get ſtunned by the ſhelving of the rock, and conſequently drowned. And for what, truly? Why to prove to a vapouring, crack-brained French Count, that he was a coward; becauſe perhaps he had not learned to ſwim! When I look back I have abſolutely no patience with my⯑ſelf!—

And then this generous Frank Hen⯑ley!—After a ſtill more ſeemingly de⯑ſperate leap than mine, and bringing me [176] out of the water, dead as a door nail, two hours did he inceſſantly labour to re⯑ſtore me to life! I, who a few hours be⯑fore had ſtruck him! And here do I live to relate all this!

I think I could have forgiven him any thing ſooner than this triumph over me. Yet he claims and forces my admiration. I muſt own he is a dauntleſs fellow—Yes, he has a heart—! Damn him! I could kiſs him one minute and kill him the next!

He has been the hero of the women ever ſince. But they are ſafe enough, for him. He has principles! He is a man of virtue, forſooth! He is not the naughty cat that ſteals the cream! Let him be virtuous. Let him lave in his own imaginary waters of purity; but do [177] not let him offend others, every mo⯑ment, by jumping out and calling—"Here! Look at me! How white and ſpotleſs I am!"

As I tell you, the women are bewitch⯑ed to him; are all in love with him! My ſiſter, Louiſa, does not ſcruple to tell him ſo, in her letter! But ſhe is one of theſe high-flyers. Nor can I for the ſoul of me perſuade myſelf that, family pride excepted, ſhe—ay, ſhe herſelf, my ſhe, would not prefer him to me. But theſe gentry are all ſo intolerably pru⯑dent that, talk to them of paſſions, and they anſwer they muſt not have any. Oh, no! They are above ſuch mundane weakneſs!

As for him, he ſits in as much ſtern ſtate as the Old Red Lion of Brentford. [178] Yes, he is my Lord Chief Juſtice Never⯑grin! He cannot qualify, he! He is prime tinker to Madam Virtue, and car⯑ries no ſoftening epithets in his budget. Folly is folly, and vice vice in his Good Friday vocabulary—Titles too are gilt gingerbread, dutch dolls, punch's puppet ſhow. A duke or a ſcavenger with him are exactly the ſame—Saving and excepting the afore⯑ſaid exceptions, of wiſdom, virtue, and the good of the whole!

Did you never obſerve, Fairfax, how theſe fellows of obſcure birth labour to pull down rank, and reduce all to their own level?

Not but it is curſed provoking to be obliged to own that a title is no ſufficient paſſport for ſo much as common ſenſe. [179] I ſincerely think there is not ſo fooliſh a fellow in the three kingdoms, as the no⯑ble blockhead to whom I have the ho⯑nour to be related, Lord Evelyn: and, while I have tickled my fancy with the recollection of my own high deſcent, curſe me if I have not bluſhed to ac⯑knowledge him, who is the head and re⯑preſentative of the race, as my kinſman! I own however he has been of ſome ſer⯑vice to me in the preſent affair; for by his medium I have been introduced to the uncle of my deity, Lord Fitz-Allen, who has conſiderable influence in the family, and the very eſſence of whoſe character is pride. He is proud of him⯑ſelf, proud of his family, proud of his ti⯑tles, proud of his gout, proud of his cat, proud of whatever can be called his; by [180] which appellation in his opinion his very coach-horſes are dignified. I happen to pleaſe him, not by any qualities of mind or perſon, of which he is tolerably inſen⯑ſible, but becauſe there is a poſſibility that I may one day be a peer of the realm, if my booby relations will but be ſo indulgent as to die faſt enough.

Once more to theſe catechumenical in⯑ſpectors of morality, theſe ſelf-appointed overſeers of the conſcioence.

I do not deny that there is ſome nay much truth in the doctrines they preach to me. But I hate preaching! I have not time to be wiſdom crammed. What concern is it of mine? What have I to do with the world, be it wrong or right, wiſe or fooliſh? Let it laugh or cry, kiſs or curſe, as it pleaſes! Like the Iriſh⯑man [181] in the ſinking ſhip, "'Tis nothing to me, I am but a paſſenger."

But, notwithſtanding theſe airs, I have my leſſon ſet me. Ay and I muſt con it too; muſt ſay it off by rote; no par⯑rot better!

There is no reſiſting one's deſtiny; and to be her ſlave is preferable to reign⯑ing over worlds! You have, for you can have, no conception of her and her omnipotence! She is ſo unlike every other woman on earth! I wonder while I hear her, am attentive, nay am con⯑vinced! What is moſt ſtrange, though the divineſt creature that ever the hand of Heaven faſhioned, the moment ſhe begins to ſpeak you forget that ſhe is beautiful!

[182] But ſhe ſhould not heſitate, when I offer. No—She ſhould beware of that! At leaſt to any other woman the world contains, it would have been dangerous; and I am not ſure that even ſhe is ſafe.

However, I muſt learn to parſe my leſſon, for the preſent, and be quiet. Yes, yes; ſhe ſhall find me very com⯑plaiſant. I muſt be ſo, for live without her I cannot. She muſt ſhe ſhall be mine. It is a prize which I am born to bear away from all competitors. This is what flatters and conſoles me.

You, Fairfax, think yourſelf more in luck. You continue to range at large. You ſcorn to wear the chain to-day which you cannot ſhake off laughingly to-morrow—Well I envy you not—When [183] you ſee her, if you do not envy me may I be impaled and left to roaſt in the ſun, a banquet for the crows.

Good night.

LETTER LV.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

SOME events have happened, ſince I wrote to thee, on which I meant to have been ſilent, till we had met; but I want thy advice on a new incident, and muſt therefore briefly relate what has paſſed. I have had an opportunity of appeaſing that hungry vanity, which is [185] continually craving after unwholeſome food. I have proved to Clifton that it was not fear which-made me ſubmit to obloquy, which in his opinion could only be waſhed away in blood. I have been inſtrumental in ſaving his life.

There is a half lunatic count, who was a viſitor at the Chateau, and who is enamoured of her whom all are obliged to love and admire. I know not whe⯑ther it be their climate, their food, their wine, or theſe ſeveral cauſes combining and ſtrengthened by habit, or whether it be habit and education only which give the natives of the ſouth of France ſo much apparently conſtitutional ar⯑dour; but ſuch the fact appears to be. This count is one of the moſt extrava⯑gant of all the hot-brained race I have [186] mentioned. He indulges and feeds his flighty fancy by reading books of chi⯑valry, and admiring the moſt romantic of the imaginary feats of knight-errantry.

The too haughty Clifton, angry that he ſhould dare to addreſs her to whom he openly paid his court, fell into habi⯑tual conteſts with him, daring him to ſhew who could be moſt deſperate, and at laſt gave a tolerably ſtrong proof that, though he has an infinitely more con⯑ſiſtent mind, he can be at moments more mad than the count himſelf. He leaped down a rock into a lake, where it is pro⯑bable he muſt have periſhed, but for me.

One would have imagined that what followed would have cooled even a Mar⯑ſeillian fever of ſuch phrenſy. But no: [187] the count has been brooding over the recollection, till he had perſuaded himſelf he was a diſhonoured man, and muſt find ſome means to do away the diſgrace. I thought him gone to Fontainebleau; but inſtead of that he has juſt been here. He came and inquired of the ſervants for the monſieur who had taken the fa⯑mous leap; curſing all Engliſh names, as too barbarous to be underſtood by a de⯑licate Provençal ear, and wholly inca⯑pable of being remembered. The ſer⯑vants, thinking he meant me, for I was obliged to leap too, introduced him to my apartment.

Luckily Clifton was out for the day. She and Sir Arthur were with him. I am hourly put to the trial, Oliver, [188] of ſeeing him preferred—But—Pſhaw—

After a torrent of crazy compliments from the count, who profeſſes to admire me, I learned at laſt it was Clifton and not me he wanted; and I alſo learned in part what was the purport of his errand. His mind was too full not to overflow. Knowing how hot, unruly, and on ſuch ſubjects irrational, the ſpirits were that were in danger of encountering, I was immediately alarmed. The moſt effec⯑tual expedient I could conceive to pre⯑vent miſchief was to ſhew its actual ab⯑ſurdity. I ſaw no better way than that of making it appear, as it really was, its tragical conſequences excepted, ludi⯑crous. But the difficulty was to give it [189] the colouring which ſhould produce that effect on a mind ſo diſtorted.

Mort de ma vie! ſaid the count, I ſhall never pardon myſelf for having loſt ſo fine an opportunity! I am not ſo heavy as he. I ſhould not have been hurt by the fall. I ſhould have ſaved the life of my rival, and been admired by the whole world! My triumph would have been complete! Every gazette in Eu⯑rope would have trumpeted the exploit; and the family of Beaunoir would have been rendered famous, by me, to all eternity! No! I never ſhall forgive myſelf!

I think, ſir, you ought rather to be angry with me than with Mr. Clifton.

Parbleu! I have been thinking of that. Why did you prevent me? The thought [190] could not long have eſcaped me, if you had not been in ſuch deviliſh haſte!

True. The only danger was that, while you were waiting for the thought, the gentleman might have been drowned.

Diable m'emporte! I had forgotten that. Well then, I muſt have ſatisfaction of Monſieur Calif—Morbleu!—What is the gentleman's name?

[I wiſh I could confide enough in my French to write the dialogue in the lan⯑guage in which it paſſed; but I muſt not attempt it. The ideas however are tolerably ſtrong in my memory, and they muſt ſuffice.]

Clifton.

Oui da—Califton—Monſieur Califton muſt give me ſatisfaction for the ſanglante affront I have received.

[191] But I cannot conceive, ſir, how any man's thinking proper to kill himſelf can be an affront to another.

Comment, Monſieur? Peſte! But it is, if he kill himſelf to prove me a coward!

Then, ſir, I am afraid there is not a madman in Bedlam who does not daily affront the whole world.

How ſo, ſir?

By doing ſomething which no man in his ſenſes dare imitate.

Nom d'un Dieu! Monſieur, I am a man of honour! The family of Beaunoir is re⯑nowned for its noble feats, it ſhall not be diſgraced by me. I have been defied, and I will have ſatisfaction.

But you were not defied to ſword, or piſtol. You were defied to leap.

[192] Well, ſir?

And before, as a man of honour, you can have any right to give a ſecond challenge, you muſt anſwer the firſt.

Is that your opinion, ſir?

Nay, I appeal to yourſelf.

Allons!—If ſo, I muſt leap! Will you do me the favour to accompany me? I will order poſt-horſes inſtantly. You ſhall be my witneſs that I perform the firſt condition.

Can you ſwim?

Ventrebleu! What a queſtion! I am not heavy enough to ſink. Beſides, ſir, I was born at Marſeilles.—Yes, we will go together; you ſhall ſee me make the leap; after which I may then return and publiſh my defiance to the whole uni⯑verſe.

[193] No, ſir! If you leap you will never publiſh your defiance!

How ſo?

You will be killed! The whole uni⯑verſe could not ſave you!

Comment, diable! Look at me! Look at Monſieur Calif! I am as light as—! Peſte!

Yes; but you are not ſo ſtrong as he: you cannot leap ſo far. His effort was prodigious! I have examined the place: and, had he fallen half a foot ſhort of where he did, he muſt have been daſhed to pieces.

Fer et feu!—In that caſe, I muſt die!—Yes, I muſt die! There is no re⯑medy! I muſt not diſhonour my fa⯑mily! No man on earth muſt brave the Count de Beaunoir! I muſt die!

[194] And be laughed at?

Laugh, ſir! Mort de ma vie! Who will dare to laugh?

When you are dead, of what ſhould they be afraid?

Morbleu! That's true.

He would be a raſh fool who ſhould dare to laugh at you while you are living.

Foi d'un honnête homme, monſieur, you are a man of honour: a gentleman. You are brave yourſelf, and know how to honour brave men, and I eſteem you.

Sir, if you really eſteem me—

Ventrebleu! Sir, I eſteem you more than any man on earth! Command my purſe, my ſword! I would ſerve you at the hazard of my life!

Then let me prevail on you, ſir, to [195] conſider well what I ſay. I ſolemnly aſ⯑ſure you, I would not adviſe you to any thing which I would not do myſelf.

Pardieu! Monſieur, I am ſure you would not. You have too much ho⯑nour.

I have too much regard to truth.

C'eſt la même choſe ^*

Men honour themſelves moſt by op⯑poſing, nay by acting in the very teeth of the prejudices of mankind; and he is the braveſt man who oppoſes them the ofteneſt. The world makes laws, and afterward laughs at or deſpiſes thoſe by whom they are obeyed. He proves the nobleneſs of his nature beſt who acts with moſt wiſdom. Recollect the mad⯑neſs [196] with which Mr. Clifton acted, how much he was blamed by every body, and imagine to yourſelf the temper of your own countrymen; then aſk whether you would not be laughed at, inſtead of applauded and admired, were you ſo madly to throw away a life which you ought to dedicate to your country. The Pariſians would write epigrams, and ſongs, and ſing them in every ſtreet, on the nobleman who, inſtead of living to fight the battles of his country, ſhould toſs himſelf like a lunatic down a rock, and daſh out his brains.

Que Dieu me damne, monſieur, but you are in the right! Yes! I am a ſoldier! My country claims my ſword! I hear we are ſoon to have a war with England; and then—! Gardez-vous bien, Meſ⯑ſieurs [197] les Anglois ^*!—Where is Mon⯑ſieur Calif—?

Mr. Clifton will not be at home to⯑day.

Well, ſir, be ſo kind as to preſent my compliments to him, and tell him I would certainly have run him through the body, if you had not done me the ho⯑nour to ſay all that you have ſaid to me. I have appointed to ſet off for Fontaine⯑bleau tomorrow morning; but I intend to viſit England: we may have the good fortune hereafter to meet, and then we will come to an explanation.

After a thouſand whimſical, half crazy but well meaning, and I believe very ſincere compliments, and offers of [198] ſervice, he left me; and I hope the dan⯑ger is over.

But as I told thee, Oliver, the chief purpoſe of my writing is to aſk thy ad⯑vice. Principle, as thou well knoweſt, is too ſevere to admit of falſehood; direct, or indirect. To mention this dialogue to Clifton might be dangerous. It ought not to be, I grant, but ſtill it might. One would imagine that, in⯑ſtead of feeling anger, he muſt laugh, were he told of what has paſſed: but there is no certainty. And is not ſilence indirect falſehood? The count has been here; his errand was to Clifton. Ought he not to be told of it, and ſuf⯑fered to judge for himſelf? And is not concealment an indirect falſehood? To me it appears the contrary. He is full [199] as likely to take the wrong as the right ſide of the queſtion. I ſee a poſſibility of harm, but no injury that can be done by ſilence. Nor do I myſelf perceive how it can be claſſed among untruths. Still the doubt has occurred to my mind, and I have not hitherto anſwered it to my own ſatisfaction.

I forgot to tell thee with what ardour the count declared himſelf an admirer of her who is moſt admirable; and the ro⯑mantic but very ſerious efferveſcence with which he called himſelf her cham⯑pion; one who had devoted himſelf to maintain her ſuperiority over her whole ſex, which he would die affirming; and to revenge her wrongs, if ever mortal ſhould be daring or guilty enough to do her injuſtice. But as I tell thee he [200] is an eccentric and undefinable cha⯑racter.

I have lately received a letter from my father, from which I find he has been led, by I know not what miſtake, to conclude that Sir Arthur thinks of me for his ſon-in-law. His letter, as uſual, is a ſtrange one; and ſuch as I be⯑lieve no man on earth but himſelf could write.

Direct thy next to me in Groſvenor Street; for we ſhall be on our return, before I ſhall receive an anſwer.

Farewell.

LETTER LVI.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOUISA CLIFTON.

WHAT ſtrange perverſity of acci⯑dents is it, Louiſa, that has made me moſt deeply indebted to that man, above all others on the face of the earth, who thinks I have treated him unjuſtly? We are under freſh obligations, nay in [202] all probability we again owe our lives to Frank Henley.

We left Paris on Sunday laſt; and, after waiting a day and a night for a fair wind at Calais, we embarked on board the packet-boat; the wind ſtill continu⯑ing unfavourable, though it had changed a little for the better. The channel was very rough, and the water ran high, when we went on board. Sir Arthur would willingly have retreated; but Clifton was too impatient, and prevailed on him to venture.

Before we had reached the middle of the channel, Laura, Sir Arthur, and ſoon afterward I, were very ſea-ſick. It is a moſt diſagreeable ſenſation when vi⯑olent, and would certainly be more ef⯑fectual [203] in rendering a coward fearleſs of death than the dying ſentiments of Se⯑neca, or Socrates himſelf.

The wind increaſed, and the captain laboured ſeveral hours, but in vain, to make the port of Dover. He at laſt told us we were too late for the tide, and that the current ſet againſt us, and muſt drive us down to Deal. We proceeded accordingly, and it was dark before we came within ſight of the town of Deal; where the captain, in the ſea phraſe, was obliged to come to an anchor.

The Deal boatmen, who are always on the watch, and are the moſt noted as we are told on the whole coaſt for their ex⯑tortion, ſoon came up to the ſhip, invit⯑ing us to be put on ſhore, but refuſing to take us for leſs than ten guineas. [204] Frank and Sir Arthur were deſirous that we ſhould not be impoſed upon; but Clifton pleaded my ſea ſickneſs, and would not liſten to any propoſal of delay. He is very peremptory, when his paſ⯑ſions are excited; and eſpecially when he conceives, as he then did, that reaſon is on his ſide. There were three boats; but they had agreed among themſelves, and two of them kept aloof. This we are told is their common practice, that they may not ſpoil their market by com⯑petitorſhip.

We were not above a mile from ſhore: Clifton however agreed to their extrava⯑gant demand, and we went into the boat.

We had not been there many minutes before we perceived that the five boat⯑men, [205] who managed it, were all in li⯑quor, eſpecially he who ſeemed to be their head man; and that we were much more at the mercy of winds and waves, in our preſent than in our former ſitua⯑tion. Clifton and Frank endeavoured to make them attentive, by reproving them; and probably did ſome good; though the anſwers they received, in the rugged vulgar idiom of the ſea, were not very conciliatory. We were much toſſed by the roughneſs of the water, but made however toward the ſhore, though evi⯑dently in an awkward and dangerous way.

Moſt part of the beach, at Deal, is ex⯑ceſſively ſteep; and, when the weather is ſtormy, the waves break againſt it very abruptly, and dangerouſly to boats which [206] are managed by men that are either ig⯑norant or have drunken away their ſenſes. When the boat approached the beach, the man at the helm, being ſtu⯑pid and it being dark, did not do his duty, and the ſide of the boat was daſhed againſt the beach. The ſhock almoſt overſet the boat, and it was half filled by the wave which broke over it. The wa⯑ter is always a fickle and perilous ele⯑ment; but in an agitated ſea, when the winds howl and the waves roar, foam, daſh, retreat, and return with additional threats and raging, it is then truly terri⯑fic! I ſhall never forget that night! I think on it even now with horror! One of thoſe poor drunken creatures, Lou⯑iſa, was in an inſtant waſhed overboard and loſt; almoſt without a cry; not [207] heard, not aided, ſcarcely remarked; no attempt made to ſave him, for all at⯑tempt was abſolutely impoſſible: we were within a few yards of land, yet were ourſelves almoſt certain of periſh⯑ing. The remaining men were little better than helpleſs; for it was the moſt active of them who was thus miſerably drowned!—Indeed, Louiſa, it was dread⯑ful!

The reflux of the water was in half a minute likely to be equally violent. Frank, whoſe preſence of mind never forſakes him, ſaw what the nature of our danger was; and, ſhaking off poor Laura, who clung round him, begging of him for God's ſake to ſave her pre⯑cious life, he flew to the helm, turned the [208] head of the boat in its proper direction, and called with that imperious kind of voice which on ſuch occaſions enforces obedience, for ſomebody to come to the helm. Clifton was there in an inſtant. Keep it, ſaid Frank, in this poſition.

Every motion was neceſſarily rapid. Frank was immediately out of the boat, and almoſt up to the ſhoulders in the ſea. He caught hold of the ſide of the boat, retreated a ſtep or two, ſet his feet againſt the ſteep beach, and ſteadied it, to reſiſt the returning wave. It had no ſooner retreated than he called to me, took me in his arms, and in a moment I found myſelf in ſafety on ſhore!

He returned and brought my father next!

[209] Poor Laura ſhrieked, with fear and impatience! She was the third whom he landed.

He then ordered the boatmen to take care of themſelves; and, drunk and re⯑fractory though they were, they did not neglect to obey the mandate. After which Clifton, leaving the helm, jumped into the water, the ſervants having gone before, and we all found ourſelves ſafe, after ſome of us had concluded we were loſt beyond redemption.

Our peril appears to have been wholly owing to the inebriety of the boatmen; for, had they been able to do their duty, there would have been none, or certainly very little: and it was averted by the active and penetrating mind of Frank, which ſeems as if it were moſt accurate [210] and determined, in its concluſions and expedients, in proportion to the greatneſs of the danger, when common minds would be wholly confuſed and impotent.

Clifton, though he did not ſo imme⯑diately perceive what was beſt to be done, ſaw the propriety of it when doing, and immediately aſſented, and aided, by keeping the boat in the poſition Frank directed, almoſt as eſſentially as his co⯑adjutor. I am more and more con⯑vinced it is accident only that has kept him from poſſeſſing one of the moſt en⯑larged of human underſtandings. But I muſt likewiſe allow that this ſaid accident has rendered him petulant, impatient of contradiction, too precipitate to be al⯑ways aware of miſtake, and too poſitive to be eaſily governed. But theſe are [211] habitual errors, which time and care will cure.

I muſt add too that his affection for me diſplays itſelf in a thouſand various forms. He is apparently never ſatisfied, except when it is exerciſed to give or procure me pleaſure. I know not whe⯑ther the paſſion, which infuſes itſelf into all his words and actions that relate to me, ought to inſpire all that ſympathetic ſenſibility which he intends; but I own it ſometimes alarms me. His ardour is aſtoniſhing. He ſeems to wiſh, and even to deſign, to make it irreſiſtible. Yet it is mingled with ſuch exceſs of tenderneſs that I have half loſt the power of repreſſing it.

But I muſt not, no, I will not, ſtand in awe of his impetuoſity. Ardour is a [212] noble quality, and my ſtudy ſhall be how to turn it to his advantage. The more I look round me the more I perceive that fear enfeebles, withers, and con⯑ſumes the powers of mind. Thoſe who would nobly do muſt nobly dare. Raſh people, perhaps, are thoſe who feel the truth of this principle ſo ſtrongly that they forget it is neceſſary not only to dare, but to diſcover the beſt method of daring.

Clifton now avoids argument, and ap⯑pears ſyſtematically determined to be of my opinion; or rather to ſay as I ſay. The only oppoſition he affords is now and then a witty, ſarcaſtic, or humorous reply. But he is generally ſucceſsful in his continual attempts to give the con⯑verſation a new turn, when his favourite opinions are oppoſed: for I do not think [213] it wiſe to obtrude too many painful con⯑tradictions upon him at a time. Truth muſt be progreſſive. Like a flaſh of lightning, it ſtuns or kills by exceſs.

Clifton will not long ſuffer me to reſt, now we are returned; and conſequently my dear Louiſa may ſoon expect another letter from her moſt affectionate

LETTER LVII.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

WE have now been in London four days, Oliver; and, known places reviv⯑ing old ideas, it almoſt ſeems as if we had never moved from the ſpot where we are at preſent. I fall into the ſame trains of thinking; except that I am more reſtleſs, more inclined to melan⯑choly, [215] to inaction, to a kind of inanity, which no trifling efforts can ſhake off.

I have received thy letter, and find thy reaſoning in ſome reſpects ſimilar to my own. I was aſhamed of remaining in doubt, on a queſtion which only re⯑quired a little extraordinary activity of mind to reſolve. It appears to me that nothing can be claſſed among falſehoods, except thoſe things the tendency of which is to generate falſehood, or miſ⯑take. Conſequently, not to tell what has paſſed to Clifton is acting according to the dictates of truth: for, to tell would be to run an imminent danger of falſe concluſions. Not, it is true, if the whole could be told: that is, if all poſſi⯑ble reaſonings, and conſequences, could be fairly recollected, and ſtated. But [216] memory is firſt to be feared; and ſtill more that prejudice which will not have the patience to lend mute attention. I therefore think, with thee, that ſilence in this caſe is truth.

We have been in ſome danger, owing to the drunkenneſs of the Deal boatmen; but ſaved ourſelves by a little exertion. One of the poor inebriated wretches how⯑ever was loſt. We ſaw him only the in⯑ſtant of his being waſhed overboard; and he was hurried away into the ſea by the recoiling waves, in the roaring of which his laſt cry was overpowered, without our being able ſo much as to at⯑tempt to give him aid! By which thou mayeſt judge that we ourſelves were in conſiderable jeopardy.

When we reflect how near danger is [217] [...] [214] [...] [215] [...] [216] [...] [217] to us, daily and hourly through life, we are apt to wonder that we ſo continually eſcape. But, when we again conſider how eaſily even great dangers, that is ſuch as take us by ſurpriſe, may be warded off, the wonder ceaſes.

My mind, Oliver, is not at eaſe: it is too much haunted by fear. At leaſt I hope it is; for my fears are for one whom it is almoſt torture to ſuppoſe in peril. Thou never kneweſt ſo enter⯑priſing, ſo encroaching a youth as this Clifton! Nay I am deceived if encroach⯑ment be not reduced to ſyſtem with him; and, ſtrong as her powers are, impoſſible as I know it to be to ſhake her princi⯑ples, yet, who can ſay what may happen, in a moment of forgetfulneſs, or miſ⯑take, [218] to a heart ſo pure, ſo void of guile?

Such terrors are ridiculous, perhaps thou wilt ſay; and perhaps they are; at leaſt I moſt devoutly hope they are. But his temperament is ſanguine, his wiſhes reſtleſs, ungovernable, and I al⯑moſt fear ominous, and his paſſion for her is already far beyond the controul of reaſon, to which indeed he thinks it ought not to be nor can be ſubject.

As for me, all is ended. Jealous I muſt not, no, I will not be! And ſurely I am above the meanneſs of envy. Yet I own, Oliver, I ſometimes blame her. I think her too precipitate, too fearleſs, nay too ready to imagine her power, her wondrous power, greater than it is.

[219] She makes no ſecret of her thoughts, and ſhe tells me that ſhe and I, ſhe doubts not, ſhall transform him to all that we ourſelves could deſire. Be not ſur⯑priſed at her kindneſs to me; for ſhe has a heart that is all benevolence, all friendſhip, all affection. If I can aid her, thou needeſt not doubt my will. But Heaven grant ſhe may not be miſ⯑taken!—Heaven grant it!

And yet, I cannot ſay. I even ſome⯑times hope and acquieſce; for his talents are indeed extraordinary. But his pride, and the pitileſs revenge which he ſhews a conſtant propenſity to take, when of⯑fended, are dangerous ſymptoms.

For her, ſhe ſeems to act from motives wholly different from thoſe of her age [220] and ſex. It is not paſſion, not love, ſuch as it is uſually felt and expreſſed; it is a ſenſe of duty, friendſhip for Louiſa, ad⯑miration of great talents, an ardent de⯑ſire to give thoſe talents their full value, and the dignified pride ſhe takes in re⯑ſtoring ſuch a mind to its proper rank. By theſe ſhe is actuated, as all her words and actions demonſtrate.

Well, well, Oliver! She ſoars a flight that is more than mortal! But ſhe leaves a luminous track, that guides and in⯑vites, and I will attempt to follow. Thou ſhalt ſee me riſe above the poor ſlaviſh wiſhes that would chain me to earth!—

Oliver, my mind, like a bow continu⯑ally bent, is too much upon the ſtretch. Such is the effect of my ſituation, of [221] which my thoughts, my language, and my actions partake. But I will calm this agitation. Fear not: thou ſhalt find me worthy to be thy friend, and the pupil of thy moſt excellent father.

No! I will not, Oliver, be a child; though the conteſt be indeed ſevere. By day I am with her; for hours I liſten, while ſhe ſings, or plays, or ſpeaks. I am a witneſs of her actions! Her form is never abſent from me! The ſound of her voice is unceaſing har⯑mony to my ears! At night, retiring to darkneſs and thought, I paſs her cham⯑ber door! In the morning again I be⯑hold the place where all that is heavenly reſts! I endeavour after apathy. I la⯑bour to be ſenſeleſs, ſtupid, an idiot! I [222] ſtrain to be dead to ſupreme excellence! But it is the ſtone of Siſyphus, and I am condemned to eter—!

LETTER LVIII.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOUISA CLIFTON.

YOUR brother has gained his point. The deed is done. My conſent is given. For, in reality, to have with⯑held it would have had more the appear⯑ance of a coquette than of the friend of my Louiſa. After ſufficiently ſtrong hints in the courſe of the two firſt days, [225] on the third after our arrival, Clifton came. His intention was evidently to take no denial. It was with difficulty that I could bring him to liſten, for a few minutes, while I repeated principles before declared, and required an avowal of how far he thought them an impedi⯑ment to future happineſs. To every thing I could aſk he was ready to ac⯑cede. ‘He had nothing to contend, nothing to contradict; and, if he did not think exactly like me in every particular, he was determined not to think at all, till he could. Beſide, my own concluſions, in favour of truth, were my ſafeguard. I had not any doubt that reaſon, if attended to, muſt finally prevail; and I could not deny that he was at all times ready to pay the ſtricteſt attention.’

[226] Indeed he ſeemed at firſt reſolved, as it were, not to enter into any converſa⯑tion, but to claim my promiſe. But I was ſtill more determined to exert my⯑ſelf; that the due influence which rea⯑ſon ought always to have, over paſſion, might not be loſt, and ſink into habitual and timid conceſſion. When he per⯑ceived there was no reſiſting, he then liſtened with a tolerably good grace; but ſtill, as I ſaid, with an apparently pre⯑concerted plan not to contend; urging, and indeed truly, that fair arguments could deſire nothing more than patient hearing; and this he pledged, in his energetic and half wild manner, honour, body, and ſoul to give. I could not de⯑ſire more ſincere aſſeverations than he made; and that they were ſincere I cannot doubt. Nor do I regret that they [227] were ſtrong. Where there is energy there is the material of which mind is faſhioned: and the fault muſt be mine, if the work be incomplete. Our con⯑verſation however was long; and when at laſt obliged to enter into the ſubject, the acuteneſs and depth of his remarks were ſtrong proof of his powers, had any proof been wanting—Yes, Louiſa, the attempt muſt be made. It is a high and indiſpenſable duty; and I muſt neither be deterred by the dread of dan⯑ger, nor ſwayed by the too ſeducing emo⯑tions of the heart—They muſt be ſi⯑lenced!—They muſt!

I have an aſſiſtant worthy of the cauſe. Frank does not ſhrink from the taſk: though it is but too evident that he has not changed his opinion! I know not why, but ſo it is, thoſe two particular [228] ſentences continually reverberate in my ear—I feel a certainty of conviction, that you act from miſtaken principles—To the end of time I ſhall perſiſt in thinking you mine by right!—Oh, Louiſa!

Sir Arthur of courſe made no difficulty in giving his conſent; and I imagine Mrs. Clifton will this poſt receive a let⯑ter from her ſon, and perhaps another from my father, requiring her acquieſ⯑cence.

Sir Arthur has ſhewn me one of the moſt ſtrange, eccentric, and perhaps co⯑mic letters, from honeſt Aby, that I think I ever read. I am glad it is not quite ſo intelligible to Sir Arthur as it is to me; for I ſee no good that could reſult, were he to underſtand its true ſenſe. The old—! I can find no epithet for him that pleaſes me—Well then—Honeſt [229] Aby is exceſſively anxious that I ſhould marry a ſon of whom he is ſo unworthy. But his motives are ſo mean, ſo whimſi⯑cal, and ſo oddly compounded and de⯑ſcribed, peering as it were through the maſk of cunning, with which he awk⯑wardly endeavours to conceal them, that nothing but reading his letter can give you an idea of its characteriſtic humour. This poſt I ſuppoſe will likewiſe ſhew him his miſtake. How he will receive the news I know not; though I ſuſpect he will raiſe obſtacles, concerning the money which Sir Arthur wants, in order to pay my portion. But this will ſoon be ſeen.

I likewiſe learn, from his letter, that my brother is to join in docking the en⯑tail of the hereditary eſtate; and that he is willing, provided he may ſhare the [230] ſpoil. How would my heart bleed, were I not cured of that prejudice which makes happineſs conſiſt in the perſonal poſſeſſion of wealth! But the ſyſtem of tyranny would be more firm and durable even than it is, did not this mutation of property daily exiſt; and were not the old and honourable families, as they call themſelves, brought to ruin by their fooliſh and truly diſhonourable deſcen⯑dants.

Every thing confirms me in the ſuſpi⯑cion that honeſt Aby has been playing a deep game; and that both Sir Arthur and my brother have ceded to all the ex⯑tortions of craft and uſury, to have their whims and extravagancies ſupplied.

My brother perſuades himſelf that he is determined never to marry; and I ſuppoſe has formed this determination [231] purpoſely that he may ſpend all he can obtain, without being teaſed by any qualms of conſcience. For the deſtruc⯑tive ſyſtem of individual property in⯑volves a thouſand abſurdities; and the proud but inane ſucceſſor of a Sydney or a Verulam, inſtead of knowing how difficult the ſubject of identity itſelf is, inſtead of perceiving that man is nothing but a continuity, or ſucceſſion, of ſingle thoughts, and is therefore in reality no more than the thought of the moment, believes there is a ſtable and indubitable affinity between him and his great an⯑ceſtor.

I muſt now be more than ever deter⯑mined to accompliſh the taſk I have un⯑dertaken; and to give to the arms of my beſt, my deareſt Louiſa, a brother worthy of a heart ſo pure, and a ſiſter [232] ſuch as ſhe herſelf could wiſh to be that brother's other half—Very true, Lou⯑iſa! It is the old ſtory: I am Sir Ar⯑thur's vapouring huſſey! But I comfort myſelf with reflecting that, after the bat⯑tle is won, the raſhneſs of the attack is never remembered; or, if it be, it is al⯑ways applauded; and that all generals, great or ſmall, confide in their own plans, till defeat has proved them to be abor⯑tive. Something muſt be ventured, ere any thing can be won.

Not knowing what might be the no⯑tions of Sir Arthur, or even of Mrs. Clifton, concerning the ſilence they might think it neceſſary to keep, I for⯑bore to mention their plan, of which my friend, with her conſiſtent frankneſs, in⯑formed me, till our laſt conference: but I then thought it an indiſpenſable duty [233] to relate the truth; otherwiſe it might have come, at ſome unlucky moment, in the diſguiſe of falſehood, and have done miſchief. Secrets are indeed ab⯑ſolutely contrary to my ſyſtem. 'Tis pride or falſe ſhame that puts blinds to the windows either of the houſe or of the mind. Let the whole world look in, and ſee what is doing; that if any thing be wrong, it may have an opportunity to reprove; and whatever is right there is ſome hope it may imitate. Clifton was pleaſed to find himſelf treated with un⯑diſguiſed ſincerity. Yes, Louiſa, fear not: you will find him your brother, in virtue as well as in blood.

LETTER LIX.
SIR ARTHUR ST. IVES TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. CLIFTON.

OUR plan has ſucceeded to our wiſh: Mr. Clifton is as I may ſay quite ſmitten with my daughter. And indeed I do not wonder at it; for, though ſhe is my child, I muſt ſay, ſhe is the ſweeteſt, moſt charming, lovely girl I [235] ever beheld! She has always been my darling! I have a true fatherly fondneſs for her; and, though I own it will not be very convenient to me, I mean imme⯑diately to raiſe twenty thouſand pounds, to pay down as her portion. If at my death I ſhould have the power to do more, ſhe ſhall not be forgotten: but I promiſe nothing.

As I remember, dear madam, this was the ſum which you ſaid was neceſſary, to redeem certain mortgages, pay off en⯑cumbrances, and enable Mr. Clifton to appear in England, in a manner be⯑coming the heir of the Clifton family. And this ſum I think it very fit the daughter of Sir Arthur St. Ives ſhould receive. I ſhall accordingly write to my agent, and put every thing immediately [236] in train; after which, you ſhall hear from me without delay.

If any alteration ſhould have happen⯑ed in your own views, or affairs, which may impede or forward our plan, you will be kind enough to inform me.

LETTER LX.
COKE CLIFTON TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. CLIFTON.

I WRITE to you, dear and honoured madam, with a grateful and happy heart, to thank you for a project ſo maternally and wiſely conceived in my favour, and of which I have juſt been informed, by the frank-hearted and lovely Anna St. Ives. Of all the bleſſings for which, [238] madam, I hold myſelf indebted to you, this laſt, of diſcovering and endeavouring to ſecure for your thankful ſon a gem ſo precious, a lady ſo above all praiſe, I eſteem to be the greateſt.

You, dear madam, are acquainted with the propriety with which ſhe thinks and acts, on every occaſion; and I have no doubt will join with me, in applauding the entire undiſguiſedneſs of relating all that had paſſed, which appeared to her delicate mind at this moment to be ab⯑ſolutely neceſſary.

After obtaining her conſent for that purpoſe, I have ſpoken to Sir Arthur; who, at my requeſt, has promiſed imme⯑diately to write to you. And, it being a project, dear madam, a kind one, of your own forming, I have no fear that it ſhould [239] be diſcountenanced by you. My only doubt is of delay. Let me entreat you, my dear mother, to remove all impedi⯑ments with every poſſible ſpeed; and not to loſe a moment in writing to me, as ſoon as you and Sir Arthur have arranged the buſineſs, that I may ſolicit her, from whom I am certain to receive all poſſible bliſs, to name a time, when ſuſpenſe ſhall joyfully end.

Do not, dear madam, let impatience ſeem a fault in me. Remember the lady; who ſhe is, and all ſhe is; and think, if her perfections could make the impreſ⯑ſion which they ſeem to have done upon your heart, what muſt they have made upon mine! I, who, with all the fire of youth and conſtitutional eagerneſs, in [240] conſequence of your own wiſe plan, am become a wiſhing and expecting lover!

My ſiſter, I am ſure, is too generous, the happineſs of her friend and brother being pledged, not to join me in the re⯑queſt I now make: and I certainly will not forget a kindneſs which, I acknow⯑ledge, I know not how I ſhall ever repay.