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ANNA ST. IVES: A NOVEL.

BY THOMAS HOLCROFT.

VOLUME V.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR SHEPPERSON AND REYNOLDS, NO. 137, OXFORD-STREET.

M.DCC.XCII.

ANNA ST. IVES: A NOVEL.

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LETTER LXXX.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

BEFORE you proceed with my letter, Fairfax, read the incloſed paper *!—Read!—The hand-writing is [2] hers!—It is addreſſed to me! Was repeated to me! Is tranſcribed for me!—Tranſcribed by herſelf!—Read! And if it be poſſible believe in your own exiſtence! Believe if you can that all you ſee, all you hear, the images that ſwim before your eyes and the world itſelf are real, and no deluſion!—For my part I begin to doubt!—Read!—Oh that I were inviſible and ſtanding by your ſide!

Well!—Have you ended?—And do you ſtill continue to breathe?—Are you not a ſtatue?—Would not the whole univerſe denounce me liar if, knowing me, I were to tell it that words like theſe were not only ſpoken to me but are [3] written, leſt I ſhould forget the maddening injuries they contain?—What! Make me her confeſſor?—Me?—No ſecret ſin, of thought, word, or deed, concealed!—All remembered, all recited, all avowed!—Sins committed with the hated Henley!—Sins againſt love, againſt Clifton!—Does ſhe imagine I can look on a paper like this and, while my eye ſhoots along the daring the inſulting line, not feel all the fires that now devour me?—Surely ſhe is frantic!

Theſe things, Fairfax, are above my comprehenſion! My amazement muſt be eternal, for I never ſhall be able to underſtand them.—What! Tell me, Clifton, of her amorous debates with ſuch a fellow? Appoint him her headuſher [4] over me? Announce him my rival? Meet my eye unabaſhed and affirm him to be my ſuperior? Inform me of the deep hold he has taken of her heart? Own ſhe kiſſed him?

Once again it is incredible! Nay moſt and ſtill more incredible; for, ſtrange to ſay and yet more ſtrange for her to do, even this received ſuch a varniſh from her lips, her eyes, her beauties, her irradiating zeal, that reaſon everlaſtingly renounce me if I ſcarcely knew, while ſhe ſpoke, whether it were not the hiſtory of ſome ſylph, ſome heavenly ſpirit ſhe was reciting?

Yes, Fairfax! There was a moment, a ſhort but dangerous moment, at which ſo charmed was I by her eloquence, ſo amazed by her daring ſincerity, ſo [5] moved by the white candour of a ſoul ſo ſeeming pure, that, poſſeſſed by I know not what booby devil of generoſity, I was on the point of throwing myſelf at her feet, confeſſing the whole guilt of my intents, and proclaiming myſelf her true and irrevocable convert!

And this before the breath that uttered theſe injuries was cold!

The ſiren!—All the beauteous witcheries that ever yet were ſaid or ſung do not equal her!—Circe, Calypſo, Morgana, fairy or goddeſs, mortal or immortal, knew not to mix the magic cup with ſo much art!

Not that it was her arguments. What are they? It was her bright her beaming eyes, her pouting beauteous lips, [6] her palpitating ecſtatic boſom, her—I know not what, except that even this was not all!—No!—There was ſomething ſtill more heavenly!—An emanating deity!—The celeſtial effulgence of a divine ſoul, that flowed with fervour almoſt convulſive!

Had you witneſſed her elevated aſpirations!—Such ſwelling paſſions ſo maſtered, ſo controlled, till then I never beheld! Like the ſlow pauſe of the ſolemn death-bell, the big tear at ſtated periods dropped; but dropped unheeded. Though ſhe could not exclude them, her ſtoic ſoul diſdained to notice ſuch intruſive gueſts!—Her whole frame ſhook with the warfare between the feelings and the will—And well might it ſhake!

[7] I went prepared, and lucky it was that I did. My fixed determination was to be ſilent, that I might profit by what I ſhould hear. That one dangerous moment excepted, I was firm!—Firm!—Not to be moved; though rocks would, had they liſtened!

Yes, Fairfax, I did my part. Not that I am certain that to fall at her feet like a canting methodiſt, own myſelf the moſt reprobate of wretches, whine out repentance, and implore forgiveneſs at the all ſufficient fountain of her mercy would not be the very way to impoſe upon her beſt.

I begin indeed to be angry at myſelf for not having yet reſolved on one conſiſtent plan. Schemes ſo numerous preſent themſelves, and none without its [8] difficulties and objections, that to determine is no eaſy taſk. Circumſtances in part muſt guide me. I muſt have patience. At preſent I can only prepare and keep in readineſs ſuch cumbrous engines as this phlegmatic foggy land of beef and pudding can afford. I muſt ſupply the fire, if I find it neceſſary to put the machines in motion.

But, having decreed her fall, my ſpirits are now alert, and there is not a being that ſurrounds me to whom imagination does not aſſign a poſſible part: and that the part ſhould be well-ſuited to the perſon muſt be my care.

My firſt exerciſe muſt be on myſelf. Apathy or the affectation of apathy muſt be acquired—Inevitably muſt be—My paſſions muſt be maſked: I muſt pretend [9] to have conquered them. In their naked and genuine form they are indecent, immoral, impure, I know not what! But catch a metaphyſical quirk, and let vanity and dogmatic aſſertion ſtand ſponſors and baptize it a truth, and then raptures, extravagance, and bigotry itſelf are deities! Be then as loud, as violent, as intolerant as the moſt rancorous of zealots, and it is all the ſublime ardour of virtue.

Yes! I muſt learn to ape their contempt of all and every terrene object, motive, and reſpect!

Incloſe the ſtrange paper I ſent you and return it in your next. I ſent it in her own hand-writing, that your eyes might have full conviction. I took a copy of it, but I have ſince recollected I [10] may want the original. The time may come when ſhe may aſſail me with accuſation and complaint: I will then preſent that paper, and flaſh guilt upon her!

I am much deceived if I do not obſerve in this gardening and improving knight a want of former cordiality, a decreaſe of ardour, and perhaps a wiſh to retract—Why let him!—To the daughter's deadly ſins let him add new: it will but make invention more active, and revenge more keen! I will have an eye upon him: I half hope my ſuſpicions are true!

The aunt Wenbourne too ſtill continues to give laud unto Mr. Henley!—Damn Mr. Henley!—But ſhe may be neceſſary; and, a ſhe is entirely governed [11] by the gull Edward, I muſt ſubmit to bring myſelf into his favour. The thing may eaſily be done.

The lordly uncle Fitz-Allen is ſecure. I frequently dine with him on what he calls his open day; he being overwhelmed with buſineſs, as blockheads uſually are; and I do not fail to inſinuate the relationſhip in which, if care be not taken, he may hereafter chance to ſtand to a gardener's ſon. His face flames at the ſuppoſition, and his red noſe burns more bright! What will it do, ſhould I make him my tool, when he finds to what good purpoſe he has been an abettor? Be that his concern; it neither is nor ever ſhall be mine.

But none of theſe are the exact agent [12] I want; nor have I found him yet. They at beſt can only act as auxiliaries. Laura indeed may be eminently uſeful; but the plotting, daring, miſchievous, malignant yet ſubaltern imp incarnate, that ſhould run, fly, dive, be viſible and inviſible, and plunge through froſt or fire to execute my beheſts, is yet to be diſcovered.

Were I in Italy, diſburſe but a few ſequins and battling legions would move at my bidding: but here we have neither ciciſbeos, carnivals, confeſſors, bravoes nor ſanctuaries. No—We have too few prieſts and too much morality for our noble corps to flouriſh in full perfection.

I know not that all this may be neceſſary, but I ſuſpect it will, and I muſt [13] prepare for the worſt; for I will accompliſh my purpoſe in deſpite of hell or honeſty!—Ay, Fairfax, will!—Gentle means, inſinuation, and hypocriſy ſhall be my firſt reſource; and if theſe fail me, then I will order my engines to play!

I have been once more reading my copy of this unaccountable paper, and though every word is engraven in my memory, it dropped from my hand with new aſtoniſhment! Her hiſtory of her Mr. Henley, the yearnings of her heart toward him, and her unabaſhed juſtification of all ſhe has ſaid, all ſhe has thought and all ſhe has done are not to be paralleled in the records of female extravagance.

[14] She comes however to the point at laſt—Calculation is in favour of celibacy—For once, lady, you are in the right!—We may appear to agree on caſes more dubious, but on that it will be miraculous if we ever hereafter differ.

I cannot but again applaud myſelf, for keeping my preconcerted reſolution of ſilence and reſerve ſo firmly. I rejoice in my fortitude and my foreſight; for her efforts were ſo ſtrenuous, and her emotions ſo catching, that had I been leſs prepared all had been loſt.

C. CLIFTON.

LETTER LXXXI.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

[15]

YES, yes, Fairfax! She takes the ſure and reſolute road to ruin, and travels it with unwearied ardour!—What think you ſhe has done now?—An earthquake would have been more within my calculation!—She labours hard after the marvellous!—She has been angling [16] again in the muddy pool of paradox, and has hooked up a new dogma!—And what is it?—Why nothing leſs than an aſſeveration that the promiſe ſhe made me is not binding!—Promiſes are nonentities: they mean nothing, ſtand for nothing, and nothing can claim.

So be it—It is a maxim, divine apoſtate, that will at leaſt ſerve my turn as effectually as yours. To own the truth, I never thought promiſes made to capricious ladies ſtood for much; nor were my ſcruples at preſent likely to have been increaſed. If ſhe, a woman, be ſimple enough to have faith in the word of man, 'tis her fault. Let her look to it!

This is not all: the doctrine is not of her own invention! Mr. Henley, the [17] eternal Mr. Henley again appears upon the ſcene, from which he is ſcarcely ever a moment abſent!—Were it poſſible I could relent, ſhe is determined I ſhall not. But they are both down in my tablets, in large and indelible characters; on the black liſt; and there for a time at leaſt they ſhall remain.

My plan, Fairfax, is formed; and I believe completely. When I was firſt acquainted with her, as you know, my meaning was honeſt and my heart ſincere. I was a fool at leaſt for a fortnight; for that was the ſhorteſt period before I began at all to waver. I was indeed deeply ſmitten! Nor is deſire cooled: delay, oppoſition, and neglect have only changed its purpoſe. She ſoon indeed taught me to treat her in [18] ſome manner like the reſt of her ſex, and to begin to plot. 'Tis well for me that I have a fertile brain: and it had been well for her could ſhe have been contented with the conqueſt ſhe had made, and have treated me with generoſity equal to my deſerts. But a hypocrite ſhe has made me, and a hypocrite ſhe ſhall find me; ay and a deep one.

She has herſelf given me my clue: ſhe has laid open her whole heart. She has the fatuity to mimic the perfect heroine! Tell her but it is a duty, and with the Bramin wives ſhe would lie down, calmly and reſolutely, on the burning pile!

Well then! I will tell her of a duty of which ſhe little dreams! Yes, ſhe ſhall grant every thing I wiſh as an act of [19] duty! I will convince her it is one! I! The pretty immaculate lamb muſt ſubmit in this point to become my pupil; and it ſhall go hard or I will prove as ſubtle a logician as herſelf.

What ſay you, Fairfax? Is not the project an excellent one? Is it not worthy of the ſapient Doctor Clifton? Shall I loſe reputation, think you, by carrying it into effect?

I am already become a new man. My whole ſyſtem is changed. She begins to praiſe me moſt unmercifully; and, while my very heart is tickled with my ſucceſs, the lengthened viſage of inſpired quaker when the ſpirit moved was never more demure! I am too pleaſed, too proud of my own talents, not to perſiſt.

[20] Already I am a convert to one of her truths. Do laugh, Fairfax! I have acknowledged that you and your footman are equal! Is it not ridiculous? However I am convinced! Ay and convinced I will remain, till time ſhall be. She ſhall teach me a truth a day!—Yet, no—I muſt not learn too faſt; it may be ſuſpicious: though I would be as ſpeedy as I conveniently can in my progreſs.

The zeal of diſputation burns within her; and, as I tell you, I am already one of her very good boys, becauſe the purſuit of my own project makes me now as willing to liſten and hunt after deductions, ſuch as I want, as ſhe is to teach and to ſupply me with thoſe deductions. She ſtarts at no propoſition, however extravagant, if it do but appear [21] to reſult from any one of her favourite ſyſtems, of which ſhe has a good round number. Rather than relinquiſh the leaſt of them, ſhe would ſuppoſe the glorious ſun a coal-pit; and his dazzling rays no better than volumes of black ſmoke, poliſhed and grown bright on their travels by attrition. She profeſſes it to be the purpoſe of her life to free herſelf from all prejudices. But here ſhe has the modeſty to add the ſaving clauſe—"If it be practicable."

Could ſhe, Fairfax, have a more convenient hypotheſis? Do you not perceive its fecundity? And, the taſk being ſo very difficult, will it not be benevolent in me to lend her my aſſiſtance? What think you? Is it not poſſible to prove that marriage is a mere prejudice?

[22] She ſhall find me willing to learn many or perhaps all of her doctrines; and in return I deſire to teach her no more than one of mine. Can any thing be more reaſonable, more generous? Nay, I will go further! I will not teach it her; ſhe ſhall have all the honour of teaching it to me! Can man do more?

The moſt knotty and perplexed part of my plan was to find a contrivance to make the gardener's ſon an actor in the plot. The thing is difficult, but not impoſſible. I have various ſtratagems and ſchemes, in the choice of which I muſt be guided by circumſtances. That which pleaſes me moſt is to invite him to ſit in ſtate, the umpire of our diſquiſitions.

I think I can depend upon myſelf, [23] otherwiſe there would be danger in the project. But if I act my part perfectly, if I have but the reſolution to liſten coolly to their quiddities, ſometimes to oppoſe, ſometimes to recede, and always to own myſelf conquered on the points which ſuit me beſt, I believe both the gentleman and the lady will be ſufficiently ſimple to ſuppoſe that in all this there will be nothing apocryphal. They will imagine the gilt ſtatue to be pure gold. I ſhall be numbered among their elect! I ſhall riſe from the alembic a ſaint of their own ſubliming! Shall be aſſayed and ſtamped current at their mint!

Yet I muſt be cautious. I would put my hand in the fire ere undertake ſo apparently mad a ſcheme, with any other [24] couple in Chriſtendom. Conſidering how very warm—Curſes bite and tingle on my tongue at the recollection!—Conſidering I ſay how very warm I know their inclinations toward each other to be, nothing but the proofs I have had could prompt me to commence an enterprize ſo improbable. But the uncommonneſs of it is a main part of its merit; and I think I know the ground I have to travel ſo well that I do not much fear I ſhould loſe my road.

I am aware that the enemy I have moſt to guard againſt is myſelf. To pretend a belief in opinions I deſpiſe, to ſit with ſaturnine gravity and nod approbation when my ſides are convulſed with laughter, to ape admiration at what [25] reaſon contemns and ſpurns, and to ſmooth my features into ſuavity while my heart is burſting with gall at the intercourſe they continually hold, of becks and ſmiles and approving kind epithets, to do all this is almoſt too much for mortal man! But I have already made ſeveral eſſays on myſelf, and I find that the obſtinate reſolution which an inſatiable thirſt of ample retribution inſpires is not to be ſhaken, and renders me equal even to this taſk.

I am well aware however what dangerous quickſands the paſſions are; and that a good pilot is never ſparing of ſoundings. I will therefore not only keep a rigorous watch upon myſelf, but take ſuch meaſures as ſhall enable me to exclude or retain the grub-monger, as I [26] ſhall think fit, during our converſations.

Thus you are likely ſoon to hear more of our metaphyſics; nay, if you be but induſtrious, enough to enable you to ſet up for yourſelf, and become the apoſtle of Paris. I know no place where, if you have but a morſel of the marvellous to detail, you will find hearers better diſpoſed to gape and ſwallow.

C. CLIFTON.

LETTER LXXXII.
ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES TO LOVISA CLIFTON.

[27]

AFORTNIGHT has almoſt elapſed ſince I laſt wrote to my Louiſa, till my heart begins to cry ſhame at the delay. Could I plead no other excuſe than the trifling occupations of a trifling world I muſt ſign my own condemnation; but [28] your brother has afforded me better employment. Our frequent converſations on many of the beſt and moſt dignified of moral enquiries, his acute remarks and objections, and the difficult problems he has occaſionally given me to ſolve, have left me in no danger of being idle.

Oh, Louiſa, how exquiſite is the pleaſure I feel, to ſee him thus determined, thus inceſſant in his purſuit! A change ſo fortunate and ſo ſudden aſtoniſhes while it delights!—May it continue!—May it increaſe!—May?—Vain unworthy wiſh!—It muſt—The mind having once ſeized on the clue of truth can neither quit its hold nor become ſtationary; it is obliged to advance. And when its powers are equal to thoſe of [29] Coke Clifton, ought we to wonder at its bold and rapid flights?

Still the conqueſts he daily makes over his own feelings cannot but ſurpriſe. His ſtruggles are evident, but they are effectual. He even reſolutely caſts off the ſtrong prejudices he had conceived againſt Frank Henley, invites him to aid us in our reſearches, and appeals to him to explain and decide.

"Let us if we wiſh to weed out error be ſincere in our efforts, and have no remorſe for our prejudices."

This is his own language, Louiſa! Oh that I could fully communicate the pleaſure this change of character gives me to my friend. Yes, the reſtraint which too frequent contradiction lays him under will ſoon wear off, and how great will [30] then be the enthuſiaſm with which he will defend and promulgate truth!

Nor is it leſs delightful to obſerve the ſatisfaction which this reform ſometimes gives to Frank Henley. At others indeed he owns he is diſturbed by doubt: but he owns it with feelings of regret, and is eager to prove himſelf unjuſt.

Yet reſpecting me his thoughts never vary—Alas! Louiſa, I ſtill "am his by right." His tongue is ſilent, but his looks and manner are ſufficiently audible. I ſurely have been guilty of the error I ſo much dreaded; my cauſe was ſtrong, but my arguments were feeble; I have prolonged the warfare of the paſſions which I attempted to eradicate; or rather have left on his mind a deep ſenſe of injuſtice committed by me—! The [31] thought is intolerable!—Excruciating!

But oh with what equanimity, with what fortitude does he endure his imagined wrongs! Pure moſt pure muſt that paſſion be which at once poſſeſſes the ſtrength of his and his forbearance! There are indeed but few Frank Henleys!

Surely, Louiſa, I may do him juſtice?—Surely to eſteem the virtuous cannot merit the imputation of guilt?—Who can praiſe him as he deſerves? And can that which is right in others be wrong in me?—Yet ſuch are the miſtakes to which we are ſubject, I ſcarcely can ſpeak or even think of him without ſuſpecting myſelf of committing ſome culpable impropriety!

Pardon, Louiſa, theſe wanderings of [32] the mind! They are marauders which uniform vigilance alone can repel. They are ever in arms, and I obliged to be ever alert. But it is petty warfare, and cannot ſhake the dominion of truth

My feelings have led me from the topic I intended for the chief ſubject of this letter.

The courſe of our enquiries has ſeveral times forced us upon that great queſtion, ‘the progreſs of mind toward perfection, and the different order of things which muſt inevitably be the reſult.’ Yeſterday this theme again occurred. Frank was preſent; and his imagination, warm with the ſublimity of his ſubject, drew a bold and ſplendid picture of the felicity of that ſtate of ſociety when perſonal property no longer ſhall [33] exiſt, when the whole torrent of mind ſhall unite in enquiry after the beautiful and the true, when it ſhall no longer be diverted by thoſe inſignificant purſuits to which the abſurd follies that originate in our falſe wants give birth, when individual ſelfiſhneſs ſhall be unknown, and when all ſhall labour for the good of all!

A ſtate ſo diſtant from preſent manners and opinions, and apparently ſo impoſſible, naturally gave riſe to objections; and your brother put many ſhrewd and pertinent queſtions, which would have ſilenced a mind leſs informed and leſs comprehenſive than that of our inſtructor.

At laſt a difficulty aroſe which to me wore a very ſerious form; and as what was ſaid left a ſtrong impreſſion on my memory, I will relate that part of the converſation. [34] Obſerve, Louiſa, that Clifton and Frank were the chief ſpeakers. Your brother began.

I confeſs, ſir, you have removed many apparently unconquerable difficulties: but I have a further objection which I think unanſwerable.

What is it?

Neither man nor woman in ſuch a ſtate can have any thing peculiar: the whole muſt be for the uſe and benefit of the whole?

As generally as practice will admit: and how very general that may be, imperfect as its conſtitution was, Sparta remained during five hundred years a proof.

Then how will it be poſſible, when ſociety ſhall be the general poſſeſſor, for any man to ſay—This is my ſervant?

[35] He cannot: there will be no ſervants.

Well but—This is my child?

Neither can he do that: they will be the children of the ſtate.

Indeed!—And what ſay you to—This is my wife?—Can appropriation more than for the minute the hour or the day exiſt? Or, among ſo diſintereſted a people, can a man ſay even of the woman he loves—She is mine?

[We pauſed—I own, Louiſa, I found myſelf at a loſs; but Frank ſoon gave a very ſatisfactory reply.]

You have ſtarted a queſtion of infinite importance, which perhaps I am not fully prepared to anſwer. I doubt whether in that better ſtate of human ſociety, to which I look forward with ſuch [36] ardent aſpiration, the intercourſe of the ſexes will be altogether promiſcuous and unreſtrained; or whether they will admit of ſomething that may be denominated marriage. The former may perhaps be the truth: but it is at leaſt certain that in the ſenſe in which we underſtand marriage and the affirmation—This is my wife—neither the inſtitution nor the claim can in ſuch a ſtate, or indeed in juſtice exiſt. Of all the regulations which were ever ſuggeſted to the miſtaken tyranny of ſelfiſhneſs, none perhaps to this day have ſurpaſſed the deſpotiſm of thoſe which undertake to bind not only body to body but ſoul to ſoul, to all futurity, in deſpite of every poſſible change which our vices and our virtues might effect, or however numerous [37] the ſecret corporal or mental imperfections might prove which a more intimate acquaintance ſhould bring to light!

Then you think that ſome ſtipulation or bargain between the ſexes muſt take place, in the moſt virtuous ages?

In the moſt virtuous ages the word bargain, like the word promiſe, will be unintelligible—We cannot bargain to do what is wrong, nor can we, though there ſhould be no bargain, forbear to do what is right, without being unjuſt.

Whence it reſults that marriage, as a civil inſtitution, muſt ever be an evil?

Yes. It ought not to be a civil inſtitution. It is the concern of the individuals who conſent to this mutual aſſociation, and they ought not to be prevented [38] from beginning, ſuſpending, or terminating it as they pleaſe.

Clifton addreſſed himſelf to me—What ſay you to this doctrine, madam? Does it not ſhock, does it not terrify you?

As far as I have conſidered it, no. It appears to be founded on incontrovertible principles; and I ought not to be ſhocked that ſome of my prejudices are oppoſed, or at being reminded that men have not yet attained the true means of correcting their own vices.

Surely the conſequences are alarming! The man who only ſtudied the gratification of his deſires would have a new wife each new day; and the unprotected fair would be abandoned to all the licentiouſneſs of libertiniſm!

[39] Frank again replied—Then you think the ſecurity of women would increaſe with their imagined increaſe of danger; and that an unprincipled man, who even at preſent if he be known is avoided and deſpiſed, would then find a more ready welcome, becauſe as you ſuppoſe he would have more opportunities to injure?

I muſt own that the men fit to be truſted with ſo much power are in my opinion very few indeed.

You are imagining a ſociety as perverſe and vitiated as the preſent: I am ſuppoſing one wholly the contrary. I know too well that there are men who, becauſe unjuſt laws and cuſtoms worthy of barbarians have condemned helpleſs women to infamy, for the loſs of [40] that which under better regulations and in ages of more wiſdom has been and will again be guilt to keep, I know, ſir, I ſay that the preſent world is infeſted by men, who make it the buſineſs and the glory of their lives to bring this infamy upon the very beings for whom they feign the deepeſt affection!—If ever patience can forſake me it will be at the recollection of theſe demons in the human form, who come tricked out in all the ſmiles of love, the proteſtations of loyalty, and the arts of hell, unrelentingly and cauſeleſsly to prey upon confiding innocence! Nothing but the malverſe ſelfiſhneſs of man could give being or countenance to ſuch a monſter! Whatever is good, exquiſite, or precious, we are individually taught to graſp at, and [41] if poſſible to ſecure; but we have each a latent ſenſe that this principle has rendered us a ſociety of deteſtable miſers, and therefore to rob each other ſeems almoſt like the ſports of juſtice.

For which reaſon, ſir, were I a father, I think I ſhould ſhudder to hear you inſtructing my daughters in your doctrines.

I perceive you wholly miſconceive me; and I very ſeriouſly requeſt, pray obſerve, ſir, I very ſeriouſly requeſt you to remember that I would not teach any man's daughters ſo mad a doctrine as to indulge in ſenſual appetites, or foſter a licentious imagination. I am not the apoſtle of depravity. While men ſhall be mad, fooliſh, and diſhoneſt enough to be vain of bad principles, women may [42] be allowed to ſeek ſuch protection as bad laws can afford—It is an eternal truth that the wiſdom of man is ſuperior to the ſtrength of lions; but I would not therfore turn an infant into a lion's den.

I am glad to be undeceived. I thought it was ſcarcely poſſible you ſhould mean what your words ſeemed to imply—At preſent I underſtand you; and I again confeſs my ſurpriſe to find ſo much conſiſtency, and ſo many powerful arguments on a queſtion in favour of which I thought nothing rational could be advanced. You have afforded me food for reflection, and I thank you. I ſhall not eaſily forget what has been ſaid.

[43]

Tell me, my dear Louiſa, are you not delighted with this dialogue; and with the candour, the force of thinking, and what is ſtill better the virtuous fears of your brother? His mind revolted at the miſchief which it ſeemed to forebode: he was happy at being undeceived. And, with reſpect to argument, I doubt whether he forgot any one of the moſt apparently formidable objections to what is called the levelling ſyſtem. But he was pleaſed to learn that this is only giving a good cauſe a bad name. Such a ſyſtem is infinitely more oppoſite to levelling than the preſent; ſince the very eſſence of it is that merit ſhall be the only claimant, and ſhall be certain of pre-eminence.

The ſatisfaction I feel, my friend, is [44] beyond expreſſion. To have my hopes revived and daily ſtrengthened, after fearing they muſt all be relinquiſhed, increaſes the pleaſure. It is great and would be unmixed but for—Well, well!—Let Clifton but proceed and Frank will no longer ſay—"To the end of time"—! You know the reſt, Louiſa—All good be with you!

A. W. ST. IVES.

P. S. I thought I had forgotten ſomething. When Frank had retired, your brother with delightful candour praiſed the great perſpicuity as well as ſtrength with which he argued. He added there was one circumſtance in particular in his principles concerning marriage, although they had at firſt appeared [45] very alarming, which was highly ſatisfactory: and this was the confidence they inſpired. ‘Nothing, he ſaid, gave his nature ſo much offence as the ſuſpicions with which, at preſent, our ſex view the men. About two years ago he had a partiality for a Neapolitan lady, and thought himſelf in love with her: but in this he was miſtaken; it was rather inclination than paſſion. He knew not at that time what it was to love. Neither this Neapolitan lady, though beautiful and highly accompliſhed, nor any other woman his feelings told him could inſpire pure affection, who was incapable of confiding in herſelf; and, wanting this ſelf-confidence, of confiding in her lover. Suſpicion originates [46] in a conſciouſneſs of ſelf defect, Thoſe who cannot truſt themſelves cannot be induced to truſt others.’

Thus juſtly, Louiſa, did he continue to reaſon. Nor could I forbear to apply the doctrine to myſelf: I have been too diſtruſtful of him; my conſcience accuſed me, and I am reſolved to remedy the fault. I have always held ſuſpicion to be the vice of mean and feeble minds: but it is leſs difficult to find rules by theory than to demonſtrate them by practice.

I am ſorry, my dear Louiſa, to hear that the infirmities of Mrs. Clifton increaſe. But theſe are evils for which we can at preſent find no remedy; and to which we muſt therefore ſubmit with patience and reſignation.

LETTER LXXXIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

[47]

I WILL not ſuppoſe, Fairfax, you ſeek to compliment me, when you ſay you enjoy the exuberant heat of ſoul, the fire that pervades my epiſtles. I am glad you do. I ſhall not think the worſe of your talents. Many a line have I written in all the burſt of feeling, and [48] not a few in all the blaze of wit, and have ſaid to myſelf,—Should he not underſtand me now?—Why if he ſhould not, dulneſs everlaſting be his portion!—But you take the ſure way to keep up my ardour. While I perceive you continue to enjoy I ſhall continue to be communicative. A ſympathetic yawner I may be, but I do not believe I am often the firſt to begin.

I knew not half my own merits. I act my part to admiration. 'Tis true the combining circumſtances are all favourable. I muſt be a dunce indeed if i [...] ſuch a ſchool I ſhould want chicanery. Our diſputations have been continual; nor have I ever failed to turn them on the moſt convenient topics. But none of them have equalled [49] the laſt; managed as it was with dexterity by me, and in the very ſpirit I wiſhed by my opponents. I ſpeak in the plural; for I took care to have them both preſent. Several remarks which I had heard from him aſſured me he would ſecond my plan; which was no leſs than to prove—marriage a farce!—Would you have believed, Fairfax, I ſhould have had the temerity to ſtep upon a rock ſo ſlippery; and to have requeſted this Archimago of Adam's journeymen [Adam you know being the world's head-gardener] to ſtay and lend me his ſupport?—Yet thus audacious was I; and courage as it ought has been crowned with ſucceſs!

The thought was ſuggeſted by themſelves; and, had you or I or any of us [50] vile marriage haters been declaiming againſt the ſaffron god, and his eternal ſhackles, I doubt whether the beſt of us could have ſaid any thing half ſo much to the purpoſe!—Is it not excellent?—

Then had you heard me preach, ay, me myſelf, againſt libertines and libertiniſm!

By the by, Don Cabbage-plant had the inſolence to ſay two or three deviliſh ſevere things, diſhonourable to the noble fraternity of us knights of the bed-chamber, which if I forget may woman never more have cauſe to remember me!

However I brought him to own,—I—[Do laugh!] by my very great apprehenſions of the effects of ſuch a doctrine, that though marriage be a bad [51] thing it is quite neceſſary, at preſent, for the defence of the weaker veſſels and modeſt maidenhood. Ay and I applauded him for his honeſt candour! I was glad I had miſunderſtood him! Thanked him for all his profound information! In ſhort made him exactly what I wiſhed, my tool! And a hightempered tool he is, by the aid of which I will ſhew myſelf a moſt notable workman!—

Not but the fellow's eye was upon me. I could obſerve him prying, endeavouring to ſearch and probe me. But I came too well prepared. Inſtead of ſhrinking from the encounter, my brow contracted increaſing indignation; and my voice grew louder, as I ſtood forth the champion of chaſte virginity and [52] fanctimonious wedlock!—The ſcene, in the very critical ſenſe of the phraſe, was high comedy!—

It was well, Fairfax, they went no farther than Paris: had either of them only reached Turin I had been half undone! And had they touched at Naples, Rome, Venice, or half a dozen other fair and flouriſhing cities, my character for a pretty behaved, demure, and virtuous gentleman had been irremediably ruined!

Upon my ſoul I cannot put it out of my head!—Had you heard me remonſtrate what a horrid thing it would be to have marriage deſtroyed, and us honeſt fellows turned looſe among the virgins, from whom we ſhould catch and raviſh each a new damſel every new day, and [53] had you ſeen what a fine ſerious undertaker's face I put upon the buſineſs, your heart would have chuckled! To the day of your death it would never have been forgotten!

Perhaps you will wonder how I could draw ſuch a doctrine from theſe ſpinners of hypotheſis. I will tell you. I had heard them ſeverally maintain—Try to gueſs what!—Not in ſeven years, though you were to do nothing elſe.—You I ſuppoſe like me have heard that liberty, ſecurity, and property are the three main pillars of political happineſs?—Well then, theſe profeſſors maintain that individual property is a general evil!—What is more, they maintain it by ſuch arguments as would puzzle college, council, or ſenate to refute. But that I [54] am determined never to torment my brain about ſuch quips and quillets, may I turn Turk if they would not have made a convert of me, and have perſuaded me that an eſtate of ten thouſand a year was a very intolerable thing!

My intention was to keep my countenance, but to laugh at them in my heart moſt incontinently. However, I ſoon found my ſide of the queſtion was not ſo perfectly beyond all doubt, nor theirs quite ſo ridiculous as I had imagined.

'Tis true, I went predetermined to be convinced, and to take all they ſhould tell me for goſpel. I had a concluſion of my own to draw, and if I could but lead to that, I cared not how much I granted.

[55] I know not whether this prediſpoſition in me was of any advantage to their argument, though I think it was not; for, ſo ready was the ſolution to every difficulty, I boldly ventured to ſtate objections which I meant to have kept out of ſight, leſt I ſhould myſelf overturn a ſyſtem that ſuited my purpoſe. I perceived their eagerneſs, ſaw there was no danger that they ſhould ſtop at trifles even if I ſhould happen to throw them a bone to pick, and the readineſs of each reply raiſed my curioſity. I fearleſsly drew out my heavy artillery, which they with eaſe and ſafety as fearleſsly diſmounted. With a breath my ſtrong holds were all puffed down, like ſo many houſes of cards.

By this however my main buſineſs [56] was done more effectually. We came to it by fair deduction. It was not abruptly introduced; it was major, minor, and conſequent—All individual property is an evil—Marriage makes woman individual property—Therefore marriage is an evil—Could there be better logic?

As for his ſaving clauſe, that marriage in theſe times of prejudice and vice [I have the whole cant by rote, Fairfax.] is a neceſſary evil, leave me to do that away. What! Is ſhe not a heroine? And can I not convince her that to act according to a bad ſyſtem, when there is a better, were to deſcend to the ways of the vulgar? Can I not teach her how ſuperior ſhe is to the pretty miſſes who conform to ſuch miſtaken laws? Shall ſhe want the courage and the generoſity [57] to ſet the firſt good example? How often have I ſeen her eyes ſparkle, her boſom heave, and her zeal break forth in virtuous reſolutions to encounter any peril to obtain a worthy purpoſe! And can there be a more worthy?

Curſe upon theſe qualms of conſcience! Never before did I feel any thing ſo teazing, ſo tormenting! And, knowing what I know, remembering what I never can forget, the ſlights, injuries, and inſults I have received, how I came to feel them now is to me wholly inconceivable. She is acting it is true with what ſhe calls the beſt and pureſt of intentions toward me; ſhe believes them to be ſuch; ſhe ſometimes almoſt obliges me to believe them ſuch myſelf. She tortures me, by half conſtraining me to [58] revere the virtues in favour of which ſhe harangues ſo divinely. But ſhall I like a poor uxorious lackadaiſy driveller ſit down ſatisfied with a divided heart?—I!—Has ſhe not with her own lips, under her own hand, avowed and ſigned her contumelious guilt, her audacious preference of a rival?—A mean, a baſe, a vulgar rival!—And after this ſhall my projects ſuffer impediment from cheeſe-curd compaſſion?—Shall the querulous voice of conſcience arreſt my avenging arm?—No, Fairfax!—It cannot be! Though my heart in its anger could not accuſe her of a ſingle crime beſide, that alone, that damning preference would be all-ſufficient!—The furies have no ſtings that equal this recollection!

[59]

I have been throwing up my ſaſhes, ſtriding acroſs my room, and conſtruing ten lines of Seneca, and my pulſe again begins to beat more temperately.

Let us argue the point with this pert, unruly, marplot conſcience of mine.

It was not at firſt without conſiderable reluctance and even pain that I began to plot. I almoſt abhorred reducing her to the level of the ſex, not one of whom was ever yet her equal. But ſhe uſed me ill, Fairfax. Yes, ſhe uſed me ill; and you well know that want of reſentment is want of courage. None but pitiful, contemptible, no-ſouled fellows [60] forget inſults, till ample vengeance have been taken. And ſhall conſcience inſolently pretend to contradict the decree?

Beſide I could not but remember our old maxims, the Cyprian battles our jovial corps had fought, and the myrtle wreaths each wight had won. Should I, the leader the captain of the band, be the firſt to fly my colours? Was it not our favourite axiom that he who could declare, upon his honour, he had found a generous woman, who never had attempted once to deceive, trifle with, or play him trick, ſhould ſtill be acknowledged a companion of our order, even though he were to marry: but that all coquetry, all tergiverſation, all wrongs, however ſlight, were unpardonable, [61] and only one way to be redreſſed? What anſwer can conſcience give to that?

Your letters too are another ſtimulalative. You detail the full, true and particular account of your amorous malefactions, and vaunt of petty obſtacles, petty arts, and petty triumphs over Signoras and Madames who advance, challenge you to the field, and give battle purpoſely to be overcome. Their whole reſiſtance is but to make you feel how great an Alexander you are, and that having vanquiſhed them you are invincible! As you will certainly never meet with an Anna St. Ives, 'tis poſſible you may die in that opinion. But, I tell you, Fairfax, if you compare theſe practiſed Amazons to my heroine, you are [62] in a moſt heterodox and damnable error, of which if you do not timely repent your ſoul will never find admiſſion into the lover's Elyſium.

Bear witneſs, however, to my honeſty; of women I allow her to be the moſt excellent, but ſtill a woman, and not as I fooliſhly for a while ſuppoſed an abſolute goddeſs. No, no. Madam can curvet and play her pranks, though of totally a different kind; and, being almoſt mortal at preſent, mere mortal muſt become in deſpite of conſcience and its green ſickneſs phyſiognomy.

At firſt I knew her not; and, unwilling to encounter logic in a gauze cap, I ceaſed to oppoſe her arguments, and thought to conciliate her by reſolving to be of her creed. What could be more [63] generous? But no, forſooth! The veil was too thin! To pretend conviction when it was not felt, and to be ſatisfied with arguments before I had heard them, were all inſufficient for her! The prize could be gained only by him who could anſwer the enigmas of the Sphinx! I muſt enter the liſts of cavil, and run a tilt at wrangling, ere the lady would beſtow the meed of conqueſt! Can conſcience pretend to palliate conduct like this?

I then turned my thoughts to a new project, and endeavoured to overpower her by paſſion, by exceſs of ardour, by tenderneſs and importunity. They had a temporary effect, but I found them equally inefficacious. Nor was the art by which I had ofteneſt been ſucceſsful [64] forgotten; though I confeſs that with her, from the beginning, it afforded me but little hope. I tried to familiarize her to freedoms. I began with her hands; but ſhe ſoon taught me that even her hands were ſacred; they were not to be treated with familiarity, nor to be kiſſed and preſſed like other hands! Let conſcience if it can tell me why.

In fine, while to this inſolent pedagogue ſhe has been all honeyſuckle, ſweet marjoram and heart's eaſe, to me ſhe has been rue, wormwood and hellebore: him praiſing, me reproving: confiding in him, ſuſpecting me: and, as the very ſummit and crown of injury, proclaiming him the poſſeſſor the maſter of her admiration, or in plain Engliſh of her heart.

[65] And now, if after this impartial, this cool, this ſtoic examination Mr. Conſcience ſhould ever again be impertinent enough to open his lips, I am determined without the leaſt ceremony to kick him out of doors.

When this famous conference of which I told you ſome half an hour ago was ended, and our preſident, our monarch of morals and mulberries had quitted his chair and withdrawn, I played an aftergame of no ſmall moment. After pronouncing a panegyric on the gentleman, as a legiſlator fit for truth and me, I read the lady a modeſt lecture on confidence, informed her of almoſt the exact quantity which I expected ſhe would repoſe in me, and declaimed with eloquence and effect againſt thoſe ſuſpicious [66] beauties who always regard us honeſt fellows as ſo many naughty goblins; who, like the Ethiopian monſter, voraciouſly devour every Virgin-Andromeda they meet. But as I tell you, I did it modeſtly. I kept on my guard, watched the moment to preſs forward or to retreat; and wielded my weapons with dexterity and fucceſs.

Poor girl! Is it not a pity that the very ſhield in which ſhe confides, her perfect honeſty and ſincerity, ſhould be deſtined to fall upon and overwhelm her?—Thus ſays counſellor Sentiment: and counſellor Sentiment is a great orator!—But what ſay I? Why I ſay ſo have the Fates decreed, and therefore let the Fates look to it; 'tis no concern of mine; I am but their willing inſtrument.

[67] Theſe however are but the preliminaries, the preparations for the combat. Ere long I ſhall be armed at all points, and what is better by her own fair hands. Nor do I know how ſoon I may begin the attack. I have been caſting about to ſend this ſuperintendant of the cardinal virtues, this captain of caſuiſts and caterpillars out of the way; and I think I have hit upon a tolerably bold and ingenious ſtratagem. I ſay bold becauſe I perceive it is not without danger; but I doubt I cannot deviſe a better. Without naming or appearing to mean myſelf, I have fuggeſted to him, by inventing a tale of two friends of mine, what a noble and diſintereſted thing it would be for him to go down into the country and prevail on his father [68] to remove all obſtacles to our marriage—

How! Say you. Is marriage your plan? And if not is not that the way to ruin all?

There is the danger I talked of; but I do not think it great. The ſcoundrel gardener, I mean the father; who is heartily deſpiſed by every body, is deſirous that his ſon ſhould marry Anna. I know not whether I ever before mentioned this ſublime effort of impudence. The cunning raſcal has ſo long been the keeper of Sir Arthur's purſe, that it is ſuppoſed two thirds of the contents have glided into his own pocket. This is the reaſon of the delay on Sir Arthur's part, which at preſent I do not wiſh to ſhorten. That this ſon of a grub catcher, a Demoſthenes [69] though he be, ſhould prevailon ſuch a father, if he were to go down as I hope he will, is but little probable. However, ſhould the leaſt prognoſtic of ſuch a miracle appear, I have my remedy prepared. I will generouſly have a letter written to the ſenior overſeer of the gravel walks, which if the character I have heard of him be not wholly falſe, ſhall revive all his hopes, and put an end to compliance.

In Italy, where amorous plotting is the national profeſſion, I was not eaſily circumvented; and here, where another gunpowder treaſon would as ſoon be ſuſpected as ſuch gins and ſnares, at leaſt by theſe very honeſt and ſublime ſimpletons, I laugh at the ſuppoſition of being unearthed.

[70] One word more. I think I obſerve in this knight of Gotham, this Sir Arthur, a more cordial kind of yearning toward our young prince of Babel land than formerly; a ſort of deſire to be more intimate with him, of which by the by the youth is not very prompt to admit, and an effort to treat him with more reſpect himſelf, by way as it were of ſetting a good example to others. If my conjectures are right, the threats of the old muckworm father have ſhaken the crazy nerves of the baronet; and I half ſuſpect there is ſomething more of meaning at the bottom of this. Were it ſo, were he to attempt to diſcard me, it would indeed add another ſpur to the fury of revenge! An affront ſo deep given by [71] this poor being, this eſſence of inſignificance, would make revenge itſelf, hot unſatiable revenge grow more hot, madden more, and thirſt even after blood!—Patience foams at the ſuppoſition!

Thank heaven I hear the noiſy poſtman with his warning bell, which obliges me in good time to conclude and cool theſe fermenting juices of mine!

C. CLIFTON.

LETTER LXXXIV.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

[72]

MY mind, Oliver, is haraſſed by a variety of doubts. I believe I ſhall ſoon be down at Wenbourne Hill, and of courſe ſhall then not fail to meet thee and viſit thy moſt worthy father.

The reaſon of my journey originates in the doubts I mentioned. I am angry [73] with myſelf for feeling alarms at one moment which appear impoſſibilities the next. If my fears have any foundation, this Clifton is the deepeſt, the moſt hardened fiend-like hypocrite imagination can paint!—But it cannot be!—Surely it cannot!—I am guilty, heinouſly guilty for enduring ſuch a thought!—So much folly and vice, combined with underſtanding and I may ſay genius ſo uncommon, is a ſuppoſition too extravagant, too injurious!

And yet it is ſtrange, Oliver!—A conduct ſo ſuddenly altered, ſo totally oppoſite to old and inveterate habits, is ſcarcely reconcileable to the human character. But if diſſimulation can be productive of this, is truth leſs powerful? No!—Truth is omnipotent. Yet who [74] ever ſaw it haſty in its progreſs? My only hope in this caſe is that the fuperiority of his mind has rendered him an exception to general rules.

But what could he propoſe by his hypocriſy?—I cannot tell—His paſſions are violent and ungovernable; and are or very lately have been in full vigour—Again and again 'tis ſtrange!

But what of this?—Why theſe fears? Can ſhe be ſpotted, tinged by the ſtain of unſanctified deſire?—Never!—The pure chaſtity of her ſoul is ſuperior to attaint!—Yet—Who can ſay?—Wilfully her mind can never err: but who can affirm that even ſhe may not be deceived, and may not act erroneouſly from the moſt holy motives?

Perhaps, Oliver, it is my own ſituation, [75] my own deſires, but half ſubdued, in which theſe doubts take birth. If ſo they are highly culpable.

Be it as it may, there is a duty viſibly chalked out for me by circumſtances. Her preſent ſituation is ſurely a ſtate of danger. To ſee them married would now give me delight. It would indeed be the delight of deſpair, of gloom almoſt approaching horror. But of that I muſt not think. My father is the cauſe of the preſent delay. I fear I cannot remove this impediment, but it becomes me to try.

Though I had before conceived the deſign, this conduct has even been ſuggeſted to me by Clifton; and in a mode that proves he can be artful if he pleaſe. [76] Yet does it not likewiſe prove him to be in earneſt?

We have lately had ſeveral converſations, one in particular which, even while it ſeemed to place him in an amiable, ſincere, and generous light, excited ſome of the very doubts and terrors of which I ſpeak—If he be a hypocrite, he guards himſelf with a tenfold maſk!—It cannot—No—It cannot be!—

I mean to ſpeak to Sir Arthur concerning my journey, but not to inform him of its purport: it would have the face of inſult to tell him I was going to be his advocate with his ſervant. Not to mention that he has lately treated me with increaſing and indeed unuſual kindneſs. If I do make an effort, however, [77] it ſhall be a ſtrenuous one; though my hopes that it ſhould be effectual are very few. My deciſion is not yet final, but in my next thou wilt probably learn the reſult. Farewell.

F. HENLEY.

P. S. My brain is ſo buſied by its fears that I forgot to caution thee againſt a miſtake into which it is probable this letter may lead. I mentioned, in one of my laſt, the project I had conceived of leaving England. Do not imagine I have abandoned a deſign on which the more I reflect the more I am intent. The great end of life is to benefit community. My mind in its preſent ſituation is too deeply affected freely and without incumbrance to exert itſelf—This [78] is weakneſs!—But not the leſs true, Oliver. We are at preſent ſo imbued in prejudice, have drunken ſo deeply of the cup of error, that, after having received taints ſo numerous and ingrained, to wiſh for perfect conſiſtency in virtue I doubt were vain. Here or at the antipodes alike I ſhould remember her: but I ſhould not alike be ſo often tempted and deluded by falſe hopes: the current of thought would not ſo often meet with impediments, to arreſt, divide, and turn it aſide.

I have ſtudied to divine in what land or among what people, whether ſavage or ſuch as we call poliſhed, the energies of mind might be moſt productive of good. But this is a diſcovery which I have yet to make. The reaſons are ſo numerous [79] on each ſide that I have formed a plan for a kind of double effort. I think of ſailing for America, where I may aid the ſtruggles of liberty, may freely publiſh all which the efforts of reaſon can teach me, and at the ſame time may form a ſociety of ſavages, who ſeem in conſequence of their very ignorance to have a leſs quantity of error, and therefore to be leſs liable to repel truth than thoſe whoſe information is more multifarious. A merchant, with whom by accident I became acquainted, and who is a man of no mean underſtanding, approves and has engaged to promote my plan. But of this if I come to Wenbourne Hill we will talk further. Once more, Oliver, adieu.

LETTER LXXXV.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

[80]

COME to my aid, Fairfax; encourage me; feed my vanity; let hungry ambition banquet and allow me to be a hero, leſt I relent: for, were I not or Lucifer or Coke Clifton, 'tis certain I ſhould not perſevere. By the hoſt of heaven, Fairfax, but ſhe is a divine [81] creature! She ſteals upon the ſoul! A heart of rock could not reſiſt her! Nor are they wiles, nor woman's lures, nor blandiſhments of trickſey dimples, nor captivating ſmiles, with which ſhe forms her adamantine fetters. No; 'tis the open ſoul of honeſty; true, ſincere, and unrelentingly juſt, to me, to herſelf, to all; 'tis that enchanting kindneſs, that heavenly ſuavity which never forſakes her; that equanimity of ſmiling yet obſtinate fortitude; that hilarity of heart that knows not gloom becauſe it knows not evil; that inſcrutable purity which reſts ſecure that all like itſelf are natively immaculate; that—Pſhaw!—I can find no words, find you imagination therefore, and think not I will labour at impoſſibility. You have [82] read of ancient veſtals, of the virgins of Paradiſe, and of demi-deities that tune their golden harps on high?—Read again—And, having travelled with prophets and apoſtles to the heaven of heavens, deſcend and view her, and invent me language to deſcribe her, if you can!

Curſe on this Frank Henley! But for him my vengeance never would have been rouſed! Never would the fatal ſentence have paſſed my lips!—'Tis now irrevocable—Sure as the lofty walls of Troy were doomed by gods and deſtiny to ſmoke in ruins, ſo ſurely muſt the high-ſouled Anna fall—"Ill ſtarred wench!"—I, Fairfax, like other conquerors, cannot ſhut pity from my boſom. While I cry havoc I could almoſt [83] weep; could look reluctant down on devaſtation which myſelf had made, and heave a ſigh, and curſe my proper proweſs!—In love and war alike, ſuch, Fairfax, is towering ambition. It muſt have victims: its reckleſs altars aſk a full and large ſupply; and when perchance a ſnowy lamb, ſpotleſs and pure, bedecked for ſacrifice, in all the artleſs pomp of unſuſpecting innocence is brought, bright burns the flame, the white clouds curl and mantle up to heaven, and there ambition proudly ſits, and ſnuffs with glut of luſty delight the grateful odour.

I know your tricks, Fairfax; you are one of the doubtful doctors; you love to catch credulity upon your hook. I hear fat laughter gurgling in your throat, and [84] out bolts your threadbare ſimile—"Before the battle's won the Brentford hero ſings Te Deum."—But don't be waſteful of the little wit you have. Do I not tell you it is decreed? When was I poſted for a vapouring Hector? What but the recollections of my reiterated ravings, reſolves, threats, and imprecations could keep me ſteady; aſſailed as I am by gentleneſs, benevolence, and ſaint-like charity?

By the agency of ſubtlety, hypocriſy, and fraud, I ſeek to rob her of what the world holds moſt precious. By candour, philanthropy, and a noble expanſion of heart, ſhe ſeeks to render me all that is ſuperlatively great and good—Why did ſhe not ſeek all this in a leſs offenſive way? Why did ſhe oblige me [85] to become a diſputant with a plebeian?—Diſputant!—What do I ſay?—Worſe, worſe!—Rival!—Devil!—Myriads of virtues could not atone the crime!—Yet in this deep guilt ſhe perſeveres and glories!—Can I forget?—Fear me not, nor rank my defeat among things poſſible—Be patient and lend an ear.

To one ſole object all my efforts point: her mind muſt be prepared, ay ſo that when the queſtion ſhall be put, chaſte as that mind is, it ſcarcely ſhall receive a ſhock. Such is the continual tendency of my diſcourſe. Her own open and undiſguiſed manners are my guide. Not a principle ſhe maintains but which, by my cunning queſtions and affected doubts puſhed to an extreme, [86] adds links to the chain in which I mean to lead her captive.

Perhaps, Fairfax, you will tell me this is the old artifice; and that the minds of all women, who can be ſaid to have any mind, muſt thus be inveigled to think lightly of the thing they are about to loſe. Granted. And yet the difference is infinite. They are brought to think thus lightly of chaſtity: but, ſhould you or any one of the gallant phalanx attempt to make Anna St. Ives ſo think, ſhe would preſently cry buzz to the dull blockhead, and give him his eternal diſmiſſion.

Virtue with her is a real exiſtence, and as ſuch muſt be adored. Her paſſions are her ſlaves; and in this and [87] this alone the lovely tyrant is the advocate of deſpotiſm. She ſoon taught me that common arts would be treated by her, not merely with determined and irrevocable repulſe, but with direct contempt. Some very feeble eſſays preſently ſatisfied me. No encroachments of the touch, no gloting of the eye, no well feigned tremblings and lover's palpitations would for an inſtant be ſuffered by her. Take the following as a ſpecimen of my mode of attack.

Among her variety of hypotheſes ſhe has one on mutability. ‘Little, ſhe ſays, as we know of matter and ſpirit, we ſtill know enough to perceive they are both inſtantaneouſly, eternally, and infinitely changing. Of what the world has been, through this ſeries of [88] never beginning never ending mutation, ſhe can form nothing more than conjecture: yet ſhe cannot but think that the golden age is a ſuppoſition treated at preſent with ridicule it does not deſerve. By the laws of neceſſity, mind, unleſs counteracted by accidents beyond its control, is continually progreſſive in improvement. With ſome ſuch accidents we are tolerably well acquainted. Such are thoſe which have been deſtructive of its progreſs, notwithſtanding the high attainments it had made in Greece and Rome. The ruins ſtill exiſting in Egypt are wonderful proofs of what it once was there; though Egypt is at preſent almoſt unequalled in ignorance and depravity. Who then [89] ſhall affirm changes ſtill more extraordinary have not happened? She has no doubt, ſome revolution in the planetary ſyſtem excepted, that men will attain a much higher degree of innocence, length of life, happineſs, and wiſdom than have ever yet been dreamed of, either by hiſtorian, fabuliſt, or poet: for cauſes which formerly were equal to the effects then produced are now rendered impotent by the glorious art of printing; which ſpreads, preſerves, and multiplies knowledge, in deſpite of ignorance, falſe zeal, and deſpotiſm.’

Such was her diſcourſe, and thus vaſt were her views! Nay, urged on by my queſtions, by the conſequences which reſulted from her own doctrines, and by [90] the ardour of emanating benevolence, ſhe aſtoniſhed me by her ſublime viſions; for ſhe proceeded to prove, from ſeemingly fair deduction, ‘that men ſhould finally render themſelves immortal; ſhould become ſcarcely liable to moral miſtake; ſhould all act from principles previouſly demonſtrated, and therefore never contend; ſhould be one great family without a ruler, becauſe in no need of being ruled; ſhould be incapable of bodily pain or paſſion; and ſhould expend their whole powers in tracing moral and phyſical cauſe and effect; which, being infinite in their ſeries, will afford them infinite employment of the moſt rational and delightful kind!’

Oh! How did the ſweet enthuſiaſt [91] glow, ay and make me glow too, while, with a daring but conſiſtent hand ſhe ſketched out this bold picture of illuſion!

But, while the lovely zealot thus deſcanted on ſplendid and half incomprehenſible themes, what did I? Why, when I found her at the proper pitch, when I ſaw benevolence and love of human kind beaming with moſt ardour in her eye, and pouring raptures from her lip, I then recalled her to her beloved golden age, her times of primitive ſimplicity; made her inform me what lovers then were, and what marriage; and what the bonds were which hearts ſo affectionate and minds ſo honeſt and pure demanded of each other.

What think you could her anſwers to [92] all theſe queſtions be? What but ſuch as I wiſhed? Could lovers like theſe ſuſpect each other? Could they baſely do the wrong to aſk for bond or pledge? Or, if they wanted the virtue to charm, could they ſtill more baſely aſk rewards they did not merit? Could they, with the wretched ſelfiſh jealouſy of a modern marriage-maker, ſeek to cadaverate affection and to pervert each other into a utenſil, a commodity, a thing appropriate to ſelf and liable with other lumber to be caſt aſide? No, Fairfax; ſhe played fairly and deeply into my hand. She created exactly ſuch a pair of lovers as I could have deſired: for with reſpect to the truth and conſtancy with which ſhe endowed them, if I cannot be the thing, I can wear the garb; [93] ay and it ſhall become me too, ſhall ſit dégagé upon me, and be thought my native dreſs.

Think not that I am a mere liſtener: far the reverſe. I throw in maſterly touches, which, while they ſeem only to heighten her picture, produce the full effect by me intended. Thus, when ſhe deſcribed the faith and truth and love of the innocents of her own creation, how did I declaim againſt the abuſe to which ſuch doctrine, though immutably true, was liable!

"Alas! madam," ſaid I, ‘had the unprincipled youths with which theſe times abound your powers of argument with their own principles, how dreadful would be the effect! How [94] many unſuſpecting hearts would they betray!’

I am once more juſt returned from the palace of Alcina! I broke off at the end of my laſt paragraph to attend my charmer; and here again am I deteſting myſelf for want of reſolution; and deteſting myſelf ſtill more for having made a reſolution, for having undertaken that which I am ſo eternally tempted to renounce. Your ſneer and your laugh are both ready—I know you, Fairfax—"The gentleman is ſounding a retreat! The enterpriſe is too difficult!"—No—I tell you no, no, no,—But [95] I am almoſt afraid it is too damnable!

I pretended to be exceedingly anxious concerning the delay, and afflicted at not hearing any thing more from Sir Arthur. If I did not do this, it might be a clue to lead her to ſuſpect hypocriſy, conſidering how very ardent I was at the commencement. And, to ſay the truth, I am weary enough of waiting; though it is not my wiſh to be relieved by any expedition of Sir Arthur's, who, as I hinted to you before, does not appear to be in the leaſt hurry, and whoſe unction for the gardener's ſon increaſes.

But had you heard her conſole me! Had you ſeen her kindneſs! The tear gliſtening in her eye while ſhe entreated [96] me to conſider delay as a fortunate event, which tended to permanent and ineffable happineſs; had you I ſay beheld her ſoul, for it was both viſible and audible, Fairfax though you are, the marauder of marriage land and the ſworn foe of virginity, even you would have pardoned my tergiverſation.

Did you never behold the ſun burſt forth from behind the riding clouds? The ſcene that was gloomy, dark and diſmal is ſuddenly illumined; what was obſcure becomes conſpicuous; the bleak hills ſmile, the black meadows aſſume a bright verdure; quaking ſhadows dare no longer ſtay, cold damps are diſpelled, and in an inſtant all is viſible, clear, and radiant! So vaniſh doubts when ſhe begins to ſpeak! Thus in her preſence [97] do the feelings glow; and thus is gloom baniſhed from the ſoul, till all is genial warmth and harmony!

Theſe being my feelings now, when I am eſcaped, when I am beyond the circle of her ſorceries, think, Fairfax, be juſt and think how ſeductive, how dangerous an enemy I have to encounter—Liſten and judge.

"Oh! Clifton"—She ſpeaks! Liſten I ſay to her ſpells!—‘Oh! Clifton, daily and hourly do I bleſs this happy accident, this delay! I think, with the heroic archbiſhop, I could have held my right hand firmly till the flames had conſumed it, could I but have brought to paſs what this bleſſed event has already almoſt accompliſhed! To behold your mind what [98] it is and to recollect what it ſo lately was is bliſs unutterable! I conſider myſelf now as deſtined to be yours: but whether I am or am not is perhaps a thing of little moment. Let ſelf be forgotten, and all its petty intereſts! What am I? What can I be, compared to what you may become? The patriot, the legiſlator, the ſtateſman, the reconciler of nations, the diſpenſer of truth, and the inſtructor of the human race; for to all theſe you are equal. As for me, however ardent however great my good-will, I cannot have the ſame opportunities. Beſide I muſt be juſt to myſelf and you, and it delights me to declare I believe you have a mind capable of conceptions more vaſt than mine, of plans more [99] daring and ſyſtems more deep, and of ſoaring beyond me. You have the ſtrong memory, the keen ſenſibility and the rapid imagination which form the poet. It is my glory to repeat that your various powers, when called forth, have as variouſly aſtoniſhed me. To bid you perſevere were now to wrong you, for I think I dare affirm you cannot retreat. You have at preſent ſeen too much, thought too much, known too much ever to forget. In private you will be the honour of your family and the delight of your wife; and in public the boaſt of your country and the admiration of the virtuous and the wiſe.’

I fell on my knee to the ſpeaking deity! She ſeemed delivering oracles! [100] My paſſions roſe, my heart was full, her eulogium made it loath and abhor its own deceit; the words—"Madam, I am a villain!"—bolted to my lips, there they quivering lingered in excruciating ſuſpenſe, and at laſt ſlunk back like cowards, half wiſhing but wholly aſhamed to do their office.

By the immortal powers, Fairfax, it was paſt reſiſting! Why ſhould I not be all ſhe has deſcribed? The hero, the legiſlator, the great leader of this little world? Ay, why not? She ſeemed to propheſy. She has raiſed a flame in me which, if encouraged, might fertilize or deſolate kingdoms. Body of Caeſar, I know not what to ſay!

'Tis true ſhe has treated me ill; nay vilely. It cannot be denied. But ill [101] treatment itſelf, from her, is ſuperior to all the maukiſh kindneſs which folly and caprice endeavour to laviſh. Fairfax, would you did but behold her! My heart was never ſo aſſailed before!

My reſolution is ſhaken, I own, but it is not obliterated. No; I will think again. My very ſoul is repugnant to the ſuppoſition of leaving its envenomed tumours unaſſuaged, and its angered ſtabs unavenged. Yet, if healed they could be, ſhe ſurely poſſeſſes that healing art—Once more I will think again.

What you tell me in the Poſtſcript to your laſt concerning Count Caduke [Conſult your dictionary; or to ſave yourſelf trouble read Count Crazy, alias Beaunoir.] is wholly unintelligible to [102] me. But as you ſay the name of the gardener's ſon was ſeveral times mentioned by him, I ſhall take an immediate opportunity of interrogating the 'ſquire of ſhrubs, who I am certain from principle will when aſked tell me all he knows.

Apropos of poetry. The panegyric of this ſylph of the ſun-beams gave me an impulſe which I could not reſiſt, and the following was the offspring of my headlong and impetuous muſe; for ſuch the huſſey is whenever the fit is upon her. I commit it as it may happen to your cenſure or applauſe; with this ſtipulation, if you do not like it either alter it till you do, or write me another which both you and I ſhall like better. If that [103] be not fair and rational barter, I know nothing either of trade, logic, or common ſenſe.

ANACREONTIC.

I.
WHEN by the gently gliding ſtream,
On banks where purple violets ſpring,
I ſee my Delia's beauties beam,
I hear my lovely Delia ſing,
When hearts combine
And arms entwine,
When fond careſſes, am'rous kiſſes
Yield the height of human bliſſes,
Entranc'd I gaze, and ſighing ſay,
Thus let me love my life away.
II.
Or when the jocund bowl we paſs,
And joke and wit and whim abound,
When ſong and catch and friend and laſs
In ſparkling wine we toaſt around,
[104] When Bull and Pun
Rude riot run,
And finding ſtill the mirth increaſing,
Pealing laughter roars ſans ceaſing,
I peal and roar and pant and ſay,
Thus let me laugh my life away.
III.
When dreams of fame my fancy fill,
Sweet ſoothing dreams of verſe and rhyme,
That mark the poet's happy ſkill,
And bid him live to lateſt time,
Each riſing thought
With muſic fraught,
All full, all flowing, nothing wanting,
All harmonious, all enchanting,
Oh thus, in rapt delights I ſay,
Thus let me ſing my life away!
IV.
Oh lovely woman, gen'rous wine,
Theſe potent pleaſures let me quaff!
Thy raptures, wit, oh make them mine!
Oh let me drink and love and laugh!
[105] In flowing verſe
Let me rehearſe
How well I've uſed your bounteous treaſure;
Then at laſt when full my meaſure,
Tho' pale my lip, I'll ſmile and ſay,
I've liv'd the beſt of lives away.
C. CLIFTON.

LETTER LXXXVI.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

[106]

WITHIN a week, Oliver, we ſhall once more meet. What years of ſeparation may afterward follow is more than I can divine. I ſurely need not tell thee that this thought of ſeparation, were it not oppoſed by principle, would indeed be painful, and that it is at moments almoſt [107] too mighty for principle itſelf. But we are the creatures of an omnipotent neceſſity; and there can be but little need to remind thee that a compliance with the apparently beſt ſhould ever be an unrepining and cheerful act of duty.

I have had a converſation with Sir Arthur, very ſingular in its kind, which has again awakened ſenſations in their full force that had previouſly coſt me many bitter ſtruggles to allay. I began with informing him of my intention to go down to Wenbourne-Hill; after which I proceeded to tell him it was my deſign to embark for America.

He ſeemed ſurpriſed, and ſaid he hoped not.

I anſwered I had reflected very fully on the plan, and that I believed it was [108] ſcarcely probable any reaſon ſhould occur which could induce me to change my purpoſe.

The thing, he replied, might perhaps not be ſo entirely improbable as I ſuppoſed. His family had great obligations to me. I had even riſked my life on various occaſions for them. They thought my talents very extraordinary. In fine, Oliver, the good old gentleman endeavoured to ſay all the kind and, as he deemed them, grateful things his memory could ſupply; and added that, ſhould I leave England without affording them ſome opportunity to repay their obligations, they ſhould be much grieved. There were perhaps two or three very great difficulties in the way; but ſtill he was not ſure they might not [109] be overcome. Not that he could ſay any thing poſitively, for matters were he muſt own in a very doubtful ſtate. He was himſelf indeed very conſiderably uneaſy, and undetermined: but he certainly wiſhed me exceedingly well, and ſo with equal certainty at preſent did all his family. His daughter, his ſon, himſelf, were all my debtors.

The good old gentleman's heart overflowed, Oliver, and by its ebullitions raiſed a tumult in mine, which required every energy it poſſeſſed to repel. What could I anſwer, but that I had done no more for his family than what it was my duty to do for the greateſt ſtranger; and that, if gratitude be underſtood to mean a [110] remembrance of favours received, I and my family had for years indubitably been the receivers?

He ſtill perſiſted however in endeavouring to diſſuade me from the thought of quitting the kingdom. Not finding me convinced by his arguments, he heſitated, with an evident deſire to ſay ſomething which he knew not very well how to begin. All minds on ſuch occaſions are under ſtrong impulſes. My own wiſh that he ſhould be explicit was eager, and I excited him to proceed. At laſt he aſked if he might put a queſtion to me; aſſuring me it was far from his intention to offend, but that he had ſome uneaſy doubts which he could be very glad to have removed.

[111] I deſired him to interrogate me freely; and to aſſure himſelf that I would be guilty of no diſſimulation.

He knew my ſincerity, he ſaid; but if when I heard I ſhould think any thing in what he aſked improper, I paſt diſpute had a right to refuſe.

I anſwered that I ſuſpected or rather was convinced I had no ſuch right, and requeſted him to begin.

He again ſtammered, and at laſt ſaid—I think, Mr. Henley, I have remarked ſome degree of eſteem between you and my daughter—

He ſtopped—His deſire not to wound my feelings was ſo evident that I determined to relieve him, and replied—

I believe, ſir, I can now divine the ſubject of your queſtion. You would [112] be glad to know if any thing have paſſed between us, and what? Perhaps you ought to have been told without aſking; but I am certain that concealment at preſent would be highly wrong.

I then repeated as accurately as my memory would permit, which is tolerably tenacious on this fubject, all which Anna and I had reciprocally ſaid and done. It was impoſſible, Oliver, to make this recapitulation with apathy. My feelings were awakened, and I aſſure thee the emotions of Sir Arthur were as lively as in ſuch a mind thou couldſt well ſuppoſe. The human heart ſeems to be meliorated and ſoftened by age. He wept, a thing with him certainly not uſual, at the recital of his daughter's heroic reſolves in favour of [113] duty, and at her reſpect for parental prejudices. Her dread of rendering him unhappy made him even ſob, and burſt into frequent interjections of—‘She is a dear girl! She is a heavenly girl! I always loved her! She is the delight of my life, my ſoul's treaſure! From her infancy to this hour, ſhe was always an angel!’

After hearing me fully confirm him in his eſteem and affection for ſo ſuperlative a daughter, he added—You tell me, Mr. Henley, that you freely informed my daughter you thought it was even her duty to prefer you to all mankind, even though her father and friends ſhould diſapprove the match.

I did, ſir. I ſpoke from conviction, [114] and ſhould have thought myſelf culpable had I been ſilent.

Perhaps ſo. But that is very uncommon doctrine.

It was not merely that more felicity would have been ſecured to ourſelves, but greater good I ſuppoſed would reſult to ſociety.

I have heard you explain things of that kind before. I do not very well underſtand them, but give me leave to aſk—Are you ſtill of the ſame opinion?

I am, ſir.—Not that I am ſo confident as I was—Mr. Clifton has a very aſtoniſhing ſtrength of mind: and, ſhould it be turned to the worthy purpoſes of which it is capable, I dare by no means decide poſitively in my own [115] favour: and the deciſion which I now make againſt him is the reſult of the intimate acquaintance which I muſt neceſſarily have with my own heart, added to certain dubious appearances as to his which I know not how to reconcile. Of myſelf I am ſecure.

And of him you have ſome doubts?

I have: but I ought in duty to add the appearances of their being unjuſt are daily ſtrengthened.

Sir Arthur pauſed, ruminated, and again ſeemed embarraſſed. At laſt he owned he knew not what to ſay: turn which way he would the obſtacles were very conſiderable. His mind had really felt more diſtreſs, within theſe two months, than it had ever known before. He could reſolve on nothing. Yet he [116] could not but wiſh I had not been quite ſo determined on going to America. There was no ſaying what courſe things might take. Mrs. Clifton was very ill, and in all probability could not live long. But again he knew not what to ſay. He certainly wiſhed me very well—Very well—I was an uncommon young man. I was a gentleman by nature, which for aught he knew might be better than a gentleman by birth. The world had its opinions; perhaps they were juſt, perhaps unjuſt. He had been uſed to think with the world, but he had heard ſo much lately that he was not quite ſo poſitive as he had been—[This, Oliver, reminded me of the power of truth; how it ſaps the ſtrong holds of error and winds into the heart, [117] and how inceſſantly its advocates ought to propagate it on every occaſion.] He was not quite ſo well pleaſed as he had been with my father, but that was no fault of mine; he knew I had a very different manner of thinking. Still he muſt ſay it was what he very little expected. He hoped however that things would one way or other go more ſmoothly; and he concluded with taking my hand, preſſing it very warmly, and adding with conſiderable earneſtneſs—‘If you can think of changing your American project, pray do!—Pray do!—’

After which he left me with ſomething like a heavy heart.

And now, Oliver, how ought I to act? The oppoſing cauſes of theſe doubts and [118] difficulties in his mind are evident. The circumſtances which have occurred in my favour, being aided by the obſtinate ſelfiſhneſs of my father, by his acquired wealth, and as I ſuppoſe by the embroiled ſtate of Sir Arthur's affairs, have produced an unhoped ſor revolution in the ſentiments of Sir Arthur. But is it not too late? Are not even the moſt tragical conſequences to be feared from an oppoſition to Clifton? Nay, if his mind be what his words and behaviour ſpeak, would not oppoſition be unjuſt? Were it not better with ſevere but virtuous reſolution to repel theſe flattering and probably deceitful hopes, than by encouraging them to feed the canker-worm of peace, and add new force to the enemy within, who rather [119] ſtunned than conquered is every moment ready to revive.

Neither is Sir Arthur maſter of events. Nor is his mind conſiſtent enough to be in no danger of change.

My heart is ſufficiently prone to indulge oppoſite ſentiments, but it muſt be ſilenced; it muſt liſten to the voice of truth.

Did I but better underſtand this Clifton, I ſhould better know how to decide. That he looks up to her with admiration I am convinced. She ſeems to have diſcovered the true key to his underſtanding as well as to his affections. Even within this day or two, I have obſerved ſymptoms very much in his favour. How do I know but thus influenced he may become the firſt of mankind? The [120] thought reſtores me to a ſenſe of right. Never, Oliver, ſhall ſelf complacency make me guilty of what cannot but be a crime moſt heinous! If ſuch a mind may by theſe means be gained which would otherwiſe be loſt, ſhall it be extinguiſhed by me? Would not an aſſaſſination like this outweigh thouſands of common murders? Well may I ſhudder at ſuch an act! Oliver, I am reſolved. If there be power in words or in reaſon my father ſhall comply.

As far as I underſtand the human mind, there is and even ſhould he perſevere there always muſt be ſomething to me enigmatical in this inſtance of its efforts in Clifton. Perſevere however I moſt ſincerely hope and even believe he [121] will.—But ſhould he not?—The ſuppoſition is dreadful!—Anna St. Ives!—My heart ſinks within me!—Can virtue like hers be vulnerable?—Surely not!—The more pure a woman is in principle the more ſecure would ſhe be from common ſeducers. But, if the man can be found who poſſeſſes the neceſſary though apparently incompatible exceſs of folly and wiſdom, there is a mode by which ſuch a woman is more open to the arts of deceit than any other. And is not that woman Anna St. Ives? Nay more, if he be not a prodigy of even a ſtill more extraordinary kind, is not that man Coke Clifton?

He came in the heyday of youthful pride, ſelf-ſatisfied, ſelf-convinced, rooted [122] in prejudice but abundant in ideas. Argument made no impreſſion; for where he ought to have liſtened he laughed. The weapons of wit never failed him; and, while he lanched them at others, they recoiled and continually lacerated himſelf. Of this he was inſenſible: he felt them not, or felt them but little. His haughtineſs never ſlumbered; and to oppoſe him was to irritate, not convince. For four months he continued pertinaciouſly the ſame; then, without any cauſe known to me, ſuddenly changed. It was indeed too ſudden not to be alarming!

And yet my firm and cool anſwer to all this is that hypocriſy ſo fooliſh as well as atrocious is all but impoſſible—

[123] Indeed, Oliver, I do not ſeek to wrong him: I do not hunt after unfavourable conjectures, they force themſelves upon me: or if I do it is unconſciouſly. The paſſions are ſtrangely perverſe: and if I am deceived, as I hope I am, it is they that miſguide me.

Clifton has juſt been with me. Some correſpondent from Paris has mentioned the viſit paid to me inſtead of him by the Count de Beaunoir, but in a dark and unintelligible manner, and he came to enquire. I confeſs, Oliver, while I was anſwering his interrogatories, I ſeemed to feel that both you and I had drawn a falſe concluſion relative to ſecrecy; [124] and that by concealment to render myſelf the ſubject of ſuſpicion was an unworthy procedure. However as my motives were not indirect, whatever my ſilence might be, I anſwered without reſerve and told him all that had paſſed; frankly owning my fears of his irritability as the reaſon why I did not mention the affair immediately.

He laughed at the Count's rhodomontade, acknowledged himſelf obliged to me, and allowed that at that time my fears were not wholly cauſeleſs. He behaved with eaſe and good humour, and left me without appearing to have taken any offence.

I ſhall be with thee on Tueſday. I know it will be a day of feaſting [125] to the family, and I will do my beſt endeavour not to caſt a damp on the hilarity of benevolence and friendſhip.

F. HENLEY.

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

[126]

ALAS! Louiſa, what are we?—What are our affections, what our reſolves? Taken at unguarded moments, agitated, hurried away by paſſion, how ſeldom have we for a day together reaſon to be ſatisfied with our conduct?

Not pleaſed with myſelf, I doubt I [127] have given cauſe of diſpleaſure to your brother. My father was in part the occaſion: for a moment he made me forget myſelf—Louiſa!—Frank Henley is going to America! He does not lightly reſolve, and his reſolution ſeems fixed!—Good God!—I—Louiſa!—I am afraid I am a guilty creature!—Weak!—Very weak!—And is not weakneſs guilt?—But why ſhould he leave us?—Where will he find hearts more alive to his worth?

Sir Arthur came to inform me of it: he had been converſing with him, and had endeavoured but without effect to diſſuade him from his purpoſe. He came and begged me to try. I perhaps might be more ſucceſsful.

[128] There was a marked ſignificance in his manner, and I aſked him why?

Nay, my dear child, ſaid he, and his heart ſeemed full, you know why. Mr. Henley has told me why.

What, ſir, has he told?

Nothing, child—[Sir Arthur took my hand]—Nothing, but what is honourable to you—I queſtioned him, and you know he is never guilty of falſehood.

No, ſir; he is incapable of it.

Well, Anna, try then to perſuade him not to leave us. Though he is a very excellent young man, I am afraid he has not the beſt of fathers. I begin to feel I have not been ſo prudent as I might have been; and, if Mr. [129] Henley were to leave England, the father might attribute it to us, and—[Sir Arthur heſitated]—I have received ſome extraordinary letters from Abimelech, of which I did not at firſt ſee the full drift; but it is now clear; every thing correſponds, and my converſation with young Mr. Henley has confirmed all I had ſuppoſed. However he is a very good a very extraordinary young gentleman, and I could wiſh he would not go. I don't know what may happen.

Your brother came in and Sir Arthur left me, deſiring me as he went to remember what he had ſaid. Clifton after an apology aſked—Does it relate to me? At that moment Frank entered. No, ſaid I; it relates to one who I did not [130] think would have been ſo ready to forſake his friends!

A thouſand thoughts had crowded to my mind; a dread of having uſed him ungenerouſly, unjuſtly; a recollection of all he had done and all he had ſuffered; his enquiring, penetrating, and unbounded genius; his ſuperlative virtues; a horror of his being baniſhed his native country by me; of his wandering among ſtrangers, expoſed to poverty, perils, and death, with the conviction in his heart that I had done him wrong!—My tumultuous feelings ruſhed upon me, overpowered me, and in a moment of enthuſiaſm I ran to him, ſnatched his hand, fell on my knee and exclaimed—"For the love of God, Mr. Henley, do not think of leaving us!"

[131] Clifton like myſelf could not conquer the firſt aſſault of paſſion: he pronounced the word madam! in a tone mingled with ſurpriſe and ſevere energy, which recalled me to myſelf—

You ſee, ſaid I, turning to him, what an unworthy weak creature I am!—But Mr. Henley has taken the ſtrangeſt reſolution—!

What, madam, ſaid your brother, recovering himſelf, and with ſome pleaſantry, is he for a voyage to the moon? Or does he wait the arrival of the next comet, to make the tour of the univerſe?

Nay, anſwered I, you muſt join me, and not treat my poor petition with ridicule—You muſt not go, Mr. Henley; indeed you muſt not! I, Mr. Clifton, my father, my brother, we will none of [132] us hear of it! We are all your debtors, and it would be unjuſt in you to deprive us of every opportunity of teſtifying our friendſhip.

Your brother, Louiſa, made an effort worthy of himſelf, repreſſed the error of his firſt feelings, aſſumed the gentle aſpect of entreaty, and kindly joined me.

We are indeed your debtors, ſaid he to Mr. Henley. But I hope it is not true. I hope there is no danger that you ſhould forſake us. Where would you go? Where can you be ſo happy?

I mean firſt, replied Frank, to go to Wenbourne Hill; and after that my intentions are for America.

This, Louiſa, brought on a long diſcuſſion. I and your brother both endeavoured [133] to convince him it was his duty to remain in England; that he could be more ſerviceable here, and would find better opportunities for effecting that good which he had ſo warmly at heart than in any other country.

He anſwered that, though he was not convinced by our arguments, he ſhould think it his duty ſeriouſly to conſider them. But we could not make him promiſe any thing further. Previous to his return from Wenbourne Hill he would determine.

Indeed, Louiſa, this affair lies very heavily upon my mind. I am inceſſantly accuſing myſelf as the cauſe of his exile. And am I not? By the manner of Sir Arthur I am ſure he muſt [134] have ſaid ſomething very highly in my praiſe. I have gone too far with your brother to recede: that is now impoſſible. It would be more flagrant injuſtice than even the wrong to Frank, if a wrong it be, and indeed, Louiſa, I dread it is!—Indeed I do!—I dread it even with a kind of horror!

I thought reaſon would have appeaſed theſe doubts ere this; but every occaſion I find calls them forth with unabated vigour. Surely this mental blindneſs muſt be the reſult of neglect. Had we but the will, the determination, it might be removed. Oh how reprehenſible is my inconſiſtency!

The rapid decline of Mrs. Clifton grieves me deeply. Your brother too has frequently mentioned it with feelings [135] honourable to his heart. He is now more than ever ſenſible of her worth. He has been with me ſince I began to write this letter, and there is not the leaſt appearance of remaining umbrage on his mind. It was indeed but of ſhort duration, though too ſtrong and ſudden not to be apparent.

All kindneſs, peace, and felicity be with you.

A. W. ST. IVES.

LETTER LXXXVIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

[136]

I WILL curſe no more, Fairfax. Or, if curſe I do, it ſhall be at my own fatuity. I will not be the dilatory, languid, ranting, moralizing Hamlet of the drama; that has the vengeance of hell upon his lips and the charity of heaven [137] in his heart. I will uſe not ſpeak daggers—

Fairfax, I am mad!—Raging!—The ſmothered and pent-up mania muſt have vent—What! Was not the page ſufficiently black before?—I am amazed at my own infatuation! My very ſoul ſpurns at it!—But 'tis paſt—Deceitful, damned ſex!—Idiot that I was, I began to fancy myſelf beloved!—I!—Blind, deaf, inſenſate driveler!—Torpid, blockiſh, brainleſs mammet!—Moſt ſublime aſs!—Oh for a bib and barley ſugar, with the label Meacock pinned before and behind!—

Fairfax, I never can forgive my own abſurd and deſpicable ſtupidity!—Marriage?—What, with a woman in whoſe eye the perfect impreſſion and hated [138] form of a mean rival is depicted?—In colours glowing hot!—Who lives, revels, triumphs in her heart!—I marry ſuch a woman?—I?—

I had rather be a toad,
And live upon the vapour of a dungeon,
Than keep a corner in the thing I love
For other's uſe.

I am too full of phrenſy, Fairfax, to tell thee what I mean: but ſhe has given me another proof, more damning even than all the former, of the gluttony with which her ſoul gorges. Her gloating eye devours him; ay, I being preſent. Nay, were I this moment in her arms, her arms would be claſping him, not me: with him ſhe would carouſe, nor would any thing like me exiſt—Contagion!—Poiſon and boiling oil!—

[139] Never before was patience ſo put to the proof—My danger was extreme. With rage flaming in my heart, I was obliged to wear complacency, ſatisfaction and ſmiles on my countenance.

The fellow has determined to ſhip himſelf for America—Would it were for the bottomleſs pit!—And had you beheld her panic?—St. Luke's collected maniacs at the full of the moon could not have equalled her!—'Twas well indeed her frantic outrage was ſo violent, or I had been detected and all had been loſt—As it was I half betrayed myſelf—The fellow's eye glanced at me. However it gave me my cue; and, all things conſidered, I afterward performed to a miracle. Her own enthuſiaſtic torrent ſwept all before it, and gave me time. [140] She was in an ecſtaſy; reaſoning, ſupplicating, conjuring, panting. I, her friends, the whole world muſt join her: and join her I did. It was the very relief of which hypocriſy ſtood in need. I entreated this ſtraight-backed youth, ſtiff in determination, to condeſcend to lend a pitying ear to our petitions; to ſuffer us to permeate his bowels of compaſſion, and avert this fatal and impending cloud, fraught with evils, miſery, and miſchief—

But marry no!—It could not be!—Sentence was paſſed—He had been at the trouble to make a pair of ſcales, and knew the weight to a ſcruple of every link in the whole chain of cauſe and effect—Teach him, truly!—Adviſehim!—Move him!—When? Who? How?—At [141] laſt compliance, willing to be royally gracious, ſaid, Well it would conſider—Though there was but little hope—Nothing it had heard had any cogency of perſcrutation—But, in fine, it would be clement, and conſider.

Do you not ſee this fellow, Fairfax? Is he not now before your eyes? Is he not the moſt conſummate—?But why do I trouble myſelf a moment about him?—It is her!—Her!—

Nor is this all. Did that devil that moſt delights in miſchief direct every concurring circumſtance, they could not all and each be more uniform, more coercive to the one great end. This poor dotterel, Sir Arthur, is playing faſt and looſe with me. He has been at his ſoundings—He!—Imbecile animal!—Could wiſh there were not ſo many difficulties—Is [142] afraid they cannot be all removed—Has his doubts and his fears—Twenty thouſand pounds is a large ſum, and Mrs. Clifton is very poſitive—His own affairs much leſs promiſing than he ſuppoſed—Then by a declenſion of hems, hums, and has, he deſcended to young Mr. Henley—A very extraordinary young gentleman!—A very ſurpriſing youth!—One made on purpoſe as it were for plum-cake days, high feſtivals, and raree ſhow!—A prodigy!—Not begotten, born or bred in the dull blind-man's-buff way of ſimple procreation; but ſent us on a Sunday morning down Jacob's ladder!—Then for obligations to him, count them who could!—He muſt firſt ſtudy more arithmetic!—And as for affection it was a very wayward [143] thing—Not always in people's power—There was no knowing what was beſt—The hand might be given and the heart be wanting—And with reſpect to whether the opinions of the world ought to be regarded, good truth he knew not. Marry! The world was much more ready to blame others than to amend itſelf: and he had been almoſt lately perſuaded not to care a fico for the world. But for his part he was a godly chriſtian, and wiſhed all for the beſt. He had faith, hope, and charity, which were enough for one.

Do not imagine, Fairfax, the poor dotard would have dared to betray himſelf thus far, had not I preſently perceived his drift and wormed him of [144] theſe diſmal cogitations of the ſpirit. He beat about, and hovered, and fluttered, and chirped mournfully, like the poor infatuated bird that beholds the ſerpent's mouth open, into which it is immediately to drop and be devoured. However, having begun, I was determined to make him unburden his whole heart. If hereafter he can poſſibly find courage to face me, in order to reproach, I have my leſſon ready. ‘Out of thy own mouth will I judge thee, ſinner.’

Gangrened as my heart is, I ſtill find a ſatisfaction in this ſelf convaleſcence. The lady of mellifluous ſpeech ſhall ſuborn no more; no more ſhall lull me into beatific ſlumbers. I have recovered [145] from my trance, and what I dreamed was celeſtial I will demonſtrate to be mere woman.

From his own lips I learn that this inſolent ſcoundrel received a viſit from the Count de Beaunoir, which was intended for me: and, out of tender pity to my body, leſt, God 'ild us, it ſhould get a drilling, he did beſtow ſome trifle of that wit and reaſon of which he has ſo great a ſuperflux upon the Count, thereby to turn aſide his wrathful ire.

I heard the gentleman tell his tale, and tickle his imagination with the remembrance of his own doctiloquy, with infinite compoſure; and, whenever I put a queſtion, took care firſt to prepare a ſmile. Every thing was well, better could not be.

[146] With reſpect to Monſieur le Comte, I'll take ſome opportunity to whiſper a word in his ear. It is not impoſſible, Fairfax, but that I may viſit Paris even within this fortnight. Not that I can pretend to predict. They ſhall not think I fly them, ſhould any ſoul among them dare to dream of vengeance. I know the Count to be as vain of his ſkill in the ſword as he is of his pair of watch ſtrings, his Paris-Birmingham ſnuff-box, or the bauble that glitters on his finger. I think I can give him a leſſon: at leaſt I mean to try.

My mother's health declines apace. I know not whether it may not ſhortly be neceſſary for me to viſit her. The loſs of her will afflict me, but in all appearance [147] it is inevitable, and I fear not far diſtant.

Once more, Fairfax, ſhould you again fall in company with the Count, and he ſhould give himſelf the moſt trifling airs, aſſure him that I will do myſelf the honour to embrace him within a month at fartheſt from that date, be it when it will.

Adieu.
C. CLIFTON.

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

[148]

HE is gone, Louiſa; has left us; his purpoſe unchanged, his heart oppreſſed, and his mind intent on promoting the happineſs of thoſe by whom he is exiled. And what am I, or who, that I ſhould do him this violence? [149] What validity have theſe arguments of rank, relationſhip, and the world's opprobrium? Are they juſt? He refuted them: ſo he thought, and ſo perſiſts to think. And who was ever leſs partial, or more ſevere to himſelf?

Louiſa, my mind is greatly diſturbed. His high virtues, the exertion of them for the peculiar protection of me and my family, and the dread of committing an act of unpardonable injuſtice, if unjuſt it be, are images that haunt and tantalize me inceſſantly.

If my concluſions have been falſe, and if his aſſerted claims be true, how ſhall I anſwer thoſe which I have brought upon myſelf? The claims of your brother, which he urges without remiſſion, are ſtill ſtronger. They have been [150] countenanced, admitted, and encouraged. I cannot recede. What can I do but hope, ardently hope, Frank Henley is in an error, and that he himſelf may make the diſcovery? Yet how long and fruitleſs have theſe hopes been! My dilemma is extreme; for, if I have been miſtaken, act how I will, extreme muſt be the wrong I commit!

Little did I imagine a moment ſo full of bitter doubt and diſtruſt as this could come. Were I but ſatisfied of the rectitude of my deciſion, there are no ſenſations which I could not ſtifle, no affections which I could not calm, nor any wandering wiſhes but what I could reprove to ſilence. But the dread of a flagrant, an odious injuſtice diſtracts me, and I know not where or of whom to [151] ſeek conſolation. Even my Louiſa, the warm friend of my heart, cannot determine in my favour.

Your brother has been with me. He found me in tears, enquired the cauſe, and truth demanded a full and unequivocal confidence. I ſhewed him what I had been writing. You may well imagine, Louiſa, he did not read it with total apathy. But he ſuppreſſed his own feelings with endeavours to give relief to mine. He argued to ſhew me my motives had been highly virtuous. He would not ſay—[His candour delighted me, Louiſa.]—He would not ſay there was no ground for my fears: he was intereſted and might be partial. He believed [152] indeed I had acted in ſtrict conformity to the pureſt principles; but, had I even been miſtaken, the origin of my miſtake was ſo dignified as totally to deprive the act of all poſſible turpitude.

He was ſoothing and kind, gave high encomiums to Frank, took blame to himſelf for the error of his former opinions, and, reminding me of the motives which firſt induced me to think of him, tenderly aſked if I had any new or recent cauſe to be weary of my taſk.

What could I anſwer? What, but that I was delighted with the rapid change perceptible in his ſentiments, and with the ardour with which his enquiries were continued?

Frank Henley is by this time at Wenbourne Hill. You will ſee him. [153] Plead our cauſe, Louiſa: urge him to remain among us. Condeſcend even to enforce my ſelfiſh motive, that he would not leave me under the torturing ſuppoſition of having baniſhed him from a country which he was born to enlighten, reform, and bleſs!

There is indeed another argument; but I know not whether it ought to be mentioned. Sir Arthur owns he is in the power of the avaricious Abimelech, and I believe is in dread of forecloſures that might even eject him from Wenbourne Hill. This man muſt have been an early and a deep adventurer in the trade of uſury, or he never could have gained wealth ſo great as he appears to have amaſſed.

Paſt incidents, with all of which you [154] are acquainted, have given Sir Arthur a high opinion of Frank: and this added to his own fears, I am perſuaded, would lead him to conſider a union between us at preſent with complacency, were not ſuch an inclination oppoſed by other circumſtances. The open encouragement that he himſelf has given to Clifton is one, and it is ſtrengthened by all the intereſt of the other branches of our family. Your brother is highly in favour with Lord Fitz Allen. My aunt Wenbourne equally approves the match, and Clifton and my brother Edward are become intimate. As to me, reaſon, conſiſtency, and my own forward conduct, oblige me to be the enemy of Frank.

Louiſa, I ſcarcely know what I write! [155] Think not I have abandoned myſelf to the capricious guſts of paſſion; or that my love of uncontaminated and rigorous virtue is leſſened. No, it is indeciſion; it is an abhorrence of injuſtice which ſhake and diſquiet me.

Write to me; let me know your ſentiments; and particularly how far your application to Frank, when you have made it, is ſucceſsful. I am anxious to receive your letter, for I know it will inſpire fortitude, of which I am in great, great need.

A. W. ST. IVES.

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

[156]

OH my deareſt and ever dear Anna, what ſhall I ſay, how ſhall I aſſuage doubts that take birth in principles ſo pure and a heart ſo void of guile? I know not. I have before acknowledged the miſt is too thick for me to penetrate.

[157] The worthy the noble-minded Frank has been with us, and I could deviſe no better way than to ſhew him your letter. He was greatly moved, and collecting all the firmneſs of his ſoul reſolutely declared that, ſince your peace was ſo deeply concerned, be his own ſenſations what they might, he would conquer them and remain in England. The heart-felt applauſe he beſtowed upon you was almoſt inſupportably affecting. He has indeed a deep ſenſe of your uncommon worth; and he alone I fear on earth is capable of doing it juſtice.

But things have taken a different turn; and what can the beſt of us do, when involved as we continually are in doubt and difficulty, but act as you do, [158] with impartial ſelf denial, and the moſt rigid regard to truth and virtue?

Alas, dear Anna, I too am in need of ſupport, and in ſearch of fortitude!—My mother!—She will not be long among us!—A heart more benevolent, a mind more exalted—! She calls!—I hear her feeble voice!—Not even my Anna muſt rob her of my company, for thoſe few remaining moments ſhe has yet to come. I am her laſt conſolation.

L. CLIFTON.

I expect you will this poſt receive a letter from Frank, that will ſpeak more effectually to your heart than I have either the time to do or the power.

LETTER XCI.
FRANK HENLEY TO ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES.

[159]
MADAM,

YOUR generous and zealous friend has thought proper to ſhew me your letter. I will not attempt to deſcribe the ſenſations it excited; but, as your peace of mind is precious to me, and more precious ſtill perhaps to the intereſts of [160] ſociety, and ſince my departure would occaſion alarms and doubts ſo ſtrong, I am determined to ſtay. My motives for going I thought too forcible and well founded to be overpowered; nor could they perhaps have been vanquiſhed by any leſs cauſe. If one of us muſt ſuffer the warfare of contending ſentiments and principles, let it be me. It was to fly from and if poſſible forget or ſubdue them that I projected ſuch a voyage. Our duties to ſociety muſt not cede to any effeminate compaſſion for ourſelves. We are both enough acquainted with thoſe duties to render us more than commonly culpable, ſhould we be guilty of neglect.

To deſcribe my weakneſs, and the contention to which my paſſions have [161] been lately ſubject, might tend to awaken emotions in you which ought to be eſtranged from your mind. Our lot is caſt: let us ſeek ſupport in thoſe principles which firſt taught us reciprocal eſteem, nor palliate our deſertion of them by that ſelf pity which would become our reproach. We have dared to make high claims, form high enterpriſes, and aſſert high truths; let us ſhew ourſelves worthy of the pretenſions we have made, and not by our proper weakneſs betray the cauſe of which we are enamoured.

You will not—no, you are too juſt—I am ſure, madam, you will not attribute reſolutions like theſe, which are more (infinitely more) painful to the heart [162] than they ought to be, to any light or unworthy change of ſentiment. Superior gifts, ſuperior attainments, and ſuperior virtues inevitably beget admiration, in thoſe who diſcover them, for their poſſeſſors. Admiration is the parent of eſteem, and the continuance and increaſe of this eſteem is affection, or, in its pureſt and beſt ſenſe, love. To ſay I would not eſteem and would not love virtue, and eſpecially high and unuſual virtue, would be both folly and guilt.

But you have taught me how pure and ſelf-denying this love may be. Oh that the man of your choice may but become all you hope, and all of which his uncommon powers are capable! Oh [163] that I may but ſee you as happy as you deſerve to be, and I think I ſhall then not beſtow much pity upon myſelf.

I have forborne, madam, to intrude the petty diſquiets of another kind, from which as you will readily imagine I cannot have been wholly free. Need I ſay how much I diſapprove my father's views, and the mode by which he would have them accompliſhed? There is no effort I will not make to conquer and remove this obſtacle. It wounds me to the heart that you, the daughter of his benefactor, ſhould for a moment be dependant on his avarice. The injury and iniquity are equally revolting, and there are moments when my prejudices falſely accuſe me of being a participator in the guilt.

[164] I have had two converſations with my father: they both were animated; but, though he was very determined, his reſolution begins to fail; and, as I have juſtice on my ſide and am ſtill more determined than he, I have no doubt that in a few days every thing which Sir Arthur has required of him he will be willing to undertake.

However as in a certain ſenſe all is doubtful which is yet to be done, perhaps ſtrict prudence would demand that Sir Arthur ſhould not be led to hope till ſucceſs is aſcertained; of which I will not delay a moment to ſend you information.

I am, &c. F. HENLEY.

LETTER XCII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

[165]

THE moment, Fairfax, the trying, the great, the glorious moment approaches. Every poſſible contributing cauſe calls aloud for expedition, and reprobates delay. This gardening fellow is gone. For his abſence I thank him, but not for the reſolute ſpirit with which [166] he intends to attack his father and make him yield. He has a tongue that would ſilence the congregated clamours of the Sorbonne, and dumb-found Belial himſelf in the hall of Pandemonium. 'Tis certain he has a tough morſel to encounter, and yet I fear he will ſucceed.

This would deſtroy all—Marry her?—No!—By heaven, no! If the hopes of Abimelech be not ſtubborn enough to perſevere, they muſt and ſhall be ſtrengthened. His refuſal is indiſpenſably neceſſary in every view, unleſs the view of marriage, which I once more tell you, Fairfax, I now deteſt. I ſhould have no plea with her, were that of delay removed.

What is ſtill worſe, this delay may be removed by another and more painful [167] cauſe. My mother it appears declines rapidly: her death is even feared, and ſhould it happen, I cannot pretend to inſiſt on the obſtacles which her maternal cares and proviſionary fears have raiſed.

I can think of no certain expedient, for this Abimelech, but that of an anonymous letter. Neither the writing nor the ſtyle muſt appear to be mine; nor muſt the hand that writes it underſtand its purport. Tyros and ignorant as my opponents are, in the tricks and intrigues of amorous ſtratagem, ſtill they have too much underſtanding not to be redoubtable.

Thoſe old necromancers Subtlety and Falſehood muſt forge the magic armour, and the enchanted ſhield, under which I [168] fight. Like wizards of yore, they muſt render me inviſible; and the fair form of the fooliſh Clifton they have imagined muſt only be ſeen.

Honeſt Ab y, or I miſtake him, is too worthy a fellow to deſert ſo good a cauſe. And this cloud-capt lady, whoſe proud turrets I have ſworn to level with the duſt, will not deſcend to plead the approaching death of my mother, when I ſhall urge the injuſtice of delay—Ay, Fairfax, the injuſtice! I mean to command, to dare, to overawe; that is the only oratory which can put her to the rout. She loves to be aſtoniſhed, and aſtoniſhed ſhe ſhall be. If I do not ſhrink from myſelf her fall is infallible.

My heart exults in the coming joy! Never more will the milky pulp of compaſſion [169] riſe to mar the luxurious meal! She has been writing to the fellow, Fairfax; ay and has ſhewn me her letter! For, let her but imagine that truth, or virtue, or principle, or any other abortive being of her own creation, requires her to follow the whims of her disjointed fancy, and what frantic folly is there of which ſhe is incapable?

'Tis maddening to recollect, but ſhe doats on the fellow; abſolutely doats! I am the tormenting demon that has appeared to interrupt her happineſs; ſhe the devoted victim, ſacrificed to ſhield me from harm! The thought of ſeparation from him is diſtracting, and every power muſt be conjured up to avert the horrid woe!

Never before did my feelings ſupport [170] ſuch various and continual attacks; never did I endure infidelity ſo open or inſult ſo unbluſhing. But, patience; the day of vengeance is at hand, or rather is here! This moment will I fly and take it! Expect to hear ‘of battles, ſieges, diſaſtrous chances, and of moving accidents; but not of hair breadth 'ſcapes!’—Eſcape ſhe cannot! I go! She falls!

C. CLIFTON.

LETTER XCIII.
FRANK HENLEY TO ANNA WENBOURNE ST. IVES.

[171]

IT is now a week ſince I wrote to you, madam, at which time I took ſome pleaſure in acquainting you with my hopes of ſucceſs. Theſe hopes continued to increaſe, and my father had almoſt promiſed to agree to the juſt propoſals I made, when two days ago he [172] ſuddenly and pertinaciouſly changed his opinion.

I am ſorry to add that he now appears to be much more determined than ever, and that I am wholly aſtoniſhed at and wholly unable to account for this alteration of ſentiment. I delayed ſending you the intelligence by yeſterday's poſt, hoping it was only a temporary return of former projects, which I could again reaſon away. But I find him ſo poſitive, ſo paſſionate, and ſo inacceſſible to reaſon, that I am perſuaded ſome ſecret cauſe has ariſen of which I am ignorant. Yet do not be dejected, dear madam, nor imagine I will lightly give it up as a loſt cauſe—No—My mind is too much affected and too earneſtly bent [173] on its object not to accompliſh it, if poſſible.

I received your letter *, but have no thanks that can equal the favour. I hope the emotions to which it gave birth were worthy ſuch a correſpondent. I can truly and I believe innocently ſay my heart ſympathiſes in all your joys, hopes, and apprehenſions; and that my pleaſure, at the progreſs of Mr. Clifton in the diſcovery of truth and the practice of virtue, is but little leſs than your own.

I am glad you thought proper to be cautious of giving Sir Arthur any unconfirmed expectations; and I promiſe [174] you to exert every effort to effect a propitious change in the preſent temper and reſolutions of my father.

I am, dear madam, &c. F. HENLEY.

LETTER XCIV.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

[175]

WHEN laſt I wrote my reſolution was taken, and I determined on immediate attack. But I went in a ſeeming unlucky moment; though I much miſtake if it were not the very reverſe.

The ſuppoſed misfortune I had foreſeen fell upon me. The 'ſquire of [176] preachers had fairly overcome his father's obſtinacy, and induced him to give ground! Inſtead of having received the news of his determined perſiſtency, I found her with a letter in her hand, informing her that he had begun to relent, and that his full acquieſcence was expected.

To have commenced the battle at ſo inauſpicious a moment would have been little worthy of a great captain. My reſolution was inſtantly formed.

After acting as much ecſtaſy as I could call up, I haſtened home and wrote my projected letter to honeſt Aby. I threw my hints together in Italian, that they might not be underſtood by the agent whom I meant to employ. This was my groom, an Engliſh lad whom I met [177] with at Paris, who ſpells well and writes a good hand. I pretended I had cruſhed my finger and could not hold a pen; and, without letting him underſtand the intent of my writing, or even that it was a letter, I dictated to him as follows; a tranſcript of which I ſend to you, Fairfax, firſt that you may ſigh and ſee what the bleſſing of a ready invention is, and next as an example which you may copy, or at leaſt from which you may take a hint, if ever you ſhould have occaſion.

‘SO you have been perſuaded at laſt to give up your point, my old friend! And can you ſwallow this tale of a tub? A fine cock and a bull ſtory has been dinned in your [178] ears? Don't believe a word on't. I know the whole affair; and, though you don't know me, be aſſured I mean you well: and I tell you that if you will but hold out ſtoutly every thing will ſoon be ſettled to your heart's deſire. She is dying for love of him, and he can't ſee it! She will never have the man they mean for her; I can aſſure you of that; and what is more he will never have her. What I tell you I know to be true. No matter who I am. If I knew nothing of the affair how could I write to you? And if the advice I give be good, what need you care whom it comes from? Only don't let your ſon ſee this; if you do it will ſpoil all. You perceive how blind he is to his own [179] good, and how poſitive too. Keep your counſel, but be reſolute. Look around you, perſiſt in your own plans, and the hall, the parks, the gardens, the meadows, the lands you ſee are all your own! I am ſure you cannot miſunderſtand me. But mark my words; be cloſe; keep your thoughts to yourſelf. You know the world: You have made your own fortune; don't mar it by your own folly. Tell no tales, I ſay; nor, if you are a wiſe man, give the leaſt hint that you have a friend in a corner.’

This I dictated to my amanuenſis, pretending to tranſlate it out of the paper I held in my hand, and which I took care to place before him, ſo that he [180] ſhould ſee it was really written in a foreign language. I likewiſe once or twice counterfeited a laugh at what I was reading, and ejaculated to myſelf—"This is a curious ſcrap!"

When he had finiſhed I gave him half a crown, praiſed his hand-writing, which I told him I wanted to ſee, for perhaps I might find him better employment than currying of horſes, and ſent him about his buſineſs too much pleaſed and elated, and his ideas led into too diſtant a train to harbour the leaſt ſuſpicion.

Nor did my precautions end here. I immediately ordered my horſe, and rode without any attendant full ſpeed to Hounſlow. I there deſired the landlord of an inn at which I am perſonally [181] known, though not by name, to ſend one of his own lads, poſt, to the market town next to Wenbourne-Hill, and there to hire a countryman, without explaining who or what he himſelf was, to deliver the letter into the hands of honeſt Aby. I requeſted the landlord to chooſe an intelligent meſſenger, and backed my requeſt with a preſent bribe and a future promiſe.

My plan was too well laid to miſcarry, and accordingly yeſterday a mournful account arrived, from the young orator, that judgment is reverſed, and he in imminent danger of being caſt in coſts.

And now, Fairfax, once more I go!—Expedition, reſolution, a torrent [182] of words, a ſtorm of paſſion, and the pealing thunder that dies away in deſcending rains! The word is Anna St. Ives, revenge, and victory!

C. CLIFTON.

LETTER XCV.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

[183]

ONCE more, Fairfax, here am I.

Well! And how—?

Not ſo faſt, good ſir. All things in their turn. The ſtory ſhall be told juſt as it happened, and your galloping curioſity muſt be pleaſed to wait.

I knew my time, the hour when ſhe [184] would retire to her own apartment, and the minute when I might find admiſſion; for ſhe is very methodical, as all your very wiſe people more or leſs are. I had given Laura her leſſon; that is, had told her that I had ſomething very ſerious to ſay to her miſtreſs that morning, and deſired her to take care to be out of the way, that ſhe might be ſure not to interrupt us. The ſly jade looked with that arch ſignificance which her own experience had taught her, and left me with—"Oh! Mr. Clifton!"

And here I could make a remark, but that would be anticipating my ſtory.

You may think, Fairfax, that, marſhalled as my hopes and fears were in [185] battle array, ſomething of inward agitation would be apparent. In reality not only ſome but much was viſible. It caught her attention, and luckily caught. I attempted to ſpeak, and ſtammered. A falſe ſtep as it would have been moſt fatal ſo was it more probable at the moment of onſet than afterward, when the heated imagination ſhould have collected, arranged, and begun to pour forth its ſtores.

The philoſophy of the paſſions was the theme I firſt choſe, though at the very moment when my ſpirits were all fluttering with wild diſorder. But my faultering voice, which had I wiſhed I could not have commanded, aided me; for the tremulous ſtate of my frame threw hers into moſt admirable confuſion!

[186] ‘What was it that diſturbed me? What had I to communicate? She never ſaw me thus before! It was quite alarming!’

Madam—[Obſerve, Fairfax, I am now the ſpeaker: but I ſhall remind you of ſuch trifles no more. If you cannot diſtinguiſh the interlocutors, you deſerve not to be preſent at ſuch a dialogue.] Madam, I own my mind is oppreſſed by thoughts which, however juſt in their purpoſe, however worthy in their intent, inſpire all that heſitation, that timidity, that ſomething like terror, which I ſcarcely know how to overcome. Yet what ſhould I fear? Am I not armed by principle and truth? Why ſhun a declaration of thoughts that are founded in right; or tremble like a [187] coward that doubted of his cauſe? I am your ſcholar, and have learned to ſubdue ſenſations of which the judgment diſapproves. From you likewiſe have I learned to avow tenets that are demonſtrable; and not to ſhrink from them becauſe I may be in danger of being miſconſtrued, or even ſuſpected. Pardon me! I do you wrong. Your mind is ſuperior to ſuſpicion. It is a mean an odious vice, and never could I eſteem the heart in which it found place. I forget myſelf, and talk to you as I would to a being of an infinitely lower order.

Mr. Clifton—

Do not let your eye reprove me! I have not ſaid what is not; and who better knows than you how much it [188] is beneath us to refrain from ſaying what is?

Do not keep me in this ſuſpenſe! I am ſure there is ſomething very uncommon in your thoughts! Speak!

Thoughts will be ſometimes our maſters: the beſt and wiſeſt of us cannot always command them. That I have daily repreſſed them, have ſtruggled againſt rooted prejudices and confirmed propenſities, and have ardently endeavoured to riſe to that proud eminence toward which you have continually pointed, you are my witneſs.

I am.

Protracted deſires, imagined pleaſures, and racking pains [and oh how often have they all been felt!] no longer ſway me. They have been repulſed, diſdained, [189] trodden under foot. You have taught me how ſhameful it is to be the ſlave of paſſion. Truth is now my object, juſtice my impulſe, and virtue, high virtue my guide.

Oh, Clifton! Speak thus, be thus ever!

The moment it appeared, I knew that delay was ominous.

Nay, Clifton—

Hear me, madam!—Yes ominous! I ſee no end to it, have every thing to fear from it, and nothing to hope—There is a thought—Ay, that verges to madneſs!—I have a rival—! But I will forget it—at leaſt will try. Who can deny that it is excruciating?—But I am actuated at preſent by another and a nobler motive. You know, madam, [190] what you found me; and I hope you are not quite unconſcious of what you have made me. You have taught me principles to which I mean to adhere, and truths I intend to aſſert; have opened views to me of immenſe magnitude! In your ſociety I am ſecure. But habits are inveterate, and eaſily revived; and were I torn from you, I myſelf know not the degree of my own danger. Yes, madam, fain indeed would I forget there is ſuch a perſon as Frank Henley! Yet how? By what effort, what artifice? Say! Teach me! What though my heart reproaches me with its own foibles, who can prevent poſſibilities, mere poſſibilities, in a caſe like this, from being abſolute torments? My ſoul pants and [191] aches after certainty! The moment I aſk myſelf what doubt there can be of Anna St. Ives, I anſwer none, none! Yet the moment after, forgetting this queſtion, alarms, probabilities, paſt ſcenes and intolerable ſuppoſitions ſwarm to aſſault me, without relaxation or mercy.

Clifton, you ſaid you had a nobler motive.

I merit the reproach, madam. Theſe effuſions burſt from me, are unworthy of me, and I diſclaim them. You have pardoned many of my ſtrays and miſtakes, and I am ſure will pardon this. [For the love of fame, Fairfax, do not ſuffer the numerous maſter-ſtrokes of this dialogue to eſcape you. I cannot ſtay to point them out.] Yes, madam, I [192] have a nobler motive! Yet, enlarged as your mind is, I know not how to prepare you calmly to liſten to me, without alarm and without prevention. Strange as it may ſeem, I dread to ſpeak truth even to you!

If truth it be, ſpeak, and fear nothing. Propoſe but any adequate and worthy purpoſe, and there is no pain, no danger, no diſgrace from which if I know myſelf I would ſhrink.

No diſgrace, madam?

Your words and looks both doubt me—Put me to the proof. Propoſe I ſay an adequate and worthy purpoſe, and let your teſt be ſuch as nature ſhudders at; then deſpiſe me and my principles if I recoil.

The union of marriage demands reciprocal, [193] unequivocal, and unbounded confidence; for how can we pretend to love thoſe whom we cannot truſt? The man who is unworthy this unbounded confidence is moſt unworthy to be a huſband; and it were even better he ſhould ſhew his bad qualities, by baſely and diſhoneſtly deſerting her who had committed herſelf body and ſoul to his honour, than that ſuch qualities ſhould diſcover themſelves after marriage. There is no diſgrace can equal the torment of ſuch an alliance.

I grant it.

You have attained that noble courage which dares to queſtion the moſt received doctrines, and bring them to the teſt of truth. Who better than you can appreciate the falſehood and the force [194] of the prejudices of opinion? Yet are you ſure, madam, that even you are ſuperior to them all?

Far otherwiſe. Would I were! I am much too ignorant for ſuch high ſuch enviable perfection.

But is it not poſſible that ſome of the moſt common, and if I dared I ſhould ſay the moſt narrow, the moſt ſelf-evident of theſe prejudices may ſway and terrify you from the plain path of equity? Dare you look the world's unjuſt contumelies ſtedfaſtly in the face? Dare you anſwer for yourſelf that you will not ſhudder at the performance of what you cannot but acknowledge, nay have acknowledged to be an act of duty?

I confeſs your preparation is alarming, and makes me half ſuſpect myſelf, [195] half deſirous to retract all I have thought, all I have aſſerted! Yet I think I dare do whatever juſtice can require.

You think—?

Once more bring me to the proof. I feel a conſcious [Again you make me a braggart.] a virtuous certainty.

In oppoſition to the whole world, its prepoſſeſſions, reproofs, revilings, perſecutions, and contempt?

The picture is terrifying, but ought not to be, and I anſwer yes; in oppoſition to and in defiance of them all.

Then—You are my wife!

How?

Be firm! Start not from the truth! You are my wife! Aſk yourſelf the meaning of the word. Can ſet forms and ceremonies unite mind to mind? [196] And if not they, what elſe? What but community of ſentiments, ſimilarity of principles, reciprocal ſympathies, and an equal ardour for and love of truth? Can it be denied?

It cannot.

You are my wife, and I have a right to the privileges of a huſband!

A right?

An abſolute, an indefeaſible right!

You go too faſt!

They are your own principles: they are principles founded on avowed and indiſputable truths. I claim juſtice from you!

Clifton!

Juſtice!

This is wrong!—Surely it is wrong!—This cannot be!

[197] Inſtead of the chaſte huſband, ſuch as better times and ſpirits of higher dignity have known, who comes with lips void of guile the rightful claimant of an innocent heart, in which ſuſpicion never harboured, imagine me to be a traitorous wretch, who poorly ſeeks to gratify a momentary, a vile, a brutal paſſion! Imagine me, I ſay, ſuch a creature if you can! Once I ſhould have feared it; but you have taught my thoughts to ſoar above ſuch vulgar terrors. My appeal is not to your paſſions, but your principles. Inſpired by that refulgent ardour which animates you, with a noble enthuſiaſm you have yourſelf bid me put you to the proof. You cannot, will not, dare not be unjuſt!

And now, Fairfax, behold her in the [198] very ſtate I wiſhed! Cowed, ſilenced, overawed! Her ideas deranged, her tongue motionleſs, wanting a reply, her eyes wandering in perplexity, her cheeks growing pale, her lips quivering, her body trembling, her boſom panting! Behold I ſay the wild diſorder of her look! Then turn to me, and read ſecure triumph, concealed exultation, and burſting tranſport on my brow! While impetuous, fierce, and fearleſs deſire is blazing in my heart, and mounting to my face! See me in the very act of faſtening on her! And ſee—!

Curſes!—Everlaſting curſes purſue and catch my perfidious evil genius!—See that old Incubus Mrs. Clarke enter, with a letter in her hand that had arrived expreſs, and was to be delivered [199] inſtantly!—Our mutual perturbation did not eſcape the prying witch; my countenance red, hers pale—The word begone! maddened to break looſe from my impatient tongue. My eyes however ſpoke plainly enough, and the hag was unwillingly retiring, when a faint—"Stay, Mrs. Clarke"—called her back!

As I foreboded, it was all over for this time! She opened the letter. What its contents were I know not; and impoſſible as it is that they ſhould relate to me, I yet wiſh I did. I am ſure by her manner they were extraordinary. I could not aſk while that old beldam was preſent [Had ſhe been my grandmother, on this occaſion I ſhould have abuſed her.] and the eye of the young lady very plainly told me ſhe wiſhed me away. It [200] was prudent to make the beſt retreat poſſible, and with the beſt grace: I therefore bowed and took my leave; very gravely telling her I hoped ſhe would ſeriouſly conſider what I had ſaid, and again emphatically pronounced the word juſtice!

You have now, Fairfax, been a ſpectator of the ſcene; and if its many niceties have eſcaped you, if you have not been hurried away, as I was, by the tide of paſſion, and amazed at the ſucceſsful ſophiſtries which flowed from my tongue, ſophiſtries that are indeed ſo like truth that I myſelf at a cooler moment ſhould have heſitated to utter them; if I ſay the deep art with which the whole was conducted, and the high acting with which I perſonified the only poſſible Being that [201] could ſubjugate Anna St. Ives do not excite your aſtoniſhment, why then you really are a dull fellow! But I know you too well, Fairfax, to do you ſuch injuſtice as this ſuppoſes. Victory had declared for me. I read her thoughts. They were labouring for an anſwer, I own; but ſhe was too much confounded. And would I have given her time to rally? No! I ſhould then have merited defeat.

The grand difficulty however is vanquiſhed: ſhe will hear me the next time with leſs ſurpriſe, and the emotions of paſſion, genuine honeſt mundane paſſion, muſt take their turn; for not even ſhe, Fairfax, can be wholly exempt from theſe emotions. I have not the leaſt fear that my eloquence ſhould fail me, and [202] abſolute victory excepted, I could not have wiſhed for greater ſucceſs.

I cannot forget this letter. It diſturbs and peſters my imagination. I ſuppoſed it to be from Edward, who has been at Bath; but my valet has juſt informed me he is returned. Perhaps it is from my ſiſter; and if ſo, by its coming expreſs, my mother is dead! I really fear it bodes me harm—I am determined to rid myſelf of this painful ſuſpenſe. I will therefore ſtep to Groſvenor-ſtreet. I may as well face the worſt at once. You ſhall hear more when I return.

Oh, Fairfax! I could curſe moſt copiouſly, [203] in all heatheniſh and chriſtian tongues! She has ſhut herſelf up, and refuſes to ſee me! This infernal fellow Frank Henley is returned too. He arrived two hours after the expreſs. I ſuſpect it came from him; nay I ſuſpect—Flames and furies!—I muſt tell you!

I have ſeen Laura, though ſcarcely for two minutes. She is afraid ſhe is watched. It is all uproar, confuſion, and ſuſpicion at Sir Arthur's. But the great curſe is my groom, the lad that I told you copied my letter to Abimelech, has been ſent for and privately catechiſed by her and her paramour! And what confirms this moſt tormenting of all conjectures is the abſence of the fellow: he has not been home ſince, nor at the ſtables, [204] though he was always remarkably punctual, but has ſent the key; ſo that he has certainly abſconded.

Had I not been a ſtupid booby, had I given Laura directions to keep out of the way of Anna, but in the way of taking meſſages for her, ſhe might have received the expreſs, and all might have been well. Such a blockheadly blunder well deſerves caſtigation!

I'll deny the letter, Fairfax. They have no proof, and I'll ſwear through thick and thin rather than bring myſelf into this univerſal, this damnatory diſgrace! I know indeed ſhe will not believe me; and I likewiſe know that now it muſt be open war between us. For do not think that I will ſuffer myſelf to be thus ſhamefully beaten out of the field. [205] No, by Lucifer and his Tophet! I will die a foaming maniac, fettered in ſtraw, ere that ſhall happen! If not by perſuaſion, ſhe ſhall be mine by chicanery, or even by force. I will periſh, Fairfax, ſooner than deſiſt!

Oh for an agent, a coadjutor worthy of the cauſe! He muſt and ſhall be found.

The uncle and aunt muſt be courted: the father I expect will ſide with her. The brother too muſt be my partiſan; for it will be neceſſary I ſhould maintain an intercourſe, and the ſhew of ſtill wiſhing for wedlock.

I am half frantic, Fairfax! To be baffled by ſuch an impoſſible accident, after having acted my part with ſuch ſupreme excellence, is inſupportable! But [206] the hag Vengeance ſhall not ſlip me! No! I have fangs to equal hers, ay and will faſten her yet! I have been injured, inſulted, fruſtrated, and fiends ſeize me if I relent!

C. CLIFTON.

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

[207]

LOUISA!—My dear, my kind, my affectionate Louiſa!—My friend!—What ſhall I ſay? How ſhall I begin? I am going to rend your heart.—

Keep this letter from the ſight of Mrs. Clifton: if ſhe have not already been told, do not let her know ſuch a letter [208] exiſts—Oh this brother!—But he is not your brother—Error ſo rooted, ſo malignant, ſo deſtructive exceeds all credibility!

He came to me yeſterday morning, as was his cuſtom. There was ſomething in his look which, could I but have read it, was exceedingly deſcriptive of the workings of his heart. It was painful to ſee him. He endeavoured to ſmile and for a moment to talk triflingly, but could not. He was in a tremor; his mouth parched, his lips white.

His next eſſay was to philoſophiſe; but in this attempt too he was entirely at fault.

The paſſions are all ſympathetic, and none more ſo than this of trepidation. I cannot recollect what the ideas were that paſſed haſtily through my mind; but I [209] know he excited much alarm, doubt, and I believe ſuſpicion.

But, though he had found all this difficulty to begin, having begun he recovered himſelf very ſurpriſingly. His colour returned, his voice became firm, his ideas clear, his reaſoning energetic, and his manner commanding. He ſeemed to mould my hopes and apprehenſions as he pleaſed, to inſpire terror this moment, and the exceſs of confidence the next.

Louiſa, my heart bleeds to ſay it, but his purpoſes were vile, his hypocriſy odious, and—I muſt forbear, and ſpeak of foul deeds in fair terms. I know not how many prejudices riſe up to warn me; one that I am a woman, or rather a girl; another that I am writing to the man's [210] ſiſter; a third that ſhe is my friend, and ſo on with endleſs et ceteras. No matter that truth is to this friend infinitely more precious than a brother. I may be allowed to feel indignation, but not to expreſs my feeling.

But the moſt diſtreſſing, the moſt revolting part of all is, that he harangued like the apoſtle of truth, the name of which he vilely prophaned, in favour of the beſeſt, moſt pitiful, moſt contemptible of vices; the mere vain-glory of ſeduction. He has not even ſo much as the gratification of ſenſual appetite to plead in his excuſe. I am wrong; it was not vain glory. Vanity itſelf, contemptible as ſuch a ſtimulus would have been, was ſcarcely a ſecondary motive. It was ſomething worſe; it was revenge. [211] My mind has been wholly occupied in retracing his paſt behaviour; I can think on no other ſubject, and every trait which recollection adds is a confirmation of this painful idea. He does not wiſh to marry me, and I almoſt doubt whether he ever did, at leaſt fully and unreſervedly.

He came to me, Louiſa, and began with painting the torments of delay and the pangs of jealouſy, which he endeavoured to excuſe; and concluded with a bold appeal to my juſtice; a daring, over-awing, confounding appeal. He called upon me at my peril, and as I reſpected truth and virtue, to deny his claim.

And what was this claim?—I was his wife!—In every pure and virtuous [212] ſenſe his wife; and he demanded the privilege of a huſband!—Demanded, Louiſa!—Demanded!—And demanded it in ſuch a tone, with ſuch rapid, overbearing, bold expreſſions, and ſuch an apparent conſciouſneſs of right, that for a moment my mind was utterly confuſed!

Not that it ceded; no, not an inſtant. I knew there was an anſwer, a juſt and irrefragable one, but I could not immediately find it. He perceived my diſorder, and you cannot imagine what a ſhameleſs and offenſive form his features aſſumed! I know not what he would not inſtantly have attempted, had not, while I was endeavouring to awake from my lethargy, Mrs. Clarke come in! She brought me a letter—It was ſent expreſs! [213] —The hand writing was Frank's! Agitated as I was, ſuſpicion influenced me, and I retreated a few ſteps—I opened the letter, and the firſt words I ſaw were—"Beware of Mr. Clifton."—

It contained only half a dozen lines, and I read on. What follows were its contents—

Beware of Mr. Clifton!—Had I not good cauſe, madam, I would not be ſo abrupt an accuſer: but I am haunted, tortured by the dread of poſſibilities, and therefore ſend this away expreſs—Beware of Mr. Clifton!—I will not be long after the letter, and I will then explain why I have written what to you may appear ſo ſtrange.

F. HENLEY.

[214] Think, Louiſa, what muſt be the effect of ſuch a letter, coming at ſuch a moment!—I believe I was in no danger; though, if there be a man on the face of the earth more dangerous than any other, it is ſurely Clifton. But the watchful ſpirit of Frank ſeems placed like my guardian angel, to protect me from all poſſible harm.

My mind debated for a moment whether it were not wrong to diſtruſt the power of truth and virtue, and not to let Mr. Clifton ſee I could demoliſh the audacious ſophiſtry by which he had endeavoured to confound and overwhelm me. But my ideas were deranged, and I could not collect ſufficient fortitude. Oh how dangerous is this confuſion of the judgment, and how deſirable that heavenly [215] preſence of mind which is equal to theſe great theſe trying occaſions! I therefore thought it more prudent to ſuffer him to depart, and ſuſpect vilely of me, than to encounter the rude conteſt which he would more audaciouſly recommence, were I to ſend away Mrs. Clarke, which he might even miſconſtrue into a ſignal of approbation. Theſe fears prevailed, and I deſired her to ſtay, and by my manner told him I wiſhed his abſence.

Louiſa, how ſhall I deſcribe my anguiſh of heart at ſeeing all thoſe hopes of a mind ſo extraordinary, for extraordinary it is even in guilt, at once overthrown? It was indeed iteration of anguiſh! What! Can guile ſo perfectly aſſume the garb of ſincerity? Can hypopriſy [216] wear ſo impenetrable a maſk? How ſhall we diſtinguiſh? What guide have we? How be certain that the next ſeeming virtuous man we meet is not a—Well, well, Louiſa—I will remember—Brother. My Louiſa knows it is not from the perſon, but from the vice that I turn away with diſguſt. Would I willingly give her heart a pang? Let her tell me if ſhe can ſuſpect it. She has fortitude, ſhe has affection; but it is an affection for virtue, truth, and juſtice. She will endeavour to reform error the moſt obdurate. So will I, ſo will all that are worthy the high office. But ſhe will not wiſh me either to marry with or to countenance this error. Marry?—How does my ſoul ſhudder at the thought! His reaſoning was juſt; [217] ſeduction would have been a petty injury, or rather a bleſſing, compared to this maſter evil! He was moſt merciful when he meant me, as he thought, moſt deſtruction. I have been guilty of a great error. The reformation of man or woman by projects of marriage is a miſtaken a pernicious attempt. Inſtead of being an act of morality, I am perſuaded it is an act of vice. Let us never ceaſe our endeavours to reform the licentious and the depraved, but let us not marry them.

The letter had not been delivered more than two hours before Frank arrived. [218] You may think, Louiſa, how hard he had ridden; but he refuſed to imagine himſelf fatigued. He brought another letter, which Abimelech had received, but which for ſome hours he obſtinately refuſed to give up, and for this reaſon Frank fent off the expreſs. A letter, not of Clifton's writing, but of his invention and ſending!

Finding that Frank was likely to prevail on his father to raiſe the money for Sir Arthur, and obviate all further impediments to our marriage, Clifton, fearful that it ſhould take place, wrote anonymouſly to Abimelech, to inform him I was in love with Frank, and to encourage him to perſiſt. But read [219] the letter yourſelf; the following is a true copy of it *.

If ſuch a letter be his, I am ſure, Louiſa, you will not ſay I have thought or ſpoken too unkindly of him; and that it is his we have indubitable proof, though it was anonymous and not in his hand-writing.

You no doubt remember, Louiſa, the ſhort ſtory of the Engliſh lad, whom your brother hired at Paris. It was written by him, though innocently and without knowing what was intended. This lad has an aunt, who after having [220] laboured to old age is now lame, infirm, and in need of ſupport. The active Frank has been with her, has aided her with money and conſoled her with kindneſs. The lad himſelf was deſirous of aſſiſting her; and Frank, willing to encourage induſtry in the young, gave him ſome writings to copy at his leiſure hours. By this accident he knew the lad's hand-writing.

I forgot to mention, in its proper place, the aſtoniſhment of Frank at the ſudden change in his father, and the firm reſolution he took to diſcover the cauſe of this change. The obſtinacy of Abimelech was extreme; but Frank was ſtill more pertinacious, more determined, and ſo unwearied and inceſſant, [221] in his attacks on his father, that the old man at laſt could reſiſt no longer, and ſhewed him this letter.

From what has preceded, that is from his manner of acting, you may well imagine what the alarms and ſenſations of Frank were. He brought the letter up with him, for he would not truſt it out of his own cuſtody, and immediately went himſelf to Clifton's ſtables in ſearch of the lad, brought him to me, and then firſt ſhewed him the letter, which that no poſſible colluſion might be alleged he had left in my keeping, and then aſked if it were not his handwriting. The lad very frankly and unheſitatingly anſwered it was; except the direction, which this plotting Clifton [222] had procured to be written by ſome other perſon.

Without telling the lad more than was neceſſary, Frank adviſed him to quit his ſervice, for that there was ſomething relating to that letter which would certainly occaſion a quarrel, and perhaps worſe, between him and his maſter: and, as it would be prudent for him to keep out of the way, he ſent him down to Wenbourne-Hill, where the lad is at preſent.

And now what ſhall I ſay to my Louiſa? How ſhall I ſooth the feelings of my friend? Do they need ſoothing? Does ſhe conſider all mankind as her [223] relations and brothers, or does ſhe indeed imagine that one whoſe principles are ſo oppoſite to her own is the only brother ſhe poſſeſſes? Will ſhe grieve more for him than ſhe would for any other, who ſhould be equally unfortunate in error? Or does ſhe doubt with me whether grief can in any poſſible caſe be a virtue? And if ſo, is there any virtue of which ſhe is incapable? What is relation, what is brother, what is ſelf, if relation, brother, or ſelf be at war with truth? And does not truth command us to conſider beings exactly as they are, without any reſpect to this relationſhip, this ſelf?

But I know my Louiſa; ſhe will never be impatient under trial, however [224] ſevere; nor fooliſhly repine for the paſt, though ſhe will ſtrenuouſly labour for the future.

All good, all peace, all happineſs, all wiſdom be with her!

A. W. ST. IVES.

LETTER XCVII.
LOUISA CLIFTON TO HER BROTHER COKE CLIFTON.

[]
SIR,

ON Friday morning I received the original letter from Anna St. Ives, of which the incloſed is a copy; and on the following day about a quarter of an hour before midnight my mother expired. I mention theſe circumſtances [226] together becauſe they were noticed, by thoſe who were neceſſarily acquainted with them, as having a relation to each other; whether real or imaginary, much or little I do not pretend to determine; but I will relate the facts and leave them to your own reflection; and I will forbear all colouring, that I may not be ſuſpected of injuſtice.

My mother as you know has been daily declining, and was indeed in a very feeble ſtate. She ſeemed rather more cheerful that morning than ſhe had been lately, and at her particular requeſt I went to viſit the wife of farmer Beardmore, who is a worthy but poor woman, and who being at preſent dejected, in conſequence of poverty and ill health, my mother thought ſhe might [227] be more benefited by the kindneſs of the little relief we could afford her if delivered by me, than if ſent by a leſs ſoothing and ſympathetic hand. I ſhould hope, ſir, it would be ſome conſolation to you to learn that my mother's active virtue never forſook her, while memory and mind remained. But of this you are the beſt judge.

While I was gone the poſtman brought the letter of my friend; and as her letters were always read to my mother, and as I likewiſe have made it a rule and a duty not to have any ſecrets to conceal from her, or indeed from any body, ſhe had no ſcruple to have the letter opened, becauſe ſhe expected to find conſolation and hope: for, till the arrival of this, the letters of Anna St. [228] Ives have lately been all zealous in your praiſe.

I will leave you, ſir, to imagine the effect which a letter beginning as this did muſt have on a mind and body worn to ſuch a tremulous ſtate of ſenſibility. Coming as it did firſt into my mother's hands, the very caution which the benevolent heart of Anna dictated produced the effect ſhe moſt dreaded. My mother had ſtill however a ſufficient portion of her former energy to hear it to the end.

In about an hour after this happened I returned, and found her in extreme agitation of mind. I neglected no arguments, no efforts to calm her ſenſations; and I ſucceeded ſo far that after a time ſhe ſeemed to be tolerably reſigned. [229] She could not indeed forget it, and the ſubject was revived by her ſeveral times during the day.

My chief endeavour was to lead her thoughts into that train which, by looking forward to the progreſs of virtue, is moſt conſoling to the mind of virtue.

She ſeemed at laſt fatigued, and about eleven o'clock at night fell into a doze. About a quarter before twelve I perceived her countenance diſtorted; I was alarmed; I ſpoke to her and received no anſwer; I endeavoured to excite attention or motion, but in vain. A paralytic ſtroke had deprived her of ſenſation. In this ſtate ſhe remained four-and-twenty hours, and about midnight departed.

[230] I have thought it ſtrictly incumbent on me to relate theſe circumſtances. But I ſhould conſider myſelf as very highly culpable did I ſeek to aggravate, or to ſtate that as certainty which can never be any thing more than conjecture. My mother was ſo enfeebled that we began to be in daily apprehenſion of her death. I muſt not however conceal that the thought of your union with Anna St. Ives had been one of her principal pleaſures, ever ſince ſhe had ſuppoſed it probable; and that ſhe had ſpoken of it inceſſantly, and always with that high degree of maternal affection and cheering hope which you cannot but know was congenial to her nature.

The diſappointment itſelf was great, [231] but the turpitude that attended it much greater. This I did not endeavour to palliate. How could I? I have told you I had no reſource for conſolation, either for myſelf or her, but in turning, like Anna St. Ives, from the individual to the whole.

I would endeavour to ſay ſomething that ſhould ſhew you the folly of ſuch conduct; for the folly of it is even more exceſſive than the vice; but, not to mention the ſtate of my own mind at this moment, I deſpair of producing any effect, ſince Anna St. Ives herſelf, aided by ſo many concurring motives, has failed in the generous and diſintereſted attempt.

I imagine you will be down at the funeral. Perhaps it is proper. I cannot [232] ſay, for indeed I do not very well underſtand many of what are called the proprieties of cuſtom. I own I am weak enough to feel ſome pain at meeting you, under the preſent circumſtances. But, ſince it is neceſſary I ſhould act and aid you in various family departments, if you ſhould come down, I will not yield to theſe emotions, but conſidering you as an erring brother, will endeavour to perform what duty requires.

L. CLIFTON.

P. S. Previous to this I wrote three different letters, but they were all as I fear too expreſſive of thoſe ſtrong ſenſations which I have found it very [233] difficult to calm. I deſtroyed them, not becauſe they were wrong, but leſt they ſhould produce a wrong effect.

LETTER XCVIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO HIS SISTER LOUISA CLIFTON.

[234]
MADAM,

I HAVE received your very lenient, equitable, calumniating, inſulting letter; and I would have you put it down in your memorandum-book that I will carefully remember the obligation. It perfectly accords with your ſublime [235] ideas of juſtice to decide before you have heard both parties; and it is equally conſiſtent with your notions of ſiſterly affection that you ſhould paſs ſentence on a brother. What is a brother, or all he may have to ſay, to you; who, more infallible than the holy father himſelf, have ſquared a ſet of rules of your own, by which you judge as you beſt know how?

Your inſinuations concerning the death of my mother are equally charitable, and I have already learnt them by rote. Yes, madam, aſſure yourſelf they will not be forgotten. Any ſuſpenſe of judgment would have ill become a lady ſo clear ſighted. However poſſible it may be that Anna St. Ives may herſelf have been impoſed upon, and I both [236] ignorant and innocent of this forged letter, yet for you to have entertained any doubts in my favour would have partaken too much of the fogs of earth for ſo inſpired and celeſtial a lady.

But I muſt tell you, madam, ſince you can ſo readily forego equity in a brother's behalf, I can and will be as ready to forget and caſt off the ſiſter. I never yet was or will be injured with impunity: I would have you note down that.

I mean to be at Roſe-Bank tomorrow or the day after, to attend the funeral and take ſuch order as my affairs may require; and though I have as little affection for your company as you have for mine, I imagine it will be quite neceſſary for you to be there: not only [237] that you ſhould be preſent to execute all orders, but likewiſe to liſten to a few hints which I ſhall probably think proper to communicate.

In the mean time, madam, be induſtrious to propagate the report, if you think fit, that I have cauſed anonymous letters to be written to Sir Arthur's ſteward, have endeavoured to betray Anna St. Ives, and have been the death of my mother. Spread the agreeable intelligence I ſay as quickly and as widely as you can, and when you meet me you ſhall receive a brother's thanks.

C. CLIFTON.
END OF VOLUME V.
Notes
*
A copy given by Anna to Clifton, as ſhe had promiſed him, of all that ſhe had ſaid in her laſt converſation.
*
It contained the ſtate of her feelings, with which the reader is already acquainted, but no new incidents; for which reaſon it is omitted.
*
The reader has already peruſed it in Letter XCIV, to which he is referred.
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TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5253 Anna St Ives a novel By Thomas Holcroft pt 5. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-59BB-E