LETTER XIX.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX, AT VENICE.

I WRITE, Fairfax, according to pro⯑miſe, to inform you that I have been a fortnight in France, and four days in this city. The tract of country over which I have paſſed, within theſe three months, is conſiderable. From Naples [2] to Rome; from Rome to Florence; from Florence to Venice, where we ſpent our carnival; from Venice to Mo⯑dena, Parma, and Genoa; from thence to Turin; from Turin to Geneva; then, turning to the left, to Lyons; and from Lyons to Paris. Objects have paſſed before me in ſuch a rapid ſucceſ⯑ſion, that the time I have ſpent abroad, though not more than a year and a half, appears ſomething like a life. The ſight of the proud Alps, which boldly look eternity in the face, imparts a ſen⯑ſation of length of time wholly inade⯑quate to the few hours that are employed in paſſing them. The labour up is a kind of age; and the ſwift deſcent is like falling from the clouds, once more to become an inhabitant of earth.

[3] Here at Paris I half fancy myſelf at home. And yet, to timid people who have never beheld the ocean, and who are informed that ſeas divide France and England, Paris appears to be at an unat⯑tainable diſtance. Every thing is rela⯑tive in this world; great or ſmall near or diſtant only by compariſon. The traveller who ſhould have paſſed the de⯑ſerts, and ſuffered all the perils all the emotions of a journey from Bengal by land, would think himſelf much nearer home, at Naples, than I do, coming from Naples, at Paris: and thoſe who have ſailed round the world ſeem ſatis⯑fied that their labour is within a hair's breadth of being at an end, when they arrive, on their return, at the Cape of Good Hope.

[4] You, Fairfax, have frequently aſked me to give you accounts of this and that place, of the things I have ſeen, and of the obſervations I have made. But I have more frequently put the ſame kind of queſtions to myſelf, and never yet could return a ſatisfactory anſwer. I have ſeen people whoſe manners are ſo different from thoſe of my own country, that I have ſeemed to act with them from a kind of conviction of their being of another ſpecies. Yet a moment's conſideration undeceives me: I find them to be mere men. Men of different habits, indeed; but actuated by the ſame paſſions, the ſame deſire of ſelf-grati⯑fication. Yes, Fairfax, the ſun moon and ſtars make their appearance, in Italy, as regularly as in England; nay [5] much more ſo, for there is not a tenth part of the intervening clouds.

When moleſted by their dirt, their vermin, their beggars, their prieſts, and their prejudices, how often have I look⯑ed at them with contempt! The un⯑cleanlineſs that reſults from heat and indolence, the obſequious ſlaviſhneſs of the common people, contraſted with their loquacious impertinence, the ſen⯑ſuality of their hoſts of monks, nay the gluttony even of their begging friars, their ignorant adoration of the rags and rotten wood which they themſelves dreſs up, the protection afforded to the moſt atrocious criminals if they can but eſcape to a maſs of ſtone which they call ſacred, the little horror in which they hold mur⯑der, the promptneſs with which they aſ⯑ſaſſinate [6] for affronts which they want the ſpirit to reſent, their groſs buffooneries religious and theatrical, the ridiculous tales told to the vulgar by their preachers, and the improbable farces which are the delight of the gentle and the ſimple, all theſe, and many other things of a ſimilar nature, ſeem to degrade them below ra⯑tional creatures.

Yet reverſe the picture, and they ap⯑pear rather to be demi-gods than men! Liſten to their muſic! Behold their paintings! Examine their palaces, their baſins of porphyry, urns and vaſes of Numidian marble, catacombs, and ſubter⯑ranean cities; their ſculptured heroes, triumphal arches, and amphitheatres in which a nation might aſſemble; their Co⯑rinthian columns hewn from he rocks [7] of Egypt, and obeliſks of granite tranſ⯑ported by ſome ſtrange but forgotten means from Alexandria; the ſimplicity the grandeur and beauty of their tem⯑ples and churches; the vaſt fruitfulneſs of their lands, their rich vineyards, teeming fields, and early harveſts; the mingled ſublime and beautiful over the face of nature in this country, which is ſheltered from invaders by mountains and ſeas, ſo as by a ſmall degree of art to render it impregnable; their deſolat⯑ing earthquakes, which yet ſeem but to renovate fertility; their volcanos, ſending forth volumes of flame and rivers of fire, and overwhelming cities which though they have buried they have not ut⯑terly deſtroyed; theſe and a thouſand other particulars, which I can neither [8] enumerate nor remember, apparently ſpeak them a race the moſt favoured of heaven, and announce Italy to be a coun⯑try for whoſe embelliſhment and renown earth and heaven, men and gods have for ages contended.

The recollection of theſe things ap⯑pears to be more vivid, and to give me greater pleaſure than I believe the ſight of them afforded. Perhaps it is my temper. Impatient of delay, I had ſcarcely glanced at one object before I was eager to hunt for another. The te⯑diouſneſs of the Ciceroni was to me into⯑lerable. What cannot inſtantly be com⯑prehended I can ſcarcely perſuade my⯑ſelf to think worthy of the trouble of enquiry. I love to enjoy; and, if en⯑joyment do not come to me, I muſt fly [9] to ſeek it, and haſten from object to object till it be overtaken.

Intellectual pleaſures delight me, when they are quick, certain, and ea⯑ſily obtained. I leave thoſe which I am told ariſe from patient ſtudy, length of time, and ſevere application, to the fools who think time given to be ſo waſted. Roſes grow for me to gather: rivers roll for me to lave in. Let the ſlave dig the mine, but for me let the diamond ſparkle. Let the lamb, the dove, and the life-loving eel writhe and die; it ſhall not diſturb me, while I en⯑joy the viands. The five ſenſes are my deities; to them I pay worſhip and ado⯑ration, and never yet have I been ſlack in the performance of my duty.

What! Shall we exiſt but for a few [10] years, and of thoſe ſhall there be but a few hours as it were of youth, joy, and pleaſure, and ſhall we let them ſlip? Shall we caſt away a good that never can return; and ſeek for pain, which is itſelf in ſo much haſte to ſeek for us? Away with ſuch folly! The oppoſite ſyſtem be mine.

The voluptuous Italian, as wiſe in this as in other arts, knows better. He lives for the moment, and takes care not to let the moment ſlip. His very beggars, baſking in the ſun, will not remove, ſo long as hunger will ſuffer them to enjoy the happineſs of being idle. Who ſo perfectly underſtand the luxury of indo⯑lence as the Lazaroni of Naples?

The Italian, indeed, ſeems to exert all the craft for which he is ſo famous, to [11] accompliſh this ſole purpoſe of enjoy⯑ment. He marries a wife, and the handſomeſt he can procure; that, when the ardour of deſire is ſatiated, ſhe may fleece ſome gallant, who ſhall pay for his pleaſures elſewhere. And, as va⯑riety is the object of all, gallant ſucceeds to gallant, while he himſelf flies from miſtreſs to miſtreſs, and thus an equal barter is maintained.

This office of Ciciſbeo is however an intolerably expenſive one; eſpecially to our countrymen. The Signora is ſo in⯑ventive in her faculties, there are ſo many trinkets which ſhe dies to poſſeſs, and her wants, real and artificial, are ſo numerous, that the purſe is never quiet in the pocket. And every Engliſhman [12] is ſuppoſed to be furniſhed with the purſe of Fortunatus.

The worſt becauſe the moſt dangerous part of the buſineſs is, the ugly and the old think themſelves entitled to be as amorous as the young and beautiful; and a tall fellow, with a little freſh blood in his veins, is ſure to have no peace for them. Prithee, Fairfax, tell me how the Conteſſa behaved, when ſhe found I had eſcaped from her amorous purſuit. She began to make me uneaſy; and I almoſt thought it was as neceſſary for me to have a taſter as any tyrant in Chriſtendom. Poiſon and the ſtiletto diſturbed my dreams; for there were not only ſhe, but two or three more, who ſeemed determined to take no de⯑nial. [13] I congratulated myſelf, as I was rolling down mount Cenis, to think that I was at length actually ſafe, and that the damned black-looking, hook-noſed, ſcowling fellow from Bergamo, whom I had ſo often remarked dogging me, was no longer at my heels.

But I have now bidden adieu to the Caſſini, the Carnivali, and the Donne; and ſoon ſhall ſee what proviſion this land of France affords. For the ſhort time that I have been here, I have no occaſion to complain of my reception. I do not know why, Fairfax, but we Engliſhmen ſeem to be in tolerably good repute every where, with the ladies. Well, well, pretty dears, they ſhall find me very much at their ſervice. I ſhould be [14] ſorry to bring diſgrace upon my nation, Fairfax. Would not you?

I expect to find you a punctual cor⯑reſpondent. Fail not to let me know, when, weary of being a Cavaliere ſervente, you ſhall leave the proud banks of the Adriatic, and the wanton Venice, for ſome other abode; that our letters may never miſs their aim. I will relate every thing that happens to me, when it can either afford you amuſement to read, or me ſatisfaction to write. You have too much honour and honeſty not to do the ſame. Or, if not, I will try what a threat can do: therefore remember that, unleſs you fulfil the terms of our agree⯑ment, and give me an account of all your rogueries, adventures, ſucceſſes, [15] and hair-breadth eſcapes, I will chooſe ſome other more punctual and more en⯑tertaining correſpondent.

Obſerve further, and let that be a ſpur to your induſtry, I have a tale in petto; a whimſical adventure which happened to me yeſterday evening; but which I ſhall forbear to regale you with, for three ſubſtantial reaſons: firſt becauſe it is my good pleaſure; ſecondly becauſe I like it; and laſtly ſuch is my ſovereign will. Nay, if that be all, I can give you three more: firſt becauſe I am almoſt at the end of my paper; next becauſe I may want a good ſubject when I write again; and finally becauſe the poſt is a ſturdy unceremonious fellow, and does not think proper to wait my leiſure.

[16] So farewell; and believe me to be very ſincerely yours,

P. S. I have this moment received information that Sir Arthur St. Ives and his daughter arrived yeſterday in the afternoon at Paris. I have heard that the daughter is the moſt beautiful wo⯑man in England, and that her wit is even ſuperior to her beauty. I am very glad of the accident, for I have a great de⯑ſire to ſee her. My mother's laſt was partly a letter of buſineſs, but chiefly of recommendation, particularly of the young lady: and in it was encloſed one from my ſiſter, Louiſa, which gives a very high character of her friend, Anna [17] St. Ives. They have become acquainted ſince I have been abroad. The letter is loaded with advice to me, at which as you may well think I laugh. Theſe girls, tied to their mother's apron⯑ſtrings, pretend to adviſe a man who has ſeen the world! But vanity and con⯑ceit are ſtrange propenſities, that totally blind the eyes of their poſſeſſors. I have lived but little at home, but I always thought the young lady a forward im⯑perious miſs; yet I never before knew her ſo much on the ſtilts. I expect ſhe will ſoon put on boots and buckſkin, and horſewhip her fellows herſelf; for ſhe improves apace.

Once more farewell,

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

AFTER abundance of jolting in car⯑riages, ſea-ſickneſs, and ſuch like trifling accidents, incidental to us travellers, here we are at laſt, dear Louiſa. My very firſt demand has been for pen ink and paper, to inform my kind friend of [19] our ſafe arrival: though I am ſo giddy, after this poſt haſte four day's hurry, that I ſcarcely can write a ſtraight line. Nei⯑ther do I know whether I have any thing to ſay; though I ſeemed to myſelf to have acquired an additional ſtock of ideas, at the very moment that I firſt beheld Calais and the coaſt of France.

What is there, my dear, in the human mind, that induces us to think every thing which is unuſual is little leſs than abſurd? Is it prejudice, is it vanity, or is it a ſhort and imperfect view; a want of diſcrimination? I could have laughed, but that I had ſome latent ſenſe of my own folly, at the ſight of a dozen French men and women, and two or three loi⯑tering monks, whom curioſity had drawn [] [...] [] [...] [18] [...] [19] [...] [20] together upon the pier-head, to ſee us come into port. And what was my in⯑citement to laughter?—It was the dif⯑ferent cut of a coat. It was a ſilk bag, in which the hair was tied, an old ſword, and a dangling pair of ruffles; which none of them ſuited with the poverty of the dreſs, and meagre appearance, of a perſon who ſeemed to ſtrut and value himſelf upon ſuch marks of diſtinction.

Sterne was in my pocket, and his gen⯑tle ſpirit was preſent to my mind. Per⯑haps the perſon who thus excited a tran⯑ſient emotion of riſibility was a noble⯑man. For the extremes of riches and of poverty are, as I have been informed, very frequent among the nobility of France. He might happen to think [21] himſelf a man highly unfortunate and aggrieved. The ſuppoſition occaſioned my ſmile to evaporate in a ſigh.

But the houſes!—They were diffe⯑rently built!—Could that be right? They were not ſo clean! That was certainly wrong. In what ſtrange land is the ſtandard of propriety erected?—Then the blue and brown jackets of the women; their undaunted manner of ſtaring; their want of hats, and ſtays; the ſlovenly look of ſlippers not drawn up at the heel; the clumſy wooden ſhoes of ſome, and the bare feet of others; nay their readineſs to laugh at the un⯑couth appearance of the people who were condemning them for being ridicu⯑lous; what could all this be? But how came I ſo unaccountably to forget that [22] children and beggars ſometimes go bare⯑foot in England; and that few people, perhaps, are more addicted to ſtare and laugh at ſtrangers than ourſelves? Oh! But the French are ſo polite a nation that even the common people are all well bred; and would enter a drawing-room with more eaſe and grace than an Engliſh gentleman!—Have you never heard this nonſenſe, Louiſa?

The character of nations, or rather of mind, is apparent in trifles. Granted. Let us turn our eyes back to the ſhores we have ſo lately left: let us examine the trifles we hang about ourſelves. How many of them, which characterize and as it were ſtamp the nation with abſurdity, eſcape unobſerved! We ſee them every day; we have adopted and [23] made them our own, and we ſhould be ſtrangely offended, ſhould any perſon take the liberty, having diſcovered the folly of them, to laugh at us.

LETTER XXI.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

MY emotions, Oliver, are too ſtrong to permit me to narrate common occur⯑rences. I can only tell thee our journey is ended, that we arrived yeſterday, and that we are now at Paris. My feelings are more tumultuous than they ought to [34] be, and ſeek relief in the mild and liſ⯑tening patience of friendſhip.

Firſt however I muſt relate a ſingular adventure, which happened yeſterday evening.

After I had ſeen our baggage pro⯑perly diſpoſed of, curioſity led me, though night was approaching, to walk out and take a view of the famous façade of the Louvre. From thence I ſtrayed, through the gardens of the Thuilleries, to the Place de Louis XV; being de⯑lighted with the beauties around me, but which I have not now time to deſcribe. A little farther are the Champs Elyſées, where trees planted in quincunx afford a tolerably agreeable retreat to the Pari⯑ſians.

It was now twilight. The idlers had [35] retired; for I ſuppoſe, from what fol⯑lowed, that it is not very ſafe to walk after dark, in theſe environs. Ignorant of this, and not apprehenſive of any danger, I had ſtrayed to a conſiderable diſtance among the trees, againſt one of which I ſtood leaning, and contemplating the banks of the Seine, the Palais Bourbon, and other ſurrounding objects. All was ſilent, except the diſtant hum of the city, and the rattling of carriages, which could but juſt be heard.

Amid this calm, I was ſuddenly alarmed by voices in anger, and ap⯑proaching. They ſpoke in French, and preſently became more diſtinct and loud.

Draw, ſir, ſaid one.

Mort de ma vie, come along, anſwered the other.

[36] Draw, ſir, I ſay; replied the firſt. I neither know who you are nor what your intentions may be. I will go no further. Draw!

Sacriſti, anſwered his antagoniſt, we ſhall be interrupted: the guard will be upon us in a moment.

The firſt however was reſolute, and in an imperious voice again bade him draw. Their ſwords were inſtantly out, and they began to aſſault each other. Thou mayſt imagine, Oliver, I would not cowardly ſtand and be a ſpectator of murder. They were not twenty paces from me. I flew; when, to my great ſurpriſe, one of them called, in Engliſh, Keep off, ſir! Who are you? Keep off! And, his enemy having dropt his guard, he preſented his point to me.

[37] It was no time to heſitate. I ruſhed reſolutely between them; holding up my open hands above my head, to ſhew the Engliſhman, who ſeemed apprehen⯑ſive of a conſpiracy, he had nothing to fear from me. His anger almoſt over⯑came him: he held up his ſword, as if to ſtrike with it, and with great haughti⯑neſs and paſſion again bade me begone. Have patience, ſir, anſwered I. Men ſhall not aſſaſſinate each other, if I can prevent it.

Let us retire, ſaid the Frenchman: I knew we ſhould be interrupted.

You ſhall not fight. I will follow you, added I, will call for help.

You are a damned impertinent fel⯑low, ſaid the Engliſhman.

[38] Be it ſo; but you ſhall not fight, was my anſwer.

The combatants, finding me ſo deter⯑mined, put up their ſwords, and mu⯑tually exchanged their addreſs; after which they ſeparated. So that it is pro⯑bable, Oliver, my interference has done no good. But that I muſt leave to chance. I could not act otherwiſe.

This incident, ſo immediately after my arrival, in a place ſo ſtrange to me, and coming ſo ſuddenly, made too great an impreſſion upon me not to tell it thee. Though I have another topic much nearer my heart; the true ſtate of which has been ſhewn me, by an event of which I will now inform thee.

[39] We are lodged here in the firſt floor, conſiſting of many chambers, each of which is a thoroughfare to the moſt diſtant. It is not ten minutes ſince I was ſeated, and preparing to write to thee, when Anna came to paſs through the room where I was, and retire to her own apartment. She was fatigued, I imagine, by the journey; though I frequently fear the ardour of her mind will injure her conſti⯑tution. She walked with ſome difficulty, was evidently giddy, and ſtaggered. I was alarmed, and was riſing, when ſhe called to me faintly,—"Help me, Frank!"

I ſprung and caught her as ſhe was falling. I received her in my arms! And my agitation was ſo violent, that it was with difficulty I could preſerve [40] ſtrength enough to ſupport her, and ſeat her in the chair I had quitted.

The houſe to me was a kind of wil⯑derneſs. I knew not where to run, yet run I did for water. I called Laura, with a latent wiſh that nobody might help her but myſelf; and, as it hap⯑pened, nobody heard. I returned; ſhe recovered, thanked me, with her uſual heavenly kindneſs, and I conducted her to her apartment, ſhe leaning on my arm.

Oh! Oliver, is it wrong to feel what I feel, at the remembrance? If it be, reprove me ſternly; teach me my duty, and I will thank thee. Surely there is ſomething ſupernatural hovers over her! At leaſt ſhe reſembles no other mortal! Then her kindneſs to me, her looks, her [41] ſmiles, her actions, are all intentional benignancy. She is now but three chambers diſtant from me; enjoying as I hope refreſhing ſlumbers. Angels guard her, and inſpire her dreams. No matter for the nonſenſe of my words, Oliver; thou knoweſt my meaning. She deſired me to bid Laura not diſturb her; and here I ſit, watchful of my precious charge. Grateful, heart-ſooth⯑ing office!

And now, Oliver, what am I to think? My fears would tie my tongue; but, ei⯑ther I am deluded or hope brightens upon me, and I want the ſelf-denying reſolution of ſilence. Yes, Oliver, I muſt repeat, there is ſuch ſweetneſs in her countenance, when ſhe ſpeaks to me, ſuch a ſmile, ſo inviting, ſo affirmative, [42] that I am inceſſantly flattering myſelf it cannot but have a meaning. I have ſeveral times lately heard her ſigh; and once ſo emphatically that I think it im⯑poſſible I ſhould be deceived. I and Sir Arthur were converſing. I was en⯑deavouring to ſhew the pernicious ten⯑dency of the prejudices of mankind, and inadvertently touched upon the ab⯑ſurdity of ſuppoſing there could be any ſuperiority, of man over man, except that which genius and virtue gave. Sir Arthur did not approve the doctrine, and was pettiſh. I perhaps was warmed, by a latent ſenſe of my own ſituation, and exclaimed—‘Oh! How many no⯑ble hearts are groaning, at this inſtant, under the oppreſſion of theſe preju⯑dices! Hearts that groan, not becauſe [43] they ſuffer, but becauſe they are denied the power effectually to aid their very oppreſſors, who exert the deſpotiſm of numbers, to enforce claims which they themſelves feel to be unjuſt, but which they think it diſhonourable to relinquiſh!’—It was then the ſigh burſt forth of which I told thee. I turned and found her eyes fixed upon me. She bluſhed and look⯑ed down, and then again bent them toward me. I was heated and daring. We exchanged looks, and ſaid—! Vo⯑lumes could not repeat how much!—But ſurely neither of us ſaid any thing to the other's diſadvantage.

Oh! The bliſs to perceive myſelf un⯑derſtood and not reproved! To meet ſuch emanations of mind—! Ecſtaſy is [44] a poor word! Once more ſhe ſeemed to repeat—She would love me if I would let her.

Tell me, then—Have I not reaſon on my ſide? And, if I have, will ſhe not liſten? May ſhe not be won? Shall I doubt of victory, fighting under the banners of truth? Alas!—Well well—

My own ſenſations, Oliver, are ſo acute, and I am ſo fearful leſt they ſhould lead me aſtray, that I could not forbear this detail—Let us change the theme.

P. S. Examine all I have ſaid, and what I am going to add, relative to my⯑ſelf, with ſeverity. Mine is a ſtate of mind in which the jealous rigour of friendſhip appears to be eſſentially ne⯑ceſſary. I have been ſeized with I know not what apprehenſions, by ſome hints which ſhe has two or three times lately repeated, concerning the brother of her [50] dear and worthy friend, Louiſa; who, it ſeems, is to give us the meeting at Paris. Is it not ominous? At leaſt the manner in which ſhe introduced the ſub⯑ject, and ſpoke of him, as well as the replies of Sir Arthur, were all of evil au⯑gury. Yet, why torment myſelf with imaginary terrors? Should the brother reſemble the friend—! Well! What if he ſhould? Would it grieve me to find another man of virtue and genius, be⯑cauſe it is poſſible my perſonal intereſt might be affected by the diſcovery? No. My mind has ſtill ſtrength ſuffi⯑cient to reject, nay to contemn, ſo un⯑worthy a thought. But he may be ſomething very different! Love her he muſt: all who behold her love! The few words ſhe has occaſionally dropped, [51] have led me to ſuſpect ‘more was meant than met the ear.’ Whenever this chord is touched, my heart inſtantly be⯑comes tremulous; and with ſenſibility ſo painful as fully to lay open its weak⯑neſs; againſt which I muſt carefully and reſolutely guard. It is theſe incon⯑gruous theſe jarring tokens that engen⯑der doubt, and ſuſpenſe, almoſt inſup⯑portable.

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

THE oddeſt and moſt unlucky ac⯑cident imaginable, Louiſa, has happened. Your brother and Frank have unfortu⯑nately half quarrelled, without knowing each other. I mentioned a giddineſs with which I was ſeized; the conſe⯑quence, [53] as I ſuppoſe, of travelling. I was obliged to retire to my chamber; nay ſhould have fallen as I went, but for Frank. I deſired he would tell Laura not to diſturb me; and he it ſeems planted himſelf ſentinel, with a determi⯑nation that neither Laura nor any other perſon ſhould approach. I am too often in his thoughts: he is wrong to beſtow ſo much of his time and attention on me. Sir Arthur was gone to look about him; having firſt ſent a note, unknown to me, to inform your brother of our ar⯑rival; and requeſting to ſee him, as ſoon as convenient.

Away hurried your brother, at this mal apropos interval, with Sir Arthur's note in his pocket, to our hotel. He enquired for my father?

[54] He was gone out.

For me?

Laura anſwered ſhe would call me.

She was running with great haſte, for this purpoſe, but was intercepted by Frank; who, agreeably to my deſire, would not ſuffer her to proceed. She returned; and your brother, referring again to Sir Arthur's note, was much ſurpriſed, and rather vexed.

He aſked by whoſe order ſhe was ſent back.

She anſwered by the order of Mr. Frank.

Who was Mr. Frank?

A young gentleman; [Laura has re⯑peated all that paſſed] the ſon of Mr. Aby Henley.

And who was Mr. Aby Henley?

[55] The ſteward and gardener of Sir Ar⯑thur; his head man.

Steward and gardener? The ſon of a gardener a gentleman?

Yes, ſir. To be ſure, ſir, among thorough bred quality, though perhaps he may be better than the beſt of them, he is thought no better than a kind of a ſort of a gentleman; being not ſo high born.

Well, ſaid your brother, ſhew me to this ſon of Mr. Aby; this peremptory gentleman; or, as you call him, kind of a ſort of a gentleman!

Laura obeyed; and ſhe ſays they were quite ſurpriſed at the ſight of each other; but that I ſuppoſe to be one of the flouriſhes of her fancy. Your bro⯑ther, however, as I underſtand, deſired, [56] with ſome haughtineſs, that Frank would ſuffer the maid to paſs, and inform me he was come, agreeably to Sir Arthur's requeſt, to pay his reſpects to me. Frank reſolutely refuſed; alleging I was not well. Not well! Said your brother. Is not this Sir Arthur's hand⯑writing? Yes, replied Frank; but I aſ⯑ſure you ſhe is not well: and I am afraid that even our ſpeaking may awaken her, if ſhe ſhould chance to be aſleep. I muſt therefore requeſt, ſir, you would retire.

The oddneſs of the circumſtances, and the poſitiveneſs of Frank, diſpleaſed your brother. Sir Arthur happened to re⯑turn; and he went to him, ſcarcely tak⯑ing time for firſt compliments, but aſk⯑ing whether it were true that I was not well. Sir Arthur was ſurpriſed: he [57] knew nothing of it! I had not thought a giddineſs in the head worth a complaint. Laura was again ſent to tell me; and was again denied admit⯑tance. Sir Arthur then, with your bro⯑ther, came to queſtion Frank; who continued firm in his refuſal; and when Sir Arthur and your brother had heard that I was ſo dizzy as to be in danger of falling, had not he ſupported me, they were ſatisfied. But ſuch a meeting, be⯑tween Frank and your brother, was quite vexatious: when the very reverſe too was wiſhed! However he is to viſit us this morning; and I will then en⯑deavour to do juſtice to the worth of Frank, and remove falſe impreſſions, which I have ſome reaſon to fear have been made.

[58] I will pauſe here; but, if I find an opportunity, will write another ſhort let⯑ter, under the ſame cover, by this poſt: that is, ſhould I happen to have any thing more to ſay—This accident was exceedingly unlucky, and I ſeem as if I felt myſelf to blame; eſpecially as I am quite in ſpirits this morning, and re⯑lieved from my giddy ſenſations. I am ſorry; very ſorry: but it cannot be helped.

LETTER XXIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

IT was well I did not tell my tale in my laſt, Fairfax; it would have been ſpoiled. I knew it only by halves. It has ended in the moſt ſingular combina⯑tion of circumſtances one could well imagine.

You remember I told you of the ar⯑rival [60] of Sir Arthur St. Ives, and his daughter; I believe it was in the poſt⯑ſcript; and that I was immediately go⯑ing to—Pſhaw! I am beginning my ſtory now at the wrong end. It is throughout exceedingly whimſical. Liſten, and let amazement prop your open mouth.

You muſt have obſerved the eaſe with which Frenchmen, though perfect ſtran⯑gers to each other, fall into familiar converſation; and become as intimate in a quarter of an hour, as if they had been acquainted their whole lives. This is a cuſtom which I very much approve. But, like all other good things, it is lia⯑ble to abuſe.

The other day I happened to be tak⯑ing a walk on the Boulevards, it being a church feſtival, purpoſely to ſee the [61] good Pariſians in all their gaiety and glory; and a more cheerful, at leaſt a more noiſy people, do not, I believe, exiſt. As I was ſtanding to admire a wax-work exhibition of all the famous highwaymen, and cut-throats, whoſe hiſ⯑tories are moſt renowned in France, and liſtening to the fellow at the door, bawling—Aux Voleurs! Aux grands Vo⯑leurs!—Not a little amuſed with the murderous looks, darkneſs, dungeons, chains and petty horror which they had micmicked, a man uncommonly well⯑dreſſed, with an elegant perſon and pleaſ⯑ing manners, came up and immediately fell into diſcourſe with me. I encou⯑raged him, becauſe he pleaſed me. We walked together, and had not converſed five minutes before, without ſeeming to [62] ſeek an opportunity, he had informed me that he was the Marquis de Paſſy, and that he had left his carriage and at⯑tendants, becauſe he like me took much pleaſure in obſerving the hilarity of the holiday citizens. He had accoſted me, he ſaid, becauſe he had a peculiar eſteem for the Engliſh; of which nation he knew me to be, by my ſtep and beha⯑viour.

We talked ſome time, and though he made no deep remarks, he was very communicative of anecdotes, which had come within his own knowledge, that painted the manners of the nation. Among other things, he told me it was not uncommon for valets to dreſs them⯑ſelves in their maſters clothes, when they ſuppoſed them to be at a diſtance, [63] or otherwiſe engaged, aſſume their ti⯑tles, and paſs themſelves upon the Bour⯑geoiſie and foreigners for counts, dukes, or princes. It was but this day fort⯑night, ſaid he, that the Marechal de R—ſurpriſed one of his ſervants in a ſimilar diſguiſe, and with ſome jocu⯑larity publicly ordered the fellow to walk at his heels, then went to his car⯑riage, and commanded him, full dreſſed as he was, to get up behind.

He had ſcarcely ended this account before another perſon came up, and with an air of ſome authority aſked him where his maſter was, what he did there, and other queſtions.

To all this my quidam acquaintance, with a degree of ſurpriſe that ſeemed to be tempered with the moſt pleaſing and [64] unaffected urbanity, replied, without be⯑ing in the leaſt diſconcerted, ſir, you miſtake me: but I am ſure you are too much of a gentleman to mean any wil⯑ful affront.

Affront! Why whom do you pretend yourſelf to be, ſir?

Sir, I am the Marquis de Paſſy.

You the Marquis de Paſſy?—

Yes, ſir; I!—

Inſolent ſcoundrel!—

No gentleman, ſir, can ſuffer ſuch language; and I inſiſt upon ſatisfac⯑tion.—And accordingly my champion drew his ſword. His antagoniſt, look⯑ing on him with ineffable contempt, an⯑ſwered he would take ſome proper op⯑portunity to cane him as he deſerved.

I own I was amazed. I reaſoned a [65] ſhort time with myſelf, and concluded the perſon was miſtaken; for that it was impoſſible for any man to counter⯑feit ſo much eaſe, or behave with ſo much propriety, who was not a gentle⯑man. I therefore thought proper to interfere, and told the intruder that, having given an inſult, he ought not to be afraid of giving ſatisfaction—

And pray, ſir, ſaid he, who are you?

A gentleman, ſir, anſwered I—

Yes. As good a one as your com⯑panion, I ſuppoſe—

You know, Fairfax, it is not cuſtomary with me to ſuffer inſolence to triumph unchaſtiſed, and I ordered him imme⯑diately to draw.

What, ſir, in this place, ſaid he? [66] Follow me, if you have any valour to ſpare.

His ſpirit pleaſed me, and I followed. I know not what became of the fellow, whoſe cauſe I had eſpouſed; for I ſaw him no more.

My antagoniſt led me acroſs the rue St. Honoré, to a place which I ſuppoſe you know, called the Elyſian Fields. It began to be late, and I am told there is danger in paſſing the precincts of the guard. I apprehended a conſpiracy, and at laſt refuſed to proceed any far⯑ther. Finding me obſtinate he drew, but ſaid we ſhould be interrupted.

He was no falſe prophet; for we had not made half a dozen paſſes before a youth, whom from his boots and appear⯑ance [67] I ſuppoſed to be Engliſh, came running and vociferating—Forbear! I was not quite certain that his appearance might not be artifice; I therefore accoſt⯑ed him in Engliſh, in which language he very readily replied. He was quite a ſtur⯑dy, dauntleſs gentleman; for, though our ſwords were drawn, and both of us ſuffi⯑ciently angry, he reſolutely placed him⯑ſelf between us, declaring we ſhould not fight; and that, if we went farther, he would follow.

Nothing was to be done; and I now began to ſuſpect the perſon, with whom I had this ridiculous quarrel, to be really a gentleman. I gave him my addreſs, and he readily returned his; after which we parted, he ſinging a French ſong, and I curſing the inſolence of the En⯑gliſh [68] youth, who ſeemed to diſregard my anger, and to be happy that he had prevented the ſpilling of blood.

Remember that all this happened on the preceding evening, after I had written the greateſt part of my laſt long letter. The next morning I finiſhed it, and received a note from Sir Arthur St. Ives, as I mentioned.

As ſoon as I could get dreſſed, I haſt⯑ened away; and, arriving at the hotel, enquired for the knight?

He was gone out.

For his daughter?—

She had retired to her apartment.

I ſent in my name. The maid went, and returned with an anſwer that Mr. Frank did not think it proper for her miſtreſs to be diſturbed. Now, Fair⯑fax, [69] gueſs who Mr. Frank was if. you can! By heaven, it was the very indivi⯑dual youth who, the night before, had been ſo abſolute in putting an end to our duel!

I was planet-ſtruck! Nor was his ſurpriſe leſs, when he ſaw me, and heard my errand and my name.

I found my gentleman as poſitive in the morning as in the evening. He was the dragon; touch the fruit who dared! Jaſon himſelf could not have entrance there! And he was no leſs cool than determined. I was almoſt tempted to toſs him out of the window.

However I am glad I contained my⯑ſelf; for, on the entrance of Sir Arthur, we came to an explanation; and I find [70] the young lady was really indiſpoſed. But, conſidering his mongrel birth and breeding, for he is the ſon of a gardener, I really never ſaw a fellow give himſelf ſuch high airs.

Sir Arthur received me with great ci⯑vility. I have not yet ſeen the daugh⯑ter, but I expect to find her a beauty. She is the toaſt of the county where her father reſides. I am to be with her in half an hour; and, as I ſuppoſe I ſhall be fully engaged with this and other af⯑fairs for ſome days, I ſhall ſeal up my letter: you muſt therefore wait for an account of her, till inclination and the full tide of events ſhall induce me again to indite of great matters.

I ſhall direct this; agreeably to your [71] laſt, to your banker's, in Parma. Do not fail to tell me when you ſhall be at Turin.

P. S. My opponent of the Elyſian Fields has juſt paid me a viſit. He is a man of family; ſeems to be of a flighty pleaſant humour; and acknow⯑ledged that what he had heard convinced him he had miſtaken my character; for which he was very ready either to cut my throat or aſk my pardon. His eaſe and good temper ſpoke much in his fa⯑vour; and I laughed, and anſwered, in mercy to my throat, I would accept his apology. In conſideration of which we are to cultivate an acquaintance, and be ſworn friends.

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

I RETURN eagerly to my Louiſa. Mr. Clifton, my dear, has this inſtant left us. I give you joy! Yes, he is the brother of my friend! I do not ſay he is her equal, though I am not quite ſure that he is her inferior. He is all ani⯑mation, [73] all life. His perſon is graceful, his manners pleaſing, and his mind vi⯑gorous. I can ſay but little from ſo ſhort an acquaintance; except that I am convinced his virtues, or his errors, if he have any, [And who is without?] are not of the feeble kind. They are not characteriſed by dull mediocrity; which, of all qualities, is the moſt hopeleſs, and incapable. He gave his earneſt deſire to ſee me, when he was refuſed by Frank, the air of a handſome compli⯑ment; politely accuſing himſelf of im⯑proper impatience, when he was in ex⯑pectation of what he was pleaſed to call an uncommon pleaſure. Though it was our firſt interview, he felt no reſtraint; but ſaid many very civil things natu⯑rally, [74] and with an exceedingly good grace.

I purpoſely turned the converſation on Frank, related ſome anecdotes of him, and beſtowed praiſe which was confirmed by Sir Arthur. Your brother, whoſe imagination is warm and active, called him a truſty Cerberus; and ſaid he had a mouth to anſwer each of the three; meaning Laura, himſelf, and Sir Arthur. Various remarks which eſcaped him ſhew that he has a fondneſs for pleaſant ſatire, and ſimiles of humour.

He praiſed Frank, after hearing our account of him; but his praiſe was qua⯑lified with the word obſtinacy. There was an appearance of feeling that the gentleman ought not to have been ſo [75] ſternly repulſed, by the ſon of a ſtew⯑ard.—And was this his kindred equality to my friend?—Forgive me, Louiſa—It was unjuſt in me to ſay I was not quite ſure he is your inferior—However I can very ſeriouſly aſſure you, he is not one of your every day folks.

Frank came in, and your brother ad⯑dreſſed him with good humour, but in a tone denoting it was the gentleman to the ſort of a gentleman. I own it pleaſed me to obſerve the eaſe with which Frank, by his anſwers, obliged Mr. Clifton to change his key. But I ſoon had occa⯑ſion to obſerve that the warmth of your brother's expreſſions, his eagerneſs to be immediately intimate with us, and the advances which he with ſo little ſenſe of embarraſſment made to me, had an ef⯑fect [76] upon Frank which, I greatly fear, was painful. I muſt look to this; it is a ſerious moment, and I muſt ſeriouſly ex⯑amine, and quickly reſolve. In the mean time, your brother has kindly inſiſted upon devoting himſelf wholly to our amuſements; to attend on us, and ſhew us the public buildings, gardens, paint⯑ings, and theatres; as well as to intro⯑duce us to all his friends.

And what muſt we do in return for this well-meant kindneſs? Muſt we not endeavour to weed out thoſe few errors, for few I hope they are, which impove⯑riſh a mind in itſelf apparently fertile and of high rank?—Yes, it inſtantly ſug⯑geſted itſelf to me as an indiſpenſable act of duty—The attempt muſt be made—With what obſtinate warfare do [77] men encounter peril when money, baſe money is their propoſed reward! And ſhall we do leſs for mind, eternal omni⯑potent mind?

He is returned. Adieu. You ſhall ſoon hear again from your

LETTER XXV.
COKE CLIFTON TO HIS SISTER, LOUISA CLIFTON.

I WRITE agreeably to your deſire, ſiſter, to thank you for all obligations, not forgetting your advice. Not but I am exceſſively obliged to you; I am upon my ſoul, and ſeriouſly, for having done me the favour to bring me ac⯑quainted with your charming friend. [79] I have ſeen many women and in many countries, but I never beheld one ſo ſweet, ſo beautiful, ſo captivating! I had heard of her before I left England, her fame had reached Italy, and your letters had raiſed my expectations. But what were theſe? The accompliſhments and graces of her perſon, the variety, the pleaſure inſpiring heaven of her countenance, the cupids that wanton in her dimples, and the delights that ſwim and gliſten in her eyes, are each and all exquiſite beyond imagination!

Whatever you may think of me, Louiſa, I do perſuade myſelf I know ſomething of women. I have ſtudied them at home and abroad, and have often probed them to the ſoul. But I never before met with any one in the [80] leaſt comparable to the divine Anna! She is ſo unreſerved, ſo open, that her ſoul ſeems to dwell upon her lips. Yet her thoughts are ſo rapid, and her mind ſo capacious, that I am perſuaded it will coſt me much longer time to know her well than any other woman with whom I ever met.

Having thanked you very heartily and ſincerely for this favour, I ſhall juſt ſay a word or two in anſwer to yours.

And ſo you really think you have ſome morality on hand, a little ſtale or ſo but ſtill ſound, which you can beſtow with advantage upon me? You ima⯑gine you can tell me ſomething I never heard before? Now have you ſincerely ſo much vanity, Louiſa? Be frank. You acknowledge I have croſſed rivers, [81] ſeas, and mountains; but you are afraid I have ſhut my eyes all the time! A loud tongue and a prodigious lack of wit! Antics and impertinences of young men of faſhion! Really, my dear, you are choice in your phraſes! You could not love your bro⯑ther for any recital of the delight which foreign ladies took in him, and which he took in foreign ladies! But you could be in ecſtatics for a brother of your own in⯑vention.

Do not ſuppoſe I am angry! No, no, my dear girl; I am got far above all that! Though I cannot but laugh at this extraordinary brother, which you are faſhioning for yourſelf. If, when I come into your ſublime preſence, I ſhould by good luck happen to ſtrike your fancy, why ſo! My fortune will [82] then be made! If not, ſiſter, we muſt do as well as we can. All in good time, and a God's name. Is not that tolerable Worceſterſhire morality?

I am obliged to lay down my pen with laughing at the idea of Miſs Lou⯑iſa's brother, ſuppoſing him to be exactly of her modelling. I think I ſee him ap⯑pear before her; ſhe ſeated in ſtate, on a chair raiſed on four treſſels and two old doors, like a ſtrolling actreſs mi⯑micking a queen in a barn! He dreſſed in black; his hair ſmugly curled; his face and his ſhoes ſhining; his white handkerchief in his right hand; a prayer book, or the morals of Epictetus in his left; not interlarding his diſcourſe with French or Italian phraſes, but ready with a good rumbling mouthful of old Greek, [83] which he had compoſed, I mean com⯑piled, for the purpoſe! Then, having advanced one leg, wiped his mouth, put his left hand in his breeches pocket, clenched his right, and raiſed his arm, he begins his learned diſſertation on well digeſted principles, ardent deſire of truth, inceſſant ſtruggles to ſhake off preju⯑dices, and forth are chanted, in naſal twang and tragic recitative, his emana⯑tions of ſoul, burſts of thought, and flaſhes of genius!

But you would not be ſatirical. Gentle, modeſt maiden! And ſurely it becomes the tutored brother to imitate this kind forbearance. My faculties were always lively? And I muſt pardon you if you expect too much?—Upon my ſoul, this is highly comic! Expect too much! [84] And there is danger then that I ſhould not equal your expectations?—Prithee, my good girl, jingle the keys of your harpſichord, and be quiet. Pore over your fine folio receipt book, and appeaſe your thirſt after knowledge. Satisfy your longing deſire to do good, by making jellies, conſerves, and caraway cakes. Pot pippins, brew raſberry wine, and candy orange chips. Study burns, bruiſes, and balſams. Diſtil ſurfeit, colic, and wormwood water. Concoct hiera picra, rhubarb beer, and oil of charity; and ſympathize over ſprains, whitloes, and broken ſhins. Get a charm to cure the ague, and render yourſelf renowned. Spin, ſew, and knit. Collect your lamentable rabble around you, dole out your charities, liſten to a [85] full chorus of bleſſings, and take your ſeat among the ſaints.

You ſee, child, I can give advice as well as yourſelf; aye and I will beſtow it moſt plentifully, if you happen to feel any deſire after more. I hate to be un⯑grateful; you ſhall have no opportunity to utter your muſty maxim upon me—"That the ſin of ingratitude is worſe than the ſin of witchcraft." You ſhall have weight for weight, meaſure for meaſure, chicken; aye, my market woman, and a lumping pennyworth. Brotherly for ſiſterly effuſions!

As for the right of elderſhip, I recol⯑lect that a dozen years ago I envied you the prerogative; but now you are wel⯑come to it with all my heart. If, among your miraculous acquirements, you have [86] any ſecret to make time ſtand ſtill, by which you can teach me to remain at ſweet five-and-twenty, and if you will diſcloſe it to me, I will not only pardon all your impertinences, as you ſo pertinently call them, but do any other thing in rea⯑ſon to ſatisfy you; except turn philoſo⯑pher and feed upon carrots! Nay I will allow you to grow as old as you pleaſe, you ſhall have full enjoyment of the rights of elderſhip.

In the mean time, ſiſter, I once more thank you for bringing me acquainted with your friend. You ſeem to have "put powder in her drink;" and I freely tell you I wiſh ſhe loved me half as well as ſhe profeſſes to love her immaculate Louiſa. But theſe I ſuppoſe are the flaſhes of genius, which you have taught [87] her. However ſhe is an angel, and in her every thing is graceful.

As for your other prodigy, I ſcarcely know what to make of him; except that he ſeems to have quite conceit enough of himſelf. Every other ſentence is a contradiction of what the laſt ſpeaker ad⯑vanced. This is the firſt time he ever ventured to croſs his father's threſhold, and yet he talks as familiarly of king⯑doms, governments, nations, manners, and other high ſounding phraſes, as if he had been ſecretary of ſtate to king Minos, had ridden upon the white ele⯑phant, and ſtudied under the Dalai Lama! He is the Great Mogul of po⯑liticians! And as for letters, ſcience, and talents, he holds them all by patent right! He is ſuch a monopolizer that [88] no man elſe can get a morſel! If he were not a plebeian, I could moſt ſin⯑cerely wiſh you were married to him; for then, whenever my ſoul ſhould hun⯑ger and thirſt after morality, I ſhould know where to come and get a full meal. Though perhaps his not being a gentle⯑man would be no objection to you, at⯑leaſt your letter leads me to ſuſpect as much.

Do not however miſtake me. I mean this jocularly. For I will not degrade my ſiſter ſo much, as to ſuppoſe ſhe has ever caſt a thought on the ſon either of the gardener or the ſteward, of any man. Though, tied to her mother's apron⯑ſtring and ſhut up on the confines of Worceſterſhire, ſhe may think proper to lecture and give rules of conduct to a [89] brother who has ſeen the world, and ſtudied both men and books of every kind, that is but a harmleſs and pardon⯑able piece of vanity. It ought to be laughed at, and for that reaſon I have laughed.

For the reſt, I will be willing to think as well of my ſiſter, as this ſiſter can be to think of her catechiſed, and very patient, humble, younger brother,

P. S. I have written in anſwer to my mother by the ſame poſt. From the ge⯑neral tenor of her letter, I cannot but imagine that, juſt before ſhe ſat down to write, ſhe had been liſtening to one [90] of your civil lectures, againſt wild bro⯑thers, fine gentlemen, and vile rakes. Is not that the cant? One thing let me whiſper to you, ſiſter: I am not obliged to any perſon who ſuſpects or renders me ſuſpected. I claim the privilege of being ſeen before I am condemned, and heard before I am executed. If I ſhould not prove to be quite the phoenix which might vie with ſo miraculous ſo unique a ſiſter, I muſt then be contented to take ſhame to myſelf. But till then I ſhould ſuppoſe the thoughts of a ſiſter might as well be inclined to paint me white as black. After all, I cannot con⯑clude without repeating that I believe the whole world cannot equal the lovely, the divine Anna St. Ives: and, what⯑ever [91] elſe you may ſay or think of me, do not lead her to imagine I am unjuſt to her ſupreme beauty, and charms. An inſinuation of that kind I would ne⯑ver forgive—Never!

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

YOU cannot imagine, honeſt Aby, the ſurpriſe I am in. Is this their fa⯑mous France? Is this the fineſt coun⯑try in the whole world? Why, Aby, from Boulogne to Paris, at leaſt from Montreuil, I am certain I did not ſee a [93] ſingle hedge! All one dead flat; with an eternal row of trees, without begin⯑ning, middle, or end. I ſincerely be⯑lieve, Aby, I ſhall never love a ſtraight row of trees again. And the weariſome right lined road, that you never loſe ſight of; not for a moment, Aby! No lucky turning. No intervening hill.

Oh that I were but the Grand Mo⯑narch! What improvements would I make! What a ſcope for invention, Aby! A kingdom! A revenue of four hundred millions of livres, and a ſtanding army of three hundred thou⯑ſand men! All which, if the king were a wiſe man, it is very evident, Abime⯑lech, he might employ in improve⯑ments; and heaven knows there is a want of them. What are their petty corvées, [94] by which theſe ſtraight roads have been patched up, and their everlaſting elms planted? I would aſſemble all my vaſ⯑ſals—[Your ſon Frank, Aby, has given me much information concerning the preſent governments of Europe, and the origin of manors, fiefs, and lordſhips. I can aſſure you he is a very deep young man; though I could wiſh he were not quite ſo peremptory and poſitive; and has informed me of ſome things which I never heard of before, though I am twice his age. But he ſeems to have them ſo faſt at his finger's ends that I ſuppoſe they muſt be true. I had often heard of entails, and mortmain, and lands held in fee or fief, I don't know which, and all that you know, Abime⯑lech. One's deeds and one's lawyers tell [95] one ſomething, blindly, of theſe matters; but I never knew how it had all hap⯑pened. He told me that—Fgad I for⯑get what he told me. But I know he made it all out very clear. Still I muſt ſay he is curſed poſitive.]—However, Aby, as I was ſaying, I would aſſemble all my vaſſals, all my great lords and fief holders, and they ſhould aſſemble their vaſſals, and all hands ſhould be ſet to work: ſome to plan, others to plant; ſome to grub, ſome to dig, ſome to hoe, and ſome to ſow. The whole country ſhould ſoon be a garden! Tell me, Aby, is not the project a grand one ^*? What a diſpatch of work! [96] What a change of nature! I am ra⯑viſhed with the thought!

As for any ideas of improvement to be picked up here, Abimelech, they muſt not be expected. I ſhall never forget the ſameneſs of the ſcene! So unlike the riches of Wenbourne-Hill! Sir Alexander would have a country open enough here, at leaſt. He would not complain of being ſhut in. The wind may blow from what point it pleaſes, and you have it on all ſides. Except the road-ſide elms I men⯑tioned, and now and then a coppice, which places they tell me are planted for the preſervation of the game, I ſhould have ſuppoſed there had not been a tree in the country; had I not been told that there were many large [97] foreſts, to the right, and the left, out of ſight. For my part I don't know where they have hidden them, and ſo muſt take their word for the fact. 'Tis true indeed that we travelled a part of the way in the dark.

I was mentioning the game, Aby. The game laws here are excellently put in execution. Hares are as plenty as rabbits in a warren, partridges as tame as our dove-houſe pigeons, and pheaſants that ſeem as if they would come and feed out of your hand. For no ſcoundrel poacher dare moleſt them. If he did, I am not certain whether the lord of the manor could not hang him up inſtantly without judge or jury.

Though Frank tells me they have no juries here: which by the bye is odd [98] enough; and as he ſays I ſuppoſe it is a great ſhame. For, as he put the caſe to me, how ſhould I like to have my eſtate ſeized on, by ſome inſolent prince or duke? For you know, I being a ba⯑ronet in my own right, Aby, no one leſs in rank would dare infringe upon me. Well! How ſhould I like to have this duke, or this prince, ſeize upon my eſtate; and, inſtead of having my right tried by a ſpecial jury of my peers, to have the cauſe decided by him who can get the prettieſt woman to plead for him, and who will pay her and his judges the beſt? For ſuch Frank aſſures me is the mode here! Now really all this is very bad; very bad indeed, and as he ſays wants reforming.

But as for the game laws, as I was [99] ſaying, Aby, they are excellently en⯑forced; and your poor raſcals here are kept in very proper ſubjection. They are held to the grindſtone, as I may ſay. And ſo they ought to be, Aby. For, I have often heard you ſay, what is a man but what he is worth? Which in cer⯑tain reſpects is very true. A gentleman of family and fortune, why he is a gen⯑tleman; and no inſolent beggar ought to dare to look him in the face, without his permiſſion. But you, Aby, had always a very great ſenſe of propriety, in theſe reſpects. And you have found your advantage in it; as indeed you ought. It is a pity, conſidering what a learned young man you have made your ſon, that you did not teach him a little of your good ſenſe in this particular. [100] He is too full of contradiction: too con⯑fident by half.

Let me have a long and full and whole account of what you are doing, Aby. Tell me preciſely how forward your work is, and the exact ſpot where you are when each letter comes away. I know I need not caution you to keep thoſe idle fellows, the day labourers, to it. I never knew any man who worked them better. And yet, Aby, it is ſurpriſing the ſums that they have coſt me; but you are a very careful honeſt fellow; and they have done wonders, under my planning and your inſpection.

I do not wiſh that the moment I re⯑ceive a letter it ſhould be known to every lacquey; eſpecially here; where [101] it ſeems to be one entire city of bab⯑blers. The people appear to have no⯑thing to do but to talk. In the houſe, in the ſtreet, in the fields, breakfaſt, dinner, and ſupper, walking, ſitting, or ſtanding, they are never ſilent. Nay egad I doubt whether they do not talk in their ſleep! So do you direct to me at the Café Conti—However I had better write the direction for you at full length, for fear of a miſtake. And be ſure you take care of your ſpelling, Aby, or I don't know what may happen. For I am told that many of theſe French people are deviliſh illiterate, and I am ſure they are deviliſh cunning. Snap! They anſwer before they hear you! And, what is odd enough, their anſwers are ſometimes as pat as if they knew [102] your meaning. Indeed I have often thought it ſtrange that your low poor people ſhould be ſo acute, and have ſo much common ſenſe. But do you di⯑rect your letters thus— ‘A Monſieur Monſieur le Chevalier de St. Ives, Baronet Anglois, au Café Conti, vis-à-vis le Pont Neuf, Quai Conti, à Paris.’

And ſo, Abimelech, I remain

LETTER XXVII.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

THE black forebodings of my mind, Oliver, are fulfilled! I have been ſtruck! The phantom I dreaded has appeared, has flaſhed upon me, and all the evils of which I propheſied, and more than all, are collecting to over⯑whelm me; are ruſhing to my ruin!

[104] This brother of Louiſa! Nothing ſurely was ever ſo unaccountable! The very ſame whom I prevented from fighting, in the Champs Elyſees! Ay, he! This identical Clifton, for Clifton it was, has again appeared; has been here, is here, is never hence. His aſpect was petrifying! He came upon me this ſecond time in the ſtrangeſt, the moſt inſolent manner imaginable; juſt as I had ſent away my laſt letter to thee; when I was ſitting the guardian of a treaſure, which my fond falſe reve⯑ries were at that moment flattering me might one day be mine! Starting at the ſight of me! Nothing kind, nothing conciliating in his addreſs; it was all imperious demand. Who was I? By what right did I deny admiſſion to the [105] young lady's woman, to inform her he was come to pay her his reſpects? He!—Having a letter from Sir Arthur, inviting him thither!—Were ſuch orders to be countermanded by me? Again and again, who was I?—Oli⯑ver, he is a haughty youth; violent, headſtrong, and arrogant! Believe me he will be found ſo.

What do I mean? Why do I dread him? How! The ſlave of fear? Why is my heart ſo inclined to think ill of him? Do I ſeek to depreciate? She has mentioned him ſeveral times; has ex⯑pected, with a kind of eagerneſs, he would reſemble her Louiſa; has hoped he and I ſhould be friends. ‘Did not I hope the ſame?’ Oliver, ſhe has [106] tortured me! All benevolence as ſhe is, ſhe has put me on the rack!

I muſt not yield thus to paſſion: it is criminal. I have too much indulged the flattering dreams of deſire. Yet what to do?—How to act?—Muſt I tamely quit the field the moment an ad⯑verſary appears; turn recreant to my⯑ſelf, and coward-like give up my claims, without daring to ſay ſuch and ſuch they are? No. Juſtice is due as much to my⯑ſelf as to any other. If he be truly deſerving of preference, why let him be preferred. I will rejoice.—Yes, Oliver, will.—He who is the ſlave of paſſion, is unworthy a place in the noble mind of Anna.

But this man is not my ſuperior: I [107] feel, Oliver, he is not; and it becomes me to aſſert my rights. Nay, his pride acts as a provocative—Oliver, I per⯑ceive how wrong this is; but I will not blot out the line. Let it remain as a memento. He that would correct his failings muſt be willing to detect them.

The anxiety of my mind is exceſſive; and the pain which a conviction of the weakneſs and error that this anxiety oc⯑caſions renders it ſtill more inſupporta⯑ble. I muſt take myſelf to taſk; ay and ſeverely. I muſt enquire into the wrong and the right, and reaſon muſt be ab⯑ſolute. Tell me thy thoughts, plainly and honeſtly; be ſure thou doſt; for I ſometimes ſuſpect thee of too much kindneſs, of partiality to thy friend. Chaſtiſe the derelictions of my heart, [108] whenever thou perceiveſt them; or I myſelf ſhall hereafter become thy ac⯑cuſer. I am diſſatisfied, Oliver: what ſurer token can there be that I am wrong? I weary thee—Prithee forgive, but do not forget to aid me.

P. S. He—[I mean Louiſa's brother; for I think only of one he and one ſhe, at preſent.] He has not yet taken any notice of our ſtrange firſt meeting; and thou mayſt imagine, Oliver, if he think fit to be ſilent, I ſhall not ſpeak. Not that it can be ſuppoſed he holds duelling to be diſgraceful. I have en⯑quired if any rencounter had taken place; for I was very apprehenſive that the champions would have their tilting⯑match [109] another time. However, as I can hear of no ſuch accident, and as Mr. Clifton is here continually, I hope I have been inſtrumental in preventing ſuch abſurd guilt. The follies of men are ſcarcely comprehenſible! And what am I? Dare I think myſelf wiſe? Oli⯑ver, my paſſions are in arms; the conteſt is violent; I call on thee to examine and to aid the cauſe of truth.

LETTER XXVIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

I HAVE found it, Fairfax! The pearl of pearls! The ineſtimable jewel! The unique! The world contains but one!—And what?—A woman! The woman of whom I told you!—Anna St. Ives!—You have ſeen the Venus de Medicis?—Pſhaw!—Stone! Inani⯑mate [111] marble! But ſhe!—The very ſight of her is the height of luxury! The pure blood is ſeen to circulate! Tranſparent is the complexion which it illuminates!—And for ſymmetry, for motion, for grace, ſculptor, painter, nor poet ever yet imagined ſuch! Deſire languiſhes to behold her! The paſſions all are in arms, and the mere enjoyment of her preſence is ſuperior to all that her ſex beſide can give!

Do not ſuppoſe me in my altitudes: all I can ſay, all you can imagine, are far ſhort of the reality.

Then how unlike is her candour to the petty arts, the ſhallow cunning of her ſex! Her heart is as open as her countenance; her thoughts flow, fear⯑leſs, to her lips. Original ideas, ex⯑preſſed [112] in words ſo ſelect, phraſes ſo happy, as to aſtoniſh and delight; a brilliancy and a ſtrength of fancy that diſdain limitation, and wit rapid and fa⯑tal as lightning to all oppoſition; theſe and a thouſand other undeſcribable ex⯑cellencies are hers.

I love her—Love?—I adore her! Ay—Be not ſurpriſed—Even to madneſs and marriage!—No matter for what I have beforetime ſaid, or what I have thought, my mind is chang⯑ed. I have diſcovered perfection which I did not imagine could exiſt. I re⯑nounce my former opinions; which ap⯑plied to the ſex in general were ortho⯑dox, but to her were blaſphemy.

I would not be too ſudden; I have not yet made any direct propoſal. But [113] could I exiſt and forbear giving intima⯑tions? No. And how were they re⯑ceived? Why with all that unaffected frankneſs which did not pretend to miſ⯑underſtand but to meet them, to cheriſh hope, and to give a proſpect of bliſs which mortal man can never merit.

She is all benevolence! Nay ſhe is too much ſo. There is that youngſter here; that upſtart; he who bolted upon us and mouthed his Pindarics in the Ely⯑ſian Fields; the ſurly groom of the chamber. This fellow has inſinuated himſelf into her favour, and the benig⯑nity of her ſoul induces her to treat him with as much reſpect as if he were a gentleman.

The youth has ſome parts, ſome ideas: at leaſt he has plenty of words. But his [114] arrogance is inſufferable. He does not ſeruple to interfere in the diſcourſe, ei⯑ther with me, Sir Arthur, or the angelic Anna! Nay ſets up for a reformer; and pretends to an inſolent ſuperiority of underſtanding and wiſdom. Yet he was never ſo long from home before in his life; has ſeen nothing, but has read a few books, and has been permitted to converſe with this all intelligent deity.

I cannot deny but that the pedagogue ſometimes ſurpriſes me, with the novelty of his opinions; but they are extrava⯑gant. I have condeſcended, oftener than became me, to ſhew how full of hyper⯑bole and paradox they were. Still he as conſtantly maintained them, with a kind of congruity that aſtoniſhed me, and even rendered many of them plauſible.

[115] But, excluſive of his obſtinacy, the rude, pot companion loquacity of the fellow is highly offenſive. He has no ſenſe of inferiority. He ſtands as erect, and ſpeaks with as little embarraſſment and as loudly as the beſt of us: nay boldly aſſerts that neither riches, rank, nor birth have any claim. I have of⯑fered to buy him a beard, if he would but turn heathen philoſopher. I have ſeveral times indeed beſtowed no ſmall portion of ridicule upon him; but in vain. His retorts are always ready; and his intrepidity, in this kind of imperti⯑nence, is unexampled.

From ſome anecdotes which are told of him, I find he does not want perſonal courage; but he has no claim to chaſ⯑tiſement from a gentleman. Petty in⯑ſults [116] he diſregards; and has ſeveral times put me almoſt beyond the power of forbearance, by his cool and cutting replies. His oratory is always ready; cut, dry, and fit for uſe; and damned inſolent oratory it frequently is.

The abſurdity of his tenets can only be equalled by the effrontery with which they are maintained. Among the moſt ridiculous of what he calls firſt princi⯑ples is that of the equality of mankind. He is one of your levellers! Marry! His ſuperior! Who is he? On what proud eminence can he be found? On ſome Welſh mountain, or the pike of Teneriffe? Certainly not in any of the nether regions! What! Was not he the aſs that brayed to Balaam? And is he not now Mufti to the mules? He [117] will if he pleaſe! And if he pleaſe he will let it alone! Diſpute his prerogative who dare! He derives from Adam; what time the world was all hail fellow well met! The ſavage, the wild man o'the woods is his true liberty boy; and the orang outang his firſt couſin. A Lord is a merry andrew, a Duke a jack pud⯑ding, and a King a tom fool: his name is man!

Then, as to property, 'tis a tragic farce; 'tis his ſovereign pleaſure to eat nectarines, grow them who will. Ano⯑ther Alexander, he; the world is all his own! Ay, and he will govern it as he beſt knows how! He will legiſlate, dic⯑tate, dogmatize; for who ſo infallible? What! Cannot Goliah crack a walnut?

As for arguments, it is but aſk and [118] have: a peck at a bidding, and a good double handful over. I own I thought I knew ſomething; but no, I muſt to my horn book. Then, for a ſimile, it is ſacrilege; and muſt be kicked out of the high court of logic! Sarcaſm too is an ignoramus, and cannot ſolve a problem: Wit a pert puppy, who can only flaſh and bounce. The heavy walls of wiſ⯑dom are not to be battered down by ſuch popguns and pellets. He will waſte you wind enough to ſet up twenty millers, in proving an apple is not an egg ſhell; and that homo is Greek for a gooſe. Dun Scotus was a ſchool boy to him. I confeſs, he has more than once dumb-founded me by his ſubtleties.—Pſhaw!—It is a mortal murder of words and time to beſtow them on him.

[119] My ſiſter is in correſpondence with my new divinity. I thought proper to beſtow a few gentle laſhes on her, for a letter which ſhe wrote to me, and which I mentioned in my firſt from Paris, inſi⯑nuating her own ſuperiority, and giving me to underſtand how fortunate it would be for the world ſhould I but prove as conſummate a paragon as herſelf. She richly deſerved it, and yet I now wiſh I had forborne; for, if ſhe have her ſex's love of vengeance in her, ſhe may in⯑jure me in the tendereſt part. Never was woman ſo devoted to woman as Anna St. Ives is to Louiſa. I ſhould ſuſpect any other of her ſex of extrava⯑gant affectation; but her it is impoſſible to ſuſpect: her manner is ſo peculiarly her own: and it comes with ſuch un⯑ſought [120] for energy, that there is no reſiſt⯑ing conviction.

I have two or three times been in⯑clined to write and aſk Louiſa's par⯑don. But, no; that pride forbids. She dare not openly profeſs herſelf my ene⯑my. She may inſinuate, and counter⯑mine; but I have a tolerably ſtrong dependance on my own power over Anna. She is not blind. She is the firſt to feel and to acknowledge ſuperior merit; and I think I have no reaſon to fear repulſe from any wo⯑man, whoſe hand I can bring myſelf to aſk.

One of Anna's greateſt perfections, with me, is the ready eſteem which ſhe entertained for me, and her not being inſenſible to thoſe qualities which I flat⯑ter [121] myſelf I poſſeſs. Never yet did wo⯑man treat me with affected diſdain, who did not at laſt repent of her coquetry.

'Tis true that Anna has ſometimes piqued me, by appearing to value me more for my ſiſter's ſake even than for my own. I have been ready to ſay diſſimu⯑lation was inſeparable from woman. And yet her manner is as unlike hypo⯑criſy as poſſible. I never yet could brook ſcorn, or neglect. I know no ſenſation more delicious than that of in⯑flicting puniſhment for inſult or for in⯑jury; 'tis in our nature.

That youngſter of whom I have prated ſo much, his name is Frank Henley, denies this, and ſays that what the world calls nature is habit. He added, with ſome degree of ſarcaſm as [122] I thought, that it was as natural, or in his ſenſe as habitual, for ſome men to pardon, and to ſeek the good even of thoſe by whom they were wronged, as it was for others to reſent and endeavour to revenge. But, as I have ſaid, he continually makes pretenſions to an of⯑fenſive ſuperiority. You may think I do not fail to humble the youth, when⯑ever opportunity offers. But no! Hum⯑ble him, indeed! Shew him boiling ice! Stew a whale in an oyſter-ſhell! Make mount Caucaſus into a bag pudding! But do not imagine he may be moved! The legitimate ſon of Cato's eldeſt baſtard, he! A petrified Poſſidonius, in high pre⯑ſervation!

There is another thing which aſto⯑niſhes me more than all I have men⯑tioned. [123] Curſe me, Fairfax, if I do not believe that [God confound the fellow!] he has the impudence to be in love with Anna St. Ives! Nay that he braves me, defies me, and, in the inſufferable frothy fermentation of his vanity, perſuades himſelf that he looks down upon me!

I muſt finiſh, for I cannot think of his intolerable inſolence with common patience; and I know not what right I have to teaſe you, concerning my paltry diſputes with a plebeian pedant, and my ſtill more paltry jealouſies. But let him beware! If he really have the arrogance to place himſelf in my way, I will pre⯑ſently trample him into his original non⯑entity. I only forbear becauſe he has had the cunning to make himſelf ſo great a favourite.

[124] This muſt be horribly ſtupid ſtuff to you, Fairfax: therefore pay me in my own coin; be as dull as you ſometimes know how, and bid me complain if I dare.

LETTER XXIX.
LOUISA CLIFTON TO COKE CLIFTON.

I WRITE, dear brother, in anſwer to your laſt, that I may not by any neglect of mine contribute to the miſtake in which you are at preſent. Your letter ſhews that you ſuppoſe your ſiſter to be vain, preſumptuous, and rude; and, ſuch being your feelings, I am far [126] from blaming you for having expreſſed them.

Still, brother, I muſt be ſincere, and I would by no means have it underſtood that I think you have choſen the beſt manner of expreſſing them; for it is not the manner which, if I have ſuch faults, would be moſt likely to produce reformation. But your intention has been to humble me; and, deſiring to be ſarcaſtic, you have not failed in pro⯑ducing your intended effect. I am ſin⯑cerely glad of it: had you ſhewn that deſire without the power, I ſhould have been as ſincerely ſorry. But where there is mind there is the material from which every thing is to be hoped.

I ſuppoſe I ſhall again incur chaſtiſe⯑ment, for riſing thus as you call it to the [127] ſublime. But I will write my thoughts without fear, and I hope will patiently liſten ſhould they deſerve reproach. If I have ſinned, it is in moſt fervently wiſh⯑ing to find my brother one of the brighteſt and the beſt of men; and I have received more pleaſure from the powers he has diſplayed, in reproving me, than I could have done by any dull expreſſion of kindneſs; in which, though there might have been words, there would neither have been feeling, ſenti⯑ment, nor ſoul.

The concluding ſentence of your let⯑ter warns me not to defame you with my friend. I muſt ſpeak without diſ⯑guiſe, brother. You feel that, had you received ſuch a letter, revenge would have been the firſt emotion of your [128] mind. I hope its duration would have been ſhort. I will moſt readily and warmly repeat all the good of my bro⯑ther that I know: but I will neither conceal what ought to be ſaid, nor ſay what I do not know. I take it for granted that he would not have me guilty of duplicity.

Adieu, dear brother; and believe me to be moſt affectionately your

LETTER XXX.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

HOW ſevere, Oliver, are the leſſons of truth! But to learn them from her lips, and to be excited to the practice of them by her example, are bleſſings which to enjoy and not to profit by would ſhew a degenerate heart.

[130] I have juſt riſen from a converſation which has made a deep impreſſion on my mind. It was during breakfaſt. I know not whether reflecting on it will appeaſe, or increaſe, the ſenſations which the behaviour of this brother of Louiſa hourly exacerbates. But I will calm that irritability which would dwell on him, and nothing elſe, that I may repeat what has juſt happened.

The intereſting part of what paſſed began by Mr. Clifton's affirming, with Pope, that men had and would have, to the end of time, each a ruling paſſion. This I denied, if by ruling paſſion were meant the indulgence of any irregular appetite, or the foſtering of any errone⯑ous ſyſtem. I was aſked, with a ſneer, for my recipe to ſubdue the paſſions; if [131] it were not too long to be remembered. I replied it was equally brief and effica⯑cious. It was the force of reaſon; or, if the word ſhould pleaſe better, of truth.

And in what year of the world was the diſcovery of truth to be made?

In that very year when, inſtead of being perſecuted for ſpeaking their thoughts, the free diſcuſſion of every opinion, true or falſe, ſhould not only be permitted, but receive encourage⯑ment and applauſe.

As uſual, the appeal was made to Anna: and, as uſual, her deciſion was in my favour. Nothing, ſaid ſhe, is more fatal, to the progreſs of virtue, than the ſuppoſition that error is invin⯑cible. Had I perſuaded myſelf I never could have learned French, Italian, or [132] muſic, why learn them I never could. For how can that be finiſhed which is ne⯑ver begun? But, though all the world were to laugh at me, I ſhould laugh at all the world, were it to tell me it is more difficult to prevent the beginning, growth, and ex⯑ceſs of any paſſion, than it is to learn to play excellently on the piano forte.

Is that really your opinion, madam? ſaid Clifton.

It is.

Do you include all the paſſions?

All.

What! The paſſion of love?

Yes. Love is as certainly to be con⯑quered as any of them; and there is no miſtake which has done more miſchief than that of ſuppoſing it irreſiſtible. Young people, and we poor girls in par⯑ticular, [133] having once been thoroughly perſuaded of the truth of ſuch an axiom, think it in vain to ſtruggle, where there are no hopes of victory. We are con⯑quered not becauſe we are weak, but becauſe we are cowards. We ſeem to be convinced that we have fallen in love by enchantment, and are under the ab⯑ſolute dominion of a necromancer. It is truly the dwarf leading the giant cap⯑tive. Is it not—[Oliver! She fixed her eyes upon me, as ſhe ſpoke!]—Is it not, Frank?

I was confounded. I pauſed for a mo⯑ment. A deep and heavy ſigh involun⯑tarily burſt from me. I endeavoured to be firm, but I ſtammered out—Ma⯑dam—it is.

I am convinced he is jealous of me. [134] Nay he fears me; though he ſcorns me too much to think ſo meanly of himſelf. Yet he fears me. And what is worſe, Oliver, I fear him! I bluſh for my own debility. But let me not endea⯑vour to conceal my weakneſs. No: it muſt be encountered, and cured. His quick and audacious eye was ſearching me, while I ſtruggled to think, and rid myſelf of confuſion; and he diſcovered more than gave him pleaſure.—She con⯑tinued.

I know of no prejudice more perni⯑cious to the moral conduct of youth than that of this unconquerable paſſion of love. Any and all of our paſſions are unconquerable, whenever we ſhall be weak enough to think them ſo. Does not the gameſter plead the unconquer⯑ableneſs [135] of his paſſion? The drunkard, the man of anger, the revengeful, the envious, the covetous, the jealous, have they not all the ſame plea? With the ſelfiſh and the feeble paſſion ſucceeds to paſſion as different habits give birth to each, and the laſt paſſion proves more unconquerable than its predeceſſor. How frequently do we ſee people in the very fever of this unconquerable paſſion of love, which diſappears for the reſt of their lives, after a few weeks poſſeſſion of the object whom they had ſo paſſion⯑ately loved! How often do they as paſſionately hate; while the violence of their hatred and of their love is perhaps equally guilty!

Sir Arthur I obſerved was happy to join in this new doctrine, which how⯑ever [136] is true, Oliver. I am not certain that he too had not his apprehenſions, concerning me: at leaſt his approbation of the principle was ardent.

This was not all. After a ſhort ſilence, ſhe added, and again fixed her eyes on me—Next to the taſk of ſub⯑duing our own paſſions, I know none more noble than that of aiding to ſubdue the paſſions of others. To reſtore a lan⯑guiſhing body is held to be a precious art: but to give health to the mind, to reſtore declining genius to its true rank, is an art infinitely more ineſtimable.

She roſe, and I withdrew; her words vibrating in my ear, where they vibrate ſtill. Perceiveſt thou not their im⯑port?—Oliver, ſhe has formed a pro⯑ject fatal to my hopes! Nay, I could [137] almoſt fear, fatal to herſelf! Yet what, who can harm her? Does the ſavage, the monſter exiſt, that could look upon her and do her injury? No! She is ſafe! She is immaculate! Beaming in beauty, ſupreme in virtue, the reſplen⯑dent aegis of truth ſhields her from at⯑taint!

Yes, Oliver, her anſwers were to him; but the intent, the ſoul of them was di⯑rected to me. It was a warning ſpirit, that cried, beware of indulging an unjuſ⯑tifiable paſſion! Awake, at the call of virtue, and obey! Behold here a ſickly mind, and aid me in its recovery!—To me her language was pointed, clear, and incapable of other interpretation.

But is there not peril in her plan? Recover a mind ſo perverted? Strong, [138] I own, nay uncommon in its powers; for ſuch the mind of Clifton is: but its ſtrength is its diſeaſe.

And is it ſo certain that for me to love her is error, is weakneſs, is vice? No. Or, if it be, I have not yet diſcovered why. Oliver, ſhe ſhall hear me! Let her ſhew me my miſtake, if miſtaken I be, and I will deſiſt: but juſtice de⯑mands it, and ſhe ſhall hear me.

We are going to remove, at his re⯑peated inſtances, to the hotel where he reſides. He leads Sir Arthur as he pleaſes; but it grieved me to ſee her yield ſo readily. Now that I have diſ⯑covered her intentions, I no longer wonder. Omnipotent as the power of truth and virtue is, I yet cannot approve the deſign. The enterpriſes of virtue [139] itſelf may have their romance—I know not—This to me at leaſt is fatal—Could I—? I muſt conclude!—Loſe her?—For ever!—For ever!—I muſt conclude—

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

THE aſſiduity of Clifton, my dear Louiſa, is ſo great that we already ſeem to be acquaintance of ſeven years ſtand⯑ing. This is evidently his intention. His temper is eager, impatient of delay, quick in reſolving, and, if I do not miſtake, ſometimes precipitate. But his intellectual powers are of a very high order. His wit is keen, his invention [141] ſtrong, his language flowing and ele⯑gant, and his ideas and figures remarka⯑ble, ſometimes for their humour, and at others for their ſplendour. His preju⯑dices are many of them deep; nor are they few; but he ſpeaks them frankly, defends them boldly, and courts rather than ſhuns diſcuſſion. What then may not be hoped from a mind like his? Ought ſuch a mind to be neglected? No!—No!—Eternally no!—I have al⯑ready given a ſtrong hint of this to Frank.

I am perſuaded that, ſince you ſaw him, he is greatly improved in perſon. The regularity of his features, his florid complexion, tall ſtature, and the facility and grace of all his motions, are with him no common advantages.

He has attached himſelf exceedingly [142] to us, and has induced Sir Arthur to take apartments in the Hotel de l'Univer⯑ſité, where he reſides himſelf, and where the accommodations are much better, the ſituation more agreeable, and the rooms more ſpacious.

A little incident happened, when we removed, which was characteriſtic of the manners of the people, and drew forth a pleaſing trait of the acuteneſs of Clifton, and of his turn of thinking.

One of the men who helped us with our luggage, after being paid according to agreement, aſked, as is very cuſtomary with theſe people, for quelque choſe à boire; which Sir Arthur, not being very expert in the French idiom, underſtood literally. He accordingly ordered a bottle of the light common wine, and [143] being thirſty poured ſome into a tum⯑bler and drank himſelf firſt, then poured out ſome more, and offered the proter.

The man took the glaſs as Sir Arthur held it out to him; and, with ſome ſur⯑priſe and evident ſenſe of inſult in his countenance, ſaid to Sir Arthur—à moi, monſieur? To which Sir Arthur, per⯑fectly at a loſs to comprehend his mean⯑ing, made no anſwer; and the man, without taſting the liquor, ſet the glaſs down on a bench in the yard.

Clifton, well acquainted with the manners of the people, and knowing the man imagined Sir Arthur meant to in⯑ſult him, by giving him the ſame glaſs out of which he had drunken, with great alacrity took it up the moment the man had ſet it down, and ſaid—Non, mon [144] ami, c'eſt à moi—and drank off the wine. He then called for another tum⯑bler, and filling it gave it to the man.

The French are a people of active and lively feelings; and the poor fellow, after receiving the glaſs from Clifton, took up the other empty tumbler, pour⯑ed the wine back into it, ſaid in his own language forgive me, ſir; I ſee I am in the wrong; and immediately drank out of the tumbler which he had before re⯑fuſed.

Each country you perceive, Louiſa, has its own ideas of delicacy. The French think it very ſtrange to ſee two people drink out of the ſame veſſel. Not however that I ſuppoſe every porter in Paris would refuſe wine, if offered, for the ſame reaſon. Neither would they [145] all with the ſame ſenſibility be ſo ready to retract.

The good humour as well as the good ſenſe of Clifton's reproof pleaſed me highly; and we muſt all acknowledge him our ſuperior, in the art of eaſily con⯑forming to the cuſtoms of foreigners, and in readily pardoning even their abſurdi⯑ties. For foreigners, Louiſa, have their abſurdities, as well as ourſelves.

But I have not yet done. I have another anecdote to relate of Clifton, from which I augur ſtill more.

I had obſerved our Thomas in conver⯑ſation with a man, who from his dreſs and talking to Thomas I knew muſt be an Engliſhman; and the care which it becomes me to take, that ſuch well⯑meaning but ſimple people ſhould not [146] be deceived, led me to inquire who he was. Thomas began to ſtammer; not with guilt, but with a deſire of telling a ſtory which he knew not how to tell ſo well as he wiſhed. At laſt we underſtood from him it was a young Engliſh lad, who had neither money, meat, nor work, and who was in danger of ſtarving, be⯑cauſe he could find no means of return⯑ing to his own country. Poor Thomas finding himſelf among a kind of hea⯑thens, as he calls the French, pitied his caſe very ſincerely, and had ſupplied him with food for ſome days, promiſing that he would ſoon take an opportunity of ſpeaking to me, whom he is pleaſed to call the beſt young lady in the world; and I aſſure you, Louiſa, I am proud of his good word.

[147] Your brother heard this account, and immediately ſaid—[For indeed I wiſh⯑ed to know what his feelings were, and therefore did not offer to interrupt him.] "Deſire him to come up. Let me queſtion him. If he be really what he ſays, he ought to be relieved: but he is very likely ſome idle fellow, who being Engliſh makes a trade of watching for Engliſh families, and living upon this tale." So far ſaid I to myſelf, Clifton, all is right. I therefore let him proceed. The lad came up, for he was not twenty, and your brother began his interroga⯑tions.

You are an Engliſh lad, you ſay?

Yes, ſir.

Where do you come from?

Wolverhampton.

[148] What is your trade?

A buckle plater.

And did you ſerve out your appren⯑ticeſhip?

No.

How ſo?

My maſter and I quarrelled, he ſtruck me, I beat him, and was obliged to run away.

Where did you run to?

I went to London. I have an aunt there, a poor woman, who chairs for gentlefolks, and I went to her.

How came you here?

She got me a place, with a young gentleman who was going on his travels. I had been among horſes before I was bound 'prentice, and he hired me as his groom.

[149] But how came you to leave him?

He is a very paſſionate gentleman. He has got a French footman, who ſtands and ſhrugs, and lets him give him thumps, and kicks; and one morning, becauſe one boot was brighter than t'other, he was going to horſewhip me. So I told him to keep his hands off, or I would knock him down.

Why you are quite a fighting fellow.

No, ſir; I never fought with any body in my life, if they did not firſt meddle with me.

So you quarrelled with your maſter, beat him, ran away from your appren⯑ticeſhip, got a place, came into a foreign country, and then, becauſe your maſter did not happen to pleaſe you, threaten⯑ed to knock him down!

[150] The poor fellow was quite confound⯑ed, and I was half out of breath from an apprehenſion that Clifton had taken the wrong ſide of the queſtion. But I was ſoon relieved—This tale is too artleſs to be falſe, ſaid he, turning to me.—You cannot conceive, Louiſa, the infinite pleaſure which theſe few words gave me—I ſtill continued ſi⯑lent, and watching, not the lad, but your brother.

So you never meddle with any body who does not meddle with you?

No, ſir. I would ſcorn it.

But you will not be horſewhipped?

No, ſir, I won't; ſtarve or not ſtarve.

I need not aſk you if you are honeſt, ſober, and induſtrious; for I know you will ſay you are.

[151] Why ſhould I not, ſir?

You have nobody to give you a cha⯑racter, have you?

My maſter is ſtill in Paris; but to be ſure he will give me a bad one.

Can you tell me his addreſs—where he lives?

I can't tell it in French, but here it is.

Can you write and read?

Yes, ſir.

And how long have you been out of place?

Above ſeven weeks.

Why did not you return to England, when you received your wages?

I had no money. I owed a fellow ſervant a guinea and a half, which I had borrowed to buy ſhirts and ſtockings.

And thoſe you have made away with?

[152] Not all. I was obliged to take ſome of them to Mount Pity.

Mont Piété, you mean ^*.

Belike yes, ſir.

Well, here's ſomething for you, for the preſent; and come to me to-morrow morning.

The lad went away, with more in his countenance than he knew how to put into ſpeech; and I aſked Clifton what he meant by deſiring him to come again. I intend, madam, ſaid he, to make ſome inquiries of his maſter; and if they pleaſe me to hire him; for I want a ſer⯑vant, and if I am not deceived he will make a good one.

[153] Think, Louiſa, whether I were not pleaſed with this proof of diſcernment. By this accident, I learned more of Clifton's character in ten minutes than perhaps I might have done in ten months. He ſaw, for I wiſhed him to ſee, that he had acted exactly as I could have deſired.

He appears indeed to be a favourite with ſervants, which certainly is no bad omen. He is Laura's delight. He is a free gentleman, a generous gentle⯑man, [I ſuppoſe he gives her money] a merry gentleman, and has the hand⯑ſomeſt perſon, the fineſt eye, and the beſt manner of dreſſing his hair ſhe ever beheld!—She quite overflows in his praiſe.

In a few days we are to go to the [154] country ſeat of the Marquis of Ville⯑brun, where we intend to ſtay about a fortnight. Your brother has introduced us to all his friends, among whom is the marquis; and, as we are intimate with our ambaſſador, we have more invita⯑tions than we can accept, and acquaint⯑ance than we can cultivate. Frank is to go with us.

And now, Louiſa, with anxiety I own, my mind is far from ſatisfied. I have not thought ſufficiently to convince myſelf, yet act as though I had. It is little leſs than open war between your brother and Frank. The ſuppoſition of a duty, too ſerious to be trifled with, has induced me to favour rather than repulſe the too eager advances of Clif⯑ton; [155] though this ſuppoſed duty has been but half examined.

The deſire to retrieve mind cannot but be right; yet the mode may be wrong.

At this moment my heart bitterly re⯑proaches me, for not proceeding on more certain principles. The merit of Frank is great, almoſt beyond the power of ex⯑preſſion. I need not tell my Louiſa which way affection, were it encouraged, would incline: but I will not be its ſlave. Nor can I reproach myſelf for erring on that ſide; but for acting, in reſiſtance to inclination, with too little reſerve. No arguments I believe can ſhew me that I have a right to ſport with the feelings of my father, and my friends; though thoſe feelings are found⯑ed [156] in prejudice. But my inquiries ſhall be more minute; and my reſolves will then be more permanent and ſelf-com⯑placent.

Adieu, my beſt and deareſt friend. Write often: reprove me for all that I do amiſs—Would my mind were more accordant with itſelf! But I will take it roundly to taſk.

LETTER XXXII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

THIS brief memorandum of my ac⯑tual exiſtence, dear Fairfax, will be de⯑livered to you by the Chevalier de Vil⯑leroi; a worthy gentleman, to whom I have given letters to my friends, and who will meet you at Turin.

I have not a moment to waſte; there⯑fore can only ſay that I am laying cloſe [158] ſiege; that my lines of circumvallation do not proceed quite ſo rapidly as my deſires; but that I have juſt blown up the main baſtion; or, in other words, have prevailed on Sir Arthur to ſend this hornet, this Frank Henley, back to England. The fellow's aſpiring inſo⯑lence is not to be endured. His merit is ſaid to be uncommon. 'Tis certain he ſtrains after the ſublime; and in fact is too deep a thinker, nay I ſuſpect too deep a plotter, not to be dangerous. Adieu.

I am in a rage! Curſe the fellow! He has countermined me; blown up [159] my works! I might eaſily have foreſeen it, had I not been a ſtupid boody. I could beat my thick ſcull againſt the wall! I have neither time nor patience to tell you what I mean; except that here he is, and here he will remain, in my deſpite.

LETTER XXXIII.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

IT is as I told thee, Oliver. He fears me. He treats me, as he thinks, with the neglect and contempt due to an unqualified intru⯑der: but he miſtakes his own motives, and acts with inſidious jealouſy; nay deſcends to artifice. His alarmed ſpirit never reſts; he is ever on the watch, leſt at entering a room, deſcending a ſtaircaſe, ſtepping into [161] her carriage, or on any other occaſion, I ſhould touch her hand. He has endea⯑voured to exclude me from all their par⯑ties; and, though often ſucceſsfully, has ſeveral times been foiled.

But his greateſt diſappointment was this very morning. Sir Arthur ſent for me, laſt night, to inform me I muſt re⯑turn to Wenbourne-Hill, with ſome ne⯑ceſſary orders, which he did not chooſe to truſt to the uſual mode of conveyance. I immediately ſuſpected, and I think I did not do him injuſtice, that my rival was the contriver of this ſudden neceſſity of my return.

I received Sir Arthur's orders, but was determined immediately to acquaint Anna.

Clifton was preſent. She was ſur⯑priſed; [162] and, I doubt not, had the ſame ſuſpicions as myſelf; for, after telling me I muſt not think of going, ſhe obliged Clifton himſelf to be the inter⯑ceſſor, with Sir Arthur, that I ſhould ſtay. His reluctance, feigned aſſent, and chagrin were viſible.

Her words and manner to me were kind; nay I could almoſt think they were ſomewhat more. She ſeemed to feel the injuſtice aimed at me; and to feel it with as much reſentment as a ſpi⯑rit ſo benignant could know.

What!—Can he not be ſatisfied with half excluding me from her ſociety; with endeavouring to ſink me as low in her eſtimation as in his own; and with ex⯑erciſing all that arrogance which he ſup⯑poſes becoming the character of a gentle⯑man?

[163] Oliver, I am determined in my plan: my appeal ſhall be to her juſtice. If it prove to be ill-founded, why then I muſt acquieſce. I am angry at my own delay, at my own want of courage; but I ſhall find a time, and that quickly. At leaſt, if condemned I muſt be, I will be heard; but equity I think is on my ſide—Yes—I will be heard.

LETTER XXXIV.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

AID me if thou canſt, Oliver, to think, or rather to unravel my own en⯑tangled thoughts. Do not ſuffer me to continue in a ſtate of deluſion, if thou perceiveſt it to be ſuch. Be explicit; tell me if thou doſt but ſo much as fore⯑bode: for at moments I myſelf deſpond; though at others I am wafted to the hea⯑ven [165] of heavens, to certainty, and bliſs unutterable. If I deceive myſelf?—Well!—And if I do, what is to follow?—Raſhneſs?—Cowardice?—What! Baſely abandon duty, virtue, and energy?—No!

Looks, words, appearances, daily events are all ſo contradictory, that the warfare of hope and fear increaſes, and becomes violent, almoſt to diſtraction! Clifton is openly countenanced by Sir Arthur, treated kindly by her, and is in⯑ceſſant in every kind of aſſiduity. His qualities are neither mean, inſignificant, nor common. No: they are brilliant, and rare. With a perſon as near per⯑fection as his mind will permit it to be, a knowledge of languages, a taſte for the fine arts, much bravery, high notions of [166] honour, a more than common ſhare of wit, keen and ungovernable feelings, an impatience of contradiction, and an ob⯑ſtinacy in error, he is a compound of jarring elements, that augur tempeſts and peril. Vain, haughty, and ſelf-willed, his family, his fortune, his ac⯑compliſhments and himſelf are the pic⯑tures that faſcinate his eye. It is at⯑tracted, for a moment, by the ſuperior powers of another; but all his paſſions and propenſities forebode that he is not to be held, even by that link of ada⯑mant.

And is ſhe to be dazzled then by this glare? Can her attention be caught by perſon, attracted by wit? And does ſhe not ſhrink from that haughty pride which ſo continually turns to contem⯑plate [167] itſelf; from thoſe paſſions which are ſo eager to be gratified; and from thoſe miſtakes which it will be ſo almoſt impoſſible to eradicate? Even were I to loſe her, muſt I ſee her thus de⯑voted?—The thought is—I cannot tell what! Too painful for any word ſhort of extravagance.

Impreſſed by feelings like theſe, the other day I ſat down and threw a few ideas into verſe. The mind, ſurcharged with paſſion, is eager by every means to diſburthen itſelf. It is always prompt to hope that the expreſſion of it's feel⯑ings, if any way adequate, cannot but produce the effect it wiſhes; and I wrote the following ſong, or love-elegy, or what thou wilt.

Thou knoweſt her ſupreme excellence in muſic; the taſte, feeling, and ex⯑preſſion with which ſhe plays; and th [...] enchanting ſweetneſs and energy with which ſhe ſings. Having written my verſes, I took them, when ſhe was buſie [...] [169] elſewhere, to the piano-forte; and made ſome unſucceſsful attempts to pleaſe myſelf with an air to them. Sir Arthur came in, and I left my ſtanzas on the deſk of the inſtrument; very inadver⯑tently I aſſure thee, though I was after⯑ward far from ſorry that they had been forgotten.

I have frequently indulged myſelf in ſitting in an antichamber, to liſten to her playing and ſinging. I have thought that ſhe is moſt impaſſioned when alone, and perhaps all muſicians are ſo. The next day, happening to liſten in the manner I have mentioned, I heard her ſinging an air which was new to me, and remarked that ſhe once or twice ſtopped, to conſider and make alterations.

[170] I liſtened again and found ſhe had been ſetting my verſes!

By my ſoul, Oliver, I have no con⯑ception of rapture ſuperior to what I experienced at that moment! She had collected all her feelings, all her inven⯑tion, had compoſed a moſt beautiful air, and ſung it with an effect that muſt have been heard to be ſuppoſed poſſi⯑ble. The force with which ſhe uttered every thought to the climax of daring, and the compaſſion which ſhe infuſed into the concluſion—"But do not dare to love"—produced the moſt affecting contraſt I ever heard.

P. S. The day after tomorrow, we are to ſet off for the Chateau de Vil⯑lebrun; on a party of pleaſure, as it is called. Thus men run from place to place, without knowing of what they are in ſearch. They feel vacuity; a want of ſomething to make them happy; but what that ſomething is they have not yet diſcovered.

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

IFEAR, my dear Louiſa, I am at I reſent hurried forward a little too faſt to act with all the caution which I could wiſh. My mind is not coherent, not at peace with itſelf. Ideas ruſh in multi⯑tudes, and more than half obſcure my underſtanding.

I find that, ſince we left Wenbourne-Hill, [177] Frank has grown upon my thoughts very ſtrangely. Indeed till then I was but partially acquainted with his true character, the energy of which is very uncommon. But, though his virtues are become more conſpicuous, the im⯑pediments that forbid any thought of union are not leſſened.

My chief difficulty is, I do not yet know how to give full effect to my ar⯑guments, ſo as to produce ſuch convic⯑tion as he ſhall be unable to reſiſt. Let me do but this, and I have no doubt of his perfect acquieſcence, and reſignation. But, ſhould I fail, the warfare of the paſ⯑ſions will be prolonged; and, for a time, a youth whoſe worth is above my praiſe rendered unhappy. A ſenſe of injuſtice, committed by the perſon of whom, per⯑haps, [178] he thought too highly to ſuppoſe it poſſible that either error or paſſion ſhould render her ſo culpable, may prey upon his peace, and deſtroy the felicity of one to whom reaſon and recollection tell me I cannot wiſh too much good.

I am convinced I have been guilty of another miſtake. I have on various oc⯑caſions been deſirous of expreſſing ap⯑probation, mingled with eſteem and friendſhip. He has extorted it from me. He has obliged me to feel thus. And why, have I conſtantly aſked myſelf, ſhould I repreſs or conceal ſenſations that are the dues of merit? No: they ought not to have been repreſſed, or concealed, but they ought to have been rendered intelligible, incapable of miſ⯑conſtruction, and not liable to a meaning [179] which they were never intended to con⯑vey. For, if ever they were more than I ſuppoſe, I have indeed been guilty.

Yes, my Louiſa, let me diſcharge my conſcience. Let no accuſation of deceit reſt with me. I can endure any thing but ſelf-reproach. I avow, therefore, Frank Henley is, in my eſtimation, the moſt deſerving man I have ever known. A man that I could love infinitely. A man whoſe virtues I do and muſt ever love. A man in whoſe company my heart aſſures me I could have enjoyed years of happineſs. If the caſuiſts in ſuch caſes ſhould tell me this is what they mean by love, why then I am in love.

But if the being able, without a mur⯑mur, nay cheerfully, to marry another, [180] or ſee him properly married, if the poſſeſ⯑ſion of the power and the reſolution to do what is right, and if an unſhaken will to exert this power prove the contrary, why then I am not in love.

When I may, without treſpaſſing on any duty, and with the full approbation of my own heart, yield up its entire af⯑fections, the man to whom they ſhall be devoted ſhall then find how much I can love.

My paſſions muſt be, ought to be, and therefore ſhall be, under my control; and, being conſcious of the purity of my own intentions, I have never thought that the emanations of mind ought to be ſhackled by the dread of their being miſ⯑interpreted. It is not only cowardly, but in my opinion pernicious.

[181] Yet, with reſpect to Frank, I fear this principle has led me into an error. Among other eſcapes of this kind, there is one which has lately befallen me, and for which I doubt I am reprehenſible.

Frank has written a ſong, in which his feelings and ſituation are very ſtrongly expreſſed. He left it on my muſic deſk, by accident; for his character is too open, too determined, to ſubmit to arti⯑fice. The words pleaſed me, I may ſay affected me, ſo very much that I was tempted to endeavour to adapt an air to them; which, when it was written, I ſe⯑veral times repeated, and accompanied myſelf on the piano-forte. Your bro⯑ther came in juſt as I had ended; and, from a hint which he purpoſely gave, I [182] ſuſpect that Frank had been liſtening in the antichamber.

The behaviour of Frank afterward confirmed the ſuppoſition. He followed your brother, and ſat down while we con⯑verſed. His whole ſoul ſeemed abſorbed; but not, as I have ſometimes ſeen it, in melancholy. Satisfaction, pleaſure, I know not whether rapture would be too ſtrong a word for the expreſſions which were diſcoverable in his countenance.

My own mind had the moment before been impaſſioned; and the ſame ſenſa⯑tions thrilling as it were through my veins might miſlead me, and induce me to ſuppoſe things that had no exiſtence. Still I do not think I was miſtaken. And if not, what have I done? Have [183] I not thoughtleſsly betrayed him into a belief that I mean to favour a paſſion which I ſhould think it criminal to en⯑courage?

I know not why I delay ſo long to ex⯑plain my ſentiments. It is the weak fear of not doing juſtice to my cauſe; of not convincing, and of making him un⯑happy, for whom I would ſacrifice my life, every thing but principle, to make him the very reverſe.

However this muſt and ſhall ſoon be ended. I do not pretend to fix a day, but it ſhall not be a very diſtant one. I will arrange my thoughts, collect my whole force, and make an eſſay which I am convinced cannot fail, unleſs by my fault. The taſk is perhaps the moſt ſevere I have ever yet undertaken. I will [184] remember this, and I hope my exertions will be adequate.

Adieu, my dear Louiſa: and, when you come to this place, imagine me for a moment in your arms.

LETTER XXXVI.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

NEVER was fellow ſo peſtered with malverſe accidents as I am; and all of my own contriving! I am the prince of Numſkulls! The journey to the Chateau was a project of my own; and whom ſhould I meet here but the Count de Beaunoir! The very ſame with whom [186] I was prevented from fighting, by this inſolent ſon of a ſteward! They knew each other inſtantly; and the whole ſtory was told in the preſence of Anna. My fooliſh pride would never before let me mention to her that a fellow, like him, could oblige me to put up the ſword I had drawn in anger. Nor can I now tell why I did not run him through, the inſtant he dared to inter⯑fere!

I cut a curſed ridiculous figure! But the youth is running up a long ſcore, which I foreſee he will ſhortly be obliged to diſcharge. Damn him! I cannot think of him with common patience! I know not why I ever mention his name!

I have raiſed another neſt of waſps [187] about my ears. The French fops, here, all buzz and ſwarm around her; each making love to her, with all the ſhrugs, grimaces, and ready made raptures of which he is maſter; and to which I am obliged patiently to liſten, or ſhew my⯑ſelf an aſs. Theſe fellows ſubmit to every kind of monopoly, except of wo⯑man; and to pretend an excluſive right to her is, in their opinion, only worthy of a barbarian. But the moſt forward and tormenting of them all is my quon⯑dam friend, the Count; who is half a lunatic, but of ſo diverting a kind that, ere a man has time to be angry, he ei⯑ther cuts a caper, utters an abſurdity, or acts ſome mad antic or other, that ſets gravity at defiance.

Not that any man, who had the ſmall⯑eſt [188] pretenſions to common ſenſe, could be jealous, either of him or any one of theſe apes. And yet jealous I am! My dotage, Fairfax, is come very ſuddenly upon me; and neither you, nor any one of the ſpirited fellows, whoſe com⯑pany I uſed to delight in, can deſpiſe me half ſo much as I deſpiſe myſelf—A plebeian!—A—! I could drink gall, eat my elbows, renounce all my gods, and turn Turk!—Ay, laugh if you will; what care I?—

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

IN compliance with the very warm en⯑treaties of our kind French friends, we have been hurried away from the me⯑tropolis ſooner than was intended. We are at preſent in the country, at the Cha⯑teau de Villebrun; where, if we are not merry, it is not for the want of laughing. [195] Our feet and our tongues are never ſtill. We dance, talk, ſing, ride, ſail, or ra⯑ther paddle about in a ſmall but roman⯑tic lake; in ſhort we are never out of exerciſe.

Clifton is as active as the beſt, and is very expert in all feats of agility. With the French he ſeems to dance for the ho⯑nour of his nation; and, with me, from a deſire to prove that the man who makes pretenſions to me, which he now does openly enough, is capable of every excellence.

You know, Louiſa, how much I de⯑ſpiſe the affectation of reſerve; but he is ſo enterpriſing a youth that I am ſome⯑times obliged, though very unwillingly, to exert a little mild authority.

The French, old or young, ugly or [196] handſome, all are lovers; and are as liberal of their amorous ſighs, and ad⯑dreſſes, as if each were an Adonis. Clifton is well acquainted with foreign manners, or I can perceive their gal⯑lantry to me would make him half mad. As it is, he has been little leſs than rude, to one or two of the moſt forward of my pretended admirers.

I ſpeak in the plural, as if we were ra⯑ther in town than at a country ſeat; and ſo we appear to be. The French nobility do not ſeem to have any taſte for ſoli⯑tude. Their love of variety induces them to change the ſcene; but the ſame tumult of gueſts and viſitors, coming and going, is every where their delight. Whatever can attract company they ſeek with avidity. I am dear to them, [197] becauſe I am an Engliſh beauty, as they tell me, and all the world is deſirous of paying its court to me.

Clifton has equal or perhaps greater merits of the ſame kind. And I aſſure you, Louiſa, the women here can pay their court more artfully and almoſt as openly as the men.

Frank is idolized by them, becauſe he reads Shakeſpeare. You would won⯑der to hear the praiſes they beſtow upon him, and which indeed he richly de⯑ſerves, though not one in ten of them underſtands a word he ſays. C'eſt beau! C'eſt magnifique! C'eſt ſuperbe! C'eſt ſub⯑lime! Such is their continual round of good-natured ſuperlatives, which they apply on all occaſions, with a ſincere de⯑ſire to make others as happy as they en⯑deavour [198] to perſuade themſelves to be. Frank treats their gallantry with a kind of ſilent contempt, otherwiſe he would be a much greater favourite.

Perhaps you will be ſurpriſed to find me ſtill guilty of procraſtination, and to hear me deſcribing French manners, inſtead of the mode in which I addreſſed a youth whom I have accuſed myſelf of having, in a certain ſenſe, miſled, and kept in ſuſpenſe. I can only anſwer that my intentions have been fruſtrated; chiefly indeed by this country excurſion, though in part by other accidents. My mind has not indulged itſelf in indo⯑lence; it could not; it is too deeply in⯑tereſted. But, the more I have thought, the more have I been confirmed in my former opinion. This is the hour of [199] trial: this is the time to prove I have ſome real claims to that ſuperiority which I have been ſo ready to flatter myſelf I poſſeſs. Were there nothing to regret, nay were there not ſomething to ſuffer, where would be the merit of victory?—But, on the other hand, how much is there to gain!—A mind of the firſt order to be retrieved!—A Clifton!—A brother of Louiſa!

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

MY alarms, Louiſa, increaſe; and with them my anxious wiſhes for an eclairciſſement with Frank. Clifton has too ſtrongly imbibed high but falſe notions of honour and revenge. His quick, apt, and verſatile talents are in⯑dubitable. He wants nothing but the [208] power to curb and regulate his paſſions, to render him all that his generous and excellent ſiſter could deſire. But at pre⯑ſent his ſenſibility is too great. He ſcarcely can brook the ſlighteſt tokens of diſapprobation. He is rather too firmly perſuaded that he deſerves ap⯑plauſe, and admiration; and that re⯑proof he ſcarcely can deſerve: or, if he did, to ſubmit to it he imagines would be diſhonourable.

Frank and he behave more than uſu⯑ally cool to each other: I know not why, unleſs it has been occaſioned by an incident which happened yeſterday. Clifton has bought an Engliſh hunter, from one of his countrymen at Paris, which he was exhibiting to his French friends, whoſe horſemanſhip is very dif⯑ferent [209] from ours, and who were ſurpriſed to ſee him ride ſo fearleſly over gates and other impediments. They conti⯑nued their airing in the park of Ville⯑brun, and turned round to a kind of haha, which was both deep and wide, and about half full of water, by the ſide of which they ſaw a party of ladies ſtand⯑ing, and me among the reſt. Frank was with us.

One of the gentlemen aſked whether the horſe could leap over the haha: to which Clifton made no anſwer, but im⯑mediately clapped ſpurs to his hunter, and over he flew. The whole company, gentlemen and ladies, broke out into exclamations of ſurpriſe; and Clifton turned his horſe's head round, and re⯑gained his former place.

[210] While they were wondering, Frank Henley happened to make it a matter of doubt whether a man or a horſe could leap the fartheſt; and Clifton, continu⯑ally in the habit of contending with Frank, ſaid it was ridiculous to ſtart ſuch an argument, unleſs he would firſt ſhew that he himſelf could make the ſame leap. Frank, piqued in his turn, retired a few yards; and, without pulling off his coat or deigning to leap, he made a ſhort run and a hop and ſprung over.

You may imagine that the kind and good folks, who love to be aſtoniſhed, and ſtill more to tell the greatneſs of their aſtoniſhment, were manifold in their interjections. Frank, in order to rejoin the company, was obliged a ſecond time to croſs the haha; which he did with [211] the ſame ſafety and truly amazing agi⯑lity as he had done before.

Clifton, indulging his wrong habits, though I have no doubt admiring Frank as much as the reſt, told him in a kind of ſarcaſtic banter that, though he could not prove the equality of mankind, he had at leaſt proved himſelf equal to a horſe. To which Frank replied he was miſtaken; for that he had ſhewn him⯑ſelf equal to the horſe and his rider.

This anſwer I fear dwells upon the mind of Clifton; and I ſcarcely myſelf can tell whether it were or were not worthy of Frank. How can Clifton be wilfully blind to ſuch courage, rectitude of heart, underſtanding and genius?

The ſtern unrelenting fortitude of Frank, in the cauſe of juſtice, and ſome [212] fymptoms of violence in the impetuous Clifton, have inſpired me with appre⯑henſions; and have induced me to be⯑have with more reſerve and coldneſs to Frank than I ever before aſſumed.

Yet, Louiſa, my heart is wrung to ſee the effect it produces. He has a mind of ſuch diſcriminating power, ſuch magnanimity, that an injury to it is a deep, a double ſin; and every look, eve⯑ry action teſtify that he thinks himſelf injured, by the diſtance with which I behave. Oh that he himſelf might be impelled to begin the ſubject with which my mind is labouring!

This is wrong; I am aſhamed of my own cowardice. Yet would there not be ſomething terrifying in a formal ap⯑pointment, to tell him what it ſeems [213] muſt be told?—Yes, Louiſa, muſt—And is there not danger he ſhould think me ſevere; nay unjuſt?—Would it were over!—I hope he will not think ſo of me!—It muſt be done!—Muſt!—Muſt!—

Indeed, Louiſa, I could be a very woman—But I will not!—No, no!—It is paſſed—I have put my hand⯑kerchief to my eyes and it is gone—I have repreſſed an obſtinate heaving of the heart—

Let her blame me, if I deſerve it, but my Louiſa muſt ſee me as I am—Yet I will conquer—Be ſure I will—But I muſt not ſing his ſong any more!

LETTER XXXIX.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

OH, my friend, my heart is torn! I am on the rack! My thoughts are all tumult! My paſſions rebel! I ſeem to have yielded up the beſt prerogative of man, reaſon; and to have admitted re⯑volt, anarchy, and deſolation!

Her manner is changed! Wholly!

[215] She is become cold, reſerved; has marked me out for neglect; ſmiles on me no more; not a ſigh eſcapes her. And why? What have I done? I am uncon⯑ſcious. Have I been too preſuming? Perhaps ſo. But why did her looks ne⯑ver till now ſpeak her meaning as intelli⯑gibly as they do at preſent? I could not then have miſtaken them. Why, till now, has ſhe ſeemed to regard me with that ſweet amenity which was ſo flatter⯑ing to hope?

Perhaps, in the diſtraction of my thoughts, I am unjuſt to her. And ſhall I, pretending as I do to love ſo pure, ſhall I become her accuſer? What if ſhe meant no more than that commerce of grateful kindneſs, which knits toge⯑ther [216] human ſociety, and renders it de⯑lightful?

Yet this ſudden change! So evi⯑dently intentional! The ſmiles too which ſhe beſtows on the brother of Louiſa, and the haughty airs of triumph which he aſſumes, what can theſe be? Confident in himſelf, ardent in his de⯑ſires, unchecked by thoſe fears which are the offspring of true delicacy, his paſſions violent, and his pride almoſt inſufferable, he thinks he loves. But he is ignorant of the alarms, the tremors, the "fitful fevers" of love.

I cannot endure my preſent torture. I muſt ſeek a deſperate end to it, by explanation. Why do I delay? Coward that I am! What worſe can happen than [217] deſpair? And is not deſpair itſelf pre⯑ferable to that worſt of fiends, ſuſpenſe? What do I mean by deſpair? Would I, being rejected, deſert my duty, ſink into ſelf, and poorly linger in wretched⯑neſs; or baſely put an end to exiſtence? Violently end that which ought to be devoted to the good of others?—How did ſo infernal a thought enter my mind?—Can I be ſo very loſt a thing?—No!—Deſpair is ſome⯑thing confuſed, ſomething horrid: I know not what. It may intrude upon me, at black and diſmal intervals; but it ſhall not overwhelm me. I will ſhake it off. I will meet my deſtiny.

The clouds are gathering; the ſtrom approaches; I hear the diſtant thunder rolling; this way it drives; it points at [218] me; it muſt ſuddenly burſt! Be it ſo. Grant me but the ſpirit of a man, and I yet ſhall brave its fury. If I am a poor braggart, a half believer in virtue, or virtuous only in words, the feeble victim then muſt juſtly periſh.

I cannot endure my torments! Can⯑not, becauſe there is a way to end them. It ſhall be done.

I bluſh to read, bluſh to recollect the rhapſodies of my own perturbed mind! Madman! 'Tis continually thus. Day after day I proceed, reaſoning, reprov⯑ing, doubting, wiſhing, believing and deſpairing, alternately.

Once again, where is this ſtrange im⯑poſſibility?—In what does it con⯑ſiſt?—Are we not both human be⯑ings?—What law of Nature has place [...] [219] her beyond my hopes?—What is rank? Does it imply ſuperiority of mind? Or is there any other ſuperiority?—Am I not a man?—And who is more? Have the titled earned their dignities by any proofs of exalted virtue? Were not theſe dignities things of accident, in which the owners had no ſhare, and of which they are generally unworthy? And ſhall hope be thus cowed and kill⯑ed, without my daring to exert the firſt and moſt unalienable of the rights of man, freedom of thought? Shall I not examine what theſe high diſtinctions truly are, of which the bearers are ſo vain?

This Clifton—! Thou knoweſt not how he treats me. And can ſhe ap⯑prove, can ſhe ſecond his injuſtice?— [220] Surely not!—Yet does ſhe not dedicate her ſmiles to him, her converſation, her time? Does ſhe not ſhun me, diſcoun⯑tenance me, and reprove me, by her ſilence and her averted eyes?

Once again it muſt and ſhall have an end!—I have repeated this too of⯑ten; but my next ſhall ſhew thee I am at length determined.

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

AN affair has juſt happened in this country which is the univerſal topic of converſation. The daughter of a noble and wealthy family has fallen in love with a man of uncommon learning, ſcience, and genius, but a muſician. In conſequence of his great ſkill and repu⯑tation, [222] he was employed to teach her muſic; and ſhe it appears was too ſenſi⯑ble, at leaſt for the decorum of our pre⯑ſent manners, of his worth.

The ability to diſcover his merit im⯑plies merit in herſelf, and the muſician and lady were equally enamoured of each other. A plan for elopement con⯑ſequently was laid, and put in exe⯑cution; but not effectually, for, before the lovers had paſſed the confines of the kingdom, they were purſued and overtaken.

The muſician knew his own perſonal danger, and by a ſtratagem fortunately eſcaped from his bonds, and attained a place of ſafety. The lady was brought back; and, from the ſeverity of the French laws and the ſuppoſed atrocity [223] of the crime, it is generally affirmed that the muſician, notwithſtanding his talents and fame, had he been ſecured, would have been executed.

I have mentioned this adventure, my dear Louiſa, not ſo much for it's own ſake as for what relates to myſelf. It was natural that I ſhould feel compaſſion for miſtakes, if miſtakes they be, which have ſo great an affinity to virtue; and that I ſhould plead for the lovers, and againſt the barbarity of laws ſo unjuſt and inhuman. For it is certain that, had not the muſician been put to death, his leaſt puniſhment would have been perpetual impriſonment.

In a former letter I mentioned the increaſing alarms of Sir Arthur; and [224] this was a fit opportunity for him to ſhew how very ſerious and great thoſe alarms are. He oppoſed me, while I argued in behalf of the lovers, with what might in him be called violence; af⯑firmed it was a crime for which no merit or genius could compenſate; highly ap⯑plauded thoſe wholeſome laws that pre⯑vented ſuch crimes, and preſerved the honour of noble families from attaint; la⯑mented the want of ſimilar laws in Eng⯑land; and ſpoke of the conduct of the young lady with a degree of bitterneſs which from him was unuſual. In fine, the ſpi⯑rit of his whole diſcourſe was evidently to warm me, and explicitly to declare what his opinions on this ſubject are.

Had I before wanted conviction, he [225] fully convinced me, on this occaſion, of the impoſſibility of any union between me and Frank Henley; at leaſt without ſacrificing the felicity of my father and my family, and from being generally and ſincerely beloved by them, render⯑ing myſelf the object of eternal reproach, and almoſt of hatred.

Previous to this converſation, I was uneaſy at the ſtate of my own mind, and particularly at what I ſuppoſe to be the ſtate of Mr. Henley's; and this uneaſi⯑neſs is at preſent very much increaſed.

Once again, Louiſa, it muſt immedi⯑ately have an end. I can ſupport it no longer. I muſt be firm. My half-ſtag⯑gering reſolution is now fixed. I cannot, muſt not doubt. My father and family [226] muſt not be ſacrificed to ſpeculative probabilities. Frank is the moſt de⯑ſerving of mankind; and that it ſhould be a duty to reject the moſt deſerving of mankind, as the friend of my life, my better ſelf, my huſband, is ſtrange; but I am nevertheleſs convinced that a duty it is. Yes; the conflicts of doubt are over. I muſt and will perſevere.

Poor Frank! To be guilty of injuſtice to a nature ſo noble, to wring a heart ſo generous, and to neglect deſert ſo un⯑equalled, is indeed a killing thought! But the ſtern the unrelenting dictates of neceſſity muſt be obeyed. The neglect the injuſtice and the cruelty are the world's, not mine: my heart diſavows them, revolts at them, deteſts them!

[227] Heaven bleſs my Louiſa, and give her ſuperior prudence to guard and pre⯑ſerve her from theſe too ſtrong ſuſcepti⯑bilities! May the angel of fortitude never forſake her, as ſhe ſeems half in⯑clined to do her poor