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

HERE are we, my dear girl, in the very height of preparation. We begin our journey ſouthward at five tomorrow morning. We ſhall make a ſhort ſtay in London, and then proceed to Paris. Expectation is on tiptoe: my buſy fancy [2] has pictured to itſelf Calais, Montreuil, Abbeville, in ſhort every place which the book of poſt roads enumerates, and ſome of which the divine Sterne has rendered ſo famous. I expect to find nothing but mirth, vivacity, fancy, and multitudes of people. I have read ſo much of the populouſneſs of France, the gaiety of its inhabitants, the magnifi⯑cence of its buildings, its fine climate, fertility, numerous cities, ſuperb roads, rich plains, and teeming vineyards, that I already imagine myſelf journeying through an enchanted land.

I have another pleaſure in proſpect. Pray have you heard that your brother is ſoon to be at Paris, on his return from Italy?—My father ſurpriſed me by informing me we ſhould probably [3] meet him in that capital. I ſuſpect Sir Arthur of an implication which his words perhaps will not authorize; but he aſked me, rather ſignificantly, if I had ever heard you talk of your bro⯑ther; and in leſs than five minutes wiſhed to know whether I had any ob⯑jections to marriage.

My father is exceedingly buſy with his head man, his plotter, his planner; giving directions concerning ſtill further improvements that are to be made, in his grounds and park, during our abſence. You know his mania. Improvement is his diſeaſe. I have before hinted to you that I do not like this factotum of his, this Abimelech Henley. The amiable qualities of his ſon more than compen⯑ſate for the meanneſs of the father; [4] whom I have long ſuſpected to be and am indeed convinced that he is artful, ſelfiſh, and honeſt enough to ſeek his own profit, were it at the expence of his employer's ruin. He is continually inſinuating new plans to my father, whom he Sir Arthurs, and Honours, and Nobles, at every word, and then perſuades him the hints and thoughts are all his own. The illiterate fellow has a language peculiar to himſelf; energetic but half unintelligible; compounded of a few fine phraſes, and an inundation of proverbial wiſdom and uncouth cant terms. Of the ſcanty number of polite words, which he has endeavoured to catch, he is very bountiful to Sir Arthur. ‘That's noble! That's great your no⯑ble honour! Well, by my truly, [5] that's an elegunt ideer! But I always ſaid your honour had more nobler and elegunter ideers than any other noble gentleman, knight, lord, or dooke, in every thing of what your honour calls the grand guſto.’ Pſhaw! It is ri⯑diculous in me to imitate his language; the cunning nonſenſe of which evapo⯑rates upon paper, but is highly cha⯑racteriſtic when delivered with all its attendant bows and cringes; which, like the accompaniments to a concerto, en⯑force the character of the compoſition, and give it full effect.

I am in the very midſt of bandboxes, portmanteaus, packing-caſes, and travel⯑ling trunks. I ſcarcely ever knew a mind ſo ſluggiſh as not to feel a certain degree of rapture, at the thoughts of [6] travelling. It ſhould ſeem as if the imagination frequently journeyed ſo faſt as to enjoy a ſpecies of ecſtaſy, when there are any hopes of dragging the cumbrous body after its flights.

I cannot baniſh the hints of Sir Arthur from my buſy fancy.—I muſt not I ought not to practiſe diſguiſe with any one, much leſs with my Louiſa; and I cannot but own that his queſtions ſuggeſted a plan of future happineſs to my mind, which if realized would be delightful. The brother of my dear Louiſa, the choſen friend of my heart, is to be at Paris. I ſhall meet him there. He cannot but reſemble his ſiſter. He can⯑not but be all generoſity, love, expan⯑ſion, mind, ſoul! I am determined to have a very ſincere friendſhip for him; [7] nay I am in danger of falling in love with him at firſt ſight! Louiſa knows what I mean by falling in love. Ah, my dear friend, if he be but half equal to you, he is indeed a matchleſs youth! Our ſouls are too intimately related to need any nearer kindred; and yet, ſince marry I muſt, as you emphatically tell me it will ſome time be my duty to do, I could almoſt wiſh Sir Arthur's queſtions to have the meaning I ſuſpect, and that it might be to the brother of my friend.

Do not call me romantic: if romance it be, it originates in the ſupreme ſatiſ⯑faction I have taken in contemplating the powers and beauties of my Louiſa's mind. Our acquaintance has been but ſhort, yet our friendſhip appears as if it [8] had been eternal. Our hearts underſtand each other, and ſpeak a language which, alas, we both have found to be unintel⯑ligible to the generality of the world.

Once more adieu. You ſhall hear from me again at London. Direct to me as uſual in Groſvenor Street.

P. S. I am ſorry to ſee poor Frank Henley look ſo dejected. He has many good, nay I am well perſuaded many great, qualities. Perhaps he is diſap⯑pointed at not being allowed to go with us; for which I know he petitioned his father, but was refuſed; otherwiſe I [9] could eaſily have prevailed on Sir Arthur to have conſented.

I am determined to take King Pepin ^*with me. It is ſurely the moſt intel⯑ligent of all animals; the unfeathered bipeds, as the French wits call us two⯑legged mortals, excepted. But no won⯑der: it was my Louiſa's gift; and, kiſſing her lips, imbibed a part of her ſpirit. Were I to leave it behind me, cats, and other good for nothing crea⯑tures, would teach it again to be ſhy, and ſuſpicious; and the preſent charm⯑ing exertion of its little faculties would decay. The developement of mind, even in a bird, has ſomething in it highly delightful.

[10] Why, my Louiſa, my friend, my ſiſter, ah, why are not you with me? Why do you not participate my plea⯑ſures, catch with me the riſing ideas, and enjoy the raptures of novelty? But I will forbear. I have before in vain ex⯑hauſted all my rhetoric. You muſt not, will not quit a languiſhing parent; and I am obliged to approve your determi⯑nation, though I cannot but regret the conſequence.

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

HEALTH, joy, and novelty attend the ſteps of my ever dear and charming Anna! May the whirling of your cha⯑riot wheels bring a ſucceſſion of thoughts as exhilarating as they are rapid! May gladneſs hail you through the day, and peace huſh you to ſleep at night! May [12] the hills and valleys ſmile upon you, as you roll over and beſide them; and may you meet feſtivity and fulneſs of content at every ſtep!

I too have my regrets. My heart is one-half with you; nay my beloved, my generous mamma has endeavoured to perſuade me to quit her, arguing that the inconvenience to her would be more than compenſated by the benefit accru⯑ing to myſelf. The dear lady, I ſincerely believe, loves you if poſſible better than ſhe does me, and pleaded ſtrenu⯑ouſly. But did ſhe not know it was im⯑poſſible ſhe ſhould prevail? She did. If my cares can prolong a life ſo pre⯑cious but half an hour, is it not an age? Do not her virtues and her wiſdom communicate themſelves to all around [13] her? Are not her reſignation, her for⯑titude, and her cheerfulneſs in pain, leſſons which I might traverſe kingdoms and not find an opportunity like this of learning? And, affection out of the queſtion, having ſuch high duties to perform, muſt I fly from ſuch an oc⯑caſion, afflicting though it be? No! Anna St. Ives herſelf muſt not tempt me to that. She is indeed too noble ſeriouſly to form ſuch a wiſh. Anſwer, is ſhe not?

Oh that I may be deceived, but I fear you expect too much from my brother. Oh that he might be worthy of my Anna! Not for my own ſake; for, as ſhe truly ſays, we [That is our fouls, for I know of no other we. We] cannot be more akin; but for his own. [14] He is the ſon of my beloved mother, and moſt devoutly do I wiſh he might be found deſerving of her and you. He would then be more deſerving than any man, at leaſt any young man, I have ever known. Though brother and ſiſter, he and I may be ſaid to have but little acquaintance. He has always been either at ſchool, or at college, or in town, or on his travels, or in ſome place where I did not happen to be, except for ſhort intervals. I have told you that his perſon is not diſpleaſing, that his temper appears to be prompt and daring, but gay, and that his manners I doubt are of that free kind which our young gentlemen affect.

To ſay the truth however, I have heard much in favour of Coke Clifton; [15] but then it has generally been either from perſons whoſe good word was in my opinion no praiſe, or from others who evidently meant to be civil to me, or to the family, by ſpeaking well of my bro⯑ther. I believe him to have much pride, ſome ambition, a high ſenſe of faſhion⯑able honour; that he ſpurns at threats, diſdains reproof, and that he does not want generoſity, or thoſe accompliſh⯑ments which would make him paſs with the world for a man whoſe alliance would be deſirable. But the huſband of my Anna [you perceive I have caught your tone, and uſe the word huſband as familiarly as if there were any ſerious in⯑tention of ſuch an event, and as if it were any thing more than the ſportive effuſion of fancy, or rather the momen⯑tary [16] expanſion of friendſhip] the huſ⯑band of my Anna ought to be more, infinitely more, than what the world un⯑derſtands by ſuch phraſes; if it can be ſaid to underſtand anything. Forgive the jingle, but, to pair with her, he ought to be her peer. And yet if ſhe wait till time ſhall ſend her ſuch a one, and that one every way proper for her alliance, in her father's opinion as well as in her own, I am afraid her chance of marriage will be infinitely ſmall.

Were I but aſſured that Coke Clifton would be as kind and as worthy a huſ⯑band, to Anna St. Ives, as any other whom it were probable accident ſhould ever throw in her way, I ſhould then indeed ſeriouſly wiſh ſuch a thought might be ſomething more than the tran⯑ſient [17] flight of fancy. But enough. You are on the wing to the city where you and he will probably meet. Examine him well; forget his ſiſter; be true to yourſelf and your own judgment, and I have no fear that you ſhould be deceived. If he prove better even than a ſiſter's hopes, he will find in me more than a ſiſter's love.

I like Sir Arthur's favourite, Abime⯑lech Henley, ſtill leſs than you do. My fears indeed are rather ſtrong. When once a taſte for improvement [I mean building and gardening improvement] becomes a paſſion, gaming itſelf is ſcarce⯑ly more ruinous. I have no doubt that Sir Arthur's fortune has ſuffered, and is ſuffering ſeverely; and that while that miſerly wretch, Abimelech, is deſtroying [18] the fabric, he is purloining and carrying off the beſt of the materials. I doubt whe⯑ther there be an acre of land in the oc⯑cupation of Sir Arthur, which has not coſt ten times its intrinſic value to make it better. It is aſtoniſhing how Sir Ar⯑thur can be [pardon the expreſſion, my dear] ſuch a dupe! I have before blamed, and muſt again blame you, for not exert⯑ing yourſelf ſufficiently to ſhew him his folly. It concerns the family, it concerns yourſelf, nearly. Who can tell how far off the moment is when it may be too late? My mamma has juſt heard of a new mortgage, in procuring of which the worthy Abimelech acted, or pretended to act, as agent: for I aſſure you I ſuſ⯑pect he was really the principal. Dur⯑ing my laſt viſit, if I do not miſtake, I [19] ſeveral times ſaw the pride of wealth be⯑traying itſelf; and only ſubdued by the ſuperior thirſt of gain.

Poor Frank Henley! Is it not mira⯑culous that ſuch a father ſhould have ſuch a ſon? I am tempted to give utter⯑ance to a ſtrange thought! Why ſhould I not? What is the opinion of the world; what are its prejudices, in the preſence of truth? Yet not to reſpect them is to entail upon ourſelves I know not what load of acrimony, contempt, and miſery! I muſt ſpeak—I never yet met a youth whom I thought ſo deſerv⯑ing of Anna St. Ives as Frank Henley! The obſtacles you will ſay are inſur⯑mountable. Alas! I fear they are. And therefore 'tis fortunate that the ſame thought has not more ſtrongly occurred [20] to you. Perhaps my caution would have been greater, but that I know your af⯑fections are free; and yet I confeſs I wonder that they are ſo. If it be the effect of your reaſon, the praiſe you me⯑rit is infinite: and I hope and believe it is; for, notwithſtanding all the tales I have heard and read, my mind is con⯑vinced of nothing more firmly than that the paſſion of love is as capable of being repreſſed, and conquered, as any other paſſion whatever: and you know we have both agreed that the paſſions are all of them ſubject to reaſon, when reaſon is ſufficiently determined to exert its power.

I have written a long letter; but, writ⯑ing to you, I never know when to end.

Heaven bleſs my Anna St. Ives!

LETTER III.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

OLIVER, I am wretched! The fee⯑ble Frank Henley is a poor miſerable being! The ſun ſhines, the birds war⯑ble, the flowers ſpring, the buds are burſting into bloom, all nature rejoices; yet to me this mirth, this univerſal joy, ſeems mockery—Why is this? Why do [22] I ſuffer my mind thus to be pervaded by melancholy? Why am I thus ſteeped in gloom?

She is going—Thurſday morning is the time fixed—And what is that to me?—Madman that I am!—Who am I? Does ſhe, can ſhe, ought ſhe to think of me?—And why not? Am I not a man; and is ſhe more than mortal?—She is! She is!—Shew me the mortal who pre⯑ſumes to be her equal!

But what do I wiſh? What would I have? Is it my intention or my deſire to make her wretched? What! Sink her whom I adore in the eſtimation of the world; and render her the ſcoff of the fooliſh, the vain, and the malignant?—I!—I make her wretched!—I!—

Oliver, ſhe treats me with indiffe⯑rence— [23] cold, calm, killing indifference! Yet kind, heavenly kind even in her coldneſs! Her cheerful eye never turns from me, nor ever ſeeks me. To her I am a ſtatue—Would I were! Why does ſhe not hate me? Openly and abſolutely hate me!—And could I wiſh her to love? Do I love? Do I? Dare I? Have I the temerity ſo much as to ſuſpect I love?—Who am I? The inſignificant ſon of—!

And who is ſhe? The daughter of a Baronet—Pſhaw! What is a Baronet?—Away with ſuch inſolent, ſuch ridicu⯑lous diſtinctions. She is herſelf! Let Folly and Inferiority keep their diſtance!

But I?—Low bred and vulgar let Pride and Error call me, but not villain! I the ſeducer of men's daughters! No⯑ble [24] men and ſtill nobler daughters! I! Why, would I be ſo very vile a thing? Would I, if I could?

Yet who ſhall benumb the underſtand⯑ing, chain up the fancy, and freeze ſen⯑ſation? Can I command myſelf deaf when ſhe ſings, dead when ſhe ſpeaks, or ruſh into idiotiſm to avoid her enchant⯑ments?

Deſpiſe me, Oliver, if thou wilt, but the deep ſenſe I have of my own folly does but increaſe the diſtemper of my brain. She herſelf pities me, yet does not ſuſ⯑pect my diſeaſe. 'Tis evident ſhe does not; for her ſoul is above artifice. She kindly aſked—was I not well? I owned I was not quite ſo cheerful as I could wiſh to be; and [wouldſt thou think it?] was preſumptuous enough to hint that [25] I thought the enlivening air of France might do me good. Thou ſeeſt how frantic I am! She anſwered with the ut⯑moſt eaſe, and without the moſt diſtant ſuſpicion of my ſelfiſh, my audacious mo⯑tive, that ſhe would ſpeak to Sir Arthur. But I was obliged to requeſt her to for⯑bear, till I had firſt tried to gain my fa⯑ther's conſent, of which indeed I had but feeble hopes.

Every way miſerable, why am I oblig⯑ed to think and ſpeak of my father with ſo little reſpect? Indeed he is—Well, well!—He is my father—I am con⯑vinced he is become wealthy; nay in⯑deed he gives me to underſtand as much, when he wiſhes to gain any purpoſe, by endeavouring to excite avarice in me, [26] which he hopes is, and perhaps ſuppoſes muſt be, mine and every man's ruling paſſion. Yet, no; he cannot: his com⯑plaints of me for the want of it are too heartfelt, too bitter.

He has kept me in ignorance, as much as was in his power. Reading, writing, and arithmetic is his grand ſyſtem of education; after which man has nothing more to learn, except to get and to hoard money. Had it not been for the few books I bought and the many I bor⯑rowed, together with the eſſential in⯑ſtruction which thy excellent father's learning and philanthropy enabled and induced him to give me, I ſhould pro⯑bably have been as illiterate as he could have wiſhed. A ſon after his own heart! [27] One of his moſt frequent and moſt paſ⯑ſionate reproaches is ‘the time I waſte in reading.’

I ſcarcely need tell thee he was almoſt in a rage, at my requeſt to accompany Sir Arthur to France; ſtating, as I did, that it ought to be and muſt be at his expence. Otherwiſe he cares but little where I go, being rather regarded by him as a ſpy on his actions than as his ſon. Thou canſt not conceive the con⯑tempt with which he treats me, for my want of cunning. He deſpiſes my ſenſe of philanthropy, honour, and that ſevere probity to which no laws extend. He ſpurns at the poſſibility of preferring the good of ſociety to the good of ſelf—But, once again, he is my father.

Prithee lend me thy Petrarch, and [28] ſend it in return by Thomas. I had no⯑thing to ſay, though I have written ſo much, except to aſk for this book, and to burden thee with my complaints. Re⯑member me kindly to thy moſt worthy father, and all the family. Thine,

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

OH, Louiſa! I have ſuch a narra⯑tive! Such accidents! Such—! But you ſhall hear.

We are arrived; and, thank God and good fortune, are all alive; which, every thing conſidered, is no ſmall conſolation. The chaiſe was at the door punctually at [30] five on Thurſday morning. Abimelech Henley had been very buſy with Sir Ar⯑thur over night; and was in cloſe con⯑ference with him again previous to our departure.

Frank too was there, as diſconſolate and as attentive as ever; active and watchful that every thing was as it ſhould be. How the difference between ſoul and ſoul diſcovers itſelf in ſuch ſcenes! I very much fear his father treats him unkindly, and that he grieves more than he ought; nay more than a perſon of his youth, ſtrong form, and ſtill ſtronger mind, could be ſuppoſed to grieve. I underſtand he very much la⯑ments the loſs of a college education, which the miſer his father could very well have beſtowed upon him, had not [31] his heart been as contracted as the mouth of his purſe.

Mr. Trenchard, luckily for Frank, early diſcovered his genius, and gratui⯑touſly aided him in his ſtudies. Frank reveres him as a more than father, and loves his ſon Oliver like a brother. He is but too ſenſible that a true father feeds the mind, and that he who only provides for the body is no better than a ſtep-fa⯑ther. I have ſome fear that there is ano⯑ther cauſe for his diſſatisfaction, and that he has cheriſhed ſome ſilly thoughts of an impoſſible nature. If ſo, an effort muſt be made which I hope will reſtore him to reaſon. And yet what right have I to conclude that he reaſons erroneouſly? Have I ſufficiently examined? This is a queſtion which has ſeveral times lately [32] forced itſelf upon my mind. I am not inſenſible of his high worth: it opens upon me daily. What I am going to relate will picture that worth better than any praiſe of mine. I will therefore con⯑tinue my narrative.

Every thing being adjuſted, off we went; I, Laura, and Sir Arthur, in the chaiſe, and one footman only with us, who was to ride before as our courier, and prepare horſes.

I told you of my intention to take King Pepin with me; but the morning of our departure was all hurry, and it ſeldom happens that ſomething is not forgotten, amid the tumult into which the paſſions ſeem to plunge as it were with delight, gratified with the confuſion which themſelves create. I muſt own I [33] was vexed and offended with myſelf, when I found that the ſomething over⯑looked on this occaſion was the gift of my Louiſa. Ingratitude with all its re⯑proaches roſe up to ſting me; and I immediately reſolved to puniſh myſelf, by informing my Louiſa how unworthy I am of the gifts of ſuch a friend. It was at the firſt ſtage where we changed horſes that I made this diſcovery. One moment I was inclined to petition Sir Arthur to ſtay, while a meſſenger ſhould be ſent; but the next I determined that my fault ſhould incur its due pains and penalties.

Every thing was ready; but juſt as we had ſeated ourſelves in the chaiſe, and were again proceeding on our jour⯑ney, one of the ſervants of the inn called [34] to Sir Arthur to ſtop, for young Mr. Henley was coming up full ſpeed on the bay mare. Frank and the bay mare are both famous through the whole coun⯑try. My father immediately prognoſti⯑cated ſome bad accident, and I began to be alarmed. Our fears however were ſoon diſſipated, his only errand being to bring my charming favourite.

I confeſs I was not a little moved by this mark of attention, which indeed is but one among many, as well as by the peculiarity of the youth's manner in de⯑livering the bird. He was fearful, viſi⯑bly fearful, that his deſire to oblige ſhould be thought officious. He at⯑tempted to apologize, but knew not what to ſay. I thanked him very ſin⯑cerely, and in the kindeſt manner I could; [35] and, ſeeing him booted, the thought in⯑ſtantly ſtruck me to requeſt Sir Arthur's permiſſion for him to accompany us to London, which I imagined might give him pleaſure.

The requeſt happened to coincide with ſome new project of alteration which Sir Arthur had conceived, and which, he ſaid, after having further digeſted, he could better communicate to Frank than deſcribe on paper. The mare is ſaid to be one of the beſt travellers in the kingdom; and, as ſhe was very capable of performing the journey, and the car⯑riage being rather heavily loaded, he ac⯑cordingly kept pace with us.

During the day we paſſed many de⯑lightful ſcenes, and enjoyed the charm⯑ing proſpects which the rich cultivation [36] of England, and the road we travelled, afford. Frank Henley was ſcarcely ever out of ſight, though he was rather watch⯑fully aſſiduous than communicative.

Sir Arthur, for his part, did not forget to point out to us what a charming park ſuch and ſuch grounds might be turned into; how pictureſque a temple, or a church ſteeple, would look in this place; what a fine effect a ſheet of water would have in that bottom; and how nobly a clump of trees would embelliſh the hill by which it was overlooked.

I believe I am a ſad wicked girl, Louiſa! I was once ſtrangely tempted to tell him I was much afraid his father had miſtaken the trade to which his ge⯑nius was beſt adapted, when he made him a baronet inſtead of a gardener. [37] However I had the grace to bite my tongue and be ſilent. He might have had the retort courteous upon me, and have replied that gardening was much the moſt honourable trade of the two. But he would never have thought of that anſwer.

Thus the day, as I tell you, paſſed pleaſantly and whimſically enough. But the night! Oh!—The night!—You ſhall hear.

It was the duſk of evening when we were at Maidenhead. We had then three ſtages to go, and Sir Arthur began to be alarmed by the rumours of depre⯑dations which had lately been committed on the road. I really do not know what to ſay to it; but there appears to be ſomething deeper in the doctrine of ſym⯑pathies [38] than ſuch ſilly girls as I can either account for or comprehend. I en⯑deavoured with all my might to oppoſe the ſenſation, and yet I found my father's fears were catching. Frank Henley in⯑deed begged of me, with great energy, not to be alarmed; for that he would die ſooner than I ſhould be inſulted. Upon my honour, Louiſa, he is a gallant youth!—You ſhall hear—But he is a brave, a gallant youth.

I cannot ſay but I wiſhed I were a man; though I am convinced it was a fooliſh wiſh, and that it is a great miſtake to ſuppoſe courage has any connexion with ſex; if we except, as we ought, the influence of education and habit. My dear mother had not the bodily ſtrength of Sir Arthur; but, with reſpect to cool [39] courage and active preſence of mind, I muſt ſay, Louiſa, there was no compa⯑riſon.

We ſet off, however, Frank having firſt provided himſelf with a hanger and a pair of piſtols; and he now kept cloſe to the chaiſe-door, without once quitting his ſtation. I believe Sir Arthur was heartily glad at being thus provided with a guard, as it were unexpectedly, and without any foreſight of his own. For, not to mention gold watches and trin⯑kets, he had more money with him than he would have choſen to have loſt, fright out of the queſtion.

We proceeded thus without moleſta⯑tion as far as Brentford; but not with⯑out receiving freſh hints that it was very poſſible we might be viſited; and then, [40] though it began to be drawing toward midnight, Sir Arthur thought the dan⯑ger chiefly over. As it happened he was miſtaken. He was indeed, my dear! I aſſure you I could tremble now with the thoughts of it, but that my woman⯑hood forbids. I remember how valiant I have been in laughing at the pretty fears of pretty ladies, with their ſalts, hartſhorn, fits, and burnt feathers. Be⯑ſide, I would not have my Louiſa think too meanly of me. Yet I aſſure you it was a terrible night.

We had juſt paſſed the broad part of Turnham Green, as Frank has ſince told me, and were near the end of a lane which ſtrikes into the Uxbridge road, when the poſtillion was ſtopped by one highwayman, while almoſt at the ſame [41] inſtant another daſhed his piſtol through the ſide-glaſs into the chaiſe, full in Sir Arthur's face.

Frank was on my ſide—Notwithſtand⯑ing the length of the journey, he ſeemed to infuſe his own ardour into the ſpirited animal on which he rode, and was round inſtantaneouſly—It was really dreadful!—The highwayman ſaw, or rather heard him coming, for it was prodigiouſly dark, and fired. Poor Frank was ſhot!—In the ſhoulder—But he ſays he did not feel it at firſt—He returned the fire; and the highwayman exclaimed, with a ſhocking oath, "I am a dead man!" He rode away however full ſpeed; and his aſſociate, who ſtood to guard the poſt⯑boy, rode after him. Frank imagines that, owing to the darkneſs of the night, [42] and his being ſo cloſe under the chaiſe, they had not perceived him when they came to the attack.

But here let me tell you, for I am ſure I ought, our protector, our hero is not dangerouſly wounded. He indeed makes very light of it; but I am per⯑ſuaded he would do that if he had loſt an arm. The moment the highwaymen were gone, he rode round to me to intreat me not to be alarmed, for that all was ſafe.

Imagine whether I did not thank him, and bleſs him; at leaſt in ejaculation. Imagine what I felt, after what I had heard, at hearing him talk to me, and at being convinced that he was actually alive. I had not the leaſt ſuſpicion of his being wounded, he ſpoke ſo cheer⯑fully; [43] yet I naturally enquired if he were hurt. His anſwer was—"No no—Not hurt"—But he ſpoke with an emphaſis that immediately raiſed my appre⯑henſions. I repeated my queſtion—"Are you ſure you are not hurt; not wounded?" He could not ſay no to that, and therefore anſwered—"He be⯑lieved he felt a ſlight contuſion in the ſhoulder; but that he was convinced it was trifling."

I was now ſeized with a fit of terror much greater, in effect, than my former panic. I fervently intreated Sir Arthur to let the ſervant take the bay mare, and ride for help! I begged, urgently, vio⯑lently, for God's ſake, that he would take my place in the chaiſe! I would mount [44] the mare myſelf! I would do any thing! All the replies I could get were ſtill more vehement interceſſions from Frank Hen⯑ley, that I would not be alarmed, aſſur⯑ances that there was not the leaſt danger, the moſt obſtinate determination not to quit his poſt, and, notwithſtanding the pain which he could not but feel, a per⯑ſiſting to reload the diſcharged piſtol, and then to proceed.

I know not myſelf how my fears were ſo far pacified as to yield to this, except that his energy ſeemed to overpower mine. Indeed I ſuffered dreadfully the reſt of the way. I knew the youth's ge⯑nerous ſpirit, and my imagination was haunted with the idea, that the blood was flowing every foot of the road, and that [45] he would rather drop from the horſe than be ſubdued. It is impoſſible, indeed it is, to tell you what I felt.

At laſt we arrived in Groſvenor Street; and ſure enough the poor fellow was faint with the loſs of blood. "My God!"—ſaid I to Sir Arthur, when the light was brought, and I ſaw him—"Send for a ſurgeon! Good Heavens! Run! Somebody run for help!"—He ſtill inſiſted he was but ſlightly hurt, and began to reſume all his earneſtneſs to quiet me. Sir Arthur did it more effec⯑tually by ſending as I deſired, and by telling me that, if I continued to agitate by contending with him ſo much, I might very poſſibly throw him into a fever, and make a wound, which moſt probably was not in itſelf dangerous, mortal.

[46] I ſaid not another word, except ſeri⯑ouſly and ſolemnly requeſting him to calm his mind, for his own ſake, if not for mine; for that, after being wounded in defence of me and my father, to die by my fault were dreadful indeed. He retired with more apparent ſatisfaction in his countenance than I think I ever ſaw before.

I was reſolved however not to go to bed, till I had received ſome account from the ſurgeon. He came, the wound was examined, and word was immedi⯑ately ſent me, by the expreſs command of Frank, who had been told I was ſit⯑ting up for that purpoſe, that there was, as he had aſſured me, no danger. The ſurgeon indeed thought proper to qualify it with no great danger. It is an old re⯑mark [47] that ſurgeons are not prone to ſpeak too lightly of the miracles they perform. This ſhort ſyllable, great, did not fail however to diſturb me very con⯑ſiderably. I waited till the ball was ex⯑tracted, and [Would you believe it?] brought us; for I inſiſted upon ſeeing it. Sir Arthur called me a mad girl, adding there was no ruling me. I perſiſted in queſtioning and croſs-examining the ſurgeon, till I was convinced that, as he ſaid, there was no great danger; and I then retired to reſt: that is, I retired to the ſame ſwimming motion which the chaiſe had communicated to my nerves, or my brain, or I know not what, and to dreaming of ſwords, piſtols, murdered men, and all the horrid ramblings of the fancy under ſuch impreſſions.

[48] To convince me how trifling the hurt was, the gallant Frank inſiſted the next day on coming down to dinner; though he was allowed to eat nothing but chicken broth, and a light pudding. I never ſaw him ſo lively. His only preſent danger of death, he ſaid, was by famine; and complained jocularly of the hard⯑ſhip of faſting after a long journey. I could almoſt have perſuaded him to eat, for indeed he is a brave, a noble youth.

I know I never need apologize to my Louiſa for the length of my letters. How can we enjoy equal pleaſure to that of thus converſing in deſpite of diſtance, and though ſeparated by ſeas and moun⯑tains? Indeed it is a kind of privation to end; but end I muſt—therefore—Adieu.

LETTER V.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

YOU did not expect, dear Oliver, to receive a letter from me dated at this diſtance. By the luckieſt accident in the world, I have been allowed to accom⯑pany her thus far, have ridden all day with my eye fixed upon her, and at night have had the ecſtatic pleaſure to defend, to fight for her! Perhaps have [50] ſaved her life! Have been wounded for her!—Would I had been killed!—Was there ever ſo fooliſh, ſo wrong, ſo romantic a wiſh? And yet it has ruſhed involuntarily upon me fifty times. To die for her ſeems to be a bliſs which mortal man cannot merit! Truth, ſevere truth, perhaps, will not juſtify theſe ef⯑fuſions. I will, I do, endeavour to reſiſt them.—Indeed I am aſhamed of myſelf, for I find I am very feeble. Yet let not thy fears be too violent for thy friend: he will not lightly deſert his duty.

Let me tell thee, before I proceed, that my wound is ſlight.—We were ſtopped by a couple of highwaymen. Thou never wert a witneſs of ſuch an⯑gelic ſenſibility as the divine creature diſcovered, when ſhe found I had re⯑ceived [51] ſome hurt. She alarmed me beyond deſcription, by the exceſs of her feelings. Oh! She has a ſoul alive to all the throbs of humanity! It ſhoots and ſhivers in every vein!—Then too when we arrived, when candles were brought [I had bled ſomewhat freely, and I ſuppoſe looked rather pale] thou haſt no conception of, it is impoſſible to conceive the energy with which ſhe inſiſted on ſending for the beſt and moſt immediate help.

We had another battle of ſenſibility; for I aſſure thee I was almoſt as much [Did I not know her I ſhould ſay more.] alarmed for her as ſhe could be for me.

Yet do not imagine I am fool enough to flatter myſelf with any falſe hopes. [52] No: it was humanity; it was too deep a ſenſe of a ſlight benefit received; it was totally diſtinct from love.—Oh no! Love, added to ſuch ſtrong, ſuch acute ſenſations, ſurely, Oliver, it would have ſhrieked, would have fainted, would have died!—Her fears and feelings were powerful I grant, but they were all ſocial, and would have been equally awakened for any creature whom ſhe had known, and had equal cauſe to eſteem. And ſhe eſteems all who hav but the ſmalleſt claims to ſuch reſpect; even me!—Did I tell thee it was ſhe who petitioned Sir Arthur to lay his commands on me to attend them to London, knowing I wiſhed it; and that this was in return for the trifling favour I had done her, in galloping after her [53] with her favourite bird? Oh! She is all benignity! All grace! All angel!

Never did I feel ſuch raptures as ſince I have received this fortunate, this happy wound!—Yet why?—Is not her heart exactly what it was? It is. I ſhould be an idiot not to perceive it is. Strange contradiction! Hopeleſs yet happy!—But it is a felicity of ſhort du⯑ration.

Would it were poſſible for me to accompany her to France! My reſtleſs foreboding imagination has perſuaded me ſhe will be in danger the moment ſhe is from under my protection. Vain fool! Who, what am I?—Becauſe a couple of daſtardly highwaymen have galloped away at the firſt report of a [54] piſtol, my inflated fancy has been buſy in perſuading me that I am her hero!

Yet I wiſh I might go with her! Tell me, Oliver, wouldſt not thou wiſh ſo too? Would not all the world wiſh the ſame? Didſt thou ever in thy life behold her without feelings unuſual, throbs, doubts, deſires, and fears; wild, incoherent, yet deriving ecſtaſy from that divinity which irradiates her form and beams on every object around her?—Do!—Think me a poor, raving, loveſick blockhead! And yet it is true! All I have ſaid of her, and infinitely more, is true! Thou nor the world cannot diſprove it! Would I might go with her!

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

I HAVE only time for a ſingle line, but I cannot forbear to tell you how great the emotions have been which I felt, my dear Anna, at reading your laſt. Ten thouſand thanks for you hiſtory; for ſo it may well be called. You have quite filled my mind with the pictures, incidents, and adventures of [61] your journey.—Then your deliverer!—Such courage!—Such fortitude!—Such—!

I muſt not finiſh my ſentence. I muſt not tell you all I think concerning him. There were two or three paſſages in your letter which raiſed doubts in my mind; but of theſe I was ſoon cured by recollecting a ſentence at the beginning—"An effort muſt be made which will reſtore him to reaſon. Yet the queſtion muſt be examined."—Cer⯑tainly—You could not be Anna St. Ives, and act or feel otherwiſe.

But I abſolutely adore this youth, this Frank Henley!

The boy is waiting; he will be too late for the poſt. Be that my excuſe for the briefneſs of this; but do not [62] fail, my dear dear Anna, to write fully every thing that paſſes. Your laſt has both warmed my feelings, nay in ſome meaſure my fears, and excited my curi⯑oſity.

P. S. I will write more at length to⯑morrow.

LETTER VII.
ABIMELECH HENLEY TO SIR ARTHUR ST. IVES, BARONET.

THE inſtructions ^* you wus pleaſed to give me have bin kept in mind. Your [64] onnur's commands is my duties; your precepts is my laws. For why? Your noble onnur knows how to command, and I knows how to obey.

The willow dell is fillin up; all hands is at work. I keeps 'em to it. The ſloap of the grande kinal will be finiſht and turft over in 3 wekes; and I have choſen the younk plants for the [65] vardunt hall: nice wons they be too, your onnur!

But I have a bin ponderaitin on all theſe thinks, and ſooth an trooth to ſay, your onnur, I doubt as how the bitt [I mean the kole, your onnur] witch your noble onnur has a bin pleeſd to ſtipilate and lay by for theſe here improvements [And glorious improve⯑ments they will be, let me tell your onnur. I think I knows a ſumthink of the matter; thof to be ſure I muſt a ſay as how I am no more nur a chit, a kintlin, to your onnur, in matters of taſte and the grande gooſto, and all a that there; but I'll give your onnur my two ears if there be any think at all kompa⯑riſſuble or parallel to it in all England.] But as I wus a ſayin to your noble [66] onnur—I am afeard we ſhall want caſh; and I am a ſure that would be a ten [...] of pitties. Eſpecially if your onnur thinks any think more of the viſter, with another church ſteepil in proſpekſhun. And to be ſure it was a noble thoft; I muſt ſay it would a be a ſin and a ſhame to let ſitch an elegunt ideer a ſlip through your fingurs. And then, pardn me your onnur, but for what, and for why, and for wherefore?

Beſides all witch, your onnur wus a menſhinnin a willdurneſs, and a herm⯑mutidge, and a grotto; all witch as your onnur ſaid would conceal the dead flat anenſt the 3 old okes. And would your onnur think of ſtoppin ſhort, after havin a done all that your onnur has a done, to bring Wenbourne Hill into vogue [67] an reppitaiſhun, and make it the talk of the hole kuntree? Nay, for the matter of that, it is a that already; that I muſt ſay. But then, as your onnur ſays, in anſwer, nothink is done till every think is done.

And ſo I have paradventerd umbelly to ſpeak my fooliſh thofts, on this here buſineſs. For why? I knows a what your onnur will ſay. Your onnur will tell me, when your onnur comes back, Ay, honeſt Aby, I wiſh the ſhiners that I a ſpent and a bamboozild in that there France had a bin ſtrewed over theſe here grounds. For, over and above of what I a bin a menſhinnin to your onnur, there is the tempel beſide a the new plantation, of a witch your onnur has ſo long a bin talkin of a buildin of. [68] And then there is the extenſhun and ogmenſhun of the new ruins. So that all together, I muſt ſay that if ſimple honeſt Aby might paradventer to put in my oar to ſo generous and ſo noble a gentleman, and moreover won of his majeſty's baronets, why I would keep the money now I had a got it; ſince, as your onnur finds, money is not ſo eaſy to be a come at. Pray your onnur, I bee⯑ſiege your onnur dont forget that; mo⯑ney is not ſo eaſy to be a come at.

And ſo I moſt umbelly rimmane, with the bleſſin of almighty mercifool praiſe, your onnur's moſt umbel and moſt obedient, very faithfool and very thankfool, kind ſarvent to command,

P. S. I pray your onnur to think of the viſter, and the willdurneſs, and the hermmutidge; I pray your onnur doo ee; not forrgettin the tempel. Think of the money your moſt dear gracious noble onnur; and think to what van⯑tidge I could a lay it out for your onnur; that is, take me ritely your moſt excep⯑tionable onnur, a ſavin and a ſayin under your wiſe onnur's purtection, and cur⯑rection, and every think of that there umbel and very ſubmiſſive obedient kind. Bring me the man that a better knows how to lay out his pound or his penni than myſelf; that is, always a ſavin and exceptin your noble onnur, as in rite and duty boundin. And then as to forin parts! Why, lawjus mighty! [70] Your noble onnur has 'em at your fin⯑gur's ends. The temple will ſtand; blow or ſnow, a there it will be; I'll a anſwer for that; a ſhillin's worth for every ſhillin: but aſt for the money a ſquitterd a here and a there in forin parts, what will your moſt noble onnur ever ſee for that? I moſt umbelly condyſend to beg and beeſiege your good and kind onnur's noble pardn for all this audaci⯑ous interpolation, of and by witch any but your moſt diſreſpectfool onnur would ſay wus no better but ſo much mag: but I hopes and truſts your onnur, as you always have bin hence⯑forth in times paſſt, is in the mind a well to take what a well is meant.

And ſo I wonce and again moſt per⯑rumptallee [71] beg leave, in all lowlineſs by the grace and bleſſin of God in his infinit goodneſs and mercy to ſuperſcribe meſelf

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

FRANK HENLEY's accident has neceſſarily delayed our journey for a fortnight; nay, it was within an ace of being delayed for ever, and [Would you think it poſſible?] by the artful remon⯑ſtrances of this Abimelech Henley. I have been obliged to exert all my influ⯑ence, and all my rhetoric, upon Sir [73] Arthur, or it would have been entirely given up. Rapacious and narrow in his own plans, this wretch, this honeſt Aby, as my father calls him, would not wil⯑lingly ſuffer a guinea to be ſpent, except in improvements: that is, not a guinea which ſhould not paſs through his hands. A letter from him to Sir Arthur has been the cauſe of this con⯑teſt.

I hope however, my dear, that Sir Arthur's affairs are not in ſo bad a train as your fears [expreſſed in your letter of the third] cauſe you to imagine. Should they be ſo, what will become of my brother? A mere man of faſhion! Active in the whole etiquette of viſiting, dreſſing, driving, riding, fencing, dan⯑cing, gaming, writing cards of compli⯑ment, [74] and all the frivolous follies of what, by this claſs of people, is called the world; but indolent in, or more properly incapable of all uſeful duties.

I ſtand rather high in his opinion, and he has done me the honour to con⯑ſult me lately on a family affair. The Edgemoor eſtate, of eight hundred per annum, is entailed on him, as the heir of St. Ives, by my grandfather's will; with right of poſſeſſion at the age of twenty-four. Sir Arthur I ſuppoſe does not find it convenient to abridge his income ſo materially, and has been en⯑deavouring to perſuade him that it is his duty and intereſt not to inſiſt upon poſ⯑ſeſſion; at leaſt for the preſent. My brother is not pleaſed with the propoſal, and has complaiſantly written to aſk my [75] opinion, with an evident determination to follow his own, he having now almoſt completed his twenty-fourth year. My anſwer was an attempt [I fear a vain one] to call to his mind the true uſe of money; and, unleſs he ſhould have found the art of employing it worthily, I adviſed him to ſhew his filial affection and oblige Sir Arthur.

I can propheſy however that he will have no forbearance. Not to mention debts, he has too many imaginary and impatient wants to ſubmit to delay. Nei⯑ther have I any great deſire that he ſhould; being convinced that the want of money is the only impediment that can put a ſtop to Sir Arthur's improvements.

But this honeſt Aby!—The ſame poſt that brought me your letter of the [76] eleventh ^*, brought one for Sir Arthur; and while I was meditating on the con⯑tents of yours, and not a little chagrined at the confirmation of your intelligence concerning the mortgage—[Chagrined that my father ſhould be the inſtrument, the tool of ſuch a fellow: chagrined that his family ſhould be in danger, and himſelf made a jeſt]—while I was conſi⯑dering what were the beſt means, if there were any, of inducing Sir Arthur to abandon projects ſo fooliſh, and ſo fatal, Laura came running with the news that our journey to France was all over, that orders to that effect had been given, and that a chaiſe was to be [77] at the door in an hour, to take Sir Arthur back to Wenbourne-Hill.

This incident, in my then temper of mind, produced its full effect. I knew Sir Arthur's way: I knew he would not willingly ſee me himſelf; and, immedi⯑ately ſuſpecting that his letter was from honeſt Aby, I determined if poſſible he ſhould not eſcape me. He was in his own room; and how to draw him out? An hour would ſoon be gone! I there⯑fore employed an artifice, which, on after recollection, I am convinced was wrong; very wrong! I went into the drawing-room, and bade the footman go to him and announce Miſs Wen⯑bourne. I have a maiden aunt of that name, whom I was chriſtened after, who lives in London, and whom I believe [78] you never ſaw. The trick ſucceeded, and Sir Arthur came into the drawing⯑room. He looked diſconcerted at ſeeing me, and the following dialogue began.

Heydey, Anna! Where is your aunt?

Sir, I am afraid I have done an unjuſtifiable thing. [My conſcience then firſt ſmote me, with a conviction that what I had perſuaded myſelf was a defenſible artifice was neither more nor leſs than a direct falſehood; which of all crimes, you know, I think one of the moſt mean, hateful, and pernicious. The juſt confuſion I felt had nearly ruined my cauſe.]

Why!—What!—What do you mean?—Where is your aunt?

She is not here, ſir. It was I who wiſhed to ſpeak to you.

[79] You! And ſend in your aunt's name?

My name is Wenbourne, ſir.

Your name is St. Ives, miſs.

I feel, ſir, how exceedingly culpable I am; and perhaps do not deſerve that you ſhould pardon me. [My father began to ſuſpect the reaſon of my wiſhing to ſpeak with him, and did not know whether good nature or ill would ſerve his cauſe the beſt. I per⯑ceived him caſt an eye toward the door.]

This is extraordinary!—Very ex⯑traordinary, upon my ſoul!

[I ſaw it was time to recover my ſpirits.] I have heard ſomething which I ſcarcely can believe to be true, ſir.

What have you heard? What have you heard?

[80] That you are going back to Wen⯑bourne-Hill.

Well, what then?

And that you do not intend we ſhould viſit France.

Who told you ſo?

The ſervants have orders to that effect.

The ſervants are a parcel of buſy blockheads!

What can have occaſioned you, ſir, to change your opinion ſo ſuddenly?

My affairs. [He looked again to⯑ward the door, but he felt it was too late; and that he muſt now either de⯑fend or abandon his cauſe.] The journey will be too expenſive.

If, ſir, the journey would in the leaſt embarraſs your affairs, and if I did not daily ſee you entering into expences ſo [81] infinitely greater than this, I would not anſwer a word to ſuch an argument. I think it my duty to be as careful of your property as you yourſelf could be; and for that reaſon have often wiſhed I could prevail on you, in ſome meaſure, to alter your plans.

I have no doubt, miſs, of your pro⯑digious wiſdom; you remind me of it daily. Your plans to be ſure would, as you ſay, be infinitely better than mine. When you are married, or I am dead, you may do as you pleaſe; but, in the mean time, ſuffer me to act for myſelf. I do not chooſe to be under tute⯑lage.

I am ſorry, my dear papa, to ſee that I offend you; but indeed I mean the very reverſe. Indeed I do! It is my [82] zeal for your intereſt, my love of you, [I ventured to take his hand] that oblige me to ſpeak—

And plainly to tell me you do not approve of my proceedings!

Plainly to tell you the truth, becauſe I believe it to be my duty.

Upon my word! A very dutiful daughter! I thought the duty of chil⯑dren was to obey the wills of their pa⯑rents.

Obedience—[Pardon my ſincerity, ſir.]—Obedience muſt have limits. Children ſhould love and honour their parents for their virtues, and ſhould cheerfully and zealouſly do whatever they require of them, which is not in itſelf wrong.

Of which children are to judge?

[83] Yes, ſir: of which children are to judge.

A fine ſyſtem of obedience truly!

They cannot act without judging, more or leſs, be they obedient or diſo⯑bedient: and the better they judge the better will they perform their duty. There may be and there have been miſtaken parents, who have commanded their children to be guilty even of crimes.

And what is that to me? Upon my word, you are a very polite young lady! A very extraordinarily polite miſs!

God forbid, my dear papa, that you ſhould imagine I think you one of thoſe parents.

I really don't know nor don't care, [84] madam, what you think me.—My plans, indeed!—Diſapproved by you!

If I ſaw any perſon under a dangerous miſtake, miſled, wronged, preyed upon by the ſelf-intereſted, ſhould I not be indolent or cowardly, nay ſhould I not be criminal, if I did not endeavour to convince ſuch a perſon of his error? And what ſhould I be if this perſon were my father?

Upon my honour, miſs, you take into⯑lerable liberties! The licenſe of your tongue is terrible!

It were better, ſir, that I ſhould ſub⯑ject myſelf to your diſpleaſure, and make you think unkindly of me, than that others, who pretend to be your ſervants and your humble but friendly adviſers, [85] ſhould injure—ſhould—I know not what! We have often heard of ſtew⯑ards, who have acted the mortgagee to their own maſters. [This hint was a thunder ſtroke. Sir Arthur was wholly diſconcerted. His mind apparently made ſeveral attempts to recover itſelf; but they were all ineffectual.]

Well, well—I, I—I know what the meaning of all this is. You—You are vexed at being diſappointed of your journey—But make yourſelf eaſy, child; you ſhall go: you ſhan't be diſap⯑pointed.

'Tis true, ſir, I wiſh to viſit Paris; but not if it will be in the leaſt inconve⯑nient to you, in money affairs. Though I own I ſhould indeed be vexed to ſee the ſmall ſum you had appropriated for [86] this journey wreſted from you, to throw up a hill, or build a fantaſtic temple in ſome place where its very ſituation would render it ridiculous.

Upon my word!—Was ever the like of this heard?—Don't I tell you, you ſhall go?

Indeed, ſir, going is but a ſmall part of the ſubject: there is another point, which, if I could but gain, would give me infinitely more pleaſure.

Pſhaw! Girl! I can't ſtay to argue points with you now! I tell you, you ſhall go. I give you my word you ſhall go; and ſo let's have no more of it.—Do you hear, Anna? I am too old to be ſchooled. I don't like it! Mind me! I don't like it!

I am very ſorry, ſir, that I can⯑not [87] find words to ſpeak the truth which would be leſs offenſive.

I tell you again there is no truth to be ſpoken! Have not I promiſed you ſhall go? There's an end of the buſi⯑neſs. You ſhall go.

And away went Sir Arthur; appa⯑rently happy to get rid both of me and himſelf: that is, of the diſagreeable ideas which, as he thought, I had ſo imperti⯑nently raiſed. You blamed me in your laſt for not exerting myſelf ſufficiently, to ſhew him his folly. You ſee the ſufficiently is ſtill wanting. Perhaps I have not diſcovered the true mode of addreſſing myſelf to Sir Arthur's paſ⯑ſions. For, though my remonſtrances have often made him uneaſy, I cannot perceive that they have ever produced [88] conviction. And yet I ſhould ſuppoſe that a certain degree of momentary con⯑viction muſt be the reſult of ſuch con⯑verſations. But the fortitude to caſt off old habits, and aſſume new, is be⯑yond the ſtrength of common mortals.

Frank Henley is a favourite with you, and very deſervedly. But, in anſwer to the ſurpriſe in your former, my dear, that he has never engaged my affections, as well as to the cautionary kind hints in your two laſt, for ſo I underſtand them, let me ſay that, had I imagined love to be that unconquerable fatality of which I have been ſpeaking, I do not know what might have happened: but, hav⯑ing been early convinced that a union between him and me muſt be attended with I know not what ſcenes of wretch⯑edneſs, [89] in ſhort, knowing the thing in a certain ſenſe to be impoſſible, it has al⯑ways been ſo conſidered by me, and therefore I have no reaſon to think my⯑ſelf in any danger. Doubts occaſionally riſe in my mind, but in general ſoon diſ⯑appear. Should they return I will not conceal them.

I remember it was a remark of yours that "Admiration is the mother of love." So it is, of love ſuch as I bear to my Louiſa; and of ſuch perhaps as angels might be ſuppoſed to bear to angels. I admire Frank Henley, greatly, ardently admire him; yet I certainly do not love: that is, I certainly do not permit myſelf to feel any of thoſe anxieties, alarms, hopes, fears, perturbations, and endearments, which we are told are inſeparable from [90] that paſſion. I extinguiſh, I ſuffocate them in their birth.

I am called for: Adieu, my ever dear Louiſa.

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

I HAVE received your letter, good Abimelech, and own your reaſoning has its force. Much is yet to be done to Wenbourne-Hill. Year after year I have ſaid—"This ſhall be the laſt: we will now bring affairs to a finiſh." But improvement is my delight; walking, [92] talking, ſitting, ſtanding, or lying, wak⯑ing or ſleeping, I can think of nothing elſe. We live you know, honeſt Aby, only to amend: ſo that, inſtead of con⯑cluding, I find more things to do at pre⯑ſent than ever.

I have the wilderneſs very much at heart: but the ſoil is excellent, and I ſcarcely know, Aby, how we ſhall make the land ſufficiently barren. Yet it would have a fine effect! Yes, that it certainly would, and we will try our ut⯑moſt. The hermitage too at the far end! The moſs-grown cell, Aby! With a few ſcattered eglantines and wild roots! We will plant ivy round the three old oaks, and bring a colony of owls to breed! Then at the bottom of all a grotto: Oh! it will be delicious!

[93] Shells will be expenſive, for we are not within forty miles of the ſea. But no matter: it muſt and it ſhall be done, for I have ſet my heart on it. Nay, from what you ſaid to me, honeſt Aby, know⯑ing you to be a careful thrifty fellow, full of foreſight, I was ſo warm in the cauſe that I had determined to take your advice, and renounce or defer the journey to France; but the blabbing ſervants got a hint of the matter, and it came to my daughter's ears. So, for peace and qui⯑etneſs ſake, I think I muſt e'en indulge her, and take her a ſhort trip to the con⯑tinent. But we will go no further than the neighbourhood of Paris. Beſide I wiſh, for my own part, to ſee how the country is laid out. I am deſirous to [94] know whether all France has any thing to equal Wenbourne-Hill.

And yet, Aby, I find it is impoſſible to pleaſe every body. You know what continual improvements I have been making, for theſe laſt twenty years; for you have ſuperintended them all. I have planted one year, and grubbed up the next; built, and pulled down; dug, and filled up again; removed hills, and ſent them back to their old ſtations; and all from a determination to do whatever could be done. And now, I believe, there are no grounds in all England ſo wooded and ſhut in as thoſe of Wen⯑bourne-Hill; notwithſtanding its ſitua⯑tion on a very commanding eminence. We are ſurrounded by coppices, groves, [95] eſpaliers, and plantations. We have ex⯑cluded every vulgar view of diſtant hills, intervening meadows, and extenſive fields; with their inſignificant green her⯑bage, yellow lands, and the weariſome eternal waving of ſtanding corn.

And yet, Aby, after having done all this, comes me Sir Alexander Ever⯑green, and very freely tells me that we have ſpoiled Wenbourne-Hill, buried ourſelves in gloom and darkneſs, and ſhut out the fineſt proſpects in all Eng⯑land! Formerly the hall could be ſeen by travellers from the road, and we our⯑ſelves had the village church in view, all of which we have now planted out of ſight! Very true: but, inſtead of the pariſh ſteeple, have we not ſteeples of our own in every direction? And, inſtead of [96] the road, with the Glouceſterſhire hills and leſſening clouds in perſpective, have we not the cedar quincunx? Yet ſee the curſe of obſtinacy and want of taſte! Would you think it, Aby? Of this Sir Alexander complains!

It is in vain to tell him that we are now all within ourſelves; that every bo⯑dy is ſurpriſed to ſee how ſnug we are; and that nobody can ſuſpect ſo many temples, and groves, and terraces, and aſcents, and deſcents, and clumps, and ſhrubberies, and viſtas, and glades, and dells, and canals, and ſtatues, and rocks, and ruins are in exiſtence, till they are in the very midſt of them. And then! Oh how have I enjoyed their admiration! Nothing is ſo great a pleaſure to me as to bring a gentleman of taſte, who knows [97] how to be ſtruck with what he ſees, and ſet him down in the middle of one of my great gravel walks! For all the world allows, Abimelech, that our gravel walks at Wenbourne-Hill are ſome of the broadeſt, the ſtraighteſt, and the fineſt in the kingdom.

Yet obſerve how men differ, Abime⯑ech. Sir Alexander wants me to turf them over! He ſays that, where you may have the ſmooth verdure, gravel walks are ridiculous; and are only tole⯑rable in common pathways, where con⯑tinual treading would wear away the greenſward. But I know what has given him ſuch a love for the ſoft graſs. Sir Alexander is gouty, and loves to tread on velvet.

Beſide he is a cynic. He blames all [98] we have done, and ſays he would render one of the deſerts of Arabia the garden of Eden, with the money we have waſted in improving Wenbourne-Hill; which he affirms, before we touched it, was one of the moſt beautiful ſpots in the three kingdoms.

I confeſs, Aby, that, if as I ſaid I did not know him to be a cynic, I ſhould be heartily vexed. But it either is, or at any rate it ſhall be, one of the moſt beau⯑tiful ſpots in the three kingdoms, ay or in the whole world! Of that I am reſolved; ſo go on with your work, Abimelech. Do not be idle. The love of fame is a noble paſſion; and the name of Arthur St. Ives ſhall be remembered at Wen⯑bourne-Hill, long after his remains are laid in their kindred clay, as the poet ſays.

[99] I deſired your ſon Frank to accom⯑pany us to London. He is a ſpirited young fellow, and behaved well on the road, where he had an affair with a high⯑wayman, and got a ſlight wound; but he is in no danger. He is a fine fellow, a brave fellow, and an honour to you, honeſt Aby.

Some grounds which I ſaw on my journey, with water purling, meander⯑ing, and occaſionally daſhing down a ſteep declivity, or winding along a more gentle deſcent, as it happened to be, ſuggeſted an idea to me. It came into my mind that, as we lie high, if we had but a lake ſufficiently large on the top of the hill, we could ſend the water down in rivulets on every ſide. But then the difficulty ſtruck me how to get it [100] up again. Perhaps it may be overcome. It would have a charming effect, and we will think of it hereafter.

When you have received my addreſs at Paris, do not fail to let me know, once a week, how every thing proceeds. Be particular in your accounts, and do not be afraid of wearying me. My heart is in my grounds and my improve⯑ments; and the more places and things you name the more pleaſure you will give me. Write to me too concerning my herd of deer, my Spaniſh ſheep, my buffaloes, my Chineſe pheaſants, and all my foreign live ſtock.

I will make my journey as ſhort as poſſible; it ſhall not be long before I will re-viſit my Wenbourne-Hill. To own the truth, honeſt Aby, after read⯑ing [101] your letter, I had ordered the chaiſe to the door to come down again; but Anna St. Ives would not hear of it, ſo I was obliged to yield. But, as I tell you, my heart is with you; Wenbourne-Hill is never out of my mind.

I could wiſh you to be cautious in your communications, Abimelech, con⯑cerning our money matters. My daugh⯑ter gave me a hint about the laſt mort⯑gage, which I did not half like. Chil⯑dren think they have a right to pry into a father's expences; and to curb and brow-beat him, if the money be not all ſpent in gratifying their whims. Be more cloſe, Abimelech, if you would oblige me.

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

I AM exceſſively angry with myſelf, my dear Anna. I have not treated you with the open confidence which you de⯑ſerve, becauſe I have had improper fears of you. I have doubted leſt an exceſs of friendſhip and generoſity ſhould lead you into miſtake, and in⯑duce [103] you to think well of my brother rather for my ſake than for his own. But the more I reflect the more I am convinced that duplicity never can be virtue.

Your laſt letter has brought me to a ſenſe of this. The noble ſincerity with which you immediately accuſed yourſelf, for having practiſed an artifice [which I, like you, do not think was innocent, becauſe artifice cannot be innocent] has taught me how I ought to act; and Sir Arthur's caprice is an additional incitement.

I have for ſome time known that it has been very much deſired by my mamma to ſee you and Coke Clifton united. She mentioned her wiſh to Sir Arthur, and he ſeemed pleaſed with the idea. She did me the honour to [104] conſult me; and I oppoſed precipitate proceedings, and ſtrenuouſly argued that all ſuch events ought to take their na⯑tural courſe.

This was the origin of your preſent journey to Paris; and I conſequently was enjoined ſecrecy, of the propriety of which I doubted at the moment. I am now convinced that ſecrets are al⯑ways either fooliſh or pernicious things, and that there ought to be none.

The fickleneſs of Sir Arthur however, relative to this journey, both ſurpriſes and pains me. It ſhews his weakneſs as well as the power of his favourite, Abi⯑melech, to be greater than even I ima⯑gined; and my former thoughts were not very favourable. After having con⯑certed this plan with my mamma, and [105] after preparing and proceeding a part of the way, I can ſcarcely imagine what excuſe he would have made to her.

His mentioning my brother to you likewiſe ſurpriſed me. In converſing with my mamma, I had told her that, if ſuch an event were to take place, it were deſirable that you and my brother ſhould become acquainted, before any hint or propoſal ought to be made to you. I at preſent believe this to have been wrong and weak advice; but it prevail⯑ed, and the arrangement was that my mamma ſhould write to Coke Clifton, to direct his route through Paris; that he ſhould be there at a fixed time, to tranſact ſome pretended buſineſs for her; that Sir Arthur and you ſhould make a journey thither on a party of pleaſure, [106] which we all knew would be agreeable to you; and that you and my brother ſhould meet as if by accident. But it appears that Sir Arthur, when he has any favourite project in view, can ſcarcely forbear being communicative, not from principle but from incontinence.

With reſpect to my brother, having told you all that has paſſed, I have only to add, it is my earneſt advice that you ſhould be careful to put no deception on yourſelf, but to ſee him as he is. His being the brother of your friend cannot give him dignity of mind, if he have it not already. Were I a thouſand times his ſiſter, I could not wiſh him another wife ſo deſerving as my Anna. But ſiſter ſhall be no motive with me to make me deſirous of ſeeing perſons [107] united whoſe ſentiments and ſouls may be diſſimilar. Had I not ſo much con⯑fidence in your diſcernment, and truth to yourſelf, I ſhould not be without un⯑eaſineſs. My opinion is that the par⯑ties ſhould themſelves reciprocally diſco⯑ver thoſe qualities which ought mutu⯑ally to fit them for the friendſhip of mar⯑riage. Is not that the very phraſe, Anna; the friendſhip of marriage? Surely, if it be not friendſhip, according to the beſt and higheſt ſenſe in which that word is uſed, marriage cannot but be ſomething faulty and vicious.

I know how readily you will forgive the wrong I have done you by this con⯑cealment; becauſe you will perceive I acted from well meant but miſtaken ſen⯑timents. I have told my mamma my [108] preſent thoughts, and have ſhewed her all the former part of this letter, which ſhe approves. Her affection for me makes her delight in every effort of my mind to riſe ſuperior to the prejudices that bring miſery into the world; and I often fear leſt this affection ſhould de⯑prive her of that force, and acumen, which in other inſtances would be ready to detect error, whenever it ſhould make its appearance.

I need not tell my Anna how tenderly ſhe joins with me, in wiſhing her a ſafe and pleaſant journey. All other mat⯑ters ſhe entirely commits to my Anna's penetration, and diſcretion.

P. S. My brother is not rich, but has [109] great expectations. This as I imagine occaſioned Sir Arthur to receive the propoſal with pleaſure; and my mamma tells me they had ſome talk of ſettle⯑ments. He was exceedingly warm and active, in contriving this journey, for a few days; after which I thought I ob⯑ſerved his ardour abate. And the pro⯑bability is that Abimelech, from the firſt, had oppoſed the excurſion; but that further converſations with my mam⯑ma, and the pleaſure which the projected journey had given you, kept Sir Arthur to his purpoſe. I own I began to ſuſpect that, ſhould ſuch a match take place, the recollection of parting with money, which he would willingly have expended on improvements, had influenced his conduct; and it is ſome relief to [110] hope that he was rather acted upon than acting, if he really did feel any wiſh to retract. How far he may be, or may have been, acted upon in other in⯑ſtances, as well as this, is ſtill a further queſtion.

I cannot ſhake off a doubt which hangs on my mind; though I have been debating all morning whether I ought to mention it or be ſilent. I ſuſpect that you yourſelf have not ſolved it entirely to your own ſatisfaction. Frank Hen⯑ley!—It is I think indubitable that he loves you.—He would make you hap⯑pier than perhaps any other man could upon earth. Be not ſwayed by your affection for me: beware of any ſuch weakneſs. That you could love him if you would permit yourſelf, nay that you [111] are obliged to exert your whole force not to love him, I am convinced. You are conſcious of it yourſelf.—Is your deci⯑ſion juſt?—Indeed it is a ſerious queſtion. What is the magnitude of the evil which would reſult from ſuch a union; and what the good? Enquire—I give no opinion. There is a miſt before my eyes, and I dare not give any, till I can ſee more diſtinctly. Think, be juſt, and reſolve. Your own judgment ought to determine you.

LETTER XI.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

OLIVER, what are we? What is man? What is virtue? What is honour?—My pride has received a wound much more acute than that which the ball of the highwayman inflicted on my body—I have had money palmed upon me—Money!—A man cannot behave as he [113] ought, and as it would be contemptible not to behave, but he muſt be paid! His vices are paid! His virtues are paid!—All is mercenary! I to be ſure muſt be one of the number!—A twenty pound bank note, I tell thee, forced upon me by Sir Arthur!—No, no—Not by him—He never could have made me accept what I ſuppoſed [falſely, however; as fact and reflection have ſince led me to ſuſpect] it was mean and degrading to accept. She only could prevail. She whoſe commands are irreſiſtible, and who condeſcended to entreat!—Her eye gliſtening with a tear, which ſhe with difficulty detained in its beauteous or⯑bit, ſhe entreated!—There was no op⯑poſing ſuch interceſſion! Her eloquence was heavenly! God be praiſed that it [114] was ſo! For, as it has happened, I am perſuaded it has preſerved a poor diſ⯑treſſed creature from phrenſy—Have pa⯑tience, and I will tell thee.

I had removed my penitent, and had been taking a ſhort airing in the park; and, as I was returning, I ſaw a crowd collected in a court. Led by curioſity to enquire what was the matter, I was told that two men had juſt been purſu⯑ing a third over the roofs of the neigh⯑bouring houſes; and that, having been obliged to deſcend through a trap-door, they had followed him, where it was ſuppoſed he had at laſt been taken. I aſked what his crime was, but nobody knew. Some believed him to be a thief, ſome thought it was a preſs-gang, and others conjectured they were bailiffs.

[115] It was not long, however, before a decent, well-looking, and indeed hand⯑ſome young woman, with a fine child in her arms, came running up the court, made her way through the crowd with terror in her countenance, and with the moſt piercing cries demanded—‘Where is he?—Where is my dear Harry?—Who has ſeen him? Where is he?’

Some of the people pointed out the houſe. She knocked violently, conti⯑nued her cries and lamentations, and at laſt gained admittance.

Her grief was ſo moving, ſo ſympa⯑thetic, that it excited my compaſſion, and made me determine to follow her. Accordingly I elbowed my way, though I felt that I rather diſturbed the ſur⯑geon's dreſſing; but that was a trifle. [116] I followed her up ſtairs without cere⯑mony. With reſpect to her, affection, ‘maſterleſs paſſion, had ſwayed her to its mood;’—ſhe was not to be re⯑pulſed.

The priſoner and his purſuers had deſcended to the ſecond floor, in which the poor fugitive had endeavoured to ſeek refuge, but not ſoon enough to find protection from the bailiffs, as they proved and as he knew them to be. Never didſt thou ſee terror ſo ſtrong, nor affection ſo pathetic, as this ex⯑cellent young woman, his wife, diſco⯑vered. Excellent I am certain ſhe is. She wrung her hands, ſhe fell on her knees, ſhe held up her babe; and, finding theſe were ineffectual, ſhe ſcreamed agonizing prayers to ſave her [117] Harry. The idea ſhe had conceived of the loſs of liberty, and the miſeries of a priſon, muſt have been dreadful. But tears and prayers and cries were vain; ſhe was pleading to the deaf, or at leaſt to the obdurate.

As ſoon as the violence of her grief gave a momentary reſpite, I enquired what the ſum was for which he was in thraldom, and found it to be ſixteen pounds, beſide coſts. It was not a debt originally contracted by himſelf; it was for a note, in which he had joined to ſerve his wife's brother. It ſeems they are a young couple, who by their in⯑duſtry have collected a trifling ſum, with which they have taken a ſmall ſhop. I did not aſk of what kind. She ſerves her cuſtomers, and he follows his trade, [118] as a journeyman carpenter. It did not a little pleaſe me to hear the young creature accuſe her brother of being falſe to his friend; while the huſband defend⯑ed him, and affirmed it could be nothing but neceſſity. I could perceive how⯑ever that ſhe grieved to think her bro⯑ther was not ſo good as ſhe could have wiſhed him to be.

The horros of a jail were ſo im⯑preſſed, ſo rooted in her fancy, that ſhe was willing to ſell any thing, every thing; ſhe would give them all ſhe had, ſo that her Harry might not be dragged to a damp, foul dungeon; to darkneſs, bread and water, and ſtarving. Thou canſt not imagine the volubility with which her paſſions flowed, and her terrors found utterance, from the hope that it was not [119] poſſible for Chriſtian hearts to know all this, and not be moved to pity.

I am well perſuaded however that, had I not been there, thoſe good Chriſti⯑ans the bailiffs would have paid no other attention to her panic than to ſee how it might be turned to profit. The miſ⯑creants talked of five guineas, for the pretended riſk they ſhould run, in giving him a fortnight to ſell his effects to the beſt advantage. They too could recom⯑mend a broker, a very honeſt fellow—By what ſtrange gradations, Oliver, can the heart of man become thus corrupt? The harpies looked hatefully.

Luckily I happened to have the twen⯑ty pound note, which pride had bidden me reject with ſo much ſcorn, in my pocket. Thou, I am certain, wilt not [120] aſk what I did with it. I immediately tendered thoſe ſame Chriſtians I told thee of their money. The raſcals were diſap⯑pointed, and would have been ſurly; but a ſingle look ſilenced their inſolence. One of them was diſpatched, according to form, to ſee that there were no de⯑tainers; and, being paid, they then ſet their priſoner free.

Now, if thou thinkeſt, Oliver, thou canſt truly figure to thyſelf the overflow⯑ing gratitude of the kind young creature, the wife, thou art egregiouſly miſtaken. She fell on her knees to me, ſhe bleſſed me, prayed for me, and ſaid I was an angel from heaven, ſent to ſave her dear Harry from deſtruction; ſhe kiſſed him, hugged, God bleſſed, and half ſmothered her heavenly infant, as ſhe truly called it, [121] with kiſſes; nay ſhe kiſſed me—in ſpi⯑rit, Oliver—I could ſee ſhe did: ay and in ſpirit I returned her chaſte ca⯑reſſes.

She entreated me with ſo much hum⯑ble love and gratitude to come and ſee her poor houſe, which I had ſaved, and to tell her my name, that ſhe might pray for me the longeſt day ſhe had to live, that I could not forbear gratifying her ſo far as to go with her. As for my name, I told her it was man. The quick huſſey underſtood me, for ſhe re⯑plied—No, it was angel.

I found her houſe, like her perſon, neat, and in order. What is ſtill better, her Harry ſeems a kind good young man, and alive to as well as de⯑ſerving of her affection.

[122] Wouldſt thou think it, Oliver?—The pleaſure I had communicated had re⯑verberated back upon myſelf; yet the fight of a couple thus happy gave birth to a thought of ſuch exquiſite pain that—! Something ſhot acroſs my brain—I know not what—But it ſeemed to indicate I ſhould never be ſo mated!

Still, this money, Oliver—Prithee be at the trouble to examine the queſtion, and ſend me thy thoughts; for I have not been able to ſatisfy myſelf. What is the thing called property? What are meum and tuum? Under what circum⯑ſtances may a man take money from an⯑other? I would not be proud; neither would I render myſelf deſpicable.

Thou ſeeſt how I delight to impart my joys and griefs to thee. Thou telleſt me [123] thou partakeſt them; and, judging by myſelf, I cannot but believe thee. Tell me when thou art weary of me; I have long and often been weary of myſelf.

Yet ſhe is very kind to me, and ſo kind that I have lately been betrayed into hopes too flattering, too ecſtatic to be true. Oh! Should ſhe ever think of me! Were it only poſſible ſhe ever ſhould be mine!—The pleaſure is too exquiſite! It is inſupportable!—Let me gaze and wonder at humble diſtance, in ſilence and in awe!—Do not call me abject—Yet, if I am ſo, do; tell me all that ought to be told. It is not before her rank that I bend and ſink. Being for being I am her equal: but who is her equal in virtue?—Heavens! What a ſmile did ſhe beſtow on me, when I [124] took the money I mentioned to thee! It has ſunken deep, deep in my heart! Ne⯑ver can it be forgotten! Never! Never!

Peace be with thee.

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

MUST I be ſilent? Muſt I not tell my Louiſa how infinitely her candor and juſtice delight me? With the voice of a warning angel ſhe bids me enquire, examine my heart, and reſolve. I think I have reſolved; and from reaſons which I believe are not to be overcome. Yet I will confeſs my opinion, ſtrong as it is, [126] receives violent attacks; as, Louiſa, you will be convinced, when you have read the whole of this letter.

My friend cautions me againſt being partial, even in favour of her bro⯑ther. Such a friend is indeed worthy to adviſe, and I will remember her pre⯑cepts. This brother may be a degene⯑rate ſcion from a noble ſtock: yet I can hardly think the thing poſſible. That he may have fallen into many of the miſ⯑takes, common to the world in which he has lived, is indeed moſt likely. But the very qualities which you deſcribe in him ſpeak an active and perhaps a dig⯑nified nature.

We have duties to fulfil. Few oppor⯑tunities preſent themſelves to a woman, educated and reſtrained as women un⯑fortunately [127] are, of performing any thing eminently good. One of our moſt fre⯑quent and obvious taſks ſeems to be that of reſtoring a great mind, miſled by error, to its proper rank. If the mind of Clifton ſhould be ſuch, ſhall I cow⯑ardly decline what I believe it to be in⯑cumbent on me to perform? Let him be only ſuch as I expect, and let me be fortunate enough to gain his affections, and you ſhall ſee, Louiſa, whether trifles ſhall make me deſiſt.

What high proofs of courage, perſe⯑verance, and of ſuffering, do men conti⯑nually give! And ſhall we wholly re⯑nounce the dignity of emulation, and willingly ſign the unjuſt decree of preju⯑dice, that mind likewiſe has its ſex, and [128] that women are deſtitute of energy and fortitude?

But Frank Henley!—Let me not hide a thought from my Louiſa. He is in⯑deed worthy of being loved, every day more worthy. I have a new ſtory to tell, which will be more effectual praiſe than any words of mine. Like you I am perſuaded he has ſome affection for me. I am not inſenſible to his worth and virtues: I ought not to be. Were I to indulge the reveries into which I could eaſily fall, I might be as much miſled by paſſion as others, who are ſo ready to complain and pity themſelves for being in love. But a wakeful ſenſe of the conſequences is my ſafeguard. It cannot be. I ſhould render my father, [129] my relations, and friends, miſerable. I ſhould ſet a bad example to my ſex. I, who aim at ſhewing them mind is ſupe⯑rior to ſex.

Such are the thoughts that protect me from the danger. His mental excellence perhaps I love as truly as heart could wiſh. But, as the lover who is to be the huſband, no! I will not ſuffer my thoughts to glance in that direction. I might, but I will not. Nothing but a conviction that my principles are wrong ſhall ever make me; and that convic⯑tion I hold to be impoſſible.

Do not imagine I am guilty of the miſtake of ſuppoſing myſelf his ſuperior. Far the reverſe. The tale which I am now about to relate will inform you better of the true ſtate of my feelings.

[130] You muſt know, my dear, that on our arrival in town, Sir Arthur, with my help, prevailed on Frank Henley to ac⯑cept a twenty pound bill, that he might have the means of gratifying his inclina⯑tions, and enjoying the pleaſures which at his age it is natural he ſhould wiſh to enjoy. Theſe means I had but too good reaſon to be convinced had been denied him by his father, which I ſuſpected to be, and am now ſatisfied was, the true reaſon that Frank refuſed to attend us on our journey.

The youth has quite pride enough, my dear: he is deſirous to confer, but not to accept obligations; is ready enough to give, but not to receive. As if he had not only a right to monopolize virtue, but to be exempt from the wants [131] which are common to all, and to ſupply which men form themſelves into ſoci⯑eties. He ſeems to ſhrink with exquiſite pain from the acceptance of money. However I was determined to conquer, and conquer I did. Nor can I ſay, con⯑ſidering them as I do, that I was ſorry to offend the falſe feelings even of Frank Henley, for whom I have an-infinite eſteem.

After receiving this preſent, he ac⯑companied me two or three times to thoſe public places to which crowns and half guineas gain admittance; and, as you may imagine, was far from appear⯑ing inſenſible of the powers of poetry and muſic. Suddenly however he re⯑fuſed to be any more of ſuch parties, for which I own I could divine no reaſon. [132] I knew he had been educated in habits of oeconomy, and therefore could not ſuppoſe, generous though I knew him to be, that he had ſquandered away his pocket-money in ſo ſhort a time. I en⯑deavoured both to rally and to reaſon, but in vain; he was poſitive even to ob⯑ſtinacy; and I rightly conjectured there muſt be ſome cauſe for it which I had not diſcovered.

You have heard me ſpeak, I believe, my dear, of Mrs. Clarke, as of a careful good woman, and a great favourite with my dear mamma, when living. She was then our houſekeeper in the country, but has lately been left in the town houſe; becauſe the furniture is too valuable to be entruſted to a leſs at⯑tentive perſon. This Mrs. Clarke had a [133] ſiſter whoſe name was Webb, and who left a ſon and a daughter, who are both married. The ſon, as you will ſoon hear, has been a wild and graceleſs fellow; but the daughter is one of the moſt agreeable and engaging young creatures I think I ever ſaw.

Yeſterday my good Mrs. Clarke and her niece were ſhut up together in cloſe converſation for a conſiderable time; and I perceived that their cheeks were ſwelled, their eyes red, and that they had been crying violently. I almoſt re⯑vere Mrs. Clarke as my mother, be⯑cauſe of the excellence of her heart and the ſoundneſs of her underſtanding. I therefore could not forbear earneſtly enquiring whether it were poſſible for me to remove her cauſe of grief; for [134] grieved, I told her, I could plainly per⯑ceive ſhe was. She burſt into tears again on my queſtioning her, and endeavoured to expreſs feelings that were too big for utterance. Turning to her niece ſhe ſaid—‘I muſt inform my dear young lady.’ ‘For God's ſake don't! For the Lord's ſake don't!’ cried the ter⯑rified creature. ‘I muſt,’ replied the aunt. ‘It is proper.’ ‘He will have no mercy ſhewn him! He will be hanged!’ exclaimed the other, in an agony. ‘You do not know this lady,’ ſaid the aunt. ‘Indeed ſhe does not,’ added I, ‘if ſhe ſuppoſes I would have any creature upon earth hanged.’ ‘Retire, Peggy,’ ſaid the aunt, ‘while I relate the vile, the dreadful tale.’ ‘No, no! For mercy's ſake no!’ re⯑plied [135] the niece. ‘I muſt ſtay, and beg, and pray, and down on my knees for my brother! He is a wild and a wicked young man, but he is my brother.’ ‘Pray let her ſtay,’ ſaid I to the aunt. ‘And fear nothing, my kind⯑hearted Peggy. Be aſſured I will not hurt a hair of your brother's head. I will do him good if I can, but no injury.’ ‘The God of Heaven bleſs and reward your angelic ladyſhip!’ cried the half frantic grateful Peggy.

Mrs. Clarke attempted to begin her ſtory. She was almoſt ſuffocated. I never heard ſo heart-rending a groan as ſhe gave, when ſhe came to the fatal ſen⯑tence! Would you believe it, Louiſa? This nephew of the worthy Mrs. Clarke, this brother of the good Peggy, is the [136] very highwayman who ſhot Frank Hen⯑ley!

His benevolent aunt has been with him, for he is ſtill under the ſurgeon's hands; and he has confeſſed to her [I am angry with myſelf, Louiſa, to find I wonder at it] he has confeſſed that the brave, the humane, the noble-minded Frank has viſited him ſeveral times, and has ſet the folly of his wicked purſuits in ſo true and ſo ſtrong a light, that the man proteſts, with the utmoſt vehe⯑mence, if he can but eſcape puniſhment for the faults he has committed, he will ſooner periſh than again be guilty of his former crimes.

The firſt time Frank viſited him he gave the poor wretch a guinea; and went himſelf in ſearch of another lodg⯑ing [137] for him, as well to remove him from the knowledge of his wicked compa⯑nions as to protect him from the forty pound hunters. The man wants to eſcape over to the continent; and ap⯑pears to be ſo ſincere, in his reſolves of reformation, that Frank has undertaken to furniſh him with the means.

You cannot imagine, Louiſa, the heart-felt praiſes which the worthy Mrs. Clarke beſtowed on the youth. And Peggy ſaid that ſhe hoped ſhe ſhould ſome time or another live to ſee him, that ſhe might fall down and kiſs his footſteps! But, added ſhe, with great ardor, I find indeed there are very good men in the world!

Still there appeared ſomething enig⯑matical to me, between Frank and the [138] money account. I could not conceive how he ſhould want the means imme⯑diately to furniſh ſuch a ſum as would have been ſufficient for the poor fugi⯑tive. And this again reminded me how aſſiduouſly Frank had lately avoided every occaſion of expence.

While we were in the midſt of our diſcourſe, who ſhould enter the room but Frank! Never was I preſent at ſuch a ſcene!—‘Good God Almighty!’ exclaimed Peggy, the moment ſhe ſaw him. ‘This is he! This is the very bleſſed, dear gentleman, that ſaved my poor Harry from thoſe terrible jailors.’

‘Is it poſſible?’ cried Mrs. Clarke.

‘It is, it is he! He himſelf!’ ſaid the full-hearted Peggy, falling down on her knees, and catching the flap of his [139] coat, which ſhe kiſſed with inconceivable enthuſiaſm.

Poor Frank did not know which way to look. Good deeds are ſo uncommon, and ſo much the cauſe of ſurpriſe, that virtue bluſhes at being detected almoſt as deeply as vice. I knew Frank had a noble heart; and I own, Louiſa, I was not much amazed when Peggy, with abundance of kind expreſſions and a flow of ſimple eloquence, related the manner in which Frank had ſaved her huſband from the bailiffs, by paying a debt which with coſts amounted to up⯑ward of eighteen pounds.

I did not however forbear ſeverely to reprove myſelf, for having dared ſo much as to imagine that a youth with [140] ſuch high virtues could not, in a city like London, find opportunities of ex⯑pending ſo ſmall a ſum as twenty pounds in acts of benevolence. I ought at leaſt to have ſuppoſed the thing probable; yet it never once entered my mind.

The thanks, bleſſings, and prayers of Peggy were endleſs. Finding him not only to be what ſhe knew, the man who relieved her from the moſt poignant diſtreſs, but likewiſe the vanquiſher and the ſaviour of her brother, ſhe ſaid and proteſted ſhe was ſure there was not ſuch another angel upon earth! She was ſure there was not! Frank was aſhamed of and almoſt offended at her inceſſant praiſe. It was ſo natural and ſo proper for him to act as he did, that [141] he is ſurpriſed to find it can be matter of wonder.

I muſt inſiſt however upon ſeeing him reimburſed; and I perſuade myſelf there is one thought which will make him ſubmit to it quietly. I have but to remind him that the good of others requires that men, who ſo well know the uſe of it, ſhould never be without money

Adieu. I have not time to write more at preſent.—Yet I muſt, for I ought to add, that, though I thought myſelf ſo fully convinced when I began this letter, concerning Frank and the only right mode of acting, doubts have ſeveral times intruded themſelves upon me, while I have been writing. I will [142] think when the fancy is not ſo buſy as at preſent; and when I have thought do not fear my reſolution.

LETTER XIII.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

IT is an intolerably ſtrange thing, Oliver, that a man cannot perform the mere neceſſary duties of humanity, with⯑out being ſuppoſed almoſt a prodigy. Where is the common ſenſe, I will not ſay delicacy, which ſhould teach people that ſuch ſuppoſitions are an inſult, not only to the perſon but to all mankind? [144] I am young, I grant, and know but little of the barbarity which it is pre⯑tended is univerſal. I cannot think the accuſation true. Or, if it be, I am con⯑vinced it muſt be the reſult of▪ ſome ſtrange perverſion of what may be called the natural propenſities of man. I own I have ſeen children wrangle for and endeavour to purloin, or ſeize by force, each others apples and cherries; and this may be a beginning to future rapacity. But I know the obvious courſe of nature would be to correct, inſtead of to confirm, ſuch miſtakes. I know too that there are individual inſtances of cruelty, and inſenſibility. But theſe ſurely are the exceptions, and not the rule.

I viſited a man whoſe vices, that is [145] whoſe errors and paſſions were ſo violent as to be dangerous to ſociety, and ſtill more dangerous to himſelf. Was it not my duty? I thought myſelf certain of convincing him of his folly, and of bringing back a loſt individual to the paths of utility and good ſenſe. What ſhould I have been, had I neglected ſuch an opportunity? I have really no patience to think that a thing, which it would have been a crime to have left undone, ſhould poſſibly be ſuppoſed a work of ſupererogation!

I ſaw an induſtrious riſing family on the brink of ruin, and in the agonies of deſpair, which were the conſequences of an act of virtue; and I was not ſelfiſh enough to prefer my own whims, which I might chooſe to call pleaſures, to the [146] preſervation of this worthy, this really excellent little family. And for this I am to be adored! For no word is ſtrong enough to expreſs the fooleries that have been acted to me. They were well meant? True. They were the ebulli⯑tions of virtue? I do not deny it. But either they are an unjuſt ſatire upon the world in general, or it is a vile world. I half ſuſpect, indeed, it is not quite what it ought to be.

In addition to all this, I have been obliged to receive a ſum equal to that which I thought it my duty to beſtow. This is the ſecond time; and perhaps thou wilt tell me I am not difficult to perſuade. Read the following dialogue, which paſſed between me and the moſt angelic of Heaven's creatures, and judge [147] for thyſelf. She is really a prodigy! I never knew another mind of ſuch un⯑common powers! So clear, ſo collected, ſo certain of chooſing the ſide of truth, and ſo ſecure of victory!

I am an aſs! I am talking Arabic to thee. I ought to have begun with in⯑forming thee of a circumſtance which is in itſelf odd enough. The highwayman and Peggy. [Pſhaw! The woman whoſe huſband was arreſted.] They are not only brother and ſiſter, but the nephew and niece of Mrs. Clarke. Think of that, Oliver! The nephew of ſo worthy a woman ſo audaciouſly wicked! Well might the diſtreſſed Peggy expreſs anger which I could perceive was heartfelt, though ſhe herſelf at that time knew not of this act. But to my dialogue. Liſten to [148] the voice of my charmer, and ſay whe⯑ther ſhe charm not wiſely!

You have made a generous and a noble uſe, Frank, of the ſmall ſum which you were ſo very unwilling to accept▪ [She treats me with the moſt winning familiarity! What does ſhe mean? Is it purpoſely to ſhew me how much ſhe is at her eaſe with me; and how impoſſible it is that any thing but civility ſhould exiſt between us? Or is it truly as kind as it ſeems? Can it be? Who can ſay? Is it out of nature? Wholly? Surely, ſurely not. Theſe burſting gleams of hope beget ſuſpenſe more intolerable than all the blackneſs of deſpair itſelf.]

I acted naturally, madam; and I con⯑feſs it gives me ſome pain to find it the ſubject of ſo much wonder.

[149] It is no ſubject of wonder to me. Your inferiors in underſtanding I know would not act like you; but the weak do not give law to the ſtrong. I own that I have been dull enough, unjuſt enough, not to ſuſpect your true motive for refuſing, as you have done lately, to accompany us to public places. But this is a heavy penalty on you which an act of virtue ought not to incur.

If it be a penalty, madam, I am ſure it is one which you have too much ge⯑neroſity to wiſh to deprive me of the pleaſure of paying.

I underſtand your hint: but I am not ſo generous as you think me; for I am determined, and you know what a poſi⯑tive girl I am, to ſhare both the penalty and the enjoyment with you.

[150] I beg your pardon, madam, but that cannot be.

Oh! But, in ſpite of your ſerious and very emphatical air, it muſt be.

Excuſe me, madam. I am certain you have too high a ſenſe of juſtice to impoſe▪laws to which you yourſelf would not ſubmit.

Very true. Prove me that and I am anſwered. Nay, ſo confident am I of the goodneſs of my cauſe, that I will not require you to take up this [Laying down another bank note, of equal value with the former.] unleſs I can on the con⯑trary prove it to be nothing but falſe pride, or miſtake, which can induce you to refuſe. You perceive, Frank, I am not afraid of offending you by ſpeaking the plain truth. Pray tell me, when [151] you ſaw the worthy couple whom you relieved in diſtreſs, had you perſiſted in your refuſal of the paltry bit of paper which I before prevailed on you to re⯑ceive, what would you have ſaid to your⯑ſelf, what would have been your re⯑morſe, when you found yourſelf unable to ſuccour the unfortunate, merely be⯑cauſe you had been too proud to receive that which you wanted, and which there⯑fore you had no right to refuſe. [You ſee, Oliver, ſhe ſnatched my own ſword from my ſide, with which to diſpatch me. If thou art too dull to underſtand me, conſult my laſt letter.] You were ready to protect, thought at the riſk of your life, thoſe very perſons at whoſe favours, as they are falſely called, your ſpirit is ſo equally ready to revolt. Per⯑haps [152] in defending us you did no more than you ought; but we cannot be ig⯑norant how few are capable of doing ſo much. And, ſince you are thus prompt to perform all which the moſt auſtere morality can require, ſo long as it ſhall be apparent to the world that your mo⯑tives are not ſelfiſh, proceed a ſtep fur⯑ther; diſregard the world, and every being in it; that is, diſregard their miſ⯑takes; and, ſatisfied that your motives are pure, defy the falſe interpretations to which any right action may ſubject you. Neither, while you are actually diſcharg⯑ing the higheſt offices of humanity, deny to others the right to fulfil ſome of the moſt trivial.

I could not act otherwiſe than I did, on both the occaſions to which you al⯑lude, [153] madam. I believe it is our duty always to be guided by circumſtances; but not to be guilty of an impropriety, becauſe it is poſſible ſuch circumſtances may again occur.

You are right. We only differ con⯑cerning the meaning of the word. Im⯑propriety, or propriety, we ſhall come to preſently. You have promiſed your wounded penitent money, to facilitate his eſcape, and you have none.

I have ſome trifling uſeleſs property, madam.

But you have a journey to make back to Wenbourne-Hill, according to your preſent intentions.

Do you imagine, madam, I cannot faſt for a day?

Oh yes! I doubt it not; for a week, [154] Frank, to effect any great, any laudable purpoſe. But I muſt be plain with you. It is ungenerous of you to wiſh to engroſs all virtue and ſenſibility. Beſide, you have duties to perform to yourſelf, which are as preſſing as any you owe to ſociety, becauſe they are to fit you for the ſocial duties. [Hearken to the angel, Oli⯑ver!] It is as much my duty, at pre⯑fent, to afford you the means which you want, as it was yours to viſit the wound⯑ed highwayman, or aid the diſtreſſed Peggy. You ought to ſuffer me to per⯑form my duties, both for my ſake and your own. You ought not to neglect, while you are in London, to ſeize on every opportunity which can tend to en⯑large your faculties. You have no com⯑mon part to act; and, that you may act [155] it well, you ſhould ſtudy the beings with whom you are to aſſociate. You muſt not ſuffer any falſe feelings to unfit you for the high offices for the execution of which men like you are formed. [Didſt thou ever hear ſuch honeyed flattery, Oli⯑ver?] Something more—You muſt ac⯑company us to France.

Madam!—Impoſſible.

Hear me, Frank. The journey will be of infinite ſervice to you. A mind like yours cannot viſit a kingdom where the manners of the people are ſo diſtinct as thoſe of the French muſt be from the Engliſh, without receiving great benefit. Your father is rich.

That he denies, madam.

To you; and you and I know why. If your delicacy ſhould object to a gift, I [156] am ſure it cannot with propriety to a loan. Going with us, your expences will in fact be only caſual. I can ſupply you with ſuch money as you want, which you may hereafter repay me, when I may perhaps be glad that I have ſuch a debtor.

My father's property, madam, is of his own acquiring; I have no legal claim upon it; and it would be diſho⯑neſt in me to ſpend that, upon ſpecula⯑tion, which perhaps never may be mine.

Yes; to ſpend it in unworthy pur⯑poſes would be diſhoneſt. But I again recur to your duties. However, ſince you are ſo tenacious on the ſubject, I will become a uſurer to pacify your feel⯑ings, and you ſhall pay for riſk. Fifty pounds, unleſs you meet with more Peg⯑gies, [157] I dare ſay will bear you free. [It is twenty pounds more, thou knoweſt, than I aſked of my father.] You ſhall give me eighty whenever you have a thouſand pounds of your own.

Madam!—

Well, well! You ſhall give me a hun⯑dred—[Very ſeriouſly] It almoſt vexes me, Frank, to be refuſed ſo very ſlight a favour; for I can read refuſal and op⯑poſition in your eye. But, if you per⯑ſiſt, you will give me great pain; for you will convince me that, where your own paſſions are concerned, you are not ſuperior to the paltry prejudices by which the reſt of the world are governed.

I own, madam, my mind has had many ſtruggles on the ſubject; and I [158] am afraid, as you ſay, it has been too willing to indulge its prejudices, and its pride. But if you ſeriouſly think, from your heart, it is my duty to act in this caſe as you direct—

I do, ſeriouſly, ſolemnly, and from my heart, think it is your duty.

Then, madam, I ſubmit.

Why that's my kind Frank! As noble in this inſtance as in every other—I could love you for it if you would let me—[In a moment my heart was alarm⯑ed! I could feel myſelf change colour! I am certain ſhe ſaw my agitation; her manner told me ſo, for ſhe inſtantly added, with a kind of affectionate ſignifi⯑cance which I know not how to inter⯑pret—] I would ſay as much to the [159] whole world, but that it is a fooliſh world, and wants the wit to conceive things truly as they are meant.

She was gone in an inſtant, ſmiling, failing, and her countenance brightening with heavenly radiance, as ſhe departed.

What can this be? Her words are con⯑tinually reſounding in my ears!—She could love me, if I would let her!—Heavens!—Love me?—Let her?—Let her!—Oh!—It is a fooliſh world—She fears its cenſures—Love me!—Is it poſſible?—Tell me, Oliver, is it poſſible?—It wants the wit to con⯑ceive things truly as they are meant—Was this forbidding me to hope; or was it blaming the world's prejudices?—I know not—Ah! To what pur⯑poſe warn the moth, unleſs ſhe could put [160] out the light?—Oh, blaſphemy!—Love me if I would let her?—I can⯑not forget it, Oliver!—I cannot!—Oh! I could weep like a child, at my own conſcious debility.

Why ſhould I deſpair?—With a modern miſs, a fine lady, I might; but not with her. She has a mind ſuperior to the world, and its miſtakes. And am I not convinced there ought to be no impediment to our union? Why ſhould I doubt of convincing her? She dare do all that truth and juſtice can demand—And ſhe could love me if I would let her—Is not my deſpondency abſurd?—Even did I know her preſent thoughts, and know them to be inimical to my paſſion, what ought I to do? Not to de⯑ſert my own cauſe, if it be a juſt one: [161] and, if it be the contrary, there is no queſtion: I will make none. Let me but be convinced of my error, and it ſhall be renounced. Yes, Oliver, I dare boldly aver—it ſhall! But ſhall I forego a right ſo precious, if it be mine?—No! Kingdoms ſhall not tempt me!—Why is this timidity? Why does my heart palpitate? Why with inward whiſ⯑pers do I murmur thoughts which I dare not ſpeak aloud? Why do they riſe qui⯑vering to my lips, and there panting ex⯑pire, painfully ſtruggling for birth, but in vain? Oh! How poorly do I paint what ſo oppreſſively I feel!

I would have thee read my whole heart. I ſhudder to ſuppoſe it poſſible I ſhould be a ſeducer. Falſely to be thought ſo would trouble me but little. [162] But tamely to yield up felicity ſo ineſti⯑mable, in compliance with the errors of mankind to renounce a union which might and ought to be productive of ſo much good, is not this a crime?—Speak without fear. Shew me what is right. Convince me, then blame me if I quail.

And now, Oliver, it is probable thou wilt not ſee me for theſe three months. Delicate as theſe money favours are be⯑come in the tranſactions of men, con⯑temptible as they often are in them⯑ſelves, and unwilling as I have been to ſubject myſelf to them, I am glad that ſhe has conquered. I would not have heſitated a moment; for obliga⯑tion, if obligation it were, to her would be heaven: but ſhe has her own wants, [163] her own mode of doing good. Theſe I was very deſirous not to abridge. But, ſince I muſt either comply or remain be⯑hind, I am glad to have been ſo honour⯑ably vanquiſhed.

My father, I know, is willing enough I ſhould go to France, or where I pleaſe, ſo that I do not aſk him for money. In⯑deed he told me as much. He thinks it matters not what becomes of a fellow ſo uſeleſs, and ſo idle, as he ſuppoſes me to be. However I have written to inform him of my intention, and once more to remind him, though certainly in vain, of the manner in which he ought to act.

P. S. Thou art an unwilling, ſlug⯑giſh correſpondent. I have juſt received thine of the 21ſt. I find I am in no danger of reproof, from thee, for the ac⯑ceptance of theſe pecuniary obligations: but I half ſuſpect, from the tenor of thy letter, that thou wouldſt bid me take all that any body is willing to give. Be juſt to thyſelf and thy friend, Oliver; ſhrink not from wholeſome ſeverity. Let not thy ſuavity of temper, or thy partial kindneſs to me, ſway thee to the right or the left; leſt here⯑after I ſhould make the fearful de⯑mand of my loſt principles, or at leaſt relaxed and enfeebled, from thee. Beware of the kindneſs of thy heart.

[165] Do not omit my moſt reſpectful and kind acknowledgments to thy father and family.

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

I HAVE had a ſtrong conteſt, my dear, with our favourite youth, to over⯑come what I believe I have convinced him is prejudice; and I hope he is cured of falſe delicacy, for the future. He is to go with us to France, and is no longer under the neceſſity of abſtaining from [167] innocent and inſtructive amuſements, becauſe he is poſſeſſed of ſenſibility and a high reſpect for virtue.

But he had no ſooner accepted this ſupply than away he was gone to his convert. This I ſuſpected. For which reaſon I had previouſly diſpatched Mrs. Clarke to viſit her nephew. The good woman could not be prevailed on to re⯑ceive any money for his relief; urging that ſhe was very capable of ſupplying him herſelf. That being ſo, I did not chooſe violently to conteſt the matter with her; as I do not wiſh to encourage the moſt diſtant approaches to a ſpirit of avarice. I only told her it would be un⯑juſt ſhould ſhe ever want money, for uſeful and virtuous purpoſes, if ſhe did not apply to me: and ſhe with much [168] good ſenſe anſwered ſhe thought as I did, and would certainly act accordingly. She is a very worthy woman.

She was with her nephew when Frank came in; and the ſcene, as deſcribed by her, was affecting. The poor culprit had been repeating all his obligations to the generous Frank, praiſing his bravery, and dwelling, with a degree of convic⯑tion which gave Mrs. Clarke great plea⯑ſure, on the effects of goodneſs; ſince it could render a man ſo undaunted, ſo forgiving, ſo humane, and ſo much as he ſaid like a ſaint. You know, my dear, that ſaint, in the language of ſuch pèople, does not mean an impoſtor, who pretends to carry burning coals in his hands, drive ruſty nails into his legs, adore a morſel of rotten wood, or de⯑cayed [169] bone, and pretend to work mira⯑cles, or preach excluſive doctrines of faith and ſalvation. A ſaint with them is a perſon more perfect, in the diſcharge of the higheſt moral duties, than they believe any other earthly being to be. Let us accept their definition, and enroll the name of Frank Henley in our ca⯑lendar.

Frank was diſappointed, and in ſome meaſure diſpleaſed, that any perſon ſhould offer his reformed friend, as from the beſt of motives he called him, mo⯑ney but himſelf; and the reaſon he gave was not without its force. This is a me⯑morable epocha in the life of a miſtaken man, ſaid he; and no means, which can move his mind to a better performance of his duties than he has hitherto at⯑tempted, [170] ſhould be left untried. It is but natural that he ſhould think more of me than of moſt other perſons: [‘I can think of no one elſe!’ Exclaimed the poor fellow, with enthuſiaſm.] and, the more cauſe he ſhall have to remember me with affection, the more weight will the reaſons have with him which I have urged.

The culprit acknowledged that, from ill advice, vicious example, and violent paſſions, he had become very wicked. But, ſaid he, I muſt be wicked indeed if I could ever forget what this gentleman has ſaid, and done, to ſave my family from ſhame and ruin, and me from de⯑ſtruction and death.

There is the greater reaſon to hope, becauſe Mrs. Clarke ſays that he has [171] been what is called well educated, his ſtation in life conſidered: and indeed of this I imagine ſhe herſelf had taken care.

Peggy came in, and by her exceſs of gratitude, and which is better of admira⯑tion for her hero, ſhe drove the over de⯑licate Frank away. This is one of his defects, for which we muſt endeavour to find a remedy. Men are not expoſed to the fulſome praiſe which we unmarried females are calmly obliged to hear, or be continually at war; or Frank would be more patient. Indeed he ought to be; becauſe, in this inſtance, the praiſes he receives are the effuſions of perſons who had never before ſeen virtue exert her⯑ſelf with ſo much ardour.

Though the nephew be not an old or [172] hardened offender, he has committed ſome depredations of the conſequences of which, were they proved upon him, he himſelf is ignorant. His accomplice has diſcovered his retreat; another more private lodging has therefore been taken for him, to which he is to remove with all poſſible caution. And when he is ſufficiently recovered, which Mrs. Clarke tells me will be ſoon, he is then to de⯑part for the continent and work at his trade, which is that of a cabinet-maker. Engliſh workmen are in high eſteem abroad, and he will eaſily find employ⯑ment. He is more than reconciled to labour, he is eager to begin; and, as it appears, does not want activity of mind; of which the dangerous expedients to which he reſorted are ſome proof.

[173] So much for the hiſtory of a highway⯑man; which I think is at leaſt as de⯑ſerving of remembrance as that of many other depredators.

I have been making ſome efforts to decide the queſtion, not of love, but, of duty. Love muſt not be permitted, till duty ſhall be known. I have not ſatiſ⯑fied myſelf ſo well as I could wiſh, yet my former reaſons ſeem invincible. Ought my father and my family to be offended? Ought I to ſet an example that might be pernicious? Is it moſt probable that by oppoſing I ſhould cor⯑rect or increaſe the world's miſtakes? The path before me is direct and plain; ought I to deviate?

In vain I fear ſhould I plead his extra⯑ordinary [174] merit. Would the plea re⯑move the load of affliction with which I ſhould overwhelm thoſe who love me beſt? At preſent they think well, nay highly of me. I ſometimes have the power to influence them to good. What power ſhall I have when they imagine I have diſgraced both myſelf and them?

Who ever ſaw thoſe treated with eſteem who are themſelves ſuppoſed to be the ſlaves of paſſion? And could the world poſſibly be perſuaded that a marriage between me and the ſon of my father's ſteward could ever origi⯑nate, on my part, in honourable mo⯑tives?

Ought I to forget the influence of example? Where is the young lady, [175] being deſirous to marry an adventurer, or one whoſe mind might be as mean as his origin, who would not ſuppoſe her favourite more than the equal of Frank? For is not the power of diſcrimination loſt, when the paſſions are indulged? And ought my name to be cited? Ought they to be encouraged by any act of mine?

Yet the oppoſing arguments are far from feeble. His feelings are too ſtrong to be concealed. Perhaps the only weakneſs I can think him capable of is that of loving me. For if love be contra⯑dictory to reaſon, it is a weakneſs; but ſhould he anſwer that love and reaſon are inthis inſtance united, we muſt come to proofs. That he loves is too viſible to admit of doubt. I have ſeen the word [176] trembling as it were on his tongue. I am almoſt certain that a ſilly thing which I ſaid, with a very different in⯑tention, would have produced an avowal of his paſſion, had I not added ſomething to prevent it, and hurried away.

Well then! Am I certain I am guilty of no injuſtice to him? And why ought I not to be as juſt to him as to any other being on earth? Who would be more juſt to me? Who would be more ten⯑der, more faithful, more affectionate?

I know not whether I ought to ſhrink from the vanity which ſeems annexed to the idea, for I know not whether it be va⯑nity, but I cannot ſometimes help aſk⯑ing myſelf whether the good that might reſult from the union of two ſtrong minds, mutually determined to exert [177] their powers for the welfare of ſociety, be not a reaſon ſuperior even to all thoſe I have enumerated.

If this be ſo, and if our minds really poſſeſs the ſtrength which I am ſo ready to ſuppoſe, I then know not what an⯑ſwer to give. I reject the affectation of under eſtimating myſelf, purpoſely that I may be called a modeſt humble young lady. Humility I am perſuaded, though not ſo common, is as much a vice as pride. But, while avoiding one ex⯑treme, I muſt take care not to be guilty of another. The queſtion is embarraſ⯑ſing; but I muſt not by delay ſuffer embarraſſment to increaſe.

With reſpect to your brother, I can at preſent conclude nothing, and can con⯑jecture but little. The idea which has [178] ofteneſt occurred, and which I have be⯑fore mentioned, is the infinite pleaſure of ſeeing an active mind in the full poſſeſ⯑ſion of its powers; and of being inſtru⯑mental in reſtoring that which miſtake may have injured, or in part deſtroyed. It ſeems a duty pointed out to me; at⯑tended perhaps with difficulty, and it may be with danger; but theſe increaſe its force. And if ſo, here is another ar⯑gument to add to the heavieſt ſcale.

Yes. It muſt be thus. The more I examine, and while I am writing per⯑haps I examine the beſt, the more I am confirmed in my former deciſion.

Pity for Frank ought not to be liſten⯑ed to. It is always a falſe motive, un⯑leſs ſupported by juſtice. Frank will never condeſcend to endeavour to incite [179] compaſſion; it is not in his character. He will rather aſſert his claims, for ſo he ought. I do not mean that a com⯑plaint will never eſcape him. The beſt of us are not always ſo perfectly maſter of our thoughts as never to be incon⯑ſiſtent. But his ſyſtem will not be to win that by interceſſion which he could not obtain by fair and honourable bar⯑ter. The moment I have entirely ſatiſ⯑fied and convinced myſelf, I have no doubt of inducing him to behave as no⯑bly on this as he has done on every other trying occaſion.

And now, my dear Louiſa, for the pre⯑ſent farewel. I do not ſuppoſe I ſhall write again, except a line to inform you of our ſafe arrival after having croſſed the chan⯑nel, till we come to Paris. I expect to [180] be amuſed by the journey. Though I cannot but own I think that, as far as amuſement was concerned, the good ladies under the reign of the Tudors, who travelled twenty miles a day, on a ſtrong horſe and a pillion, that is when ſummer made the roads paſſable, had much better opportunities for obſerva⯑tion than we, who, ſhut up in our car⯑riages, with blinds to keep out the duſt, gallop further in two days and two nights than they could do in a month. This haſty travelling, when haſte is ne⯑ceſſary, is a great convenience. But nothing, except the inordinate ardour of the mind to enjoy, could induce peo⯑ple on a journey of pleaſure to hurry, as they do, through villages, towns, and counties, paſs unnoticed the moſt mag⯑nificent [181] buildings, and the moſt de⯑lightful proſpects that foreſts, rivers, and mountains can afford, and wilfully exclude themſelves from all the riches of nature. To look about us, while thus ſurrounded, ſeems to be a very natural wiſh. And if ſo, a portable cloſet, or rather a flying watch-box, is but a blundering contrivance.

You know your Anna: her buſy brain will be meddling. And perhaps ſhe truſts too much to the pardoning af⯑fection of friendſhip.

LETTER XV.
FRANK HENLEY TO ABIMELECH HENLEY.

THAT I may not appear to neglect any filial duty, all of which it has been my moſt earneſt wiſh to fulfil, I write to inform you that, at the requeſt of the family, I am preparing to accompany Sir Arthur to France. From our laſt converſation I underſtood you had no [183] objection to the journey, except that of furniſhing me with money; for it was your pleaſure to remind me that a man ſo idle, as you ſuppoſe I am, may be or go any where, without the world ſuf⯑fering the leaſt loſs. I own, did I imagine the ſame of myſelf, it would make me wretched indeed.

You thought proper, ſir, to refuſe me the ſmall ſum which I requeſted of you for this purpoſe. I do not wiſh to wreſt what you are unwilling to give. You underſtand your own reaſonings beſt; but to me they appear to be either erroneous or incomprehenſible. I wiſhed to explain to you what my plan of life was, but you refuſed to hear me. I had no ſooner ſaid that [184] I thought it my duty to ſtudy how I could beſt ſerve ſociety, than you angrily told me I ought firſt to think how I could beſt ſerve myſelf. From a recollection of the paſt, I am con⯑vinced this is a point on which we ſhall never have the ſame opinion. For this I am ſincerely ſorry, but as I hope not to blame.

Suffer me however once more to repeat, ſir, that though my young lady has kindly offered to furniſh me with money, I ſtill think it wrong that you ſhould permit me to accept her offer; having as I am well convinced the means to ſupply me liberally yourſelf. I aſſure you, ſir, I would forbear to go, or to lay myſelf under the neceſſity [185] of aſking you for money, were I not fully perſuaded of its propriety. In order to perform my duty in the world, I ought to underſtand its inhabitants, its manners, and principally its laws, with the effects which the different legiſlation of different countries has produced. I believe this to be the higheſt and moſt uſeful kind of know⯑ledge.

Could I fortunately induce you to think as I do, you certainly would not refuſe my requeſt. Thirty pounds to you would be but a trifle. But from my late failure I have ſo little hope, that I rather write to execute a duty, than with any expectation of ſucceſs.

[186] I ſubmit this to your conſideration, and have the greateſt deſire to prove myſelf your dutiful and affectionate ſon,

LETTER XVI.
ABIMELECH HENLEY TO FRANK HENLEY.

HERE's a hippiſtle! Here's tanta⯑rums! Here's palaver! Want to pick my pocket? Rob me? And ſo an pleaſe ee he's my dutyfool and fekſhinait ſon! Duty fool, indeed? I ſay fool—Fool enough! And yet empty enough God he knoweth! You peery? You a lurcher? You know how to make your [188] 3 farthins ſhine, and turn your groats into guineas?—Why you're a noodl! A green horn! A queezee quaumee pick thank pump kin! A fine younk lady is willin to come down with the kole, and the hulver headed hulk wants to raiſe the wind on his own father! You face the philiſtins! Why they will bite the noſe off a your face!

Thirty pounds too! The mercy be good unto me! Me thirty pounds! Where muſt I get thirty pounds! Does the joult head think I coin? Would he have me go on the highway? Who ever giv'd me thirty pounds? Marry come up! Thirty pounds? Why I came to Wenbourne-Hill with thrums immee pouch. Not a braſs farthin more. And now ſhow me the he or the hurr— [189] Shiner for ſhiner—Hool a cry hold firſt?—Thof! as to the matter of that, younker, why that's a nether here nor there; that's a nothink to you dolt. I never axt you for nothink. Who be⯑gottee and ſentee into the world but I? Who found ee in bub and grub but I? Didn'tee run about as ragged as any colt o' the common, and a didn't I find duddz for ee? And what diddee ever do for me? Diddee ever addle half an ounce in your life without being well ribb roſtit? Tongue pad me indeed! Ferrit and flickur at me! Rite your hippiſtles and goſpels! I a butturd my parſnips finely! Am I a to be hufft and ſnufft o' this here manner, by a ſir jimmee jingle brains of my own feedin and breedin? Am I to be ramſhaklt [190] out of the ſuper nakullums in ſpite o' my teeth? Yea and go ſoftly! I crack the nut and you eat the kernel!

I tellee once again you've an addle pate o' your own! Go to France to learn to dance, to be ſure! Better ſtay at home and learn to tranſmogrify a few kink's picters into your pocket. No marry come fairly! Squire Nincompoop! He would not a ſifflicate Sir Arthur, and adviſe him to ſtay at home, and ſo keep the rhino for the roaſt meat! He would not a take his cue, a dunder pate! A doesn't a know ſo much as his a, b, c! A hasn't ſo much as a ſingle glimm of the omnum gathrum in his noddl! And pretends to hektur and doktur me! Shave a cow's tail and a goat's chin, an you want hair.

[191] And then again what did I ſay to ee about miſſee? What did I ſay? Didn't I as good as tellee witch way ſhe caſt a ſheepz i? That indeed would a be ſum⯑mut! An you will jig your heels amunk the jerry cum poopz, you might a then dance to ſome tune. I a war⯑runtee I a got all a my i teeth imme head. What doesn't I know witch way the wind ſets when I ſees the chimblee ſmoke? To be ſure I duz; as well with a wench as a weather-cock! Didn't I tellee y'ad a more then one foot i'the ſtirrup? She didn't a like to leave her jack in a bandbox behind her; and ſo miſſee forſooth forgot her tom-tit, and maſter my jerry whifflle an pleaſe you galloped after with it. And then with a whoop he muſt amble to Lunnun; [192] [...] [193] [...] [190] [...] [191] [...] [192] and then with a halloo he muſt caper to France! She'll depoſit the rhino; yet Nicodemus has a no notion of a what ſhe'd be at! If you've a no wit o' your own, learn a little of folks that have ſome to ſpare. You'll never a be worth a bawbee o' your own ſayin. I tellee that. And aſt for what's mine why it's my own. So take me ritely, now is your time to look about ee. Then indeed! If ſo, why ſo be it; yea ay and amen, a God's name, ſay I. The fool a held his mouth open, and a down a droppt the plumb.

Not after all that it would a be any ſitch a mighty mirakkillus catch nether, as I ſhall manage matters mayhap. But that's a nether here nor there. And ſo you know my mind. Take it or leave it or let it alone. It's all a [193] won to I. Thof and I gives all this here good advice for nothink at all, what do I get by it? Give me but the wide world and one and 20, with 5 far⯑thins ten fingurs and a tongue, and a turn me adrift to morrow; I'de a work my way: I'de a fear nether wind nor wea⯑ther. For why? I'de a give any man a peck of ſweet words for a pint of honey. What! Shall I let the lock ruſtee for a want of a little oilin? Haven't I a told ee often and often, that a glib tongue, ſmooth and ſoftly, always with the grain, is worth a kink's kinkddum?

So mind a what ee be at. Play your cards out kuninlee; and then, why if ſo be as thinks ſhould turn up trumps, why we ſhall ſee. That is, take me ritely; I has a no notion that ee [194] ſhould take it into your nobb noddl that I means to ſuppoſe that I ſhall come down with the duſt. No forſooth! For what and for why and for wherefore? We ſhall ſee—Why ay to be ſure!—But what ſhall we ſee? Why we ſhall ſee how generous and how kappaiſhus my younker will be, to his poor old fa⯑ther: we ſhall ſee that.

Not but if the ready be wantin, plump do you ſee me, down on the nail head, and if Sir Arthur ſhould a ſay as it muſt be ſo, why ſo. Mayhap we—But I tell ee again and again that's a nether here nor there. Beſides leave me to hummdudgin Sir Arthur. Mind you your hitts with miſſee, I'll a foiſtee fubb he.

And ſo now ſhow your affection for all this my lovin kindneſs and mercy; [195] and crown my latter days with peace and joy, witch nothink can xſeed but the joys of heaven in his glory everlaſtin, witch is a preparin for me and for all kriſtſhun ſoles, glory and onnur and power and praiſe and thanks givin, world without end, for ever and ever, God be good unto us, and grant us his ſalvation; amen, an it be his holy will.

LETTER XVII.
THE HONOURABLE MRS. CLIFTON TO HER SON, COKE CLIFTON.

I DIRECT this letter to you, my dear ſon, at Paris; where it will either find you, or lie at the banker's till your ar⯑rival. A packet accompanies it, which contains the accounts of your late uncle with Monſieur de Chateauneuf; by which it appears there is a conſiderable balance [197] in his favour, which as you know by will devolves to me.

I hope, when you have ſettled this buſineſs, you will be diſpoſed to return to England; and that I ſhall once again have the happineſs to ſee you before I die. Do not imagine I ſpeak of death to attract any falſe pity. But my ſtate of health obliges me to conſider this ſe⯑rious event as at no great diſtance; though I do not think myſelf in imme⯑diate danger.

Sir Arthur St. Ives and his lovely daughter will ſoon be in Paris. They requeſted letters from me; and, among others, I thought I could not recom⯑mend them to any one with more pro⯑priety than to my ſon. There is an in⯑timacy between our families at preſent; [198] which was firſt occaſioned by an affec⯑tion which your ſiſter Louiſa and Anna St. Ives conceived for each other, and which has continually increaſed, very much indeed to my ſatisfaction. For, before I ſaw this young lady, I never met with one whom I thought deſerving of the friendſhip of your ſiſter, Louiſa; whoſe ſtrength of mind, if I do not miſ⯑take, is very extraordinary for her years. Yet even I, her mother, and liable enough to be partial, have ſometimes thought ſhe muſt cede the palm to her friend, the charming Anna.

My reaſon for writing thus is that you may be guilty of no miſtakes of charac⯑ter, which indeed I think is very un⯑likely, and that you will ſhew Sir Arthur all poſſible reſpect, as well as his daugh⯑ter, [199] in juſtice to yourſelf, and as the friends of the family. Your ſiſter writes under the ſame cover; and I cannot doubt, whenever you read her letters, but that you muſt receive very great ſatis⯑faction, to find you have ſuch a ſiſter.

I ſcarcely need tell you, Clifton, that though you have reſided but little with me, I feel all the fond affection of a pa⯑rent; that I am earneſtly deſirous to hear of your happineſs, and to promote it; and that no pleaſure which the world could afford to me, perſonally, would equal that of ſeeing you become a good and great man. You have ſtudied; you have travelled; you have read both men and books; every advantage which the moſt anxious deſire to form your mind could-procure has been yours. I [200] own that a mother's fondneſs forms great expectations of you; which, when you read this, be your faculties ſtrong or weak, you will very probably ſay you are capable of more than fulfilling. The feeble, hearing their worth or talents queſtioned, are too apt to ſwell and aſ⯑ſume; and I have heard it ſaid that the ſtrong are too intimately acquainted with themſelves to harbour doubt. I believe it ought to be ſo. I believe it to be better that we ſhould act boldly, and bring full conviction upon ourſelves when miſ⯑taken, than that a timid ſpirit ſhould render us too cautious to do either good or harm. I would not preach; neither indeed at preſent could I. A thouſand ideas ſeemed crowding upon my mind; but they have expelled each other as [201] quickly as they came, and I ſcarcely know what to add. My head-achs diſ⯑qualify me for long or conſiſtent think⯑ing; and nothing I believe but habit keeps me from being half an idiot.

One thing however I cannot forget; which is, that I am your mother, Clif⯑ton; and that I have the moſt ardent and unremitting deſire to ſee you a vir⯑tuous and a happy man. In which hope my bleſſing and love are moſt ſincerely yours.

LETTER XVIII.
LOUISA CLIFTON TO HER BROTHER, COKE CLIFTON.

IT is long, my dear brother, ſince I re⯑ceived a letter from you; and ſtill longer ſince I had the pleaſure to ſee you. How many rivers, ſeas, valleys, and moun⯑tains have you traverſed, ſince that time! What various nations, what numerous oppoſite and characteriſtic countenances [203] have you beheld! From all and each of them I hope you have learned ſome⯑thing. I hope the ſucceſſion of objects has not been ſo quick as to leave vacuity in the mind.

My propenſity to moralize uſed for⯑merly [And our formerlies you know, brother, are not of any long duration.] to teaſe and half put you out of tem⯑per. Indulge me once more in hoping it will not do ſo at preſent; for I believe I am more prone to this habit than ever. What can I ſay to my brother? Shall I tattle to him the ſcandal of the village, were I miſtreſs of it? Shall I deſcribe to him the faſhion of a new cap; or the charms of a dreſs that has lately travelled from Perſia to Paris, from Paris to Lon⯑don, and from London to Roſe-Bank? [204] Or ſhall I recount the hopes and fears of a ſiſter; who has ſometimes the temerity to think; who would be ſo unfaſhiona⯑ble as to love her brother, not for the cut of his coat, not for the French or Italian phraſes with which he might in⯑terlard his diſcourſe, not for any recital of the delight which foreign ladies took in him and which he took in foreign la⯑dies, not for a loud tongue and a pro⯑digious lack of wit, not for any of the antics or impertinences which I have too frequently remarked in young men of faſhion, but for ſomething directly the reverſe of all theſe: for well-digeſted principles, an ardent deſire of truth, in⯑ceſſant ſtruggles to ſhake off prejudices; for emanations of ſoul, burſts of thought, and flaſhes of genius. For ſuch a bro⯑ther, [205] oh how eager would be my arms, how open my heart!

Do not think, my dear Clifton, I am unjuſt enough to mean any thing per⯑ſonal; to ſatirize what I can ſcarcely be ſaid to have ſeen, or to condemn un⯑heard. No. Your faculties were always lively. You have ſeen much, muſt have learned much, and why may I not ſup⯑poſe you are become all that a ſiſter's heart can deſire? Pardon me if I expect too much. Do we not all admire and ſeek after excellence? When we are told ſuch a perſon is a man of genius, do we not wiſh to enquire into the fact? And, if true, are we not deſirous of making him our intimate? And do not the ties of blood doubly enforce ſuch wiſhes, in a brother's behalf? From what you [206] were, I have no doubt but that you are become an accompliſhed man. But I hope you are alſo become ſomething much better. I hope that, by the exer⯑tion of your talents, acquirements, and genius, I ſhall ſee you the friend of man, and the true citizen of the world.

If you are all that I hope, I think you will not be offended with theſe ſiſterly effuſions. If you are not, or but in part, you may imagine me vain and im⯑pertinent. But ſtill I ſhould ſuppoſe you will forgive me, becauſe you are ſo ſeldom troubled with ſuch grave epiſ⯑tles; and one now and then, if not in⯑tolerably long, may be endured from an elder ſiſter.

Yet why do I ſay elder? Neither age nor ſtation have any juſt claim; for [207] there can be none, except the claims of truth and reaſon; againſt which there is no appeal. I am eighteen months older than my brother, and up riſes the claim of elderſhip! Such are the habits, the prejudices we have to counteract.

My dear mamma has mentioned Sir Arthur St. Ives, in her letter, and his lovely daughter, Anna; more lovely in mind even than in form, and of the lat⯑ter a ſingle glance will enable you to judge. I need not requeſt you to be attentive and civil to her, for it is im⯑poſſible you ſhould be otherwiſe. Your own gratification will induce you to ſhew her the public places, and render her every ſervice in your power; which will be more than overpaid by aſſociating with her; for it is indeed a delight to be [208] in her company. For grace and beauty of perſon, ſhe has no equal; and ſtill leſs can ſhe be equalled, by any perſon of her age, for the endowments of wit and underſtanding. I am half angry with myſelf for pretending to recom⯑mend her; when, as you will ſee, ſhe can ſo much more effectually recommend herſelf.

I have nothing to add except to ſay that, when my dear brother has a moment's leiſure, I ſhall be glad to hear from him; and that I remain his very affectionate ſiſter,

P. S. On recollection, I am convinced it is a falſe fear which has prevented me from mentioning another perſon, very [209] eminently deſerving of eſteem and re⯑ſpect; a fear of doing harm where I meant to do good. We ought to do our duty, and riſk the conſequences. The abſurd pride of anceſtry occaſions many of our young gentlemen to treat thoſe whom they deem their inferiors by birth with haughtineſs, and often with ſome⯑thing worſe; forgetting that by this means they immediately cut themſelves off as it were from ſociety: for, by con⯑temning thoſe who are a ſuppoſed ſtep below them, they encourage and incur contempt from the next immediately above them. This is in ſome meaſure the practice: and, were it true that birth is any merit, it would be a practice to which we ought to pay a ſtill more ſtrict attention. The young gentleman how⯑ever [210] whom I mean to recommend, for his great and peculiar worth, is Mr. Frank Henley, the ſon of a perſon who is gardener and ſteward to Sir Arthur; or rather what the people among whom you are at preſent would call his homme d'affaires. But I muſt leave my friends to ſpeak for themſelves; which they will do more efficaciouſly than can be done by any words of mine.