LETTER LXI.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

I AM caught, Fairfax! Spring guns and man traps have been ſet for me, and I am legged! Meſhed! Shot through the heart! I have been their puppet! They have led me, with a ſtring through my noſe, a fine dance! From the far⯑theſt [2] part of all Italy here to London, in order to tie me up! Nooſe me with a wife! And, what is more ſtrange, I am thanking and praiſing and bleſſing them for it, in ſpite of my teeth! I ſwallow the doſe as eagerly as if it had been pre⯑pared and ſweetened by my own hand; and it appears I have had nothing to do in the matter! I am a mere automaton; and as ſuch they have treated me!

Is it not curſed odd that I cannot be angry? And yet, when I recollect all this, I really ſuſpect I am not pleaſed. Damn it! To be made their convenient utenſil! To be packed up, their very obedient jack in a bandbox, and with a proper label on my back, poſted with other lumber from city to city, over hills and ſeas, to be taken out and looked [3] at, and if not liked returned as damaged ware! Ought I to ſneak and ſubmit to this? Tell me, will not the court of ho⯑nour hoot me out of its precincts? Will not the very footmen point after me, with a—"There goes the gentleman that miſs had upon liking?" Why it is not yet full two months, ſince I was the very prince of high blooded noble ſportſmen, in the romantic manors, do⯑mains, coverts and coveys of Venus! By what ſtrange necromancy am I thus metamorphoſed, thus tamed?

I feel myſelf a huſband by anticipa⯑tion! I am become as pretty a modeſt, well-behaved, ſober, ſentimental gentle⯑man, as any you ſhall ſee on a ſummer's day! I get phraſes by rote, and repeat them too! I ſay "God bleſs you, ma⯑dam," [4] when the cat ſneezes: and mum⯑ble amen to grace after meat!

I told you that I had my catechiſm to learn; and, what is worſe, it is not the queſtions and commands of good old mother church, with all the chance-medley promiſes and vows of godfathers and godmothers made in my name, [For which, by the bye, I think both godfathers and godmothers are fools, and knaves.] but I have the Lord knows how much more to learn than ever I ſup⯑poſed the moſt outrageous morality could have exacted. And I am obliged to anſwer yes, and no, and I thank you kindly, while my finger's ends are ſmoking, tingling, and aching under the ſtroke of the ferula! Yes! I, Coke Clifton, with my ſweetmeats in one hand [5] and my horn-book in the other, am whipped till I pule, coaxed till I am quiet, and ſent ſupperleſs to bed, if I preſume to murmur!

Why what the devil is the Engliſh of all this, ſay you, Clifton? What does it mean? My head is ſo full of it, and I have it ſo all by rote myſelf, that it had totally eſcaped me that every word I have uttered muſt be heathen Greek to you. Nay I had forgotten to tell you we have changed the ſcene, which now is London.

And as for accidents, by ſea and land, why we have had ſome of them too. Frank Henley has again ſhewn his dexterity. I could eat my fingers, to think that he ſhould hit upon a certain and ſafe mode of acting, in a moment [6] of danger, fooner than I! But ſo it is. He ſeems born to croſs me! We ſhould all have been toſſed into the ſea, and ſome of us certainly drowned at the very water's edge, if we had not been alert. He took the command upon himſelf, as imperiouſly as if it were his by right indiſ⯑putable; and I ſaw no expedient but to obey, or perhaps behold her periſh. For curſe upon me if I know whether any other motive, on earth, could have induced me to act as his ſubordinate. But, as it was, I did as he bid me; and ſat grinding my teeth at the helm, while I ſaw him reap all the honour of taking her in his arms; and after her the reſt, and landing them in ſafety! If, Fair⯑fax, you can conceive any anguiſh on earth more excruciating than this, why [7] tell it; and you ſhall be appointed head-tormentor to the infernal regions, for your ingenuity!

What was I going to ſay?—My brain is as murky as the clouds under which I am writing—Oh!—I recollect—She had no hand in ſpreading the trammel, into which, buzzard like, I have been lured. It was the ſcheme of my very good and careful mother; for which I have been very ſincerely writing her a letter with more thanks than words; and of the wiſe Sir Arthur; who, wiſe though he be, is not one of the magi. She knew nothing of it for ſome time, nor would have known but for my commu⯑nicative ſiſter; and, as ſhe ſcorns de⯑ception, for by my ſoul ſhe ſcorns every thing that is baſe, or derogatory, it was [8] ſhe who informed me of the trap in which I have been taken; of which other⯑wiſe perhaps I might have remained in eternal ignorance.

But ſtill and once again, ſay you, what trap? What do you mean?—

Three words will explain the whole.

I have been brought from Naples to Paris, not as I ſuppoſed to ſettle a few paltry debts of a deceaſed uncle, but to ſee, fall in love with, and be rib-hooked to this angel. This my good mother as I underſtand thinks the kindeſt act of her life.—Nay, I think ſo too; and yet I am not ſatisfied. And merely I ſup⯑poſe becauſe I feel I have been tricked. I will not be the gull of man or woman. What is it to me that they mean me well? I will judge for myſelf. [9] It is inſolent in any one to pretend to know what befits me better than I my⯑ſelf know.

In ſhort, I would quarrel, and bounce, and curſe a little, if I knew how—But they offer an apology ſo ample, ſo irre⯑ſiſtible, that there is no demanding to exchange a ſhort; they preſent Anna St. Ives as their excuſe, and a fico for reſentment.

And now there is nothing on earth for which I ſo earneſtly wiſh as to be yoked! What think you, Fairfax; ſhall I bear my ſlaviſh trappings proudly? Shall I champ upon the bit, and prance, and curvet, and ſhew off to advantage? I doubt I ſhall ſtand in need of a little rough riding. And yet I know not; let her but pat me on the neck, and [10] whiſper two or three kind epithets in my ear, and ſhe will guide me as ſhe pleaſes: at leaſt ſhe does. No! Hopes there are none of my ever again return⯑ing to my native wilds, and delightful haunts! Never was ſeen ſo fond a booby as I am, and am likely to re⯑main!

Nor do I believe I ſhould grumble, had ſhe not ſuch a ſuperabundance of diſcretion. She ſmiles upon me it is true; is all gentleneſs, all benevolence; but then ſhe does juſt the ſame to every body elſe. For my part, I ſee no difference; except that I ſometimes think ſhe has a kinder ſmile for Frank Henley than ſhe ever yet had for me! But he is juſt as diſcreet as herſelf; ſo that it ſeems impoſſible to be jealous. [11] Yet jealous I am! Ay and jealous I ſhould be of my cat, if ſhe were as ready to purr and rear her back to be ſtroked by every coarſe unwaſhed hand as by mine.

Is it not a curſed ſhame that, when you feel a continual propenſity to quarrel with a man, he ſhould be ſuch a prince Prim as never to give you an opportu⯑nity? And why have I this propen⯑ſity?—I know not!—Confound the fel⯑low, why does he make himſelf ſo great a favourite? Why does he not contrive to be hated a little? And then perhaps I might be induced to love him. I diſlike to have friendſhip or affection forced upon me, as a duty. I abhor duties, as I do ſhackles and dungeons. Let me do what I like. I leave others to examine whether or no my conduct [12] be rational: 'tis too much trouble for me.

This marriage is never out of my head! I wiſh for it, ſigh for it, pray for it, and dread it! It may well be ſaid there is no reſiſtiong our deſtiny! If I could but find out the key to her maſter paſſion—Well! What then?—What do I want? What do I hope? To hope any thing ſhort of the nooſe is mere madneſs. Beſide, could I think of living without her?—No!—I would be eternally in her company, for ſhe is eternal novelty: ſhe is all the world in one. She is herſelf a million of indivi⯑duals; and not the ſtale, dull repetition of the ſame; which is ſo horrible to ima⯑gination.

One thought has ſtruck me.—She has [13] the utmoſt confidence in what ſhe calls the force of truth. It cannot fail! That is her conſtant language. I am to be her firſt convert. I have humoured this whim lately; except when my irritable fancy breaks looſe, and runs riot. If ſhe have any folly, it is this ſaid confidence: and whether it be one, or be not, is more than I have yet been able to de⯑termine. But ſhe has furniſhed me with an argument, which I might carry to I know not what extent. "You," I urge to her, ‘you need not act with the timid and ſuſpicious caution of your ſex. You are ſure of your principle; and to proceed with diſtruſt and fear would prove doubt inſtead of cer⯑tainty.’ She boldly replies,—Yes, [14] ſhe is ſure; and therefore ſhe ſpeaks and behaves with all that undiſguiſe and ſin⯑cerity which are ſo uncommon in the world, and which ſome would deem ſo blameable.

She ſays true: ſhe riſes totally ſuperior to the petty arts and tricks of her ſex. I ſeem to participate the truſt which ſhe repoſes in herſelf; and the confidence which ſhe appears to place in me, when ſhe ſo openly declares all ſhe thinks and all ſhe means, is highly pleaſing. But, if my views were different from what they are, I doubt whether madam Confi⯑dence might not be brought to lull madam Caution ſo faſt aſleep, at ſome lucky moment or another, as to ſuffer me to purloin her key, and afterward to [15] rob her of all her treaſure. Nor ſhould I fail, under certain circumſtances, to try the experiment.

Neither is that intriguing ſpirit which has ſo long been in reſtleſs habits of continual purſuit entirely idle. My firſt care as uſual was to ſecure the prime⯑miniſter of my charmer, whoſe name is Laura. The huſſey is handſome, cun⯑ning, and not without ambition. An occaſional guinea and a few warm kiſſes, when it was certain that all was ſafe, for caution is neceſſary, have bound her to me. The poor fool is fond of me, and often finds ſome ingenious chamber⯑maid's excuſe to pay me a viſit. It does not appear that I ſhall need her agency; otherwiſe here ſhe is, properly prepared to be wholly at my devotion. Anna [16] St. Ives affords the fancy full employ⯑ment; with any other woman an amour without plot and ſtratagem, attack and defence, would be too inſipid to be en⯑dured.

Not but I ſometimes find my con⯑ſcience reproach me, for ſuffering ſuch active talents as mine to lie concealed and unknown; being as they are capable of acquiring renown ſo high. When in Italy, having even there, in that land of artifice, rendered myſelf the ſuperior of all competitors, I uſed to glory in the havoc I ſhould make on my return to England. But this the will of fate oppoſes, at leaſt for the preſent: and of what duration my honey-moon is to be is more than any preſcience of mine can diſcover.

[17] Write, Fairfax, and tell me freely your opinion of all this; only remember that, if you make your calculations and concluſions from any compariſon with woman whom you have ever yet ſeen, they will be all error. Tell me however what you think, and all you think.

I forgot to ſay that twenty thouſand pounds is the ſum to be paid me down, for condeſcending to accept this jewel. I am informed it is wanted, to pay off I know not what encumbrances and arrears—Pſhaw!—I care not—I have never yet troubled myſelf about wants, nor do I wiſh to begin. My father lived faſt, and died ſoon. Well! And is not that better than croaking and crawling over this dirty globe, haunted by razors, hal⯑ters, and barebones; ſobbing in your [18] ſleep, groaning when awake, vegetating in ſorrow, and dying in the ſulks? Let me kick my heels in mirth and ſunſhine. Or, if clouds intervene, let pleaſure and fancy create ſuns of their own. Thoſe who like them, may find gloom and November enough any day in the year. Tell me, Fairfax, may they not? Write, and tell me.

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

WE are once more arrived in Eng⯑land; for which I am not ſorry. Though I cannot ſay that I repent my journey into France. My former ſuſpicions are confirmed: I had viſited the country before, but at that time my taſte was not [20] formed; I did not then underſtand lay⯑ing out, and improving, as I do at pre⯑ſent. I had heard that the French had begun to imitate our beſt gardens tole⯑rably well; but I have ſeen ſome of thoſe that are in moſt fame, and what are they to Wenbourne-Hill?—No, no, Aby.—I am now convinced that, as they ſay of their Paris, there is but one Wenbourne-Hill.

I do not know when the family will return to the country. The young peo⯑ple wiſh to enjoy the diverſions and plea⯑ſures of the town; and I rather ſuppoſe we ſhall ſtay here all the winter. Per⯑haps we may take a jaunt or two, be⯑tween this and the meeting of parliament. Not that any ſuch plan is yet ſettled. And as for me, I ſhall be down with [21] you occaſionally, as affairs ſhall require. I ſhall take great delight, in once again treading over all my grounds, and walks, and dells; and in viſiting places that are never out of my mind.

I cannot forget the hermitage, and the grotto, and the wilderneſs; of which, the moment you mentioned them, I had formed ſo charming and ſo excellent a plan. The picture clings to me, as it were; and it grieves me to give it up. But ſo it muſt be.

However, as I ſay, I ſhall come down more than once: and, for my part, I wonder how theſe young unthinking people can prefer the dirty ſtreets of London, to all the delights and riches of nature, and of art; which may be ſaid to [22] be waiting for and inviting them, at Wenbourne-Hill.

I am very glad to find, honeſt Abi⯑melech, that money is ſo certainly to be had. But you were always intimate with the warm old fellows, that provide them⯑ſelves plentifully with what you ſo aptly call the wherewithalls. You have fol⯑lowed their example, and learned to in⯑creaſe your own ſtore. I am glad of it, and am pleaſed to find you do not forget your firſt and beſt friends. I muſt own, Abimelech, that you have always ap⯑peared to me to underſtand your ſitua⯑tion very properly, and to pay reſpect where it was due. I have ſeen your proud, upſtart ſtewards carry their heads as high as their maſters! Ay, and inſtead [23] of ſtudying their tempers and humouring them, as it was their duty, have been ſurly, and always ready with their ifs, and ands, and objections, and advice! As if it were any concern of theirs, what a gentleman ſhall pleaſe to do with his money! But you, Aby, have known how to comport yourſelf better; of which I believe you have no cauſe to repent.

As to the entail, as you ſay, it muſt be docked. I know no remedy. And ſince my ſon is ſo poſitive, and deter⯑mined to ſtickle for a good bargain, why we muſt do the beſt we can.

I was once ſorry at his reſolving never to marry; but I think that is partly over now; I care little about the matter. My daughter's ſon will be as much my grand⯑child as his ſon would have been; and, as [24] for names, they may eaſily be changed. I am certain, were any body to aſk me which is the wiſeſt, my ſon or my daugh⯑ter, I ſhould not ſtop a moment to con⯑ſider about that.

Ay, ay! She is my own child! Every body uſed to tell me, when ſhe was a baby, how like me ſhe was!

She has ſome of her mother's features too; who, as you well know, Aby, was a very good ſort of an excellent kind of a lady, and very much reſpected: ay, very much. Indeed the greateſt fault of Lady St. Ives was that ſhe would not always be of my opinion. But we are none of us perfect. If it were not for that one thing, I really ſhould think my daughter a young lady of more good ſenſe, and good taſte, and indeed every [25] thing of that kind, than any young per⯑ſon I was ever acquainted with: but ſhe too is a declared enemy to planning, and improving. It is very ſtrange; and I can only ſay there is no accounting for theſe things!

My ſon however knows as little of the matter as ſhe does; nay I believe leſs. And, as to other kinds of knowledge, he is a child to her! It delights me to hear her talk, and debate points, and chop logic, with your Frank, who is one of her own ſort; and with Mr. Clifton, the young gentleman whom I intend for my ſon in law. I gave you an account in my laſt, Aby, that the thing was in expectation; and it is now as good as concluded. I have written to Mrs. Clifton; the lawyer is ordered to make a [26] rough ſketch of marriage articles, and every thing will be got ready, while my attorney is preparing the neceſſary deeds down in the country, according to your inſtructions, and you are raiſing the mo⯑ney.

Be ſure however, honeſt Aby, to make as good a bargain for me as you can. I know money is not to be had without paying for it; and I truſt to you not to ſuffer me to pay too dearly. Better ſecu⯑rity you know, Aby, cannot be offered; and I begin to feel, my improvements excepted, which indeed I hold to be ineſtimable, that I am not ſo rich as I was fifteen years ago. But, as my ſon means never to marry, and as the fami⯑lies of Clifton and St. Ives are to be united in one, I have no doubt, ſome [27] time or another before I die, of ſeeing every thing retrieved; though I grant there are heavy mortgages, and other impediments to overcome.

Pray has my ſon told you what ſum he expects? If not, endeavour to learn, and let me know. Though on ſecond thoughts you need not, for I hear he is to be in town next week. He muſt recol⯑lect the eſtate of eight hundred a-year, of which he has lately taken ſuch vio⯑lent poſſeſſion. But he is a diſſipated young man, and recollects nothing but his pleaſures.

I always ſaid, Aby, you were a man of ſenſe; and you are very right in thinking I cannot do too much for my daughter. I hope to contrive to leave Wenbourne Hill her own. It is a rich [28] ſpot! And, though ſhe be an econo⯑miſt, and no friend to what ſhe thinks a waſte of money in improvements, yet I am ſure, at my requeſt, ſhe will not be guilty of what I may well call ſacrilege, and pull down my temples, and dedi⯑cated groves, and relics of art, and ruins; nor, as my ſon would, deſtroy with a Gothic hand, as the poet ſays, and tear away beauties, which it would rend my heart-ſtrings not to ſuppoſe durable, as I may ſay, for ages! I would have my name, and my taſte, and my improve⯑ments be long remembered at Wen⯑bourne Hill! I delight in thinking it will hereafter be ſaid—‘Ay! Good old Sir Arthur did this! Yonder ter⯑race was of his forming! Theſe al⯑coves were built by him! He raiſed [29] the central obeliſk! He planted the grand quincunx!’ And ah, Aby! if we could but add, ‘He was the con⯑triver of yonder charming wilderneſs!’ I then ſhould die in peace.

Let me beg, good abimelech, that you would write your thoughts in as plain and ſtraight forward a manner as you can; for, I aſſure you, I have been very much puzzled with ſome parts of your laſt letter; which I cannot yet ſay that I underſtand. In ſome places it is very plain that you hint at Mr. Clifton, and wiſh me not to dally with him; and, as I know you have my intereſt at heart, and ſpeak in a ſtyle at which no gentle⯑man can be offended, why I rather thank than blame you, for your deſire to give good advice. Though I muſt ſay, Aby, [30] that I do not think I have any need of it. I am miſtaken if I could not ad⯑viſe others. I wiſh all the world would be governed by my plans, and princi⯑ples. That's a favourite word with my daughter, Aby, and a very apt one.

I once took ſome delight in ſuch things; I mean in what is called polite learning, Aby. Indeed I was remark⯑ably fond of Ovid's Metamorphoſes. But then, as I did not like to puzzle my⯑ſelf with the Latin, I read Garth's, or Rowe's, or Pope's, or I don't know whoſe tranſlation. And I do believe it was that, and a viſit to Lord Cobham's, which firſt made me ſtudy taſte and im⯑provement. Nothing is wanting but riches, Aby, to proceed to much greater lengths than any we have yet thought of. [31] What richneſs of imagination is there in Ovid! What ſtatues might we form, from the wonderful tales which he re⯑lates! Niobe at the head of the canal, changing into ſtone! To be ſure we ſhould want a rock there. Then on one ſide Narciſſus, gazing at himſelf in the clear pool, with poor Echo wither⯑ing away in the grove behind! King Cygnus, in the very act of being meta⯑morphoſed into a ſwan, on the other! It would be ſo apropos, you know; a ſwan, and a canal, and king Cygnus! And then at the further end Daphne, with her arms and legs ſprouting into branches, and her hair all laurel leaves!

You cannot imagine, Aby, all the fancies which came into my head the other day, when I happened to lay my [32] hand on Tooke's Pantheon, which brought all theſe old ſtories freſh to me⯑mory.

But, as I was ſaying, good Aby, write your thoughts as plainly as you can; for I ſometimes did not know whom you were talking of, and there were one or two places which made me think you wiſh ſomething ſhould be done for your ſon, Frank. And indeed he is a very de⯑ſerving, and a very fine young fellow; and I have been thinking it would not be amiſs, ſince he has really made him⯑ſelf a gentleman, if we were to purchaſe him an enſign's commiſſion. What ſay you to it, honeſt Aby? He would make a fine officer! A brave bold figure of a man! And who knows but, in time, he might come to be a general; ay and [33] command armies! For he fears no⯑thing! He has lately ſaved us a dip⯑ping, nay and for aught I know a drown⯑ing too, and we really ſhould do ſome⯑thing for him; for he is a great fa⯑vourite, and a very good young man. However, I thought it beſt to mention the matter firſt to you, and will expect your anſwer.

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

I MUST write, dear Louiſa. My heart feels as if it were eſtranged by ſilence, and thinks it has a thouſand things to repeat; though, when it comes to enquire what, they ſeem as if they had all vaniſhed. Not but I have a [35] little incident to relate, which intereſts us both; the Dramatis Perſonae being, as uſual, Clifton, Frank Henley, and the friend of my Louiſa.

We yeſterday paid a viſit to my aunt Wenbourne, at her ſummer villa of Richmond. But I ought to premiſe, that I am ſorry to ſee Clifton again look⯑ing on Frank Henley with uneaſineſs, and a kind of ſuſpicion that might al⯑moſt be called jealouſy.

Having conſulted Sir Arthur, I men⯑tioned it, as a pleaſant excurſion, to Clifton; and added, as ſoon as Frank Henley ſhould come, I would deſire him to hold himſelf in readineſs. Sir Ar⯑thur was preſent; and Clifton, in a pouting kind of manner, whiſpered me—‘Can we never go any where, [36] without that young fellow dogging us at the heels?’

I ſmiled it off, rapped him on the knuckles with my thimble, told him he was naughty, and ſaid we muſt not ſuffer merit to think itſelf neglected. Clifton began to ſing Britons ſtrike home; which he ſoon changed to Rule Britan⯑nia: ſure tokens that he was not pleaſed; for theſe are the tunes with which he al⯑ways ſings away his volatile choler. But one of the columns, on which I raiſe my ſyſtem, is a determination to perſiſt in the right. Frank Henley was therefore invited, and accompanied us.

Clifton endeavoured to pout; but, as I did not in the leaſt change my good humour, knowing how neceſſary it was rather to increaſe than diminiſh it, he [37] could not long hold out, and ſoon be⯑came as cheerful and as good company as uſual; and his flow of ſpirits, and whimſical combinations, are very exhi⯑larating.

After dinner, my good old aunt pre⯑ſently got to wordy wars with Frank; in which, as you may ſuppoſe, ſhe had little chance of victory. But ſhe called in Clifton, to be her auxiliary; and he fell into the ſame pettiſh, half-haughty, half-contemning kind of manner, in which he had ſo improperly indulged, previous to the accident of the lake, in France. I looked at him; he under⯑ſtood me, and endeavoured, but rather awkwardly, to change his tone.

The converſation continued, and he was again becoming warm; and, while [38] Frank was laying down the law to my aunt, at which I could perceive his tongue tingled, I took an opportunity to warn him to beware, for that I had more than one crow to pluck with him al⯑ready.

However, as the beſt and ſecureſt mode was, from the temper of the parties, to put an end to the converſation, I roſe, and propoſed a walk, and my propoſal was accepted.

I was particularly cautious to ſay as lit⯑tle to Frank as I could, purpoſely that Clifton might have no retort upon me; though a part of my plan is to accuſtom him to ſee me juſt to the merits of Frank, without indulging any unworthy ſuſpi⯑cions. But this I did not think a fit occaſion for ſuch experiments.

[39] We returned to town, and I pur⯑poſed, when Clifton ſhould come to pay me his morning viſit next day, to read him a gentle lecture. Of this he was aware; and, feeling, as I ſuppoſe, that he ſhould make a bad ſerious de⯑fence, knew a comic one would better ſerve his turn: for his fancy and humour appear to be inexhauſtible.

The firſt thing he did, when he en⯑tered the room, was to fall down on his knees, like a child to his ſchool-miſtreſs, holding his hands preſſed flatly together, with a piteous face and a "Pray, pray!" I laughed, and told him he was a very bad child. His "Pray, pray!" was repeated, with another ſtrangely pleaſant contortion of countenance. But I ſtill anſwered—"No, indeed—I ſhould not [40] forgive him, till I had made him truly ſenſible of his fault." On which he roſe from his knees, pulled out a paper fool's cap, which he had been carving and faſhioning for himſelf, fixed it on his head, and placed himſelf, with a new kind of penitential countenance, in a corner; continuing ſuch quaint mi⯑mickry, of a child in ſorrow, that there was no reſiſting fair and downright laughter.

I ſtill made two or three attempts to begin to argue; but they were ineffec⯑tual; they were all anſwered with ſome new antics, and I was obliged at laſt to ſay—‘Well, well! I find you are ſen⯑ſible how much you deſerve puniſh⯑ment; and therefore I dare ſay you will take care not to offend in future.’

[41] After this, he gave the whole diſcourſe a comic and a witty caſt, embelliſhing it with all the flights of his rich and ſtrong imagination, on purpoſe to avoid the poſſibility of remonſtrance. This is a certain ſign that it muſt be very painful to him; unleſs indeed we allow for the pleaſure which he cannot but take, in exhibiting the activity of his mind. Yet painful I am ſure it is. Contradiction is a thing to which he has not been accuſ⯑tomed. He has no doubt led the opi⯑nions of his companions; partly by con⯑forming to and ſtrengthening their fa⯑vourite prejudices, though chiefly by his ſuperior talents: and to be too often encountered, by any one whoſe intellects are more clear and conſiſtent than his [42] own, is a kind of degradation to which he ſcarcely knows how to ſubmit.

With reſpect to Frank Henley, when⯑ever he is pleading the cauſe of truth, he is inflexible. I have ſometimes indeed known him ſilent, when he was hope⯑leſs of doing good: but at others I have heard him blame himſelf for this, and aſſert that we never ought to deſpair; for that truth, no matter how violently op⯑poſed at the moment, would revive in the mind, and do her office, when the argument and the anger ſhould be wholly forgotten.

I believe the obſervation to be juſt. But he is no common thinker! No! I am almoſt perſuaded he is the firſt of hu⯑man beings! Equal, nay I have ſome⯑times [43] even thought ſuperior, to Louiſa herſelf!

As you perceive, dear friend of my heart, that I know you too well to fear offending you, I am ſure you will do me the juſtice at the ſame time to con⯑feſs that I do not ſeek to flatter.

Thus, dear Louiſa, you perceive, we do not perhaps make quite ſo ſwift a pro⯑greſs as we could wiſh: but we muſt be ſatisfied. The march of knowledge is ſlow, impeded as it is by the almoſt im⯑penetrable foreſts and moraſſes of error. Ages have paſſed away, in labours to bring ſome of the moſt ſimple of moral truths to light, which ſtill remain over⯑clouded and obſcure. How far is the world, at preſent, from being convinced that it is not only poſſible, but perfectly [44] practicable, and highly natural, for men to aſſociate with moſt fraternal union, happineſs, peace, and virtue, were but all diſtinction of rank and riches wholly aboliſhed; were all the falſe wants of luxury, which are the neceſſary offspring of individual property, cut off; were all equally obliged to labour for the wants of nature, and for nothing more; and were they all afterward to unite, and to employ the remainder of their time, which would then be ample, in the pro⯑motion of art and ſcience, and in the ſearch of wiſdom and truth!

The few arts that would then remain would be grand; not frivolous, not the efforts of cunning, not the proſtitution of genius in diſtreſs, to flatter the vanity of inſolent wealth and power, or the de⯑praved [45] taſte of an ill-judging multitude; but energies of mind, uniting all the charms of fancy with all the ſevere beau⯑ties of conſiſtent truth.

Is it not lamentable to be obliged to doubt whether there be a hundred peo⯑ple in all England, who, were they to read ſuch a letter as this, would not im⯑mediately laugh, at the abſurd reveries of the writer?—But let them look round, and deny, if they can, that the preſent wretched ſyſtem, of each providing for himſelf inſtead of the whole for the whole, does not inſpire ſuſpicion, fear, diſputes, quarrels, mutual contempt, and hatred. Inſtead of nations, or rather of the whole world, uniting to produce one great effect, the perfection and good of all, each family is itſelf a ſtate; bound to [46] the reſt by intereſt and cunning, but ſe⯑parated by the very ſame paſſions, and a thouſand others; living together un⯑der a kind of truce, but continually ready to break out into open war; con⯑tinually jealous of each other; continu⯑ally on the defenſive, becauſe continu⯑ally dreading an attack; ever ready to uſurp on the rights of others, and perpe⯑tually entangled in the moſt wretched contentions, concerning what all would neglect, if not deſpiſe, did not the errors of this ſelfiſh ſyſtem give value to what is in itſelf worthleſs.

Well, well!—Another century, and then—!

In the mean time, let us live in hope; and, like our worthy hero, Frank, not be ſilent when truth requires us to ſpeak. [47] We have but to arm ourſelves with pa⯑tience, fortitude, and univerſal benevo⯑lence.

Pardon this prattle!—The heart will ſometimes expand; and it is then weak enough to plead that the effuſions of friendſhip claim attention, and reſpect. This is among the prejudices of our education, and I know not who has hi⯑therto overcome them all. I can only ſay, dear Louiſa, it is not her who is moſt affectionately your

P. S. Clifton is quite ſucceſsful with my relations: he has won the heart of my aunt. Every moment that he was abſent was laviſhed in his praiſe. ‘He was a handſome man, prodigiouſly [48] handſome, exceedingly well bred, a man of great underſtanding, and what was more a man of family. His pre⯑tenſions were well founded; it was a very proper connection, and was very much approved by her.’ Nor did the good old lady omit various ſarcaſtic hints glancing at Frank, and which were not ſoftened by the oppoſition he made to her opinions. But he is too great a lover of truth to betray it for the ſake of ſelf; and ſhe too much an admirer of her own prejudices not to be offended at contradiction. Once more, Louiſa, we are the creatures that education has made us; and conſequently I hope we ſhall hereafter be wiſer and better.

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

AN odd circumſtance, my dear Anna, has happened here, of which I think it neceſſary to inform you immediately.

Honeſt Aby has again been with us. He came and enquired for my mamma. Diſappointment, chagrin, and ill-humour were broadly legible on his countenance. [50] He talked in his odd dialect; which I cannot remember accurately enough to repeat; ſaid he had juſt received a letter from Sir Arthur, from which he under⯑ſtood ſomething that to him appeared to be matter of great ſurpriſe; which was that Sir Arthur intended to beſtow your hand on my brother; and, in a half ſubmiſſive half authoritative way, wanted to know whether it were true; and whe⯑ther my mamma knew any thing of the buſineſs.

She acknowledged that ſuch were the intentions of the two families: and he an⯑ſwered that, for his part, he thought they might as well think no more of the matter; muttering the words wherewithal, and coal.

Mrs. Clifton deſired him to be ex⯑plicit; [51] but he continued in half ſen⯑tences, repeating that the ready was not ſo eaſy to be had, and rhino was a ſcarce commodity. Neither could he tell what might happen. There were forecloſures, and docking of entails, and many things to be ſettled; and caſh muſt come from where it could be got; but not from him, he believed.

My mamma, mild as ſhe is, was obliged to check his growling inclination to be inſolent; and then he had his whole bead-roll of fine words, with which he has ſo often tickled the ear of Sir Arthur, at his tongue's end; and ran them off with his uſual gra⯑cious, and very humble obedient volu⯑bility.

[52] Had I not received your laſt, ^* his diſ⯑courſe would have been more enigmatical to me: but, as it was, I underſtood him tolerably well. The bitterneſs of gall is at his heart. The greatneſs of his viſible diſappointment ſhews how high his hopes had been raiſed; and I ſuſpect he is de⯑termined they ſhall not be very eaſily pulled down. For, after having acted all his abject humility, he could not for⯑bear again to murmur over his threats, as he was leaving the room; and there was an air of ſelf-ſufficient confidence ſo apparent in his face that, I am perſuaded, the obſtacles he has the power to raiſe are much greater than you, my dear friend, have ever ſuppoſed.

[53] I cannot deſcribe to you, my beſt Anna, how deeply my mind is agitated, at times, concerning this marriage. I cen⯑ſure myſelf very ſeverely, for ſeeming to indulge improper fears, one minute; and perhaps, the next, am more angry with myſelf for not diſintereſtedly pleading the cauſe of Frank Henley. If there could be a miracle in nature, I ſhould think his being the ſon of honeſt Aby one. What can I ſay? My doubts are too mighty for me! I know not how, or what, to adviſe. The reaſons you have urged are indeed weighty: yet they have never made an impreſſion ſo deep upon my mind, as not to take flight, and leave their opponent arguments in ſome ſort the victors.

Nor can I be more angry with myſelf, [54] on any occaſion, than I am at this mo⯑ment. I diſtreſs and trouble you with my fears, when I ought to keep them to myſelf; unleſs I could determine whe⯑ther they were or were not well founded. They are even increaſed by the recol⯑lection that, in all probability, Clifton could now much leſs bear diſappointment than the ſtrong-minded and generous Frank.

Then, my Anna! Should ill happen to her, from an undertaking the motive of which is ſo worthy, ſo dignified, what ſhould I ſay? Should misfortune come, how could I excuſe myſelf, for having neglected to diſſuade, and to urge ſuch reaſons as have appeared to me the ſtrongeſt? What could I ſay, but re⯑Peat the diffidence of my mind, the want [55] of full and ſatisfactory conviction, and the fear of miſtake?

The only buckler, with which I op⯑poſe theſe inſurrections of reaſon, is the omnipotence of truth, and Anna St. Ives! And, when I recollect this, my terrors are huſhed, and I think her ſure of conqueſt.

The very affirmative tokens which Aby diſplayed of his own conſequence, convince me however that there will be delay. How Clifton will ſubmit to it is to be ſeen. His letter to my mamma is all impatience, and expectation. But I have talked with her, and ſhe appears to be determined that nothing can be done, till Sir Arthur is ready to pay the ſum he propoſed.

My Anna will not be very ready to [56] attribute this to avarice; for no one can think more highly of her than Mrs. Clifton does. But my father, at his death, left the family in abſolute diſtreſs, from which ſhe has retrieved it, by her economy and good ſenſe: retrieved it, that is, in part; for there are ſtill many heavy debts to pay, and mortgages to be cleared. Her plans have been ſe⯑vere; and of long continuance; deeply thought on, and perſeveringly executed. To convince her that any part of them ought to be relinquiſhed ſcarcely appears poſſible. Nor am I ſure that, obliged as we are to conform to the preſent ſyſ⯑tem of things, they are not all juſt. Be⯑ſide which ſhe is not in a ſtate of health to ſupport the fatigue of argument, or the pain of contradiction.

[57] She likewiſe conſiders Sir Arthur as a weak old gentleman; who, if this op⯑portunity were abandoned, would perhaps never have the ſpirit or the power, here⯑after, to do his daughter juſtice: and ſhe thinks that, for your ſake, ſhe ought not in the leaſt to relax. Should you, my dear Anna, reaſon differently, I am ſtill certain that you will reaſon charitably.

With reſpect to my brother, it may perhaps be fortunate, ſhould the ſuſ⯑penſe afford you time for further trials; and we may have cauſe to rejoice at the accident, which had checked the preci⯑pitate impatience of paſſion.

Though I expect a letter from you by tomorrow's poſt, I think this of too much conſequence to ſuffer any delay: [58] I ſhall therefore ſeal it, and ſend it off immediately.

Heaven bleſs and eternally preſerve my dear Anna!

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

YOUR onnur has a thrown me quite into a quandary! I couldn't have thoft it! For why? My thofts were all in the mercifool praiſe and glorification of your onnur; and I had a done nothink but ſay how good and gracious your onnur [60] had a bin, to me and mine. But I do find, a ſavin and exceptin your ever on⯑nurable onnur, 'tis all a gull queerum! Whereof the face of affairs is quite tranſ⯑mogrified! And ſo, aſt for raiſin the wind of twenty thouſand pounds, I find the think is neither kompariſſuble nur a parallel to common ſenſe. For why? It is not to be had. A man's money is his own, your onnur; and when a has got it, there's as good law for he as for a dooke. Always a ſavin and exceptin your moſt exceptionable onnur, as in duty boundin. For as I wus a ſayin, your onnur, when a man has a got the ſuper nakullums, who ſhall take it from him? Becauſe why, it is his own.

If ſo be as the whats and the whys and the wherefores had a bin a forth [61] cummin, why then the ſhiners might a ſeen the light of day, mayhap. But a man's ſon, why a's his ſon; a's his own; a's his goods and chattels, and law and rite; bein of the race of his own begettin, feedin, and breedin. Whereby I cannot but ſay, love me love my dog. Always a ſavin and exceptin your onnurable onnur, as aforeſaid.

And aſt for the rhino, why ſome do ſave, and ſome do ſpend, and ſome do hold, and ſome do let go, and ſome do have, and ſome do want. Whereupon if ſo be as he as a has the moſt a may be as good as another. Why not? Always a ſavin and exceptin your ever onnurable onnur, as aforeſaid. But when ſo be as a man has the wherewithalls, why a let him begin to hold up his head, I ſay. [62] Why not? For why? It is the omnum gathurum that makes the man. And if I do a doff my hat to my betters, there a be and a bin the whats and the whys and the wherefores for it. But I can a doff my hat, or I can a keep it on my head; and mayhap a can begin to look my betters in the face, as well as another. Why not? Always a ſavin and exceptin your ever exceptionable onnur, as in duty boundin.

And aſt for famalies and names, I axes nothink about they. A tell me who has the moſt kole! I axes that! Mayhap Henley may be as good a name as Clifton. And aſt for famalies, why it is notorious that Adam and Eve wus the begettin of us all; always a ſavin and exceptin your onnurable [63] onnur. Whereof a there's an end of that.

Whereby your onnurable onnur wus a menſhinnin the mortgages; and of a ſeein of every think a treeved and ſet⯑tled, afore your onnur do die. But as thinks do be likely to turn out, why every man for himſelf, and God for us all. There be forecloſures mayhap, that a be to be thoft of. For why? There a be wheels within wheels.

If ſo be indeed as if thinks had a turned up trumps, why then ay, it would a bin ſummut; all ſmooth and go ſoftly, and there might a behappened to be ſunſhine and fair weather at Wenbourne-Hill. For why? Every think would then a bin clear and above board. Thinks would a then a bin fafe and ſure to all [64] ſides; and your onnurable onnur would mayhap a ſeen that your onnur would a loſt nothink by the bargain. For why? Miſſee my younk lady might a parad⯑ventered to have had all, in the upſhot; and an ever gracious and glorious and mercifool my younk lady miſſee ſhe would a then a bin. Whereby as mat⯑ters be likely to turn out, why thinks muſt a take their courſe. Thof a may⯑hap folks may go further and fare worſe. Whereof if ſo be as lives have a bin ſaved, by land and by water, and a man's ſon is thoft to be ſomebody, why mayhap a may not a take it ſo kindly to be chouſe flickurd.

For my part, I thoft as thof all thinks had a bin as good as ſettled; and that in all partikillers miſſee my younk lady, of [56] ever mercifool affability, would a bin left to pleaſe herſelf. Why not? When precious lives have a bin ſaved, and when there a bin ſhootins, and leapins, and ſwimmins, and ſouſins, I ſay as aforeſaid, why that's a ſummut; and a man's own ſon mayhap won't a like to be flamdud⯑gind.

And ſo as to mortgages to be paid off, your onnurable onnur, why mayhap that's a ſooner ſaid nur done. For I ſay as aforeſaid, that it ſeems as if whereby, if it had not a bin for ſome folks, ſome folks would a now a bin in their ſalt water graves: always a ſavin and ex⯑ceptin your ever exceptionable onnur, as in duty boundin. Whereby take me ritely, your onnurable onnur, I means nothink amiſs. If thinks be a ſkew [66] whift, why it be no fault of mine. It is always a ſavin and exceptin of your on⯑nurable onnur: being as I be ready to glorify to the whole world of all your futur lovin kindneſs of bleſſins of praiſe, a done and a teſtified to me and mine.

Whereof as to frippery jerry my gingle red coats and cockades, why they be nothink of my ſeekin. For why? They be the betokens of the warnins of the ſigns of the bloody croſs of anti⯑chriſt, and the whore of Babilon, and of the diſpenſation of the kole, and the ſquitter ſquanderin of the wherewith⯑alls, and the ſupernakullums. Whereby an honeſt man's ſon may become to be bamboozild, and addle brained, and foiſtee fubbd, belike, as finely as his neighbours. So that if ſo be as I have a [67] bin a ponderaitin that there a be nothink to be got by it. Always a ſavin and exceptin of the bleſſins of praiſe, and mercifool glory, of your ever exception⯑able onnurable onnur's lovin kindneſs, and goodneſs; and every think of that there umbel and very ſubmiſſive obedient kind, as in duty boundin.

Witch is all at preſent, beginnin and endin to the everlaſtin power of almighty joys eternal; umbelly beggin leave to ſuperſcribe meſelf

LETTER LXVI.
ABIMELECH HENLEY TO FRANK HENLEY.

WHY what be all a this here? What is it that a be about, dolt? Here's a rumpus! Here's a fine to do! You be a pretty ſquire Nicodemus Nincom⯑poop! You a ſon of my own begettin, feedin, and breedin! You feeze the ful⯑hams! Why they would a draw your i [69] teeth for ee! Marry come fairly! You the jennyalogy of my own body and loins? No, by lady! And ſo ſquire my lord Timothy Doodle has a bin flib gib⯑berd, and queerumd, after all? Thof if ſo be as notwithſtandin a that Miſſee, my younk lady, had as good as a bin playin at catch me come kiſs me, and all in the dark with'n; and thof I had a ſifflicated the Sir Dandle Dunderpate, a here a do ſtand, a ſuckin his thumbs! Thof ſo be as how I told him to make up to Miſſee, and the twenty thouſand pounds! What, a did n't I put words into your mouth, as good as a ready but⯑terd, as I may ſay? What, a did n't I give ee all your pees and cues? Becauſe as why, I did a know a wus a quaumee kintlin. And ſo a has played with the [70] mouſe and has a loſt it at laſt! A fine kettle of fiſh a's made on't! Whereof forſooth, ſo as that now as that all o'the fat's in the fire, why I muſt a be ſet to catch the colt if I can. Why ay, to be ſure! Whereby if ſo be as the Gaby gooſe may now go barefoot! And a whoſe fault is that? No! A would n't a be akin to a good eſtate; not he!

But harkee me chit! Mind what I be about to ſay to ee, Simon the ſimple, and mayhap thinks may become to be kompariſſuble and parallel to the yellow hammers and the chink, for all of all this here rig royſter. For why? I can put a ſpoke in the wheel of the marriage act and deed. Madam Clifton wonnot a budge a finger, to the ſignin and ſealin of her gratification of applauſe, whereby [71] as if ſo be as that the kole a be not a forth cummin, down on the nail head. And where now might Timothy Tipkin ſifflicate that it may behappen to be for to come from? Pummel thy pumkin, and a tell me that, Peter Grievous. Where, but out of my pouche, Gaby? That is, I firſt havin and holdin the wherewithalls, and the whys, and the wherefores. Do you take me now? So that forſooth, ſome folks may behappen to cry peccavi.

Whereby mind what I do tell ee. For why? I've as good as a told Sir Arthur the wind is a not to be raiſed for any of a ſitch of a flammbite of a tale of a tub. Whereby I a told'n a bit of my mind. And if ſo be as if a will wince, a may⯑hap it may come to paſs that I can kick. [72] A ſhall find I was not a bred and a born and a begotten yeſterday. An a champ upon it, let'n. An a will run ruſty, mayhap a may belike to get his head in a hedge. So mind what I do ſay to ee; and tell 'em that they may a behappen to find that your father is ſomebody, and that you are his ſon. A tell 'em that.

So do you ſtrike up to Miſſee boldly. Mind what ee be at; and let 'em like it or leave it. For if ſo be as when a man has a got the Marygolds, why then let'n begin to ſpeak for himſelf. Why not?

Whereby I have now once again given the coſtard monger his pees and his cues. So that if ſo be as if a do find that ſweet ſauce be good for gooſe, why let'n a give his tongue an oilin. But if ſo be as a do find a be Sir Arthur Crab⯑varjus [73] o'the high ropes, why then ſays you, look ee me ſays you, honeſt Aby is my father; and when a man has a got the wherewithalls, why a begins to be ſomebody, and mayhap a's as good as another. A tell 'em that.

And ſo no more at preſent; a ſavin and exceptin of the all bountifool glory of the everlaſtin praiſe of joys eternal, livin and hopin for time to repent us of all our manifold ſins, and of a dyin in peace and charity with all men. Where⯑by we ſhall be ſure to partake of the re⯑ſurrection of the juſt ſheep, and of the virgin oil in our lamps, and of the mar⯑tyrs and of the profits and of the ſaints everlaſtin reſt.

LETTER LXVII.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

OLIVER, it is not half an hour ſince I ended writing one of the moſt unduti⯑ful and bitter Philippics, that ever was addreſſed by a ſon to his father. I ſay undutiful, becauſe this wiſe world has decreed that to abhor, reprove, and avoid [75] vice in a father, inſtead of being the per⯑formance of a duty, is offenſive to all moral feeling.

I have juſt received a letter from him, chiding and blaming me, with his uſual acrimony, for a ſuppoſed want of cun⯑ning; and for not aiding him in what I perceive now to be the deſign he has moſt at heart; which is my marriage with the divine Anna. He has almoſt diſguſted me with myſelf, for having, though in⯑effectually, endeavoured to aid him ſo well. Nay I have been tempted to ſhew his letter to Sir Arthur. But, on recol⯑lection, I have thrown the Philippic I mentioned into the fire; and have de⯑termined on ſilence: for I perceive harm that may reſult from a contrary con⯑duct, but no good. To ſwerve, to the [76] right or the left, from the direct path of principle and truth, becauſe of the ſelfiſh, narrow, and unwiſe views of others, is to be weak and culpable.

What, indeed, has relationſhip to do with truth? No human ties can bind us to error: and, while we rigorouſly act according to the rules of truth, as far as we know them, the comments, miſtakes, diſapprobation, and even reſentment, of relation, friend, or father, ought to be diſregarded.

I muſt own, however, I have ſtill the folly to feel additional grief that errors of ſo mean, ſo ſelfiſh, ſo diſhoneſt a na⯑ture ſhould have taken ſuch firm poſſeſ⯑ſion of the mind of my father: and I am afraid I could ſupport them better in the perſon of another.

[77] Having determined not to write to him, I have written to thee, to give vent and relief to theſe feelings. Of courſe thou wilt tell me if thou ſeeſt any rea⯑ſon, which I have not diſcovered, why I ought to communicate the contents of his letter to Sir Arthur; whom he vaunts of having in his power, and whom he is determined not to ſupply with money, for the projected marriage with Clifton. My conviction is that to ſhew this letter would but increaſe their mutual anger, and render compliance on my father's part, whoſe temper I know, ſtill leſs pro⯑bable than it is; if leſs it can be.

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

I WRITE, at preſent, to my dear Louiſa, that by writing I may divert the perturbation of my mind. But I muſt begin calmly; for I have ſo much to ſay, that I ſcarcely know what to ſay firſt. Our mutual conjec⯑tures, concerning honeſt Aby, are in [79] part verified. I conclude thus, not from having ſeen any more of his letters, but from knowing more have been re⯑ceived; which, inſtead of having been ſhewn me, have, if I do not miſtake, thrown Sir Arthur into ſome of the moſt ſerious reflections he ever experienced. I never knew him ſo grave, thoughtful, and penſive, as he has been for ſome days—

My brother too!—But more of him by and by.

Obſerving the efforts of reflection, and deſirous of aiding, alleviating, or increaſing them, as ſhould be moſt pru⯑dent, I took an opportunity, after break⯑faſt, when Sir Arthur and I were alone, of ſpeaking to him; and we had the fol⯑lowing dialogue.

[80] I think, ſir, you ſeem more thoughtful lately than uſual. I am afraid there is ſomething diſturbs you. Can I—?

No, no—Nothing—Not much. Worldly matters, which you do not un⯑derſtand.

I am far from wiſhing, ſir, to intrude into your private concerns; except they were ſuch as might relate to me, and—

Mere money matters, child; of which you have no knowledge—[We pauſed; Sir Arthur ſeeming as if his mind la⯑boured with a ſubject which he knew not how to begin]—Where is Mr. Henley?

Retired to his apartment, ſir. This is his time of day for ſtudy.

He is a very learned young man.

Not ſo learned I believe, ſir, as wiſe.

Are not they the ſame thing?

[81] I think not, ſir.

Well then, a very wiſe young man—You think him ſo; do you not, Anna?

I do, ſir.

You have a very high opinion of him?

I have, ſir.

Perhaps a higher than of any other young gentleman, with whom you are acquainted.

I am indeed afraid, ſir, I have never ſeen his equal.

Humph!—You—You are not ſparing of your praiſe.

You aſked me a queſtion, ſir, and would not have me guilty of equivoca⯑tion, or falſehood.

No, child: I am pleaſed with your ſincerity; and I hope and expect you [82] will be equally ſincere in every thing you ſay.

Of that, ſir, you may be aſſured.

What are your reaſons for thinking ſo exceedingly well of Mr. Henley?

My reaſons, ſir!

Yes; your reaſons.

I own I am a little ſurpriſed at this queſtion from you, ſir; who have been a witneſs to ſo many of his virtues, and their effects.

[I then briefly recapitulated the pro⯑greſs of Frank from a child in virtue, in⯑ſiſting on the numerous proofs of which we ſo lately had been witneſſes. I re⯑counted the hiſtories of the highway⯑man, and of Peggy and her huſband; the adventure of the lake; and the pro⯑tection [83] we found from his ſkill, ſtrength, and courage at Deal; not forgetting the attendant incidents of each, nor neglect⯑ing to give ſuch brief but ſtrong touches as feeling dictated.]

I muſt own, he is a very extraordinary young man!

Yet we can know but a part of the good effected by a mind ſo active, and ſo virtuous. Though I perhaps know more than you, ſir.

Ay!—What? Let me hear.

You think me partial already, ſir.

No, no. Let me hear.

The very night we arrived at Paris, he prevented Mr. Clifton and the Count de Beaunoir from fighting a duel.

Indeed!

Yet never mentioned it; nor perhaps [84] ever would, had not we afterward met with the Count at the Chateau de Ville⯑brun.

That was very odd!

Nay more, ſir, but a day or two be⯑fore that he ſaved the life of Mr. Clifton, he had ſubmitted to the inſult of a blow from him, rather than fight a duel.

A blow—?

He does not want courage, ſir, you are convinced.

No, no—It is what he calls one of his principles not to fight duels—He is a very extraordinary young man!—And not I think much like his father.

As oppoſite, ſir, as day and night, grace and deformity, virtue and vice.

You think but indifferently of Abi⯑melech.

[85] I think very ill of him, ſir. I think him ſelfiſh, cunning, covetous, and diſ⯑honeſt.

Diſhoneſt?

In the eye of equity, though not per⯑haps of the law.

Why did not you tell me your opi⯑nion ſooner?

I did, ſir.

I do not remember it.

No, ſir: it made no impreſſion, be⯑cauſe you did not think it true.

May be ſo—And you do not find any of theſe bad qualities in the ſon?

Bad!—If all the higheſt gifts of in⯑tellect; if memory, perſpicuity, percep⯑tion, and genius; added to all the vir⯑tues, wiſdom, benevolence, philan⯑thropy, and ſelf-denial; if to be the ac⯑tive [86] friend of man and the declared ene⯑my of error, and of that alone; if theſe can entitle him to eſteem, admiration, reverence and praiſe, why then eſteem, admiration, reverence and praiſe are juſtly his due.

You are warm in your encomiums.

Indeed, ſir, I think I am cold.

How ſo?

Becauſe my encomiums are ſo very much beneath his deſerts.

Anna—[Sir Arthur aſſumed a very ſerious tone, and look.]

Proceed, ſir—Do not be afraid of queſtioning me. You ſhall find, my dear father, a child that will anſwer truly, affectionately, and I hope duti⯑fully.

[I kiſſed his hand, preſſed it, and wet [87] it with an unwilling tear. The impaſ⯑ſioned heart, Louiſa, will ſometimes re⯑bel againſt the cold apathy of reaſon; but ſuch revolt is but of ſhort dura⯑tion.]

Are you aware, Anna, of the ſtate of your own affections?

I think ſo, ſir.

You think?

Well then, I am certain.

You ſay Mr. Henley has no equal?

In my opinion, none, ſir.

Look you there!

But do you think, ſir, I will not emu⯑late the virtues I admire: or that, be⯑cauſe I have a juſt ſenſe of his worth, I will treſpaſs againſt my duties to the world, my ſex, my family and my fa⯑ther?

[88] Anna!—Child!—[The tears ſtood in Sir Arthur's eyes. He ſtretched out both hands, and I flew to his arms.—After a ſhort interval of ſilence, Sir Ar⯑thur proceeded.] Tell me, Anna: What are your thoughts of Mr. Clifton?

I think him, ſir, a very extraordina⯑rily gifted gentleman.

But not a Mr. Henley?

Not at preſent, ſir. Time I hope will make him one.

No, child, never.

Why ſo, ſir?

I cannot tell why, but I am ſure it ne⯑ver will. They are two very different men.

Mr. Clifton, ſir, has uncommon powers of mind.

May be ſo; I ſuppoſe ſo; I only ſay [89] they are very different men. Their tem⯑pers are different, their opinions, their manners, every thing.

I do not imagine, ſir, they will ever exactly reſemble each other; but I think myſelf ſure they will continually ap⯑proach.

Indeed!

Yes, ſir.

May be ſo; but I own I doubt it. Mr. Clifton is a gentleman, both by birth and education.

That I own, ſir, may be a great diſ⯑advantage; but—

Diſadvantage, child!

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

FRANK has this moment left me. He is ſtill in purſuit of this buſineſs, which is by no means brought to a con⯑cluſion. He has been with my brother, and has met the gambler; with whom two very characteriſtic dialogues have paſſed, [100] which Frank has repeated with conſider⯑able humour. My brother was only preſent at and bore his part in the ſecond. The man is a perfect maſter of his vile trade; a practiſed duelliſt; as expert, Frank ſays, in killing of men as in cog⯑ging of dice. A Hibernian bravo; de⯑termined to purſue the moſt deſperate means to effect his purpoſe.

Energy in vice or virtue, Frank re⯑marks, is the characteriſtic of the Iriſh. It is a noble quality, of which no nation perhaps has more, if any ſo much; but it is frequently abuſed by them, and made productive of the moſt hateful ef⯑fects.

Frank was with my brother in his dreſſing-room, when the man came and was ſhewn into an anti-chamber by the [101] ſervant. Edward was ſufficiently un⯑willing to ſee him, and readily agreed to the propoſal Frank made, of firſt con⯑verſing with him, as my brother's friend.

Frank accordingly went to him, and ſays he was ſtruck at the ſight of the man, being much deceived if he be not an old acquaintance. I was and ſtill am ſur⯑priſed at what Frank told me; but he begged I would ſuſpend my curioſity, till he himſelf ſhould be better ſatisfied; and proceeded with his dialogue.

Your name I believe, ſir, is Mr. Mac Fane.

At your ſarvice, ſir.

I am the friend of Captain St. Ives.

Then to be ſure, ſir, you are a gintle⯑man, and a man of honour. I am a [102] gintleman and a man of honour my⯑ſilf.

Do you ſay that from your conſcience, ſir?

From my conſcience? Ay, ſir! Why not? When all my debts due are duly and truly paid, why I ſhall have ten thouſand pounds in my pocket.

There are people, ſir, heretical enough to ſuppoſe that even ten thouſand pounds are no abſolute proof of honour.

No, indeed!—Why then, for thoſe very ſcrupulous people, I have an ex⯑cellent pair of proof piſtols, which I be⯑lieve are abſolute enough. Becaſe I would take the odds that they would hit a bird's eye flying.

[103] Thoſe arguments I own are difficult to withſtand.

Stand!—Faith, and if any man ſhall think proper to ſtand, I will fetch him down.—[Remember, Louiſa, I am imi⯑tating this man's language, as delivered by Frank; though I believe my me⯑mory is tolerably correct.] But I ſhould be proud to ſpeak a word with your friend; becauſe that will be more to the point.

He requeſted me to inform you, ſir, he ſhould be glad if you would delay your viſit an hour or two; and I think it will be the ſafeſt; for you I per⯑ceive, ſir, are rather warm; and his temper, as you may imagine, cannot be ſo cool, juſt at preſent, as uſual.

His temper!—Faith, ſir, and the de⯑vil [104] a care care I about his temper! And as for warm and cool, I can be either, or neither, or both. I have won the money, and the Captain muſt pay it; or elſe d'ye ſee, ſir—!

You'll hit the bird's eye flying?

Ay; flying, or lying, or any way!—However, I will take a turn and come back by and by. I have two or three calls to make on ſome peers of my ac⯑quaintance. I am a man of nice ho⯑nour, ſir.

And you imagine, nice though it is, that your honour is ſuſpected.

By my ſoul, ſir, I imagine no ſuch thing. Becaſe as why, I think it would not be very ſafe. I tell you very ſeri⯑ouſly, ſir, that I have a ſure ſacrit to cure any impartinent ſuſpicions of my honour; [105] as I beg you would inform your friend, Captain St. Ives; who, being a man of honour himſilf, knows what belongs to the buſineſs. Theſe, ſir, are tender points, with every gintleman. And ſo, ſir, I wiſh you a good morning for the preſent.

Frank ſays he was deſirous of converſ⯑ing with the man, that he might diſco⯑ver his character, previous to his con⯑certing any plan of action.

After he was gone, he endeavoured to lead my brother into a diſcuſſion on the ſtate of his affairs. But Edward avoided all detail; ſatisfying himſelf with affirm⯑ing he was a ruined man, and unable to pay the ſum. He had no objection to meet the fellow in the field; though cer⯑tainly the chances were a hundred to [106] one in his disfavour. He might as well die that way as any other. With reſpect to victory, of that there were but little hopes, with ſo expert a ruffian, who had practiſed piſtol ſhooting till he was ſure of his mark, which my brother had wholly neglected.

Frank then enquired at what houſe the money had been loſt; and found it had been at one of the common receptacles for gamblers of the fecond order. No perſon was preſent but the groom por⯑ter, whom Frank immediately deter⯑mined to ſee, and went thither for that purpoſe. But, on enquiry at the houſe, he found the man had abſconded.

He returned, and had ſome difficulty to convince my brother that his honour would not ſuffer by delay; for it was [107] plain that Mr. Mac Fane was reſolved on immediately puſhing the matter to an extreme. However, on communi⯑cating his own conjectures concerning this man of nice honour, Edward con⯑ſented to permit Frank to act in his be⯑half. Frank obſerves that our men of faſhion ſeem agreed to overlook a por⯑tion of inſolence from theſe gamblers, under the affectation of deſpiſing them, which the tameſt of the fine gentlemen among them would ſcarcely brook from each other.

In about two hours, Mr. Mac Fane returned; and, being introduced to my brother and Frank, another converſation very ſimilar to the former enſued. The man began.

Your ſervant, gintlemen. I told you [108] laſt night, Captain, that I would give you a call this morning: and as it is an affair in which your honour is concerned, why I was determined to be very punc⯑tual. Becaſe why, you know, I am ex⯑tremely nice and punctual myſilf, upon points of honour.

I am ſorry to be obliged to tell you, ſir, that Captain St. Ives neither knows nor owns any ſuch thing; and that I have good reaſon to believe the very re⯑verſe.

Sir!—You—! [Frank ſays the man put on the true look of a deſperado, reſolved on miſchief if oppoſed: but that, after pauſing a moment, he began, with a kind of humorous anger, to rub the ſide of his face, as if it were be⯑numbed] Faith, on recollection, I be⯑lieve [109] I got a bit of a cold laſt night, which makes me rather dull of hearing.

Sir, I repeat—

Repate!—Boo!—There is no occa⯑ſion to repate, at all at all. I remember very well that my friend, Captain St. Ives, owes me three thouſand guineas; and, it being a dibt of honour, why, to be ſure he will pay it, without any re⯑pating about the matter.

Sir, ſaid my brother, give me leave to tell you—

That you will pay me. You need not tell me that.

Sir—!

There never yet was man that refuſed to pay me, but oh! The almighty thun⯑der! I gave him a reſate in full for the dibt. I made him repint after his death the day that ever he was born.

[110] There's the door, ſir, ſaid Frank.

Faith and I know there's the door, ſir; but where's the money. Captain?—That is, I don't mane the ready caſh: that is not to be expected, from a gentle⯑man—A bond in theſe caſes you know, Captain, is cuſtomary.

Sir, there's the door.

I find that your friend, here, is diſ⯑poſed to be a little upon the Captain Copperthorne this morning; and ſo I ſhall leave you for the preſent to conſi⯑der the matter. I have no doubt but I ſhall hear from you, Captain, in the courſe of the four and twenty hours. It is now full three weeks ſince I heard the whiz of a bullet; and I would adviſe you, as a friend, not to waſte any of your powder and ball upon the priſent [111] occaſion. It would only be a buz and blow by buſineſs, Captain: for, by the holy limb of Luke, I never yet ſaw lead that durſt look me in the face.

We ſhould be glad to be alone, ſir.

Faith, ſir, you may be as bluff as you pleaſe; but, when the Captain is a little cool, I ſhall expict to receive a bit of a meſſage from him; or may I never look on the bald pate of the bleſſed Peter but he ſhall receive a bit of a meſſage from me. And ſo once more, gintle⯑men, good morning.

Frank did not loſe a moment after he was gone, but haſtened home; firſt to inform us of his proceedings, thus far; and next to make the reſearches on which he is now abſent. Here, therefore, my dear Louiſa, I muſt pauſe; and once [112] again ſubſcribe myſelf, moſt affection⯑ately,

P. S. I have reaſon to believe that Clifton is more ſeriouſly offended than I ever knew him before. When I refuſed going to the play with him, he perſiſted in ſaying I might change my mind be⯑fore night, and that he would come again in that hope. His manner of parting with me, after being told Frank was en⯑truſted with a buſineſs which we had not dared confide to him, was, as I have deſcribed, unuſual, and accompanied with more coldneſs and reſerve than ei⯑ther of us had ever before aſſumed. It is now eight o'clock, and I have not ſeen him ſince. If he have reſolution enough [113] to keep away the whole evening, which I ſuſpect he will have, the proof of the truth of my conjectures will be indubi⯑table.

I know not, when he comes to hear the buſineſs, whether he will be con⯑vinced that he was leſs proper to tranſact it than Frank; otherwiſe I ſhould not be ſorry, could he but certainly feel himſelf wrong: for it is by a repetition of ſuch leſſons that the good we intend muſt be effected.

Be it as it will, let us neither recede nor ſlacken our endeavours. I ſuſpect that every worthy taſk muſt be a taſk of difficulty, and often of danger.

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

FRANK is returned; and, as uſual, crowned with ſucceſs.

I had been puzzling myſelf to no purpoſe, concerning Mr. Mac Fane be⯑ing one of our old acquaintance. It ap⯑pears he was the accomplice of the high⯑wayman, Webb, the brother of Peggy, [115] who was ſhot by Frank at Turnham Green. He forebore to tell me, in part becauſe he had not time to connect and relate the grounds of his ſuſpicion; though his chief reaſon was leſt a whiſ⯑per, heard by Laura or any other, ſhould have betrayed and overturned his whole ſcheme.

He went immediately to queſtion Mrs. Clarke, concerning her nephew. She knew not what was become of him; for, after having determined to go abroad, he changed his mind; and, be⯑ing reproved and diſcountenanced by her, he had forborne his viſits. She had even refuſed to hear his name mentioned. But ſhe believed her niece, Peggy, had ſome knowledge of him; though ſhe was not certain.

[116] Frank thought proper to confide in Mrs. Clarke, and they immediately went in queſt of the niece. From her they learned that he had been promoted to the office of groom-porter at a gambling houſe: and in fact he proved to be the very man who had been preſent at the tranſaction between Edward and Mr. Mac Fane.

Peggy was next queſtioned concern⯑ing his preſent hiding-place. She was confuſed; ſhe ſtammered, and trembled. Was not her brother in danger? Could ſhe be ſure no harm would come to him?—At laſt however the mild and humane reaſoning of Frank, and the au⯑thority of Mrs. Clarke ſubdued, her ter⯑rors—He was in the houſe.

It ſeems the moment he knew it was [117] Captain St. Ives, my brother, whom Mr. Mac Fane had been plundering, he refuſed to appear, or have any further concern in the affair: and being vio⯑lently threatened by the gambler, who wanted to force him to come forward as his witneſs, he concealed himſelf for fear; not knowing to what exceſs ſo de⯑ſperate a man might be carried by his paſſions. He and Peggy had juſt been debating on the propriety of appearing to bear teſtimony in my brother's be⯑half; but were too much alarmed to de⯑cide.

Frank loſt no time. He took the man with him in the carriage, and haſtened to my brother's apartments; where he left him, and immediately drove away to Bow-ſtreet, to procure the aſſiſtance of [118] the police. Previous to this, Mr. Mac Fane, having received ſome intimation that there was danger, had written to my brother. The following is a copy of his letter; and no bad ſpecimen of the man.

Is it not a pity, Louiſa, that ſo much courage and ability ſhould be perverted to ſuch vile ends? The man, by means of the wealth he had ſo rapidly collected in this manner, had ſecured more than one ſpy among the Bow-ſtreet runners. This we learned from Peggy's brother; and it is confirmed by the event; for he has forſaken all his former haunts, and it is conjectured is either gone off for the continent, or, which is more probable, is lying concealed till he can diſcover how far he is in danger. He was con⯑ſtantly provided with diſguiſes, has been [120] to ſea, and is intimately acquainted with the manners of the vulgar; ſo that, were any ſtrict ſearch made, he would not ea⯑ſily be caught. But he need not fear; his ſuppoſed enemy takes no delight in blood; and this he will probably ſoon Iearn, and ſoon again be upon the town.

You wonder, no doubt, how Frank ſhould recogniſe a man who, attempting to rob us on a dark night, had ſtationed himſelf at the head of the carriage. Had he ſeen no more of him, he would have been in little danger of detection. But, on one of the viſits which Frank made to Webb, the brother of Peggy, he had met him on the ſtairs. Mr. Mac Fane as he deſcended was oppoſite the window on the landing place, and his face was full in the light; while Frank could [121] ſcarcely be ſeen by him, being then ſe⯑veral ſteps below him. His counte⯑nance is a remarkable one; it has a deep ſcar above the left eye; and Frank, ſuſpecting him to be the accomplice of the man he was going to viſit, had fixed it in his memory.

Frank has ſince been talking very ſe⯑riouſly with this brother of Peggy; and appears to have convinced him that his preſent profeſſion is as much that of a thief as his former. However, in this ſhort ſpace of time, without underſtand⯑ing the vile arts of a gambler, he has collected between two and three hun⯑dred pounds. Such is the folly with which money is ſquandered at theſe places. While Mr. Mac Fane is abſent, he thinks himſelf in no danger; and [122] ſhould he return, he has been promiſed the protection of our family, which he thinks a ſufficient guarantee; being ra⯑ther afraid of him as a deſperado than as an accuſer. Webb has therefore agreed to take a ſhop, and exerciſe his trade as a maſter. He is a man of quick intellects; and, notwithſtanding all that he has done, has many good propenſi⯑ties. As a proof of theſe, his poor ſiſter, the kind Peggy, has infinite affection for him; and is ſure now that he will do well.

Sir Arthur and Edward have both been very ſincere and hearty in their thanks to Frank: to which he anſwers, and anſwers truly, it was a ſtroke rather of good fortune than of foreſight. But he has gained himſelf a character; and [123] they are partly of opinion, that every thing muſt proſper which he undertakes. Aunt Wenbourne too overflows in his praiſe. Edward is her favourite; and Frank ſtands now almoſt as high on her liſt as he was but a little while ago the reverſe; for Edward is continually talk⯑ing of him to her, and every word he ſays is orthodox. But opinions like theſe are too light, too full of prejudice, too mutable to be of much value.

Clifton kept away all the evening; however, after hearing the whole ſtory, he was obliged to acknowledge that, let his other qualities be what they would, he could not have been ſo ſucceſsful as Frank in this affair; becauſe he could have known nothing of Mr. Mac Fane. [124] But he did not forget that this was an accident, unforeſeen at the time when Frank was truſted.

My conſtant rule, of equanimity of temper, has reſtored him to his wonted good-humour. But I perceive he re⯑grets the poſſibility of any man equal⯑ling him in the eſteem of thoſe whoſe friendſhip he cultivates. Alas! Why does he not rather ſeek to ſurpaſs them, than to envy their virtues?

He ſays he will propoſe an eulogium on Frank, and give a prize himſelf to the French Academy; for he finds he will never get ſufficiently praiſed in England. He never knew ſo eternal a theme for panegyric. In fine, it is evident, in de⯑ſpite of his efforts to conceal it, that his [125] jealouſy increaſes: and I ſuſpect he feels this laſt deciſion againſt him more ſenſi⯑bly than any preceding circumſtance.

LETTER LXXI.
COKE CLIFTON TO OUY FAIRFAX.

WAR! Fairfax, war!—It is de⯑clared!—Open war!—My wrathful ſpi⯑rits are in a blaze, and I am determined. Hear and blame me if you can. But do I not know you? Does not the tem⯑per of your letters tell me you will ap⯑plaud my juſt anger, and fixed revenge?

[127] Yes, Fairfax, longer to palliate, or wilfully be blind to the partial edicts and haughty ordonnances of this proud beauty, were idiotiſm! She has preſumed too far; I am not quite ſo tame a creature as ſhe ſuppoſes. She ſhall find I am not the clay, but the potter. I will mould, not be moulded. Poltron as I was, to think of ſinking into the docile, domeſticated, timid animal called huſ⯑band! But the lion's paws are not yet pared; beware then, my princeſs!

The lady would carry it with a high hand, Fairfax. But let her! If I not note her freaks, if I forget her imperious caprice, if my embittered mind ſlumber in its intents, ſay not I am the proud⯑ſpirited Clifton you once knew; that prompt, bold, and inflexible fellow, [128] whom arrogance could rouſe, and in⯑jury inflame, but a ſuffering, patient aſs; a meek pitiful thing, ſuch as they would make me!

Wonder not that I now am angry, but that I have ſo long been torpid. A little phrenſy has reſtored the palſied ſoul to life, and again has put its powers in motion. I'll play no more at queſ⯑tions and commands—Or, if I do, it ſhall only be to make ſure of my game.

I have been reproved, ſilenced, tongue⯑tied, brow-beaten; have made myſelf an ape, been placed behind the door, and have ſhewed tricks for her diverſion. But I am not muzzled yet: they ſhall find me one of the ferae naturae.

A moſt excellent project, forſooth! When I am ſufficiently familiarized to [129] contradiction, rebuke, fillips on the fore⯑head, and raps on the knuckles, ſhe will then hear me my prayers, pack me off peaceably to bed for tonight, and gra⯑ciouſly beſtow a pat and a promiſe upon me for tomorrow! There is danger in the whim, lady; beauteous though you are, and invincible as you may think yourſelf. Model me!—No!—I am of a metal which not even your files can touch. You cannot knead, dough-bake, and temper me to your leaven.

Fairfax, ſhe had faſcinated me! I own it! There is ſuch incantation, in the ſmall circle of her eye, as mortal man ſcarcely can reſiſt! I adored her; nay ſtill adore! But ſhe knows me not. I have a ſoul of fire. She has driven me beyond the limits of patience.

[130] Her wiſdom degenerates into rhodo⯑montade. She will preſcribe the hour and minute when ſhe ſhall begin to love. She does not pretend to love me yet; and, if ſhe did, her looks, her manner would betray the falſehood of her heart.

Yet let me not wrong her, vexed though I am. Double dealing is not her error: ſhe is ſufficiently ſincere.

Why would I hide it from myſelf? Her partialities all lead another way: ay and her paſſions too, if paſſions ſhe have. But this moſt incomprehenſible, this tor⯑menting, incoherent romance of deter⯑mining not to have any, I believe from my ſoul, in part produces the effect ſhe intends, and almoſt enables her to keep her determination!

Still and eternally, this fellow! This [131] Frank! Oh that I were an Italian, and that my conſcience would permit me to deal him the ſtilletto!—Let him be⯑ware!—He is employed, preferred, praiſed! It is eulogium everlaſting! Had Fame as many trumpets as ſhe has tongues and lies, they would all be inſuf⯑ficient. And not only ſhe but the whole family, father, brother, aunts, the devil knows who, each grateful ſoul is oozing out the froth of its obligations!

Had they leſs cauſe, perhaps I ſhould be leſs irritated: but he has reſcued the poor being of a brother, Edward St. Ives, who had neither courage nor capa⯑city to reſcue himſelf, from the gripe of a gambler. This Edward, who is one of the king's captains, God bleſs him, and who has ſpent his fortune in learning the [132] trade, not of a man of war, but of a man of faſhion, having loſt what ready mo⯑ney he had, ſtaked his honour againſt a cogger of dice, and was preſently tricked out of three thouſand guineas; which he was too poor in pocket to pay, and, if I gueſs right, too poor in ſpirit afterward to face the ruffian whom he had made his companion.

So Mr. Henley, and it pleaſe you, was choſen, by father and daughter. Though ſhe owns ſhe propoſed it firſt; for ſhe does not ſcruple to own all which ſhe does not ſcruple to act. The holy miſſion was his, to dole out ſalutary do⯑cuments of reproof, and apothegms of Epictetus; and to try whether he could not releaſe the bird-limed owl. I was overlooked! I am unfit for the office! I [133] am but little wiſer than the booby bro⯑ther! Whereas Solomon himſelf, and the ſeven ſages to boot, are but ſo many men of Gotham, when he is preſent. The quinteſſence of all the knowledge, wit, wiſdom, and genius that ever ſaw the ſun, from the infantine days of ABC and king Cadmus, to theſe miraculous times of intuition and metaphyſical leger⯑demain, is bottled up in his brain; from which it foams and whizzes in our ears, every time diſcretion can be induced to draw the cork of ſilence.—Once again, let him beware!

I then am ſelected for no other pur⯑poſe but for her morality to make expe⯑riments upon.—She is called wiſe, and wiſe ſhe may be; nay wiſe ſhe is, or at leaſt all other women, ſhe being pre⯑ſent, [134] are intolerably fooliſh. But, by heaven, this is no proof of her wiſdom! I am the ſcape-goat!—I!—Be it ſo!—Should ſhe be caught in her own ſpringe, who can ſay I am to blame?

She has ſeen my anger, for I could not hide it; but ſhe has ſeen it only in part. A hypocrite ſhe wants, and a hypocrite ſhe ſhall have. I will act the farce which ſhe is compoſing; let her look to the cataſtrophe.

I begin to think that marriage and I ſhall never meet; for, if I withſtand her, woman cannot tempt me. And her I ſhall withſtand. At leaſt I never will have her till I have humbled her; and then perhaps I ſhall not be in the hu⯑mour. And yet my heart tells me that I ſhall. For in ſpite of all its anger, in [135] ſpite of her injuſtice and glaring indif⯑ference, the remembrance of which puts me in a fever, it would be miſery to know her, recollect her, and live without her.

But, patience! Her pride ſhall firſt be lowered. I muſt command, not be commanded: and, when my clemency is implored, I will then take time to conſider.

My brain is in a ferment, and its vari⯑ous engines are already in commotion. She herſelf, her hated favourite, her fa⯑ther, her brother, her aunt, her uncle, her maid, every creature that ſurrounds her muſt each and all contribute to my purpoſes and plots. Parts fit for the actors muſt be aſſigned. The how and what I know not yet preciſely, for I have ſcarcely ſketched the canvas; but [136] I have conceived ſome bold and maſ⯑terly ſtrokes, and I foreſee the execution muſt be daring and impaſſioned. I am in haſte to begin, and my hot oſcillatory ſpirits can with difficulty be tamed to the ſtill pauſe of prudence and premedita⯑tion: they are eager for the fight, and think caution a tardy general, if not a coward.

I know not how it is, but when I am angry, very angry, I feel as if I were in my element. My blood delights to boil, and my paſſions to bubble. I hate ſtill water. An agitated ſea! An evening when the fiery ſun forebodes a ſtormy morning, and the black-baſed clouds riſe, like mountains with hoary tops, to tell me tempeſts are brewing! Theſe give emotion and delight ſupreme! Oh [137] for a miſtreſs ſuch as I could imagine, and ſuch as Anna St. Ives moulded by me could make! One that could vary her perſon, her pleaſures, and her paſ⯑ſions, purpoſely to give mine variety! Whoſe daily and nightly ſtudy all ſhould centre in me, and my gratifications! Whoſe eyes ſhould flaſh lightning to rouſe the chilled ſenſations, and ſhed appeaſing dews to quench the fire of rage. Theſe are the objects in which I could delight; theſe the devotions I re⯑quire. Change for me. A true Engliſh day; in which winter and ſummer, hail, rain, and ſunſhine meet and min⯑gle.

I had almoſt forgotten one chief cauſe of my reſentment; though the moſt fortunate one I could have wiſhed for to [138] promote my purpoſe. This Sir Arthur dallies with me. I find, from various items which the candour of her mind has ſuffered to eſcape, that the motive is po⯑verty. I am glad of it. I will urge and hurry her into a promiſe to be mine. The generoſity of her temper will aid me. I will plead the injury done me by heſitation. I feel it, and therefore my pleadings will be natural. It is her pride to repair the wrongs which others commit. This pride and this heroiſm of ſoul, which I muſt acknowledge in her are unaffected, ſhall be the main en⯑gines with which I will work. Without theſe perhaps I might deſpair; but with them hold myſelf ſecure of victory.

Yes, lady of the high ſciences, you muſt deſcend, and let my ſtar mount the [139] horizon! The gathering clouds muſt eclipſe your effulgence, while I ſhine chief of the conſtellation!

As for the reſt of the family, more or leſs, they are all fools; therefore are nei⯑ther to be feared nor pitied. On her perhaps I may have compaſſion, when I have taught her contrition, and when ſhe knows me for her ſuperior.

I have written a volume, yet have not half diſburthened my labouring mind. Oh that I could preſent the picture to you complete! That I could paint her as ſhe is; all beauty, all excellence, all kindneſs, all froſt! That I could ſhew the ſweet enthuſiaſt in the heyday inſo⯑lence of her power; pretending to guide, reform, humble, and ſubjugate me; while love and vengeance ſwell my heart, [140] hypocriſy ſmooths my face, and plots innumerable buſy my brain! It is a fruitful, rich, reſplendent ſcene; of which, Fairfax, you have no conception. Me you have known, intimately, and are honeſt enough to own you have admired: but of her all ideal tracings are contemp⯑tible!

Nor ſhould this knight of the magic lanthorn be forgotten; this Neſtor ju⯑nior; this tormenting rival—Oh how I could curſe! He who ſtands, as ready as if Satan had ſent him, to feed the ſpread⯑ing flames with oil! He fills his place on the canvas. And who knows but I may teach him, yet, to do his office as he ought? How would it delight me! There is an intemperance of ſuperiority which no human patience can ſupport, [141] nor any acts of kindneſs compenſate. A triumph over her will indeed be a tri⯑umph over him, and therefore doubly delicious!

I grant he forbears to prate of the life he gave me. But am I not re⯑minded of the oppreſſive gift every time he dares to contradict me? Would I endure his interference as I do; would I be ſhouldered and butted at, by him; would I permit his opinion to be aſked, or his dogmas to ſilence me, were I not burthened with this unaſked benefit?

Infatuated lunatic, as I was! But I am in the ſchool of prudence, at preſent; and ſuppoſe I ſhall learn a little ſome time; though I do not know when; ſince, I am told, it is not eaſy to learn a trade one hates.

[142] Mean while I pay my court aſſiduouſly to the two peers, Evelyn and Fitz Allen, who at preſent are both in town. No⯑thing muſt be neglected, nothing left unprepared. Vigilance, foreſight, and cunning muſt do their office, and will ſoon be in full employment: of what kind I cannot yet determine; or whe⯑ther it muſt be open war or covert, or both; but my augury predicts the ſcene will ſoon be all life, all agitation, all en⯑joyment. Commotion is my element, battle my delight, and conqueſt my hea⯑ven!

This is my hour of appointment: ſhe is expecting me, yet my crowding thoughts will with difficulty allow me to lay down the pen: they riſe in armies, and I could write world without end, [143] and never come to an amen. But I muſt begone. Adieu.

I imagine that by this time you are at Paris; or will be before the arrival of this letter; which, according to your directions, I ſhall ſuperſcribe Poſte re⯑ſtante.

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

NEED I tell my affectionate friend how great the pleaſure is which I receive from her letters, and from that free com⯑munication of thought which ſo effectu⯑ally tends to awaken the beſt emotions of mind, and make us emulate each [145] other's virtues? Like her I ſit down, now while memory is awake, to relate ſuch material incidents as have happened ſince laſt I wrote.

The anger of Clifton is ſoftened into approbation. The moſt generous minds are liable, from the acuteneſs of their ſenſibility, to be unjuſt. We are once again very good friends.

Not but we have juſt been engaged in a very impaſſioned ſcene. The ſubject of family conſent was revived by him; and, as I intended, I informed him that delay ſeemed inevitable.

The ſtruggle of his feelings, when he heard it, appeared to be violent. His exclamations were characteriſtic of his habitual impetuoſity; the ſtrength of them excited ſenſations, and alarms, [146] which prove the power he has over the paſſions. Oh how I deſire to ſee that power well directed! How precious, how potent will it then become!

One thing, and only one, he vehe⯑mently affirmed, could appeaſe the per⯑turbation of his mind, and preſerve him from wretchedneſs which none but thoſe who felt like him could conceive—

And what, I aſked, was that?—

He durſt not ſpeak it—Yet ſpeak he muſt, plead he muſt. Should he fail, phrenſy, deſpair, he knew not what, but ſomething fearful would indubitably follow—

Again, what was it?—

Might he hope? It depended on me; and denial and diſtraction were the ſame—

[147] He made me ſhudder! And, ſerious when I heard it though I found his de⯑mand to be, his manner inſpired a con⯑fuſed dread of ſomething repugnant; ſomething eminently wrong.

He ventured at laſt to ſpeak. I be⯑lieve he watched his moment. The paſſions, Louiſa, however diſturbed, are always cunning. He demanded a pro⯑miſe, ſolemn and irrevocable, to be his.

Such a promiſe, I anſwered, was un⯑neceſſary; and, if at all, could only be given conditionally—

There were no conditions to which he was not ready to ſubſcribe—

I replied, too much readineſs denoted too little reflection; and not fortitude ſufficient to fulfil ſuch conditions.

Fortitude could never fail him, having [148] me not only for an example but a re⯑ward. Again he repeated, without my promiſe, my ſacred promiſe, he really and ſeriouſly feared diſtraction! That this was weakneſs he was ready to allow: but if it were true, and true it was, ſhould I want love, I yet had too much benevolence not to deſire to avert conſe⯑quences which, beyond all others, are horrible to imagination.

He has ſurely very conſiderable know⯑ledge of the human heart; for his tone and manner produced all the effect he intended. I had foreſeen the probability of ſuch a requeſt, though not all the ur⯑gency with which it was made, and had argued the queſtion of right and wrong. My concluſion had been that ſuch a pro⯑miſe, with certain proviſos, was a duty; [149] and accordingly I gave it; ſtipulating a power to retract, ſhould experience teach us that our minds and principles could not aſſimilate.

At firſt he was not ſatisfied. Intrea⯑ties the moſt importunate that language could ſupply were repeated, that I ſhould make no ſuch exceptions. They were impoſſibilities; needleſs, but tormenting. Finding however that I was reſolved, he ſoftened into acquieſcence, thanked me with all the tranſports which might be expected from him, and kiſſed my hand. He would not have been ſo ſatisfied, had I not very ſeriouſly repulſed the encroach⯑ing freedoms which I had lately found him aſſuming; ſince which he is become more guarded.

What latent inconſiſtency is there, [150] Louiſa, in my conduct, which can incite the alarms to which I feel myſelf ſub⯑ject? The moment I had made the pro⯑miſe I ſhuddered; and, while acting from the ſtrongeſt ſenſe of duty, and the moſt ardent deſire of doing good, I felt as if the act were reprehenſible and un⯑juſt.—It is the words of Frank that are the cauſe: on them my mind dwells, and painfully repeats them, as if in a deli⯑rium: like a ſinging in the ear, the toll⯑ing of death-bells, or the burthen of ſome tragic ditty, which memory, in its own deſpite, harps upon, and mutters to itſelf!—‘He is certain that I act from miſtaken principles!—To the end of time he ſhall perſiſt in thinking me his by right!’

There muſt be ſomething amiſs, ſome⯑thing [151] feeble in my mind, ſince the de⯑ciſion of reaſon cannot defend me from the awe which this ſurely too haſty, too poſitive aſſertion inſpires! It haunts my very dreams!

Clifton left me; and, being gone, I went into the parlour. Frank was there. He had a book in his hand, and tears in his eyes. I never beheld a look more melancholy. Capable as he is of reſiſt⯑ing the cowardice of ſelf-complaint and gloom, ſtill there are moments, I per⯑ceive, in which he can yield; and, ſigh⯑ing over others woes, can caſt a retro⯑ſpective glance on ſelf. He had been reading the Julia of Rouſſeau. The pic⯑ture given by St. Preux of his feelings had awakened ſympathy too ſtrong to be reſiſted.

[152] We fell into converſation. I wiſhed to turn his thoughts into a more cheer⯑ful channel; but my own partook too much of the ſame medium, not to aſſi⯑milate themſelves in part to his languor.

You ſeem penſive, Frank. What is the ſubject of your meditations?

The ſorrows of St. Preux, madam.

Then you are among the rocks of Meillerie? Or ſtanding a partaker of the danger of Julia on the dreadful preci⯑pice?

No, madam. The divine Julia is dead!—[Had you heard the ſigh he gave, Louiſa—!] I am at a paſſage which I ſuſpect to be ſtill more ſublime. I am ſure it is equally heart-rending.

Ay!—Which is that?

It is Clara, at the table of Wolmar; [153] where the child, with ſuch ſimplicity, conjures up the infantine but almoſt per⯑fect ſemblance of the dead. If ever laughter inſpired the horrors of diſtrac⯑tion, it was the laugh of Clara!

It is a wonderful paſſage. But I find you were rather contemplating the ſor⯑rows of the friend than of the lover.

Pardon me, madam. I was conſider⯑ing, ſince the friend was thus on the very brink of deſpair, what muſt be the force of mind which could preſerve the lover.

Friendſhip and love, in ſuch minds, are the ſame.

Perhaps ſo, madam.

Can there be any doubt?

When the lover and the friend are [154] united, the heart is reluctant to own its feelings can be equalled.

Ought you not to avoid ſuch a book, Frank; at leaſt for the preſent?

If it led me into error; otherwiſe not. I think I know what were the author's miſtakes; and he not only teaches but impreſſes, rivets, volumes of truth in my mind.

The recollection of what had juſt paſſed with Clifton forced itſelf upon me, Louiſa; it made me deſirous of put⯑ting a queſtion to Frank on the ſubject, and I aſked—

What is your opinion of promiſes?

I think them ſuperfluous, nugatory, and therefore abſurd.

Without exception?

[155] Yes—We cannot promiſe to do wrong: or, if we do, cannot perform—Neither can we, without guilt, refrain from doing right; whether we have or have not promiſed.

Some glimpſe of this truth, for I per⯑ceive it to be one, had ſhot acroſs my mind; but not with the perſpicuity of your propoſition—I am inclined to be a rude interrogator: I have another queſ⯑tion to aſk [He bowed]—I own you are ſeldom wrong, and yet I hope—[I re⯑member, Louiſa, that I gave a deep ſigh here; and it muſt not be concealed]—I hope that you have been wrong, once in your life.

Madam!

But perhaps you have changed your opi⯑nion [156] —Do you ſtill think as you did?—Are you ſtill certain that I act from miſ⯑taken principles? [He inſtantly under⯑ſtood me—Had you ſeen his look, Lou⯑iſa—!]

I am, madam.

And ſhall perſiſt to the end of time?

To the end of time.

I could not bear it, Louiſa. I burſt away.

LETTER LXXIII.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

OLIVER, I muſt fly!—There is neither peace nor ſafety for me if I re⯑main—Reſolution begins to faint under theſe repeated and oppreſſive ſtruggles—Life is uſeleſs, virtue inefficient, time murdered, and I muſt fly!—Here I can do nothing but doubt, hope, de⯑ſpair, [159] and linger in uncertainty: my body liſtleſs, my mind incoherent, my days waſted in vain reveries on abſurd poſſibilities, and my nights haunted by the confuſed phantoms of a diſturbed and ſickly brain!—I muſt fly!

But whither?—I know not!—If I mean to be truly maſter of my affections, ſeas muſt ſeparate us! Impoſſibility muſt be made more impoſſible!—'Tis that, Oliver, which kills me, that ignus fa⯑tuus of falſe hope—Were ſhe even mar⯑ried, if her huſband were not immortal, I feel as if my heart would ſtill dwell and feed on the meagre May-be! It re⯑fuſes to renounce her, and makes a thou⯑ſand and a thouſand efforts to oblige me again to urge its juſt claims.

I am in the labyrinth of contradictions, [160] and know not how to get out. My own feelings, my remarks on hers, the looks, actions and diſcourſe of this dangerous lover are all embroiled, all incongruous, all illuſory. I ſeem to tempt her to evil by my ſtay, him I offend, and myſelf I torment—I muſt therefore begone!

Oliver, our hearts are united!—Truth and principle have made them one, and prejudice and pride have not the power to diſſever them!—She herſelf feels this intimately, yet perſiſts in her miſtake.

I think, Oliver, it is not what the world or what ſhe underſtands by love which occaſions this anarchy of mind. I think I could command and reprove my paſ⯑ſions into into ſilence. Either I miſtake my⯑ſelf, or even now, ſituated as I am, I could rejoice were there a certainty, nay [161] were there but ſtrong probabilities, that her favourite purpoſe on Clifton ſhould be effected. But the more I meditate, and my hours, days, and weeks paſs away and are loſt in meditation on this ſub⯑ject, the more does my mind perſiſt in its doubts, and my heart in its claims.

Surely, Oliver, ſhe is under a double miſtake! Surely her reaſonings both on him and me are erroneous.

I muſt be honeſt, Oliver, and tell thee all my feelings, fears, and ſuſpicions. They may be falſe. I hope they are, but they exiſt. I imagine I perceive in him repeated and violent ſtruggles to appear what he is not, nay what I doubt he would deſpiſe himſelf for being!

Is not this an unjuſtifiable, a cruel ac⯑cuſation? Why have I this keen this jea⯑lous [162] ſenſibility? Is it not diſhonourable to my underſtanding?

Yet ſhould there be real danger, and I blind to it! Should I neglect to warn her, or rather to guard and preſerve her from harm, where ſhall I find conſola⯑tion?

Oliver! There are times when theſe fears haunt me ſo powerfully that my heart recoils, my blood freezes, and my whole frame is ſhaken with the terrific dream!—A dream?—Yes, it muſt be a dream! If not, the perverſion of his mind and the obduracy of his heart are to me wholly incomprehenſible!

I muſt be more guarded!—Wrong⯑fully to doubt were irreparably to injure! My firſt care muſt be to be juſt.

Mark, Oliver, how theſe wanderings [163] of the mind miſlead and torment me! One minute I muſt fly, to recover my⯑ſelf, and not to diſturb and way-lay others; the next I muſt ſtay, to protect her who perhaps is beſt able to protect herſelf!

I have no plan: I labour to form one in vain. That ſingle channel into which my thoughts are inceſſantly impelled is deſtructive of all order and connexion. The efforts of the underſtanding are aſ⯑ſaſſinated by the emotions of the heart; till the reproaches of principle become intolerable, and the deluſions of hope diſtracting!—A ſtate of ſuch painful in⯑utility is both criminal and abſurd.

The kindneſs of the father, brother, and aunt, the ſympathiſing tenderneſs which burſts from and overcomes the [164] benign Anna, the delay of the mar⯑riage—Oliver!—I was recapitulating the ſeeming inſpirations of my good angel, and have conjured up my chief tormentor!—This delay!—Where does it originate?—With whom?—With—! I muſt fly!—This of all motives is the moſt irrefragable!—I muſt fly!—But when, or how, or where, what I muſt undertake, whither go, or what become, is yet all vague and incoherent conjec⯑ture.

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

IT is now ſome time ſince I received your letter. It aſtoniſhed and I muſt ſay offended me ſo much, that I do not yet know what anſwer to return. You ſay I have thrown you into a quandary, Mr. Henley; and I can very ſincerely return [166] your compliment, Mr. Henley; for no⯑thing can be more unintelligible than your whole letter is to me, Mr. Henley. And I muſt ſay, I think it not very grateful in you, Mr. Henley, nor in my opinion very proper, to write me ſuch a letter, Mr. Henley; that is as far as I underſtand its meaning, Mr. Henley. I have no deſire, Mr. Henley, to quarrel with you, if I can help it; but I muſt ſay I think you have forgotten yourſelf, Mr. Henley. It is very unlike the man⯑ner in which you have been uſed to com⯑port yourſelf to me, Mr. Henley; for, if I underſtand you rightly, which I own it is very difficult to do, you threaten me with forecloſures, Mr. Henley; which I muſt ſay, Mr. Henley, is very improper demeanour from you to me, Mr. Hen⯑ley. [167] Not that I ſeek a rupture with you, Mr. Henley; though I muſt ſay that all this lies very heavy upon my mind, Mr. Henley.

You inſinuate that you are grown rich, I think, Mr. Henley. So much the better for you. And you ſeem to know, Mr. Henley, that I am grown poor: or I think, Mr. Henley, you would not have written to me in a ſtyle which I could almoſt be tempted to call impertinent, but that I wiſh to avoid a quarrel with you, Mr. Henley, unleſs you force me to it. There is law as you ſay, Mr. Henley, for every man; but law is a very fretful and indeed fearful thing, to which you know I am averſe, Mr. Henley. Not but there are pro⯑ceedings, Mr. Henley, which may [168] lead me to conſider how far it is neceſ⯑ſary.

I muſt ſay, Mr. Henley, that my aſto⯑niſhment is very great, after writing me word, as you did, that I might have the money, which I took very kindly of you, that you ſhould now contradict yourſelf ſo flagrantly [I am obliged to repeat it, Mr. Henley] and tell me it is not to be had. What you mean by the whats, and the whys, and the wherefores being forthcoming, is really above my capa⯑city, Mr. Henley; and I requeſt you would ſpeak plainly, that I may give a plain anſwer.

You ſay you can keep your hat on your head, and look your betters in the face, Mr. Henley. May be ſo. But I eave it to your better judgment to con⯑ſider, [169] Mr. Henley, whether you ought to forget that they are your betters.

There are indeed, as you tell me, wheels within wheels, Mr. Henley; for I find that you, and not my ſon, are in poſſeſſion of the Edgemoor eſtate. God bleſs us all, and give us clean hands and hearts, Mr. Henley! I ſay no more! Though I muſt ſay that, when I heard it, my hair almoſt ſtood an end!

You talk a great deal about ſome⯑body's ſon, Mr. Henley. You have puzzled me much; but I think you muſt mean your own ſon. Though what you mean beſide is more than I can divine. I am very unwilling, Mr. Hen⯑ley, to think any thing to your diſadvan⯑tage; and I muſt ſay that I could wiſh you would not ſpeak by ifs, and ands, and [170] innuendos; but let me know at once what you mean, and all you mean, and then I ſhall know how to act.

Your ſon, I own, is a very excellent young gentleman; a very extraordinary young gentleman; and no perſon can be more ready to acknowledge his me⯑rits than I, and my whole family. You ſeem offended with my offer of a com⯑miſſion for him; which I own aſtoniſhes me; for I muſt ſay, Mr. Henley, that I thought I was doing you an act of kind⯑neſs. Not that I blame your prudence, ſir; or your averſion to the prodigal ſpendthrifts, who too frequently are fond of red coats and cockades, which are ſo offenſive to your notions of proſperity.

I am not unwilling to own that I, and all my family, are even under obliga⯑tions [171] to your ſon. For which reaſon I am the more inclined to overlook what I muſt ſay does not pleaſe me, in your laſt very unexpected letter. Let me tell you, Mr. Henley, that I cannot but hope you will think better of it; and that you will uſe your kind endeavours to get me the money, according to your promiſe, which I ſhall take very friendly of you, ſir; and ſhall be willing to do any thing for your ſon, in that caſe, for your ſake as well as for his own, which reaſon can require.

I beg, Mr. Henley, you will conſider very ſeriouſly of this; and I ſhould hope you would not forget former times, and the very many favours which, in my life, I have done you. I do aſſure you, ſir, I have the utmoſt deſire to continue [172] on a good underſtanding with you; but I think I have ſome right to expect your compliance from motives of reaſon, not to ſay of gratitude. So, committing this to your conſideration, and expect⯑ing an agreeable anſwer, I remain, ſir, as uſual,

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

IT doth appear as how your onnur be amifft. Whereby I did a partly a queery as much; thof ſo be as it be no fault of mine. For why? There be reaſons and cauſes. For when as a man has a no⯑think to fear of nobody, I am of a mind [174] that a may pen his thofts to any man. Why not? Always a ſavin and ex⯑ceptin your onnurable onnur.

And aſt for a man's a portin himſelf, there be times and ſeaſons for all thinks. Whereof as Friar Bacon ſaid to Friar Bungy and of the Brazen-head, A time was—A time is—And a time is paſt. And aſt for a threatening about fore⯑cloſures, why what have I to ſay to a gen⯑tleman, if a will not redeem his mort⯑gages when the time be? The law muſt look to it, to be ſure. Always a ſavin and exceptin your onnurable onnur, ſtill ſay I. So that it be altogether compus mentus that quarrels and rupturs are none of my ſeekin. Whereby your onnur⯑able onnur will look to that. No man can deny that every man has a rite to [175] his own. For why? A pays ſcot and lot, and has a nothink for it but law.

And aſt for a man's a growin of rich, why as I do take it a's a not the worſe for that. And aſt for a man's a growin of poor, why a what had I to do, thof ſo be that ſome be wiſe and ſome be other⯑wiſe? Whereof ſo long as the rhino do ring, the man is the man, and the maſ⯑ter's the maſter. A's a buzzard in grain that do flicker, and fleer, and tell a gen⯑tleman a be no better nur a bob gud⯑geon, a cauſe a do ſend the yellow ham⯑mers a ſlying; for thof it might a be happen to be true enough, a would get ſmall thanks for his pains. Every man eat his meat, and he that do like cut his fingers. The fooliſh hen cackles, and the cunning quean chuckles. For why? [176] A has her chalk and her neſt egg ready. Whereof I tout and trump about at no man, an a do not tout and trump about at me. Always a ſavin and ex⯑ceptin your onnurable onnur; and not a ſeekin of quarrels and rupturs, an they do not ſeek me. Otherwiſe, why ſo. Plain and poſitive; that's beſt, when a man do find the ſhoe to pinch.

And aſt for law, why he that has a got the longeſt head will have a moſt on't for money: and he that has a got the longeſt purſe will behappen not to be the firſt to cry peccavi. Whereof if a man do don his hat on his head, an a ſee good cauſe, why not? For I do a warrant a will ſee good cauſe, an a do doff it under his arm.

Whereby every why has a wherefore. [177] Any fool can a put down his five no⯑things; but a's a clever kinchin an a can place a ſo much as a I afore 'em. Whereof the firſt froſt that brings a white crow may, in ſitch a caſe, behap⯑pen to ſhew him his betters. For why? A's a got wherewithall to get more: and a knows the trick on't too, or a would a never a got ſo much. Where⯑by an it comes to a huff an a gruff, a may not chuſe to be arm a kimbo'd, any more nur another; for a may be happen to have a Rowland for an Oliver. A may behappen to be no Jack-a-farthin wea⯑zle-faced whipſter. A may have ſtock and block to go to work upon; and may give a rum for a glum: always a ſavin and exceptin your onnurable on⯑nur. Showin whereby as I want no [178] quarrels nur rupturs, but peace and good will towards men, if ſo be as the whys and the wherefores do a bear me out.

Whereof thof a man be but a Miſter, a may behappen to buy and ſell a knight of the ſhire: that is under fa⯑vour, and a ſavin and exceptin of your onnurable onnur. For why? I be as ready to a quit my hands of quarrels and rupturs as another.

Whereby if the Edgemoor eſtate be mine, why it is my own. For why? Bein it was my caſh that a covered it. Whereof his younk onnur was all a mort, and a down in the mouth, when a did come to me. The world was wide, and a might a gone further and a fared worſe. A's a dolt indeed that will part with money, and not have money's [179] worth. Whereby I had a bin ſtarvin, and pinchin, and ſcrapin, and coilin, and moilin; in heat and in cold; up a early and down a late; a called here and a ſent there; a bidden and a chidden, and a forbidden to boot; every body's ſlave forſooth; whereby I am now my own maſter. Why not? Who can gain ſay it? Mayhap a ſavin and exceptin of your onnurable onnur; witch is as it may be. For why? I wants a nothink to do with quarrels and rupturs, no more nur another; but that's as thinks ſhall turn out.

Whereby one man's hair mayhap may ſtand an end as well as another's, ex⯑ceptin that I wears a wig. An I give the kole, I'll have the dole. And aſt for ſomebody's ſon, if ſo be as a man [180] be to be twitted a thiſn, after all the gunpowder piſtols and bullets, and ſcow⯑erins, and firins, and bleedins, and ſwimmins, and ſinkins, and riſks, and rubs, and ſea ſcapes, and ſhore ſcapes, at home and abroad, by land and by water, and ſavins of precious lives and precious caſh, why if ſo be as all this be to ſtand for nothink, it is a time for a man to look about'n.

To be ſure your onnur is ſo good as to ſay my ſon is a younk gentleman, and ſo forth. Whereby this gracious and ever mercyfool lovin kindneſs would go to the cockles of my heart; ay and my chitterlins would crow, and I ſhould ſing O be joyfool, if ſo be as I did find as words wus any think but wind. Whereof when your onnurable onnur is [181] compulſionated, willy nilly, to be ſo all bountifool as to profeſs to the ownin of obligations, why that is ſummut. But fair ſpeeches wonnot heal broken pates; and a mouthfool of moonſhine will ſend a man hungry to bed. Promiſe may be a fair dog, but Performance will catch the hare.

Whereby had thinks a bin as they might a bin, why then indeed it would a bin ſummut. But as to the wherewith⯑alls of the twenty thouſand pounds, be⯑ing as it be, why the think is unpoſſable to be done. For why? The caſe is al⯑tered. Whereof it is beſt to be down⯑right. Will is free, and money for me.

Whereby this marriage match with the Clifton family, had my oar bin aſked, would never a bin of my advizin. For [182] why? I ſhall not give my lard to butter my neighbour's bacon.

And aſt for favours received, why may be ſo. But what then? Since if ſo be thof it wus ſometimes fair, why it wus ſometimes foul. And a good man may behappen to be all as much as a good maſter. And if a man have a ſpent his whole lifetime in a pickin, and a cullin, and a coinin, and a furbiſhin up fine words, to tickle the ears of fine folks, why a ought in all conſcience to get the wherewithalls for his pains. For if an a gentleman will eat pine apples a muſt not expect to pay for pippins. Always as aforeſaid a ſavin and exceptin your onnurable onnur. So that if quarrels and rupturs will come, they may not a be ſaid to be of my ſeekin.

[183] Bein as I am, ever and amen, with all pious jakillations and jubilees of bleſſins and praiſe, never failin to pray for due time to repent us of all our ma⯑nifold ſins and wickedneſs, God of his mercy be good unto us, and ſave us and deliver us, on our death bed, from the everlaſtin flamin ſulphur of the burnin lake. Amen, an it be his holy will! Umbelly beggin leave to ſuperſcribe me⯑ſelf,

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

I HAVE had a ſcene with Frank, which affected me much, and which has occaſioned another quarrel, or kind of a quarrel, with Clifton. Sir Arthur had juſt left the room. He had been aſking Frank whether there were any poſſible way by which he could ſerve him. We [185] all were his debtors; very deeply; and he ſhould be happy to find any mode of diſcharging the obligation. Sir Arthur ſpoke with an earneſtneſs which, in him, is by no means cuſtomary. But Frank had nothing to aſk, nothing to propoſe.

I was ſitting at my harpſichord, amuſ⯑ing myſelf; and, Sir Arthur being gone, ſtopped to tell Frank how ſincerely I joined in Sir Arthur's feelings.

I have nothing, madam, ſaid he, to hope from Sir Arthur: but to you I have a requeſt to make, which you would greatly oblige me ſhould you grant—

I trembled, Louiſa. I was afraid of ſome new conteſt of the paſſions; a re⯑vival of ideas which I myſelf had ſo lately, and ſo inadvertently, called to mind. I am perſuaded the blood for⯑ſook [186] my cheeks, when I aſked him what it was: for Frank, with a tenderneſs in his voice that was indeed honourable to his heart, prayed, conjured me not to be alarmed—It was a trifle—He would be filent—He would not give me a mo⯑ment's pain to gratify a million of ſuch ſilly wiſhes.

He both moved and revived me. It could not be any thing very dreadful, and I entreated him to ſpeak. There was nothing he could aſk I would re⯑fuſe.

He heſitated, and I then became ur⯑gent. At laſt he named—His ſong!—Again, Louiſa, he almoſt ſtruck me to the heart!—He feared he offended me; but there was ſomething ſo enchanting in the air that he could not forget it, [187] could not reſiſt the wiſh to poſſeſs a copy.

It was impoſſible to refuſe. I went to my papers, and brought it. The evil ſpirit of thoughtleſſneſs poſſeſſed me, and when I delivered it I aſked—Is there any thing elſe?—

Your kindneſs, madam, ſaid he, is unalterable. Could I?—Durſt I—?

What?—

He pauſed—

Speak!—

He laid the ſong upon the muſic⯑deſk, and looked—No no—I will not attempt to tell you how!

Words were needleſs; they could not petition with ſuch eloquence—A barbarian could not have refuſed. I rambled over the keys, hemmed, and [188] endeavoured to collect myſelf. At laſt a ſenſe of propriety, of reaſon, of princi⯑ple, came to my aid, and bade me be maſter of my mind. I began to ſing, but no effort could enable me to give that expreſſion of which I had before found the words ſo ſuſceptible.

Could you think it, Louiſa? Do you now foreſee, do you forebode what hap⯑pened?—Your brother came in!—

To have ſtopped, to have uſed eva⯑ſion, to have had recourſe to falſehood would have turned an act of virtue into contemptible vice. I continued. Clif⯑ton came and looked over my ſhoulder. The muſic was on one ſheet of paper, the words were on another, in the writing of Frank. Your brother knew the hand.

When I had ended, Frank took both [189] the papers, thanked me, and retired. I could perceive the eyes of Clifton ſparkle with emotion; I might almoſt ſay rage. He would have ſpoken, but could not; and I knew not how ſafely to begin.

At length, a conſciouſneſs of not hav⯑ing done or at leaſt intended to do wrong gave me courage. I determined not to wait to be queſtioned: I aſked him how he liked the ſong.

Oh! Exceedingly!—It was very fine!—Very fine!

The words are Mr. Henley's.

I imagined as much, madam.

I thought them expreſſive, and amuſed myſelf with putting a tune to them.

I am as good as a witch!

How did you like the ſubject?

What ſubject, madam?

[190] Of the words.

I really don't know—I have forgot⯑ten—

Nay, you ſaid you thought them very fine!

Oh! Yes!—True!—Very fine!—All about love—I recollect.

Well, and having ſo much faith in love, you do not think them the worſe for that.

Oh, by no means!—But I thought you had.

Love in a ſong may be pardonable.

Eſpecially, madam, if the ſong be written by Mr. Henley.

Clifton!—You almoſt teach me to deſpair!—You do not know me!—Perhaps however I am more to blame than you, at preſent. Timidity has [191] given me ſome appearance of conſcious guilt, which my heart diſavows. But, as there is ſcarcely any error more dan⯑gerous to felicity than ſuſpicion, I own I am ſorry to ſee you ſo frequently its ſlave. Never think of that woman for a wife, in whom you cannot confide. And aſk yourſelf whether I ought to marry a man who cannot diſcover that I merit his confidence?

I find, indeed, implicit faith to be as neceſſary in love as in religion—But you know your power, madam.

An indifferent ſpectator would rather ſay you know yours.

You will not go, madam, and leave me thus?

I muſt.

In this miſery?

[192] I have letters to write, and viſits to pay.

You cannot be ſo cruel?—By heaven, madam, this torment is more than nature can ſupport!

Leſs impetuoſity, Clifton; leſs rap⯑tures, and more reaſon.

You would have me rock, madam! Unfeeling marble!

I would have you a man; a rational, and, if poſſible, a wiſe one.

Stay at leaſt for a moment!—Hear me!—Do not leave me in theſe doubts!

What doubts?—Do I not tell you the words are Mr. Henley's? The air is mine. If ſetting them were any guilt, it is a guilt of which I am not conſcious. Shew me that it is criminal and I will inſtantly retract. We muſt either over⯑come [193] theſe narrow, theſe ſelfiſh propen⯑ſities, or we ſhall hope in vain to be happy.

I—I—I make no accuſation—

Do but examine before you accuſe, and I will patiently hear and cheerfully anſwer to accuſation. If you think it wrong in me not to treat virtue and ge⯑nius with neglect, bring me your proofs, and if I cannot demonſtrate their fallacy I will own my error. Let me add, the accuſation of reaſon is a duty; from which, though painful, we ought not to ſhrink. It is the miſtaken accuſation of the paſſions only at which juſtice bids the heart revolt.

Here, Louiſa, once again I left him, with ſtruggles apparently more acute than the former. And my own mind is [194] ſo affected, ſo oppreſſed as it were by crowds of ideas, that I do not yet know whether this were an accident to be wiſh⯑ed, or even whether I have entirely acted as I ought. My mind will grow calmer, and I will then begin the ſcru⯑tiny.

I am minute in relating theſe particu⯑lars, becauſe I am very deſirous of doing right. And who is ſo capable of being my judge, or who ſo anxious I ſhould not err, as my dear Louiſa, my friend, my ſiſter?

All good be with you!

LETTER LXXVII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

OH, Fairfax, if my choler roſe when laſt I wrote, where ſhall I now find words hot enough to paint the phrenſy of my ſoul?—How could I rage and rave!—Is it come to this?—So bare⯑faced!—So fearleſs!—So unbluſhingly braved!—

[196] Fairfax, I came upon them!—By ſur⯑priſe!—My alert and watchful ſpirit, an adept in ſuch arts, accuſtomed to them, and rendered ſuſpicious by practice and experience, foreboded ſome ſuch poſſi⯑bility—My knock at the door was coun⯑terfeit. I ſtrode up ſtairs to the draw⯑ing-room, three ſteps at a time—Swiftly and ſuddenly—I opened the door—There they ſat!—Alone!—She ſing⯑ing a miſerable ditty, a bead-roll of la⯑mentable rhymes, ſtrung together by this Quidam!—This Henley!—Nay!—Oh!—Damnation!—Read and trem⯑ble!—Read and aid me to curſe!—Set by her!—Ay!—A ballad—A love complaint—A moſt doleful woe-begone elegy; of ſorrows, ſufferings, fate, de⯑ſpair, and death; ſcribbled by him, and [197] ſet and ſung by her!—By her!—For his comfort, his ſolace, his pleaſure, his diverſion!—I caught them at it!—Nay they defied me, deſpiſed the wrath that drank up the moiſture of my eyes, blazed in my blood, and ſcorched my very ſoul—

And after this will I blench? Will I recant the denunciations which legiti⯑mate vengeance has pronounced?—

Fairfax—I am not certain that I do not hate her!—No!—Angelic ſorce⯑reſs!—It is not hatred, neither—But it is a tumult, a congregate anarchy of feelings which I cannot unravel; except that the firſt feature of them is re⯑venge!—Rouſed and inſulted as I am, not all her blandiſhments can dazzle, di⯑vert, or melt me! Were mountains to [198] be moved, dragons to be ſlain, or lakes of liquid fire to be traverſed, I would en⯑counter all to attain my end!—Yes—My romance ſhall equal hers. No epic hero, not Orpheus, Aeneas, or Milton's Lucifer himſelf, was ever more deter⯑mined. I could plunge into Erebus, and give battle to the legion phantoms of hell, to accompliſh my fixed pur⯑poſe!—Fixed!—Fixed!—Hoot me, hiſs at me, deſpiſe me if I turn recreant! No—Then may all who ever heard the name of Coke Clifton make it their by⯑word and their ſcoff; and every idiot curl the noſe and ſnuff me to ſcorn!

Recollect but the various affronts I have received, Fairfax, from her and [Oh patience!] Her inamorato! For is he not ſo?—Wrongs, ſome of which [199] irritate moſt becauſe they could not be reſented; inſults, ſome petty ſome gi⯑gantic, which ages could not obliterate; call theſe to mind, and then think whe⯑ther my reſolves be not rock-built! In⯑ſolent intruſion has been his part from the firſt moment to the laſt. The prince of upſtarts, man could not abaſh him, nor naked ſteel affright! On my firſt viſit, entrance was denied by him! Per⯑miſſion was aſked of a gardener's ſon, and the gardener's ſon ſturdily refuſed! I argued! I threatened!—I!—And ar⯑guments and threats were ſo much hot breath, but harmleſs! Attempts to ſi⯑lence or to ſend him back to his native barn alike were baffled; and I, who planned his removal, was conſtrained to petition for his ſtay. Yes, conſtrained!—It [200] was do it, or!—Oh!—Be faithful to me, memory!—He was elected preſident of opinions and diſputes, paſt, preſent and to come. Appeals muſt all be made to him, and his ſentence was definitive. Law or goſpel, phyſics or metaphyſics; himſelf alone ſuperior to college, court, or convocation. Before him ſunk ſcho⯑liaſt and ſchools. In his preſence the doctors all muſt ſtand uncapped: the ſeraphic, the ſubtle, and the ſingular; the illuminated, the angelic, and the ir⯑refragable to him, were tyros all. Our cenſor in private, and in public our fa⯑miliar: like a malignant demon, no re⯑ſpect, no place, no human barriers could exclude him. On no ſide could the of⯑fended eye turn, and not find him there. Diſgraced by his company, counteracted [201] by his arrogance, inſulted by his ſar⯑caſms; obliged to accept the firſt of fa⯑vours, life, at his hands; his apparent inferior in the moment of danger; my miniſtry rejected for his, nay contemned, in a caſe where the gentleman, the man of the world, and the man of honour merited undoubted preference; and, as the climax of injury, wronged in my love!—Rivalled!—Furies!—

And ſhe!—Has ſhe been leſs contu⯑melious, leſs annoyant, leſs torment⯑ing?—His advocate, his abettor, his adulator, with me only ſhe was ſcrupu⯑lous and ſevere. I generouſly and al⯑moſt inſtantly forgot all former reſolves, and would have thrown myſelf into her arms—Unconditionally—I, who had been accuſtomed to give the law, not to [202] receive. I aſſumed not the dictator. I, whoſe family, courage, perſon, and parts have made me a favourite with the brave and fair, though fluſhed with ſuc⯑ceſs, far from claiming ſuperiority, 1 came to caſt myſelf, my freedom, and my trophies at her feet—Came, and was rejected! Bargained with at leaſt; put off with ifs and poſſibilities!

I muſt ſtop—Muſt think no more—Or the hurrying blood will burſt my veins, or ſuffocate my ſwelling heart, and impede juſt retribution for theſe and all my other thouſand wrongs, which only can be avenged by calm and ſubtle foreſight—Yet think not that the ſmalleſt of them is forgotten—Oh no!—

Well then, calm will I be; for I can be, will be any thing rather than not at⯑tain [203] this ſupreme of pleaſures, divine vengeance! Yes, anger muſt be bri⯑dled: it has now a ſecond time made me tread backward more than all the ſteps I had taken in advance. My brain is la⯑bouring for ſome certain and uniform plan, but is at preſent ſo diſturbed that thought can preſerve no ſettled train.

Previous to this ſecond childiſh over⯑flow of paſſion [for if I would ſucceed childiſh it is] I had played a maſter ſtroke, in which indeed I muſt own paſſion was for once my beſt ally. With moſt ardent importunity, I with great difficulty wreſted a promiſe from her to be mine. Theſe romancers, Fair⯑fax, hold love promiſes to be binding and ſacred. And this obtained I thought a fair foundation for my fabric.

[204] The current of my thoughts is now wholly turned to this ſubject. A thou⯑ſand manoeuvres crowding preſent them⯑ſelves; nor can I ſay how many muſt be employed. I have generally found my brain rich in expedients, and I think it will not fail me now. I recollect hav⯑ing mentioned the maid, Laura: ſhe is ſecured, and has been for ſome time paſt. The fondneſs of the fool with one leſs expert would be dangerous; but I have taught her to rail at me occaſionally to her miſtreſs, and to praiſe the favo⯑rite, who has never lately been any great favorite with her, having as I gueſs over⯑looked her when ſhe had kinder inclina⯑tions. She was tickled with the contri⯑vance, which promiſed to ſecure her ſo well from the ſuſpicion of her miſtreſs, [205] and ſhe acts her part tolerably. In fact her miſtreſs ſeems a being without ſuſpi⯑cion, ſuperior to it, and holding it in contempt—So much the better!

This fellow, this king of the cucum⯑ber-beds muſt be removed. I know not yet the means, but they muſt be found. Preſent he is dangerous; abſent he may perhaps be taught to act his part with ſafety and effect. My ideas are not yet methodiſed, but I have a confuſed fore⯑ſight of various modes by which this and much more may and muſt be accom⯑pliſhed.

But no common efforts can be ſucceſs⯑ful—Deep—Deep muſt be the plot by which ſhe is to be over-reached, the pit into which ſhe muſt fall: and deep it therefore ſhall be. There is no art I [206] will not practiſe, no reſtraint to which I will not ſubmit, no deſperate expedient to which I will not have recourſe to gra⯑tify my ſoul's longing—I will be re⯑venged!—The irrevocable decree is gone forth—I will be revenged!—Fair⯑fax, you ſoon ſhall hear of me and my proceedings. Farewell.

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

THIS letter, dear friend of my heart, is begun in a very melancholy mood. How eaſy it is to undertake; how diffi⯑cult to overcome! With what facility did I ſay to myſelf—Thus will I do, and thus—How firmly did I promiſe! Truth appeared ſo beautiful, ſo capti⯑vating, [208] ſo omnipotent, that armed by her an infant could not but conquer. Perſeverance alone was requiſite, and I could perſevere. The ſolid baſis of the earth ſhould almoſt ſhake ere I would waver!—Poor, vain creature!—Surely, Louiſa, we are not all ſo—Heaven for⯑bid!—

Why am I thus? Why does my heart faint within me? Indeed, Louiſa, I be⯑gin to fear I have vaunted of powers I do not poſſeſs; and preſcribed to my⯑ſelf duties too dignified, too mighty for me—And muſt I abandon an enterpriſe I deemed ſo noble?—I have meditated on it, Louiſa, till I could weep—

I will not yet deſpair. At leaſt one effort more, and a ſtrong one, I will make—Alas! I am weary of this pro⯑miſing. [209] My braggart ſtrength is impo⯑tency, or little better. But I will do my beſt; and truth, ſincerity, and good in⯑tent muſt be my truſt.

My preſent determination is to relate to your brother all that has paſſed be⯑tween me and Frank. I will once more ſtate my feelings, my principles, and my plan. The purity of my heart muſt be my ſhield. To contend thus is pain⯑ful; yet moſt willingly would I con⯑tend, were it productive of the good at which I aim. But inſtead of gaining ground I ſeem to loſe. Oh that I were more wiſe, that I better knew the human heart, and that I well could wield the too gigantic weapons of truth! But I fear they are above my force, and pity my own imbecility.

[210] The hour of appointment is come. Clifton will ſoon be here. I have been preparing my mind, taxing my memory, and arranging my thoughts. Oh that this effort may be more ſucceſsful than the paſt! Did he but know all the good I wiſh him, his heart would ſurely not feel anger—He ſhall not die, ſaid Frank!—Can I forget it?—How did my ſoul glow within me, when, hopeleſs but the moment before, I beheld nature again ſtruggling for exiſtence, and re⯑turning life once more ſtir in the con⯑vulſive lip! How did my ears tingle with—"He ſhall not die!"—I ſaw a noble quality exerted, and thought it was but to wiſh and to have, to imitate and to ſucceed—The brother of my Louiſa!—A mind too that might out⯑ſoar [211] the eagle, and gaze on the ſun of truth!

There muſt be ſome cauſe for my fail⯑ure, if I fail—With true ſimplicity of heart I can ſay, moſt earneſtly do I wiſh to do right: moſt ardently would I en⯑deavour to prove myſelf a friend worthy of Louiſa Clifton, and of Frank Hen⯑ley!—Perhaps the latter is the cauſe?—If I have done him wrong, Heaven for⯑give me! For I think, were I convicted of it, I could not forgive myſelf!

The ſervant has told me Clifton is be⯑low. I muſt take a few minutes to breathe—I muſt collect myſelf. Oh for the tongues of mediating angels!

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

WHEN laſt my Louiſa heard from me, my mind was depreſſed. I almoſt deſpaired of the great taſk I had under⯑taken. I had likewiſe an immediate duty, a diſburthening of my ſoul, a kind of confeſſion of facts to make, from which education has falſely accuſtomed us to [213] ſhrink with pain, and my ſpirits were overclouded. This rigorous duty is performed; hope again begins to bright⯑en, and my eaſed heart now feels more light and cheerful.

Not but it ſtill is tremulous with the ſenſations by which it has juſt been thrilled. I ſeem to have riſen from one of the moſt intereſting and I believe I may add awful ſcenes, in which I have ever been engaged. The receſſes of the ſoul have been ſearched; that no re⯑troſpective accuſation of want of abſo⯑lute and perfect candour might, as of late it too often has done, riſe to aſſault me.

I found Clifton in the parlour. His look was more compoſed, more compla⯑cent, and remarkably more thoughtful [214] than it had lately been. I began with ſtating that the feelings of my heart re⯑quired every act, every thought of mine, that had any relation whatever to him, ſhould be fully and explicitly known. I conjured him to have the goodneſs to determine not to interrupt me; that I might perform this office, clear my con⯑ſcience, and ſhew my heart unveiled, un⯑diſguiſed, exactly as it was; and that he might at once reject it, if it were either unworthy his acceptance or incompati⯑ble with his principles.

He promiſed compliance and kept his word. I never knew him a liſtener ſo long, or with ſuch mute patience. I had as I may ſay ſtudied the diſcourſe which I made to him, and which I thus began.

[215] It will not be my intention, Mr. Clif⯑ton, in what I am going to ſay, to ap⯑pear better or worſe than I am. Should I be partial to myſelf, I wiſh you to de⯑tect me. There is nothing I ſo much deſire as a knowledge of my own fail⯑ings. This knowledge, were it truly at⯑tained, would make the worſt of us an⯑gels. Our prejudices, our paſſions, and our ignorance alone deceive us, and per⯑ſuade us that wrong is right.

I have before acquainted you of the project of Mrs. Clifton and Sir Arthur, for our union. I have told you of the unfeigned friendſhip, the high admira⯑tion, and the unbounded love I have for your ſiſter: or in other words for her virtues. A ſhort acquaintance ſhewed me that your mind had all the capacity [216] to which the moſt ardent of my hopes aſpired. It had indeed propenſities, paſſions, and habits, which I thought errors; but not incurable. The meaneſt of us have our duties to fulfil, which are in proportion to our opportunities, and our power. I imagined that a duty of a high but poſſible nature preſented itſelf, and called upon me for performance.

You no doubt will ſmile at my vani⯑ty, but I muſt be ſincere. By inſtruc⯑tion, by converſation, and by other acci⯑dents, it appeared to me that I had been taught ſome high and beneficial truths and principles; which you, by con⯑trary inſtruction, converſation, and acci⯑dents, had not attained. Convinced that truth is irreſiſtible, I truſted in the power of theſe truths rather than of my⯑ſelf, [217] and ſaid here is a mind to which I am under every moral obligation to im⯑part them, becauſe I perceive it equal to their reception. The project therefore of our friends was combined with theſe circumſtances, which induced me wil⯑lingly to join their plan; and to call my friend ſiſter was an additional and de⯑lightful motive. It appeared like ſtrength⯑ening thoſe bonds between us which I be⯑lieve no human force can break.

An obſtacle or rather the appearance of an obſtacle ſomewhat unexpectedly aroſe. From my childhood I had been in part a witneſs of the riſing virtues of young Mr. Henley. Difference of ſex, of ſituation, and of purſuits, prevented us till lately from being intimate. I had [218] been accuſtomed to hear him praiſed, but knew not all the eminence with which it was deſerved. He was my ſuppoſed inferior, and it is not very long ſince I myſelf entertained ſome part of that prejudice. I know myſelf now not to be his equal.

A recollection of combining circum⯑ſtances convinced me that he had for ſome time, and before I ſuſpected it, thought on me with partiality. He be⯑lieves there is great affinity in our minds; he avows it, and with a manly courage becoming his character, which abhors diſſimulation, has ſince confeſſed an af⯑fection for me; nay has affirmed that un⯑leſs I have conceived ſome repugnance to him, which I have not nor ever can [219] conceive, I ought as a ſtrict act of juſtice to myſelf and him to prefer him before any other.

I ſhould acknowledge the cogency of the reaſons he aſſigns, and certainly en⯑tertain ſuch a preference, did it not ap⯑pear to me that there are oppoſing and irreconcileable claims and duties. It is my principle, and perhaps ſtill more ſtrongly his, that neither of us muſt live for ourſelves, but for ſociety. In the abſtract our principle is the ſame; but in the application we appear to differ. He thinks that the marriage of two ſuch people can benefit ſociety at large. I am perſuaded that the little influence which it would have in the world would be injurious, and in ſome ſort fatal to the ſmall circle for which I ſeem to exiſt, and [220] over which my feeble influence can ex⯑tend.

For theſe reaſons only, and in com⯑pliance with what I believe to be the ri⯑gorous but inflexible injunctions of juſ⯑tice, have I rejected a man whom I cer⯑tainly do not merit: a man whoſe bene⯑volent heart, capacious mind, and ex⯑traordinary virtues are above my praiſe, and I almoſt fear beyond my attainment.

My memory will not furniſh me with every word and incident that have paſſed between us; and if it would ſuch repe⯑tition would be tedious. But I wiſh you clearly to underſtand that Mr. Hen⯑ley has made theſe declarations to me; that my mode of acting and my reaſons have been ſuch as I have mentioned; that I am not myſelf ſo perfectly ſatis⯑fied [221] with theſe reaſons but that I ſome⯑times am ſubject to recurring doubts; and that I do at preſent and while I have thought or ſenſe ſhall continue to ad⯑mire his genius and his virtue.

If what he has ſaid or what I have done be offenſive to you, if you cannot think highly of him and innocently of me, if my thoughts concerning him can poſſibly be ſtained with a criminal tinge in your eyes, it becomes you, and I now moſt ſolemnly call upon you, as a man diſdaining deceit, at once to ſay ſo, and here to break off all further intercourſe. Eſteem, nay revere him I do and ever muſt; and inſtead of being guilty for this, my principles tell me the crime would be to eſteem and revere him leſs.

I truſt in the frankneſs of my heart for [222] the proof of it's ſincerity. My determi⯑nation is to have a clear and unſpotted conſcience. Purity of mind is a bleſ⯑ſing beyond all price; and it is that purity only which is genuine or of any value. The circumſtance I am going to relate may to you appear ſtrange, and highly reprehenſible—Be it ſo—It muſt be told.

We never had but one converſation in which the ſubject of marriage, as it re⯑lated to him and me, was directly and fairly debated. He then behaved as he has done always with that ſincerity, con⯑ſiſtency, and fortitude, by which he is ſo peculiarly characteriſed. A converſa⯑tion ſo intereſting, in which a man of ſuch uncommon merit was to be rejected by a woman who cannot deny him to be [223] her ſuperior, could not but awaken all the affections of the heart. I own that mine ached in the diſcharge of its du⯑ties, and nothing but the moſt rooted determination to abide by thoſe duties could have ſteeled it to refuſal—It was a cruel fortitude!

But while it ached it overflowed; and to you more eſpecially than to any other perſon upon earth, I think it neceſſary to ſay that, at a moment when the feeling of compaſſion and the dread of being unjuſt were excited moſt powerfully in my boſom, paradoxical as it may ſeem, my zeal to demonſtrate the integrity and innocence of my mind induced me to—kiſs him!

I ſcarcely can proceed—There are ſenſations almoſt too ſtrong to be ſub⯑dued [224] —The mind with difficulty can en⯑dure that miſtake, that contortion, which can wreſt guilt out of the moſt ſublime of its emanations—However, if it were a crime, of that crime I am guilty—I pretend not to appear other than I am; and what I am it is neceſſary at this mo⯑ment that you ſhould know.

This converſation and this incident happened on the day on which you met him in the corridor, coming from my chamber. A day, Mr. Clifton, worthy of your remembrance and of your emu⯑lation; for it afforded ſome of the ſtrongeſt proofs of inflexible courage of which man is at preſent capable. He had been robbed of the hope deareſt to his heart, had been rejected by the wo⯑man he had choſen to be the friend and [225] companion of his life, had been en⯑joined the taſk of doing all poſſible good to his rival, which he had uncon⯑ditionally promiſed, and he left her to—receive a blow from this rival's hand!

Far be it from me, Mr. Clifton, to wiſh to give you pain, or inſult your feelings!—Oh no!—I retrace the picture only becauſe I think it one of the moſt inſtructive leſſons, for private life, the ſtores of memory can ſupply.

I muſt further inform you that but a few days ago I queſtioned him, whether he had not changed his opinion con⯑cerning me; hoping that after mature reflection he might have thought, as I do, that to refuſe him was a duty. But he perſiſts in believing it to be an [226] error. He does not however obtrude his thoughts upon me: on the ſubject of love an anchorite could not be more ſilent, or a brother more delicate. That one converſation excepted, he has made no further attempts. A few words were indirectly ſaid, when, as I have juſt told you, I queſtioned him; but they were excited by me.

With reſpect to the ſong, at which you have laſt taken offence, its brief hiſtory is that it was written, or at leaſt firſt ſeen by me, ſoon after our arrival in France. I found it on my muſic⯑deſk; and I dare affirm it had been left there by miſtake, not deſign. I ſup⯑poſed it to be his from the hand-writ⯑ing; and I ſet it becauſe it affected me.

[227] The day on which you found me ſinging it to him was the firſt on which it was ever mentioned by him to me; and then, after he had been preſſed by Sir Arthur to know how he could ſerve him, a copy of it was begged from me as the only favour the family could be⯑ſtow!—He has done us many fa⯑vours! Favours which we ſhall never have an opportunity to repay! Though my hands are impotent, ere my thoughts can be reſtrained from being juſt to his worth I muſt be convinced there is guilt in thoſe thoughts.

How to addreſs myſelf now perſon⯑ally to you, Mr. Clifton, I ſcarcely know. The world perhaps would call my views extravagant, my pretenſions impertinent, and my plan abſurd.—The world [228] muſt do its will—In the progreſs to⯑ward truth, I have preſumed to think you ſeveral ſteps behind me. I have propoſed to myſelf in ſome ſort to be your inſtructreſs. I have repeated my plan to the perſon whom you perhaps may conſider as your rival; I have re⯑quired his aid, and have avowed that I think him very conſiderably your ſupe⯑rior. Each and all of theſe may be and I ſuppoſe are offenſive; but the pro⯑ceedings of rectitude never can be dark, hidden, and inſidious. When I have ſaid all that I think of you I ſhould hope you will be more inclined to believe me equitable.

There are many leading principles in which we differ; and concerning which till we agree to proceed to marriage [229] would be culpable. Theſe you were at firſt eager to examine; but finding the ſide you took not ſo clear and well-eſta⯑bliſhed as you had imagined, diſpleaſed by contradiction, and, in the ſpirit of that gallantry which you profeſs to ad⯑mire, being willing to appear complai⯑ſant to the female to whom you pay your addreſſes, you have lately declined diſ⯑cuſſion. You think no doubt that the lover ought to yield, and the huſband to command; both of which I deny. Huſband, wife, or lover, ſhould all be under the command of reaſon; other commands are tyranny. Reaſon and not relationſhip alone can give autho⯑rity.

You think that the claims of birth to ſuperiority are legitimate: I hold them [230] to be uſurpations. I deem ſociety, and you ſelf, to be the firſt of claimants. Duels with you are duties, with me crimes. Suicide you allow to be gene⯑rally an act of inſanity, but ſometimes of virtue. I affirm that no one, who is not utterly uſeleſs in ſociety, or who cannot by dying be of greater uſe than by living, can have a right over his own life: and of the exiſtence of ſuch a being I doubt. You maintain that what you poſſeſs is your own: I affirm it is the property of him who wants it moſt.

Theſe are eſſential differences. Nor are theſe all, but perhaps they are more than ſufficient to end the alliance we were ſeeking.

Not that I deſire to end it—Far, far the reverſe!—You, Mr. Clifton, are ſo [231] highly gifted, ſo diſtinguiſhed in the rank of intellect, and have a mind of ſuch potency, that to behold its powers employed in the cauſe of truth, to be myſelf inſtrumental in a work ſo worthy, and afterward to become the faſt and deareſt friend of ſuch a mind is a pro⯑greſſion ſo delightful, ſo ſeducing, that for a time I laboured to perſuade myſelf of its poſſibility.

Theſe hopes begin to fade; and, did you know how much this circumſtance afflicts me, you would at leaſt abſolve me from all charge of indifference.

Habits and prejudices which are ſanc⯑tioned by the general practice, and even by numbers who are in many reſpects eminently wiſe and virtuous, are too ſtubborn to be overcome by the impo⯑tent [232] arguments of a young female; with whom men are much more prone to trifle, toy, and divert themſelves, than to enquire into practical and abſtract truth. In the ſtorm of the paſſions, a voice ſo weak would not be heard.

That all theſe impediments ſhould be removed I begin to believe but little probable; and, till they are removed, as we are we muſt remain.

The obſtacles to marriage are indeed ſo numerous that I perceive calculation to be very much in favour of celibacy: I mean reſpecting myſelf. I aſk not riches; but of wealth of mind my ex⯑pectations by ſome would be called ex⯑travagant. Yet lower theſe expectations I cannot; for that would be to relax in principle.

[233] I ended; and your brother ſtill ſat pa⯑tient and willing to liſten, had I deſired to continue. After a ſhort pauſe, he replied—The profound attention I have paid, madam, will I hope convince you I have not been an idle liſtener. Your words, or at leaſt the ſubſtance of them, have ſunk deep in my heart. Your deſire that I ſhould remember them ſcarcely can equal mine. To me, ma⯑dam, they are ſo important that the moment I return home, confident as I uſually am of my memory, I will not truſt it now, but commit them to writ⯑ing.

What your motives are for this un⯑uſual care, or whether you do or do not feel yourſelf offended, Mr. Clifton, it is not poſſible for me to divine: but, as I [234] think it alike unjuſt to conceal what I have done or what I have ſaid, however miſtaken my words or actions may have been, I will ſpare you the trouble of writing, if you think proper, and ſend you a tolerably correct tranſcript of my thoughts tomorrow morning. I can eaſily repeat them, aſſiſted by ſome me⯑morandums that I have already made, and by the ſtrength of my recollection and my feelings, which I think are in no danger of a ſudden decay.

You will infinitely oblige me, madam, and I will endeavour to profit by the favour. My mind is at preſent as much awake to the ſubject as yours—I hope you are not unwilling to converſe with me on the topics on which we may hap⯑pen to differ?

[235] Unwilling?—Oh no!—It was your unwillingneſs that led me almoſt to de⯑ſpair—But are you in earneſt?—Truly and ſincerely in earneſt?

In earneſt, madam: truly and ſin⯑cerely in earneſt.

And will you really reflect, ſeriouſly, deeply, on the ſubject in queſtion?

As deeply, madam, as you yourſelf could wiſh.

Mr. Clifton, your preſent tone and manner rejoice me!—You half revive my hopes!—But let me conjure you to be ſincere with your own heart. Exa⯑mine every thing I have ſaid; every thing; eſpecially what relates to Frank Henley. All that I have obſerved of your temper, from firſt to laſt, obliges me thus ſeriouſly to warn you.

[236] Fear not, madam; I will obey your injunctions. I will examine with all the ſeverity you could wiſh—The cup may have its bitters, but its contents muſt be ſwallowed—You will not judge ill of me, madam, for my frankneſs?

Oh no! Be frank, be true, be wor⯑thy of yourſelf!

Such as you would have me, madam, I muſt become—All I requeſt is that you would aid me in the taſk.

And are you indeed as determined as you ſeem to be?

I am, madam. [I never before, Lou⯑iſa, ſaw your brother look or ſpeak with ſuch firmneſs.] You have been kindly pleaſed to ſay you once preſcribed it as a duty to yourſelf to teach, or attempt to teach me your principles.

[237] Not mine, but the principles of truth. Cool and fair enquiry is all I wiſh. Should any of your principles be better founded than mine, I ſhall be moſt happy to become your ſcholar. I am aware how impoſſible it is that any two people ſhould think exactly alike on any one ſubject, much leſs on all; but on certain great leading points, were you and I to continue as oppoſite as we are, and were we to marry, felicity could not be the conſequence.

Let us hope, madam, it is poſſible we ſhould make a marriage of opinions, which you think as neceſſary as of per⯑ſons.

Quite!—Quite!—Let me conjure you however not to deceive yourſelf! Pretend to no conviction you do not [238] feel; nor degrade the honeſt ſincerity of your heart by any unworthy indulgence of deſire!