LETTER LXXX.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

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

LETTER LXXXI.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is it?

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

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

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

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

Well but—This is my child?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER LXXXIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER LXXXIV.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER LXXXV.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER LXXXVI.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

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

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

He seemed surprised, and said he hoped not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps so. But that is very uncom­mon doctrine.

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

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

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

And of him you have some doubts?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What, sir, has he told?

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

No, sir; he is incapable of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All kindness, peace, and felicity be with you.

LETTER LXXXVIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XCII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XCIV.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XCV.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

ONCE more, Fairfax, here am I.

Well! And how—?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Clifton—

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

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

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

I am.

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

Oh, Clifton! Speak thus, be thus ever!

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

Nay, Clifton—

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

Clifton, you said you had a nobler motive.

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

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

No disgrace, madam?

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

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

I grant it.

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

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

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

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

You think—?

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

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

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

Then—You are my wife!

How?

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

It cannot.

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

A right?

An absolute, an indefeasible right!

You go too fast!

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

Clifton!

Justice!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XCVII.
LOUISA CLIFTON TO HER BROTHER COKE CLIFTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XCVIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO HIS SISTER LOUISA CLIFTON.

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

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

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

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

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