LETTER LXXX.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

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

LETTER LXXXI.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

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

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

This is not all: the doctrine is not of her own invention! Mr. Henley, the [17] eternal Mr. Henley again appears upon the ſcene, from which he is ſcarcely ever a moment abſent!—Were it poſſible I could relent, ſhe is determined I ſhall not. But they are both down in my ta⯑blets, 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 ſin⯑cere. I was a fool at leaſt for a fort⯑night; for that was the ſhorteſt period before I began at all to waver. I was indeed deeply ſmitten! Nor is deſire cooled: delay, oppoſition, and neglect have only changed its purpoſe. She ſoon indeed taught me to treat her in [18] ſome manner like the reſt of her ſex, and to begin to plot. 'Tis well for me that I have a fertile brain: and it had been well for her could ſhe have been contented with the conqueſt ſhe had made, and have treated me with gene⯑roſity equal to my deſerts. But a hypo⯑crite 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 he⯑roine! Tell her but it is a duty, and with the Bramin wives ſhe would lie down, calmly and reſolutely, on the burning pile!

Well then! I will tell her of a duty of which ſhe little dreams! Yes, ſhe ſhall grant every thing I wiſh as an act of [19] duty! I will convince her it is one! I! The pretty immaculate lamb muſt ſub⯑mit 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 in⯑ſpired quaker when the ſpirit moved was never more demure! I am too pleaſed, too proud of my own talents, not to perſiſt.

[20] Already I am a convert to one of her truths. Do laugh, Fairfax! I have ac⯑knowledged that you and your footman are equal! Is it not ridiculous? Howe⯑ver 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 ſuſpi⯑cious: 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 de⯑ductions. She ſtarts at no propoſition, however extravagant, if it do but ap⯑pear [21] to reſult from any one of her fa⯑vourite 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 con⯑venient hypotheſis? Do you not per⯑ceive its fecundity? And, the taſk being ſo very difficult, will it not be benevo⯑lent in me to lend her my aſſiſtance? What think you? Is it not poſſible to prove that marriage is a mere prejudice?

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

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

I think I can depend upon myſelf, [23] otherwiſe there would be danger in the project. But if I act my part perfectly, if I have but the reſolution to liſten coolly to their quiddities, ſometimes to oppoſe, ſometimes to recede, and al⯑ways to own myſelf conquered on the points which ſuit me beſt, I believe both the gentleman and the lady will be ſuffi⯑ciently 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 ap⯑parently mad a ſcheme, with any other [24] couple in Chriſtendom. Conſidering how very warm—Curſes bite and tingle on my tongue at the recollection!—Conſidering I ſay how very warm I know their inclinations toward each other to be, nothing but the proofs I have had could prompt me to com⯑mence 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 appro⯑bation when my ſides are convulſed with laughter, to ape admiration at what [25] reaſon contemns and ſpurns, and to ſmooth my features into ſuavity while my heart is burſting with gall at the in⯑tercourſe 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 inſatia⯑ble thirſt of ample retribution inſpires is not to be ſhaken, and renders me equal even to this taſk.

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

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 diſ⯑poſed 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 [28] your brother has afforded me better em⯑ployment. Our frequent converſations on many of the beſt and moſt dignified of moral enquiries, his acute remarks and objections, and the difficult pro⯑blems he has occaſionally given me to ſolve, have left me in no danger of be⯑ing idle.

Oh, Louiſa, how exquiſite is the plea⯑ſure 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 un⯑worthy wiſh!—It muſt—The mind having once ſeized on the clue of truth can neither quit its hold nor become ſta⯑tionary; it is obliged to advance. And when its powers are equal to thoſe of [29] Coke Clifton, ought we to wonder at its bold and rapid flights?

Still the conqueſts he daily makes over his own feelings cannot but ſur⯑priſe. 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 ap⯑peals 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 plea⯑ſure this change of character gives me to my friend. Yes, the reſtraint which too frequent contradiction lays him under will ſoon wear off, and how great will [30] then be the enthuſiaſm with which he will defend and promulgate truth!

Nor is it leſs delightful to obſerve the ſatisfaction which this reform ſometimes gives to Frank Henley. At others in⯑deed 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 audi⯑ble. 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 paſ⯑ſions which I attempted to eradicate; or rather have left on his mind a deep ſenſe of injuſtice committed by me—! The [31] thought is intolerable!—Excruciat⯑ing!

But oh with what equanimity, with what fortitude does he endure his ima⯑gined 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 juſ⯑tice?—Surely to eſteem the virtuous can⯑not 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 miſ⯑takes to which we are ſubject, I ſcarcely can ſpeak or even think of him without ſuſpecting myſelf of committing ſome culpable impropriety!

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

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

The courſe of our enquiries has ſeve⯑ral times forced us upon that great queſ⯑tion, ‘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 pic⯑ture of the felicity of that ſtate of ſociety when perſonal property no longer ſhall [33] exiſt, when the whole torrent of mind ſhall unite in enquiry after the beautiful and the true, when it ſhall no longer be diverted by thoſe inſignificant purſuits to which the abſurd follies that originate in our falſe wants give birth, when indi⯑vidual ſelfiſhneſs ſhall be unknown, and when all ſhall labour for the good of all!

A ſtate ſo diſtant from preſent man⯑ners and opinions, and apparently ſo im⯑poſſible, naturally gave riſe to objec⯑tions; and your brother put many ſhrewd and pertinent queſtions, which would have ſilenced a mind leſs inform⯑ed 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 me⯑mory, I will relate that part of the con⯑verſation. [34] Obſerve, Louiſa, that Clif⯑ton and Frank were the chief ſpeakers. Your brother began.

I confeſs, ſir, you have removed ma⯑ny 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, im⯑perfect as its conſtitution was, Sparta re⯑mained during five hundred years a proof.

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

[35] He cannot: there will be no ſer⯑vants.

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 diſinte⯑reſted 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 infi⯑nite importance, which perhaps I am not fully prepared to anſwer. I doubt whether in that better ſtate of human ſo⯑ciety, to which I look forward with ſuch [36] ardent aſpiration, the intercourſe of the ſexes will be altogether promiſcuous and unreſtrained; or whether they will ad⯑mit of ſomething that may be denomi⯑nated marriage. The former may per⯑haps be the truth: but it is at leaſt cer⯑tain that in the ſenſe in which we under⯑ſtand marriage and the affirmation—This is my wife—neither the inſtitution nor the claim can in ſuch a ſtate, or in⯑deed in juſtice exiſt. Of all the regu⯑lations 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 nume⯑rous [37] the ſecret corporal or mental imper⯑fections might prove which a more in⯑timate 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 inſti⯑tution. It is the concern of the indivi⯑duals who conſent to this mutual aſſocia⯑tion, and they ought not to be prevent⯑ed [38] from beginning, ſuſpending, or ter⯑minating 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 incontrover⯑tible 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 alarm⯑ing! The man who only ſtudied the gratification of his deſires would have a new wife each new day; and the unpro⯑tected fair would be abandoned to all the licentiouſneſs of libertiniſm!

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

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 per⯑verſe and vitiated as the preſent: I am ſuppoſing one wholly the contrary. I know too well that there are men who, becauſe unjuſt laws and cuſtoms worthy of barbarians have condemned helpleſs women to infamy, for the loſs of [40] that which under better regulations and in ages of more wiſdom has been and will again be guilt to keep, I know, ſir, I ſay that the preſent world is infeſted by men, who make it the buſineſs and the glory of their lives to bring this infamy upon the very beings for whom they feign the deepeſt affection!—If ever pa⯑tience can forſake me it will be at the re⯑collection of theſe demons in the human form, who come tricked out in all the ſmiles of love, the proteſtations of loy⯑alty, 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! What⯑ever is good, exquiſite, or precious, we are individually taught to graſp at, and [41] if poſſible to ſecure; but we have each a latent ſenſe that this principle has ren⯑dered us a ſociety of deteſtable miſers, and therefore to rob each other ſeems al⯑moſt like the ſports of juſtice.

For which reaſon, ſir, were I a father, I think I ſhould ſhudder to hear you in⯑ſtructing my daughters in your doc⯑trines.

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

I am glad to be undeceived. I thought it was ſcarcely poſſible you ſhould mean what your words ſeemed to imply—At preſent I underſtand you; and I again confeſs my ſurpriſe to find ſo much conſiſtency, and ſo many pow⯑erful 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 ap⯑peared [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 ſuſ⯑picions with which, at preſent, our ſex view the men. About two years ago he had a partiality for a Neapo⯑litan lady, and thought himſelf in love with her: but in this he was miſ⯑taken; 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 in⯑ſpire pure affection, who was incapa⯑ble of confiding in herſelf; and, wanting this ſelf-confidence, of con⯑fiding in her lover. Suſpicion ori⯑ginates [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 ap⯑ply the doctrine to myſelf: I have been too diſtruſtful of him; my conſcience accuſed me, and I am reſolved to re⯑medy the fault. I have always held ſuſpicion to be the vice of mean and fee⯑ble 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 in⯑creaſe. 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 [48] not a few in all the blaze of wit, and have ſaid to myſelf,—Should he not un⯑derſtand me now?—Why if he ſhould not, dulneſs everlaſting be his por⯑tion!—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 favour⯑able. I muſt be a dunce indeed if i [...] ſuch a ſchool I ſhould want chi⯑canery. Our diſputations have been continual; nor have I ever failed to turn them on the moſt convenient to⯑pics. But none of them have equalled [49] the laſt; managed as it was with dexte⯑rity 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 them⯑ſelves; and, had you or I or any of us [50] vile marriage haters been declaiming againſt the ſaffron god, and his eternal ſhackles, I doubt whether the beſt of us could have ſaid any thing half ſo much to the purpoſe!—Is it not excellent?—

Then had you heard me preach, ay, me myſelf, againſt libertines and liber⯑tiniſm!

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 ap⯑prehenſions of the effects of ſuch a doc⯑trine, that though marriage be a bad [51] thing it is quite neceſſary, at preſent, for the defence of the weaker veſſels and modeſt maidenhood. Ay and I ap⯑plauded him for his honeſt candour! I was glad I had miſunderſtood him! Thanked him for all his profound in⯑formation! In ſhort made him exactly what I wiſhed, my tool! And a high⯑tempered tool he is, by the aid of which I will ſhew myſelf a moſt notable work⯑man!—

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

It was well, Fairfax, they went no farther than Paris: had either of them only reached Turin I had been half un⯑done! And had they touched at Na⯑ples, Rome, Venice, or half a dozen other fair and flouriſhing cities, my cha⯑racter for a pretty behaved, demure, and virtuous gentleman had been irremedia⯑bly ruined!

Upon my ſoul I cannot put it out of my head!—Had you heard me remon⯑ſtrate what a horrid thing it would be to have marriage deſtroyed, and us honeſt fellows turned looſe among the virgins, from whom we ſhould catch and raviſh each a new damſel every new day, and [53] had you ſeen what a fine ſerious under⯑taker'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 indi⯑vidual property is a general evil!—What is more, they maintain it by ſuch arguments as would puzzle college, council, or ſenate to refute. But that I [54] am determined never to torment my brain about ſuch quips and quillets, may I turn Turk if they would not have made a convert of me, and have per⯑ſuaded me that an eſtate of ten thouſand a year was a very intolerable thing!

My intention was to keep my coun⯑tenance, 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 ima⯑gined.

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

[55] I know not whether this prediſpoſition in me was of any advantage to their ar⯑gument, though I think it was not; for, ſo ready was the ſolution to every difficulty, I boldly ventured to ſtate ob⯑jections which I meant to have kept out of ſight, leſt I ſhould myſelf overturn a ſyſtem that ſuited my purpoſe. I per⯑ceived 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 diſ⯑mounted. With a breath my ſtrong holds were all puffed down, like ſo many houſes of cards.

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

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

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

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 [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 imagina⯑tion can paint!—But it cannot be!—Surely it cannot!—I am guilty, hei⯑nouſly guilty for enduring ſuch a thought!—So much folly and vice, combined with underſtanding and I may ſay genius ſo uncommon, is a ſuppoſi⯑tion 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 cha⯑racter. But if diſſimulation can be pro⯑ductive of this, is truth leſs powerful? No!—Truth is omnipotent. Yet who [74] ever ſaw it haſty in its progreſs? My only hope in this caſe is that the fuperi⯑ority of his mind has rendered him an exception to general rules.

But what could he propoſe by his hy⯑pocriſy?—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?—Wil⯑fully her mind can never err: but who can affirm that even ſhe may not be de⯑ceived, and may not act erroneouſly from the moſt holy motives?

Perhaps, Oliver, it is my own ſitua⯑tion, [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 al⯑moſt 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 ſug⯑geſted to me by Clifton; and in a mode that proves he can be artful if he pleaſe. [76] Yet does it not likewiſe prove him to be in earneſt?

We have lately had ſeveral converſa⯑tions, one in particular which, even while it ſeemed to place him in an amia⯑ble, 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 con⯑cerning 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, how⯑ever, [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 com⯑munity. My mind in its preſent ſitua⯑tion is too deeply affected freely and without incumbrance to exert itſelf—This [78] is weakneſs!—But not the leſs true, Oliver. We are at preſent ſo im⯑bued 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 of⯑ten meet with impediments, to arreſt, divide, and turn it aſide.

I have ſtudied to divine in what land or among what people, whether ſavage or ſuch as we call poliſhed, the energies of mind might be moſt productive of good. But this is a diſcovery which I have yet to make. The reaſons are ſo numerous [79] on each ſide that I have formed a plan for a kind of double effort. I think of ſailing for America, where I may aid the ſtruggles of liberty, may freely publiſh all which the efforts of reaſon can teach me, and at the ſame time may form a ſociety of ſavages, who ſeem in conſe⯑quence 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 be⯑came 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; encou⯑rage me; feed my vanity; let hungry ambition banquet and allow me to be a hero, leſt I relent: for, were I not or Lucifer or Coke Clifton, 'tis certain I ſhould not perſevere. By the hoſt of heaven, Fairfax, but ſhe is a divine [81] creature! She ſteals upon the ſoul! A heart of rock could not reſiſt her! Nor are they wiles, nor woman's lures, nor blandiſhments of trickſey dimples, nor captivating ſmiles, with which ſhe forms her adamantine fetters. No; 'tis the open ſoul of honeſty; true, ſincere, and unrelentingly juſt, to me, to herſelf, to all; 'tis that enchanting kind⯑neſs, that heavenly ſuavity which ne⯑ver forſakes her; that equanimity of ſmiling yet obſtinate fortitude; that hi⯑larity of heart that knows not gloom be⯑cauſe it knows not evil; that inſcruta⯑ble purity which reſts ſecure that all like itſelf are natively immaculate; that—Pſhaw!—I can find no words, find you imagination therefore, and think not I will labour at impoſſibility. You have [82] read of ancient veſtals, of the virgins of Paradiſe, and of demi-deities that tune their golden harps on high?—Read again—And, having travelled with pro⯑phets and apoſtles to the heaven of hea⯑vens, 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 deſ⯑tiny to ſmoke in ruins, ſo ſurely muſt the high-ſouled Anna fall—"Ill ſtarred wench!"—I, Fairfax, like other con⯑querors, cannot ſhut pity from my bo⯑ſom. While I cry havoc I could al⯑moſt [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 per⯑chance 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 hea⯑ven, and there ambition proudly ſits, and ſnuffs with glut of luſty delight the grateful odour.

I know your tricks, Fairfax; you are one of the doubtful doctors; you love to catch credulity upon your hook. I hear fat laughter gurgling in your throat, and [84] out bolts your threadbare ſimile—"Be⯑fore the battle's won the Brentford hero ſings Te Deum."—But don't be waſte⯑ful 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 impreca⯑tions 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 can⯑dour, philanthropy, and a noble expan⯑ſion of heart, ſhe ſeeks to render me all that is ſuperlatively great and good—Why did ſhe not ſeek all this in a leſs offenſive way? Why did ſhe oblige me [85] to become a diſputant with a plebeian?—Diſputant!—What do I ſay?—Worſe, worſe!—Rival!—Devil!—Myriads of virtues could not atone the crime!—Yet in this deep guilt ſhe perſeveres and glories!—Can I forget?—Fear me not, nor rank my defeat among things poſ⯑ſible—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 re⯑ceive a ſhock. Such is the continual tendency of my diſcourſe. Her own open and undiſguiſed manners are my guide. Not a principle ſhe maintains but which, by my cunning queſtions and affected doubts puſhed to an extreme, [86] adds links to the chain in which I mean to lead her captive.

Perhaps, Fairfax, you will tell me this is the old artifice; and that the minds of all women, who can be ſaid to have any mind, muſt thus be inveigled to think lightly of the thing they are about to loſe. Granted. And yet the differ⯑ence is infinite. They are brought to think thus lightly of chaſtity: but, ſhould you or any one of the gallant pha⯑lanx 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 paſ⯑ſions are her ſlaves; and in this and [87] this alone the lovely tyrant is the advo⯑cate of deſpotiſm. She ſoon taught me that common arts would be treated by her, not merely with determined and ir⯑revocable repulſe, but with direct con⯑tempt. Some very feeble eſſays pre⯑ſently ſatisfied me. No encroachments of the touch, no gloting of the eye, no well feigned tremblings and lover's pal⯑pitations would for an inſtant be ſuffered by her. Take the following as a ſpeci⯑men of my mode of attack.

Among her variety of hypotheſes ſhe has one on mutability. ‘Little, ſhe ſays, as we know of matter and ſpirit, we ſtill know enough to perceive they are both inſtantaneouſly, eternally, and infinitely changing. Of what the world has been, through this ſeries of [88] never beginning never ending muta⯑tion, 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 acci⯑dents beyond its control, is conti⯑nually 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 ig⯑norance and depravity. Who then [89] ſhall affirm changes ſtill more extraor⯑dinary have not happened? She has no doubt, ſome revolution in the pla⯑netary ſyſtem excepted, that men will attain a much higher degree of inno⯑cence, length of life, happineſs, and wiſdom than have ever yet been dreamed of, either by hiſtorian, fabu⯑liſt, or poet: for cauſes which for⯑merly 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 re⯑ſulted from her own doctrines, and by [90] the ardour of emanating benevolence, ſhe aſtoniſhed me by her ſublime viſions; for ſhe proceeded to prove, from ſeem⯑ingly fair deduction, ‘that men ſhould finally render themſelves immortal; ſhould become ſcarcely liable to moral miſtake; ſhould all act from princi⯑ples previouſly demonſtrated, and therefore never contend; ſhould be one great family without a ruler, be⯑cauſe 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, be⯑ing infinite in their ſeries, will afford them infinite employment of the moſt rational and delightful kind!’

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

But, while the lovely zealot thus de⯑ſcanted on ſplendid and half incompre⯑henſible themes, what did I? Why, when I found her at the proper pitch, when I ſaw benevolence and love of hu⯑man 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 ſim⯑plicity; made her inform me what lovers then were, and what marriage; and what the bonds were which hearts ſo affectionate and minds ſo honeſt and pure demanded of each other.

What think you could her anſwers to [92] all theſe queſtions be? What but ſuch as I wiſhed? Could lovers like theſe ſuſpect each other? Could they baſely do the wrong to aſk for bond or pledge? Or, if they wanted the virtue to charm, could they ſtill more baſely aſk rewards they did not merit? Could they, with the wretched ſelfiſh jealouſy of a modern marriage-maker, ſeek to cadaverate af⯑fection and to pervert each other into a utenſil, a commodity, a thing appro⯑priate to ſelf and liable with other lum⯑ber 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 can⯑not be the thing, I can wear the garb; [93] ay and it ſhall become me too, ſhall ſit dégagé upon me, and be thought my na⯑tive 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 cre⯑ation, 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 argu⯑ment with their own principles, how dreadful would be the effect! How [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 ſepa⯑ration 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 al⯑moſt [107] too mighty for principle itſelf. But we are the creatures of an omnipotent neceſſity; and there can be but little need to remind thee that a compliance with the apparently beſt ſhould ever be an unrepining and cheerful act of duty.

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

He ſeemed ſurpriſed, and ſaid he hoped not.

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

The thing, he replied, might perhaps not be ſo entirely improbable as I ſup⯑poſed. 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 afford⯑ing them ſome opportunity to repay their obligations, they ſhould be much grieved. There were perhaps two or three very great difficulties in the way; but ſtill he was not ſure they might not [109] be overcome. Not that he could ſay any thing poſitively, for matters were he muſt own in a very doubtful ſtate. He was himſelf indeed very conſiderably uneaſy, and undetermined: but he cer⯑tainly wiſhed me exceedingly well, and ſo with equal certainty at preſent did all his family. His daughter, his ſon, him⯑ſelf, were all my debtors.

The good old gentleman's heart overflowed, Oliver, and by its ebul⯑litions 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 fa⯑mily than what it was my duty to do for the greateſt ſtranger; and that, if gratitude be underſtood to mean a [110] remembrance of favours received, I and my family had for years indu⯑bitably been the receivers?

He ſtill perſiſted however in endea⯑vouring to diſſuade me from the thought of quitting the kingdom. Not finding me convinced by his arguments, he he⯑ſitated, with an evident deſire to ſay ſomething which he knew not very well how to begin. All minds on ſuch oc⯑caſions 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 queſ⯑tion to me; aſſuring me it was far from his intention to offend, but that he had ſome uneaſy doubts which he could be very glad to have removed.

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

He knew my ſincerity, he ſaid; but if when I heard I ſhould think any thing in what he aſked improper, I paſt diſ⯑pute 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 de⯑termined to relieve him, and replied—

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

I then repeated as accurately as my memory would permit, which is tole⯑rably 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 aſ⯑ſure 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 cer⯑tainly not uſual, at the recital of his daughter's heroic reſolves in favour of [113] duty, and at her reſpect for parental pre⯑judices. 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 de⯑light 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 ſu⯑perlative 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 fa⯑ther and friends ſhould diſapprove the match.

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

Perhaps ſo. But that is very uncom⯑mon doctrine.

It was not merely that more felicity would have been ſecured to ourſelves, but greater good I ſuppoſed would re⯑ſult 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 opi⯑nion?

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

And of him you have ſome doubts?

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

Sir Arthur pauſed, ruminated, and again ſeemed embarraſſed. At laſt he owned he knew not what to ſay: turn which way he would the obſtacles were very conſiderable. His mind had really felt more diſtreſs, within theſe two months, than it had ever known before. He could reſolve on nothing. Yet he [116] could not but wiſh I had not been quite ſo determined on going to America. There was no ſaying what courſe things might take. Mrs. Clifton was very ill, and in all probability could not live long. But again he knew not what to ſay. He certainly wiſhed me very well—Very well—I was an uncommon young man. I was a gentleman by na⯑ture, which for aught he knew might be better than a gentleman by birth. The world had its opinions; perhaps they were juſt, perhaps unjuſt. He had been uſed to think with the world, but he had heard ſo much lately that he was not quite ſo poſitive as he had been—[This, Oliver, reminded me of the power of truth; how it ſaps the ſtrong holds of error and winds into the heart, [117] and how inceſſantly its advocates ought to propagate it on every occaſion.] He was not quite ſo well pleaſed as he had been with my father, but that was no fault of mine; he knew I had a very different manner of thinking. Still he muſt ſay it was what he very little ex⯑pected. 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 ſome⯑thing like a heavy heart.

And now, Oliver, how ought I to act? The oppoſing cauſes of theſe doubts and [118] difficulties in his mind are evident. The circumſtances which have occurred in my favour, being aided by the obſtinate ſelfiſhneſs of my father, by his acquired wealth, and as I ſuppoſe by the em⯑broiled 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 vir⯑tuous reſolution to repel theſe flattering and probably deceitful hopes, than by encouraging them to feed the can⯑ker-worm of peace, and add new force to the enemy within, who rather [119] ſtunned than conquered is every moment ready to revive.

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

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

Did I but better underſtand this Clif⯑ton, I ſhould better know how to decide. That he looks up to her with admiration I am convinced. She ſeems to have diſ⯑covered the true key to his underſtand⯑ing as well as to his affections. Even within this day or two, I have obſerved ſymptoms very much in his favour. How do I know but thus influenced he may become the firſt of mankind? The [120] thought reſtores me to a ſenſe of right. Never, Oliver, ſhall ſelf complacency make me guilty of what cannot but be a crime moſt heinous! If ſuch a mind may by theſe means be gained which would otherwiſe be loſt, ſhall it be ex⯑tinguiſhed by me? Would not an aſ⯑ſaſſination like this outweigh thou⯑ſands 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 per⯑ſevere there always muſt be ſomething to me enigmatical in this inſtance of its efforts in Clifton. Perſevere however I moſt ſincerely hope and even believe he [121] will.—But ſhould he not?—The ſuppo⯑ſition 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, root⯑ed [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 in⯑ſenſible: he felt them not, or felt them but little. His haughtineſs never ſlum⯑bered; and to oppoſe him was to irri⯑tate, not convince. For four months he continued pertinaciouſly the ſame; then, without any cauſe known to me, ſud⯑denly changed. It was indeed too ſud⯑den not to be alarming!

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

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

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

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

Not pleaſed with myſelf, I doubt I [127] have given cauſe of diſpleaſure to your brother. My father was in part the oc⯑caſion: for a moment he made me for⯑get 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 weak⯑neſs 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 per⯑haps might be more ſucceſsful.

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

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

What, ſir, has he told?

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

No, ſir; he is incapable of it.

Well, Anna, try then to perſuade him not to leave us. Though he is a very excellent young man, I am afraid he has not the beſt of fathers. I be⯑gin to feel I have not been ſo pru⯑dent as I might have been; and, if Mr. [129] Henley were to leave England, the fa⯑ther might attribute it to us, and—[Sir Arthur heſitated]—I have received ſome extraordinary letters from Abime⯑lech, 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 hap⯑pen.

Your brother came in and Sir Arthur left me, deſiring me as he went to re⯑member what he had ſaid. Clifton after an apology aſked—Does it relate to me? At that moment Frank entered. No, ſaid I; it relates to one who I did not [130] think would have been ſo ready to for⯑ſake 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 ſuf⯑fered; his enquiring, penetrating, and unbounded genius; his ſuperlative vir⯑tues; a horror of his being baniſhed his native country by me; of his wandering among ſtrangers, expoſed to poverty, perils, and death, with the conviction in his heart that I had done him wrong!—My tumultuous feelings ruſhed upon me, overpowered me, and in a moment of enthuſiaſm I ran to him, ſnatched his hand, fell on my knee and exclaimed—"For the love of God, Mr. Henley, do not think of leaving us!"

[131] Clifton like myſelf could not con⯑quer the firſt aſſault of paſſion: he pro⯑nounced 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 re⯑ſolution—!

What, madam, ſaid your brother, re⯑covering himſelf, and with ſome plea⯑ſantry, 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 ri⯑dicule—You muſt not go, Mr. Henley; indeed you muſt not! I, Mr. Clifton, my father, my brother, we will none of [132] us hear of it! We are all your debtors, and it would be unjuſt in you to deprive us of every opportunity of teſtifying our friendſhip.

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

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

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

This, Louiſa, brought on a long diſ⯑cuſſion. I and your brother both en⯑deavoured [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 ef⯑fecting 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 inceſ⯑ſantly accuſing myſelf as the cauſe of his exile. And am I not? By the manner of Sir Arthur I am ſure he muſt [134] have ſaid ſomething very highly in my praiſe. I have gone too far with your brother to recede: that is now impoſſible. It would be more flagrant injuſtice than even the wrong to Frank, if a wrong it be, and indeed, Louiſa, I dread it is!—Indeed I do!—I dread it even with a kind of horror!

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

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

All kindneſs, peace, and felicity be with you.

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, lan⯑guid, ranting, moralizing Hamlet of the drama; that has the vengeance of hell upon his lips and the charity of hea⯑ven [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 be⯑gan 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 be⯑fore and behind!—

Fairfax, I never can forgive my own abſurd and deſpicable ſtupidity!—Mar⯑riage?—What, with a woman in whoſe eye the perfect impreſſion and hated [138] form of a mean rival is depicted?—In colours glowing hot!—Who lives, re⯑vels, 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—Conta⯑gion!—Poiſon and boiling oil!—

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

The fellow has determined to ſhip himſelf for America—Would it were for the bottomleſs pit!—And had you be⯑held her panic?—St. Luke's collected maniacs at the full of the moon could not have equalled her!—'Twas well in⯑deed 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. How⯑ever it gave me my cue; and, all things conſidered, I afterward performed to a miracle. Her own enthuſiaſtic torrent ſwept all before it, and gave me time. [140] She was in an ecſtaſy; reaſoning, ſup⯑plicating, conjuring, panting. I, her friends, the whole world muſt join her: and join her I did. It was the very re⯑lief 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 com⯑paſſion, and avert this fatal and impend⯑ing 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 ef⯑fect—Teach him, truly!—Adviſehim!—Move him!—When? Who? How?—At [141] laſt compliance, willing to be royally gracious, ſaid, Well it would conſider—Though there was but little hope—No⯑thing 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 co⯑ercive 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 dif⯑ficulties—Is [142] afraid they cannot be all removed—Has his doubts and his fears—Twenty thouſand pounds is a large ſum, and Mrs. Clifton is very poſitive—His own affairs much leſs promiſing than he ſuppoſed—Then by a declenſion of hems, hums, and has, he deſcended to young Mr. Henley—A very extraordi⯑nary young gentleman!—A very ſur⯑priſing 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 procrea⯑tion; but ſent us on a Sunday morning down Jacob's ladder!—Then for obliga⯑tions to him, count them who could!—He muſt firſt ſtudy more arithmetic!—And as for affection it was a very way⯑ward [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 it⯑ſelf: 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 him⯑ſelf thus far, had not I preſently per⯑ceived his drift and wormed him of [144] theſe diſmal cogitations of the ſpirit. He beat about, and hovered, and flut⯑tered, 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 deter⯑mined to make him unburden his whole heart. If hereafter he can poſſibly find courage to face me, in order to re⯑proach, I have my leſſon ready. ‘Out of thy own mouth will I judge thee, ſinner.’

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

From his own lips I learn that this in⯑ſolent ſcoundrel received a viſit from the Count de Beaunoir, which was in⯑tended 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 re⯑membrance of his own doctiloquy, with infinite compoſure; and, whenever I put a queſtion, took care firſt to pre⯑pare a ſmile. Every thing was well, better could not be.

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

My mother's health declines apace. I know not whether it may not ſhortly be neceſſary for me to viſit her. The loſs of her will afflict me, but in all ap⯑pearance [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 op⯑preſſed, and his mind intent on promot⯑ing the happineſs of thoſe by whom he is exiled. And what am I, or who, that I ſhould do him this violence? [149] What validity have theſe arguments of rank, relationſhip, and the world's oppro⯑brium? 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 un⯑juſt it be, are images that haunt and tan⯑talize 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 bro⯑ther, which he urges without remiſſion, are ſtill ſtronger. They have been [150] countenanced, admitted, and encou⯑raged. I cannot recede. What can I do but hope, ardently hope, Frank Hen⯑ley 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 rec⯑titude of my deciſion, there are no ſen⯑ſations which I could not ſtifle, no af⯑fections which I could not calm, nor any wandering wiſhes but what I could re⯑prove to ſilence. But the dread of a flagrant, an odious injuſtice diſtracts me, and I know not where or of whom to [151] ſeek conſolation. Even my Louiſa, the warm friend of my heart, cannot deter⯑mine 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 pene⯑trate.

[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 de⯑clared 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 un⯑common worth; and he alone I fear on earth is capable of doing it juſtice.

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

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

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

To deſcribe my weakneſs, and the contention to which my paſſions have [161] been lately ſubject, might tend to awaken emotions in you which ought to be eſtranged from your mind. Our lot is caſt: let us ſeek ſupport in thoſe principles which firſt taught us reciprocal eſteem, nor palliate our deſertion of them by that ſelf pity which would be⯑come our reproach. We have dared to make high claims, form high enter⯑priſes, 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 attri⯑bute reſolutions like theſe, which are more (infinitely more) painful to the heart [162] than they ought to be, to any light or unworthy change of ſentiment. Supe⯑rior gifts, ſuperior attainments, and ſu⯑perior virtues inevitably beget admira⯑tion, in thoſe who diſcover them, for their poſſeſſors. Admiration is the parent of eſteem, and the continuance and increaſe of this eſteem is affection, or, in its pureſt and beſt ſenſe, love. To ſay I would not eſteem and would not love virtue, and eſpecially high and unuſual virtue, would be both folly and guilt.

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

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

[164] I have had two converſations with my father: they both were animated; but, though he was very determined, his re⯑ſolution begins to fail; and, as I have juſtice on my ſide and am ſtill more de⯑termined 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, per⯑haps 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 informa⯑tion.

LETTER XCII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

THE moment, Fairfax, the trying, the great, the glorious moment ap⯑proaches. Every poſſible contributing cauſe calls aloud for expedition, and re⯑probates delay. This gardening fellow is gone. For his abſence I thank him, but not for the reſolute ſpirit with which [166] he intends to attack his father and make him yield. He has a tongue that would ſilence the congregated clamours of the Sorbonne, and dumb-found Belial him⯑ſelf in the hall of Pandemonium. 'Tis certain he has a tough morſel to encoun⯑ter, 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 indiſ⯑penſably neceſſary in every view, unleſs the view of marriage, which I once more tell you, Fairfax, I now deteſt. I ſhould have no plea with her, were that of delay removed.

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

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

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

Honeſt Ab y, or I miſtake him, is too worthy a fellow to deſert ſo good a cauſe. And this cloud-capt lady, whoſe proud turrets I have ſworn to level with the duſt, will not deſcend to plead the ap⯑proaching death of my mother, when I ſhall urge the injuſtice of delay—Ay, Fairfax, the injuſtice! I mean to com⯑mand, 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 com⯑paſſion [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 ap⯑peared to interrupt her happineſs; ſhe the devoted victim, ſacrificed to ſhield me from harm! The thought of ſe⯑paration from him is diſtracting, and every power muſt be conjured up to avert the horrid woe!

Never before did my feelings ſupport [170] ſuch various and continual attacks; ne⯑ver 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 conti⯑nued to increaſe, and my father had al⯑moſt promiſed to agree to the juſt pro⯑poſals I made, when two days ago he [172] ſuddenly and pertinaciouſly changed his opinion.

I am ſorry to add that he now ap⯑pears 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 ſend⯑ing you the intelligence by yeſterday's poſt, hoping it was only a temporary re⯑turn 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 ſe⯑cret cauſe has ariſen of which I am igno⯑rant. Yet do not be dejected, dear madam, nor imagine I will lightly give it up as a loſt cauſe—No—My mind is too much affected and too earneſtly bent [173] on its object not to accompliſh it, if poſ⯑ſible.

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 un⯑confirmed expectations; and I promiſe [174] you to exert every effort to effect a pro⯑pitious 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 imme⯑diate 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 fore⯑ſeen fell upon me. The 'ſquire of [176] preachers had fairly overcome his father's obſtinacy, and induced him to give ground! Inſtead of having received the news of his determined perſiſtency, I found her with a letter in her hand, in⯑forming her that he had begun to relent, and that his full acquieſcence was ex⯑pected.

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

After acting as much ecſtaſy as I could call up, I haſtened home and wrote my projected letter to honeſt Aby. I threw my hints together in Italian, that they might not be underſtood by the agent whom I meant to employ. This was my groom, an Engliſh lad whom I met [177] with at Paris, who ſpells well and writes a good hand. I pretended I had cruſhed my finger and could not hold a pen; and, without letting him under⯑ſtand 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 inven⯑tion is, and next as an example which you may copy, or at leaſt from which you may take a hint, if ever you ſhould have occaſion.

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

This I dictated to my amanuenſis, pretending to tranſlate it out of the pa⯑per I held in my hand, and which I took care to place before him, ſo that he [180] ſhould ſee it was really written in a fo⯑reign 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 em⯑ployment 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 land⯑lord of an inn at which I am per⯑ſonally [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 pro⯑miſe.

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

And now, Fairfax, once more I go!—Expedition, reſolution, a torrent [182] of words, a ſtorm of paſſion, and the pealing thunder that dies away in de⯑ſcending 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 cu⯑rioſity muſt be pleaſed to wait.

I knew my time, the hour when ſhe [184] would retire to her own apartment, and the minute when I might find admiſ⯑ſion; 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 ſome⯑thing 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, mar⯑ſhalled as my hopes and fears were in [185] battle array, ſomething of inward agita⯑tion 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 mo⯑ment of onſet than afterward, when the heated imagination ſhould have col⯑lected, arranged, and begun to pour forth its ſtores.

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

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

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

Mr. Clifton—

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

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

Thoughts will be ſometimes our maſ⯑ters: 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 endea⯑voured 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, diſ⯑dained, [189] trodden under foot. You have taught me how ſhameful it is to be the ſlave of paſſion. Truth is now my object, juſtice my impulſe, and virtue, high virtue my guide.

Oh, Clifton! Speak thus, be thus ever!

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

Nay, Clifton—

Hear me, madam!—Yes ominous! I ſee no end to it, have every thing to fear from it, and nothing to hope—There is a thought—Ay, that verges to madneſs!—I have a rival—! But I will forget it—at leaſt will try. Who can deny that it is excruciating?—But I am actuated at preſent by another and a nobler motive. You know, madam, [190] what you found me; and I hope you are not quite unconſcious of what you have made me. You have taught me principles to which I mean to ad⯑here, and truths I intend to aſſert; have opened views to me of immenſe magnitude! In your ſociety I am ſe⯑cure. 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 poſ⯑ſibilities, in a caſe like this, from being abſolute torments? My ſoul pants and [191] aches after certainty! The moment I aſk myſelf what doubt there can be of Anna St. Ives, I anſwer none, none! Yet the moment after, forgetting this queſtion, alarms, probabilities, paſt ſcenes and intolerable ſuppoſitions ſwarm to aſſault me, without relaxation or mercy.

Clifton, you ſaid you had a nobler motive.

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

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

No diſgrace, madam?

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

The union of marriage demands reci⯑procal, [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 huſ⯑band; and it were even better he ſhould ſhew his bad qualities, by baſely and diſhoneſtly deſerting her who had com⯑mitted herſelf body and ſoul to his ho⯑nour, than that ſuch qualities ſhould diſ⯑cover themſelves after marriage. There is no diſgrace can equal the torment of ſuch an alliance.

I grant it.

You have attained that noble cou⯑rage which dares to queſtion the moſt received doctrines, and bring them to the teſt of truth. Who better than you can appreciate the falſehood and the force [194] of the prejudices of opinion? Yet are you ſure, madam, that even you are ſu⯑perior 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-evi⯑dent of theſe prejudices may ſway and terrify you from the plain path of equity? Dare you look the world's unjuſt con⯑tumelies 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 ac⯑knowledged to be an act of duty?

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

You think—?

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

In oppoſition to the whole world, its prepoſſeſſions, reproofs, revilings, perſe⯑cutions, and contempt?

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

Then—You are my wife!

How?

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

It cannot.

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

A right?

An abſolute, an indefeaſible right!

You go too faſt!

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

Clifton!

Juſtice!

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

[197] Inſtead of the chaſte huſband, ſuch as better times and ſpirits of higher dig⯑nity 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 traitor⯑ous 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 princi⯑ples. Inſpired by that refulgent ardour which animates you, with a noble en⯑thuſiaſm you have yourſelf bid me put you to the proof. You cannot, will not, dare not be unjuſt!

And now, Fairfax, behold her in the [198] very ſtate I wiſhed! Cowed, ſilenced, overawed! Her ideas deranged, her tongue motionleſs, wanting a reply, her eyes wandering in perplexity, her cheeks growing pale, her lips quivering, her body trembling, her boſom panting! Behold I ſay the wild diſorder of her look! Then turn to me, and read ſe⯑cure triumph, concealed exultation, and burſting tranſport on my brow! While impetuous, fierce, and fearleſs deſire is blazing in my heart, and mount⯑ing 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 en⯑ter, with a letter in her hand that had arrived expreſs, and was to be delivered [199] inſtantly!—Our mutual perturbation did not eſcape the prying witch; my countenance red, hers pale—The word begone! maddened to break looſe from my impatient tongue. My eyes how⯑ever 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 im⯑poſſible as it is that they ſhould relate to me, I yet wiſh I did. I am ſure by her manner they were extraordinary. I could not aſk while that old beldam was preſent [Had ſhe been my grandmother, on this occaſion I ſhould have abuſed her.] and the eye of the young lady very plainly told me ſhe wiſhed me away. It [200] was prudent to make the beſt retreat poſſible, and with the beſt grace: I therefore bowed and took my leave; very gravely telling her I hoped ſhe would ſeriouſly conſider what I had ſaid, and again emphatically pronounced the word juſtice!

You have now, Fairfax, been a ſpec⯑tator of the ſcene; and if its many nice⯑ties 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 con⯑ducted, and the high acting with which I perſonified the only poſſible Being that [201] could ſubjugate Anna St. Ives do not ex⯑cite your aſtoniſhment, why then you really are a dull fellow! But I know you too well, Fairfax, to do you ſuch injuſ⯑tice as this ſuppoſes. Victory had de⯑clared 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 van⯑quiſhed: ſhe will hear me the next time with leſs ſurpriſe, and the emotions of paſſion, genuine honeſt mundane paſ⯑ſion, muſt take their turn; for not even ſhe, Fairfax, can be wholly exempt from theſe emotions. I have not the leaſt fear that my eloquence ſhould fail me, and [202] abſolute victory excepted, I could not have wiſhed for greater ſucceſs.

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 [208] exiſts—Oh this brother!—But he is not your brother—Error ſo rooted, ſo ma⯑lignant, ſo deſtructive exceeds all credi⯑bility!

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

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

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

But, though he had found all this dif⯑ficulty to begin, having begun he reco⯑vered himſelf very ſurpriſingly. His colour returned, his voice became firm, his ideas clear, his reaſoning energetic, and his manner commanding. He ſeem⯑ed to mould my hopes and apprehenſions as he pleaſed, to inſpire terror this mo⯑ment, and the exceſs of confidence the next.

Louiſa, my heart bleeds to ſay it, but his purpoſes were vile, his hypocriſy odi⯑ous, and—I muſt forbear, and ſpeak of foul deeds in fair terms. I know not how many prejudices riſe up to warn me; one that I am a woman, or rather a girl; another that I am writing to the man's [210] ſiſter; a third that ſhe is my friend, and ſo on with endleſs et ceteras. No mat⯑ter 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 re⯑volting 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 contempti⯑ble of vices; the mere vain-glory of ſe⯑duction. 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, con⯑temptible as ſuch a ſtimulus would have been, was ſcarcely a ſecondary motive. It was ſomething worſe; it was revenge. [211] My mind has been wholly occupied in retracing his paſt behaviour; I can think on no other ſubject, and every trait which recollection adds is a confirmation of this painful idea. He does not wiſh to marry me, and I almoſt doubt whe⯑ther he ever did, at leaſt fully and unre⯑ſervedly.

He came to me, Louiſa, and began with painting the torments of delay and the pangs of jealouſy, which he endea⯑voured 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 re⯑ſpected truth and virtue, to deny his claim.

And what was this claim?—I was his wife!—In every pure and virtu⯑ous [212] ſenſe his wife; and he demanded the privilege of a huſband!—Demand⯑ed, Louiſa!—Demanded!—And de⯑manded 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 con⯑fuſed!

Not that it ceded; no, not an inſtant. I knew there was an anſwer, a juſt and irrefragable one, but I could not imme⯑diately find it. He perceived my diſor⯑der, and you cannot imagine what a ſhameleſs and offenſive form his fea⯑tures 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 ex⯑preſs! [213] —The hand writing was Frank's! Agitated as I was, ſuſpicion influenced me, and I retreated a few ſteps—I open⯑ed 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—

[214] Think, Louiſa, what muſt be the ef⯑fect of ſuch a letter, coming at ſuch a moment!—I believe I was in no dan⯑ger; 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 whe⯑ther it were not wrong to diſtruſt the power of truth and virtue, and not to let Mr. Clifton ſee I could demoliſh the au⯑dacious ſophiſtry by which he had endea⯑voured 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 judg⯑ment, and how deſirable that heavenly [215] preſence of mind which is equal to theſe great theſe trying occaſions! I therefore thought it more prudent to ſuffer him to depart, and ſuſpect vilely of me, than to encounter the rude conteſt which he would more audaciouſly recommence, were I to ſend away Mrs. Clarke, which he might even miſconſtrue into a ſignal of approbation. Theſe fears prevail⯑ed, and I deſired her to ſtay, and by my manner told him I wiſhed his ab⯑ſence.

Louiſa, how ſhall I deſcribe my an⯑guiſh of heart at ſeeing all thoſe hopes of a mind ſo extraordinary, for extraor⯑dinary it is even in guilt, at once over⯑thrown? It was indeed iteration of an⯑guiſh! What! Can guile ſo perfectly aſſume the garb of ſincerity? Can hypo⯑priſy [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 re⯑member—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 re⯑form error the moſt obdurate. So will I, ſo will all that are worthy the high of⯑fice. But ſhe will not wiſh me either to marry with or to countenance this error. Marry?—How does my ſoul ſhudder at the thought! His reaſoning was juſt; [217] ſeduction would have been a petty in⯑jury, or rather a bleſſing, compared to this maſter evil! He was moſt merci⯑ful 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. In⯑ſtead 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 ex⯑pired. I mention theſe circumſtances [226] together becauſe they were noticed, by thoſe who were neceſſarily acquainted with them, as having a relation to each other; whether real or imaginary, much or little I do not pretend to determine; but I will relate the facts and leave them to your own reflection; and I will forbear all colouring, that I may not be ſuſpected of injuſtice.

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

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

I will leave you, ſir, to imagine the effect which a letter beginning as this did muſt have on a mind and body worn to ſuch a tremulous ſtate of ſenſi⯑bility. 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 ar⯑guments, no efforts to calm her ſenſa⯑tions; and I ſucceeded ſo far that after a time ſhe ſeemed to be tolerably reſigned. [229] She could not indeed forget it, and the ſubject was revived by her ſeveral times during the day.

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

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

[230] I have thought it ſtrictly incumbent on me to relate theſe circumſtances. But I ſhould conſider myſelf as very highly culpable did I ſeek to aggravate, or to ſtate that as certainty which can never be any thing more than conjec⯑ture. My mother was ſo enfeebled that we began to be in daily apprehenſion of her death. I muſt not however con⯑ceal that the thought of your union with Anna St. Ives had been one of her prin⯑cipal pleaſures, ever ſince ſhe had ſup⯑poſed 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 na⯑ture.

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

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

I imagine you will be down at the funeral. Perhaps it is proper. I can⯑not [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 cir⯑cumſtances. 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 emo⯑tions, but conſidering you as an er⯑ring brother, will endeavour to per⯑form 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 [233] difficult to calm. I deſtroyed them, not becauſe they were wrong, but leſt they ſhould produce a wrong ef⯑fect.

LETTER XCVIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO HIS SISTER LOUISA CLIFTON.

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

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

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

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

In the mean time, madam, be induſ⯑trious 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.