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

I DO hear of ſtrange queerums and quickſets, that have a bin trap laid for your ever gracious onnur, and for the mercifool lovin kindneſs of ſweet miſſee. Whereof I be all in a quandary, for it [2] do ſeem I wus within an ames ace of a havin bin chouſe flickur'd meſelf. Whereby I paradventerd before to tell your noble onnur my poor thofts on this here Mr. Clifton match marriage, which is all againſt the grain. And this I do hope your ever onnurable onnur will pry into, and ſee with your own eyes.

Whereof I have a bin ruminatin of many thinks lately, and of the ups and downs of life, ſo that I ſhould ſing oh be joyfool if as your onnur would but turn them in your thofts, as I have done. Whereby my ſon has a bin down with me; and I do find that ſooth and trooth he be verily a ſon of my own begettin; and thof I ſay it a man may be proud of ſitch a ſon; and as your ever gra⯑cious [3] onnur wus moſt mercifoolly pleaſed to ſifflicate, a wus born a gentleman, for a has his head fool and fool of fine notions.

Whereby if your onnurable onnur will but a be pleaſed to lend a mercifool ear to me, why mayhap I ſhould a be willin to come down with the kole to your onnur's heart's content. Why not? For I have a talked matters over with my ſon, and a has ſaid a many glorious thinks of your onnur and of ſweet mer⯑cifool miſſee, all a witch a learned from me. For why? He is my own ſon, and of the iſſue of my loins, and I did always giv'n the beſt of advice. A had his whole feedin and breedin from me, and as a wus always fain to be a man of learnin [4] why I taught him his letters meſelf; whereof I have now reaſon to be proud of 'n.

But that is not whereof of a what I wus a goin to think to ſay. I wus about to paradventer to propoſal to your onnur that, if thinks might behappen to come to paſs in the manner of mercifool lovin kindneſs and gracious condyſenſion, the wherewithalls ſhould a be forth cummin to the tune of fifty thouſand pounds: that is with the betokenin of all proper ſecurities of parchments and deeds and dooſoors to be firſt ſigned and ſtipilated, as heretofore have bin on like future occaſions. Take me ritely, your onnur; I mean for the twenty thouſand pounds. For why? [5] I meſelf will be ſo all bountifool as to come down on the nail head with thirty thouſand for my ſon. And then we ſhall ſee who will be a better gen⯑tleman, as your onnurable onnur wus moſt graciouſly pleaſed to kappaiſhus him?

Whereby Wenbourne Hill would then be in all its glory; and mayhap your ever gracious onnur might in ſitch a caſe again go on with your improof⯑ments. And who can ſay but the wil⯑durneſs might a begin to flouriſh? So that if your noble onnur will but think of that, why thinks may behappen to begin to take a new turn, and there may be mirth and merry days again at Wen⯑bourne Hill. For I do know in your [6] heart your onnur do lamentation the loſs of all your fine taſte, and elegunt ideers, and plans, and alterations; all of a witch have a bin ſo many years a carryin on and a compaſſin at Wen⯑bourne Hill.

Whereof I umbelly condyſend to intreat your noble onnur would a give theſe thinks a thinkin. For why? The lawyers might a then be ſtoptt, and a ſpoke might a behappen to be put in the wheel of the forecloſures; witch if not, as your noble onnur al⯑ready knows, may not a turn out to be altogether quite ſo agreeable, unleſs your ever gracious and onnurable onnur ſhould be ſo all mercifool as to rite to me; whereof I could then give them [7] the whys and the wherefores, and all thinks would be ſmooth and ſmilin.

I beſiege your moſt noble onnur to ponderate mercifooly of theſe thinks, and of a dockin of the entail, and of a ſettin of the deeds of the law⯑yers to work. Whereby every think may in ſitch a caſe be made ſafe and ſecure▪ not forgettin Wenbourne Hill; and the willdurneſs, and mayhap the hermuttidge, and the grotto. For why, your noble onnur? Where one fifty thouſand pound be a forth cummin from, another may a be⯑happen to be found. But that's a nether here nor there, a ſavin and exceptin the death and mortality of man, and the reſurrection of the juſt [8] and of the repentin ſinner in all grace and glory.

And ſo I moſt umbelly remain, with the thanks givin of goodneſs, your onnur's moſt faithfool umbel ſarvent everlaſtin to command,

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

NO; I will not attempt to conſole my Louiſa, for I will not ſuppoſe even at the preſent moment that ſhe yields to grief, or is in need of conſolation. She will not repine at what is not to be reme⯑died, nor debilitate her mind by dwell⯑ing [10] on her own cauſes of diſcontent, in⯑ſtead of awakening it to the numerous ſources of happineſs, which by increaſ⯑ing the happineſs of others incite it to activity. Theſe are truths too deeply engraven on the heart of Louiſa to be forgotten, and it is ſcarcely neceſſary to revive them even at this ſerious mo⯑ment.

With reſpect to myſelf, my friend ſhall be my judge; my whole conduct ſhall be ſubmitted to her, with an injunction not to indulge any partialities in my fa⯑vour, but to cenſure, adviſe, and inſtruct me whenever ſhe finds opportunity. Such, Louiſa, has been our intercourſe; and we have mutual reaſon to congratu⯑late each other on its effects.

I have juſt had a converſation with [11] Sir Arthur. He has received a letter from Abimelech, which he ſhewed me. Of all the proofs Frank has yet given of energy, this relative to his father is per⯑haps the ſtrongeſt. You know the cha⯑racter of Abimelech. Could you think it poſſible? He is willing not only to raiſe twenty thouſand pounds for Sir Arthur, but to pay down thirty more for his ſon! He begins to be vain of this ſon, and has even ſome ſlight per⯑ception that there may be other good qualities beſide that of getting and hoard⯑ing money.

But his cunning is ſtill predominant. Having conceived the poſſibility of this marriage, the accompliſhment of it is now become his ruling paſſion, and has for a moment ſubjected avarice itſelf. [12] He neglects no motive which he thinks may influence Sir Arthur, not even threatening; though his language is couched in all the art of apparent kind⯑neſs and adulation. His letter however has produced its effect on my father, as you will perceive by the following dialogue, which was begun by Sir Ar⯑thur.

What think you of this propoſal, Anna?

I ought rather to aſk what are your thoughts on the ſubject, ſir.

I can ſcarcely tell. I own it does not ſeem to me quite ſo unreaſonable as I ſhould once have ſuppoſed it; that is as far as relates to me. But if you ſhould have conceived any partiality for Mr. Clifton, I ſhould then—

[13] Excuſe me, ſir, for interrupting you, but Mr. Clifton is at preſent wholly out of the queſtion. Were it in my power, which I fear it is not, to do him any ſer⯑vice, I ſhould be as deſirous of doing it now as ever; but I can never more think of him as a huſband.

Are you ſo very determined?

I am; and I hope, ſir, my determina⯑tion is not offenſive to you?

I cannot ſay at preſent that it is; for not to mention that I think very well of young Mr. Henley, I own the affair of the anonymous letter was a very improper and ſtrange proceeding. Your aunt Wenbourne and Lord Fitz-Allen indeed ſeem to doubt it; but, according to the account which you and Mr. Henley [14] give, I think they have no foundation for their doubts.

The behaviour of Mr. Clifton, with⯑out the letter, would have been quite ſufficient to have fixed my determina⯑tion.

What behaviour?

The proof he gave of deceit and de⯑pravity of principle, by the manner in which he endeavoured to ſeduce me.

When was that?

The very day on which Frank ar⯑rived.

Endeavoured to ſeduce you?

Yes.

Are you certain of the truth of what you ſay?

He proceeded too far, and explained himſelf too openly for me to be miſtaken.

[15] Seduce you!—Then you have en⯑tirely given up all thoughts of him?

All thoughts of marrying him I have moſt certainly.

And what is your opinion of Mr. Henley?

What can it be, ſir? Are there two opinions concerning him? And if I were blind to his virtues, for whoſe ſafety he has been ſo often and ſo ardently ac⯑tive, who ſhould do him juſtice?

I own, Anna, I have often thought you had ſome love for him, and I am tempt⯑ed to think ſo ſtill.

Love in the ſenſe in which you un⯑derſtand it I have carefully ſuppreſſed, becauſe till now I ſuppoſed it incompa⯑tible with duty and virtue; but I ac⯑knowledge I begin to doubt; and even [16] to ſuppoſe that his view of the ſubject has been more rational and true than mine; and he thinks it is our duty to form a union, for which he owns he has an ardent wiſh.

Yes, he has honeſtly told me all that paſſed between you; and his ſincerity pleaſed me—But every branch of our family would certainly be againſt ſuch a match.

I ſuppoſe ſo.

The world too would conſider me as having diſhonoured myſelf, were I to conſent.

I believe it would.

And would exclaim againſt the bad example—What ought to be done?

My opinion has been that the world would have cauſe to make this com⯑plaint; [17] but I now think, or rather ima⯑gine myſelf convinced that I was in an error. It appears evident to my mind, at preſent, that we ought to conſider whether an action be in itſelf good or bad, juſt or unjuſt, and totally to diſre⯑gard both our own prejudices, and the prejudices of the world. Were I to pay falſe homage to wealth and rank, becauſe the world tells me it is right that I ſhould do ſo, and to neglect ge⯑nius and virtue, which my judgment tells me would be an odious wrong, I ſhould find but little ſatisfaction in the applauſe of the world, oppoſed to ſelf⯑condemnation.

Mr. Henley is a very good young man; a very good young man indeed; and I believe I ſhould even be willing to [18] think of him for a ſon, if it ſhould not be oppoſed by the other branches of the family.

But that it ſurely will.

I am afraid ſo—Lord Fitz-Allen is half reconciled to us again, and I would avoid breaking with him if poſſible. Your aunt has a good opinion of Mr. Henley.

But a better of Mr. Clifton.

Yes, ſo I ſuppoſe. I muſt talk to Edward. Mr. Henley has been his friend.

But Edward does not underſtand friendſhip. When he ſays friend he means acquaintance; and he finds him the moſt agreeable acquaintance, who tells him leaſt truth; which certainly is not Mr. Henley. I have obſerved him [19] lately to be rather fond of the company of Mr. Clifton, whom he thinks a bet⯑ter companion.

I own Mr. Henley is very obſtinate in his opinions.

If his opinions be true, would you not have him perſiſt in the truth.

But why ſhould he be more certain that what he ſays is truth than other people?

Becauſe he has examined with more induſtry and caution, has a ſtronger mind, and a greater love of enquiry. He does not endeavour to make his principles accord with his practice, but regulates his practice by his principles.

But ſtill I aſk what proof he has of being more in the right than other peo⯑ple?

[20] I wonder, ſir, that you can put ſuch a queſtion! He has ſurely given both you and me ſufficient proofs of ſuperiority; and though you ſhould doubt the argu⯑ments you cannot doubt the facts.

I own he is a very extraordinary young gentleman.

Ah, ſir! The word gentleman ſhews the bent of your thoughts. Can you not perceive it is a word without a meaning? Or, if it have a meaning, that he who is the beſt man is the moſt a gentleman?

I know your notions, child, and mine differ a little on theſe matters. How⯑ever I do not think you quite ſo much in the wrong as I uſed to do; and per⯑haps there is ſomething in what you ſay. Many men of low fortunes have made their way to the higheſt honours; and [21] for what I know he may do the ſame.

He may and certainly will deſerve the higheſt reſpect: but if you flatter your⯑ſelf, ſir, that he will ſeek or accept the titles and diſtinctions which men have invented to impoſe on each other's folly, and obtain their own artful purpoſes, I ought to warn you that you will be miſ⯑taken. His whole life will be devoted to the diſcovery and ſpreading of truth; and, individual acts of benevolence ex⯑cepted, his wealth, ſhould he acquire any, will all be dedicated to that ſole ob⯑ject.

I am afraid theſe are ſtrange whims, Anna!

I hope yet to ſhew you, ſir, they are [22] noble duties; which it is the exceſs of guilt to neglect.

It puzzles me to conceive by what means his father could have become ſo rich!

He has all his life been rapacious af⯑ter money. His faculties are ſtrong, but perverted. What would have been wiſdom is degenerated into cunning. He has made himſelf acquainted with uſurers, and they have made him ac⯑quainted with ſpendthrifts. He has traded in annuities, and profited by the eagerneſs of youth to enjoy: and, ſince I muſt be ſincere, he has encouraged you, ſir, to purſue plans of expence with a view ſolely to his own profit.

Well, well; ſhould this marriage [23] take place, it will all return into the fa⯑mily.

That ſhould be no motive, ſir, with either you or me.

I do not know that. You underſtand your own reaſons, and I mine; and if they ſhould but anſwer the ſame end there will be no harm.

I was going to reply, but Sir Arthur left me; being unwilling to hear argu⯑ments which he took it for granted he ſhould not underſtand.

Frank came in ſoon after, and I re⯑peated to him what had been ſaid. Lou⯑iſa, I muſt tell you the truth and the whole truth. Since I have begun to imagine I might indulge my thoughts in dwelling on▪his exalted qualities and un⯑common [24] virtues, my affection for them has greatly increaſed: and they never appeared to me more lovely than in the ſtruggles and checks which his joy re⯑ceived, at the hope of our union, by the recollection of the loſs of Mr. Clifton. He like me is aſtoniſhed at the powers of your brother's mind, and at their perverſion; and he fears that this at⯑tempt, having failed, will but ſerve to render that perverſion more obdurate, nay perhaps more active. He ſeems even to dread leſt I am not ſecure; which his deſire to guard and caution me againſt would not ſuffer him to repreſs or conceal. His tenderneſs and ecſtaſy, and indeed, Louiſa, they were both very ſtrong, were mingled with regret equally [25] vivid: and Mr. Clifton! Mr. Clifton! repeatedly burſt from him.

While I was relating what had paſſed between me and Sir Arthur to Frank, and now again ſince I have been writing it to you, I accuſed myſelf of coldneſs, and of ſhrinking from or rather of half delivering the truth, leſt Sir Arthur ſhould think me a forward girl, or leſt I ſhould think myſelf capable of too ſud⯑den a change. But of the degree of that change do you, my friend, judge. I have at all times endeavoured to ſhew you my naked heart, and often have vio⯑lently ſtruggled againſt every diſguiſe. I never concealed from myſelf that I thought more highly of Frank Henley than of Mr. Clifton; but I imagined principle taught me to prefer what prin⯑ciple [26] now warns me to ſhun. I am more and more convinced of the error of marrying a bad man in order to make him good. I was not entirely ignorant of this before, and therefore flattered myſelf the good might be effected pre⯑vious to marriage. I forgot, when paſ⯑ſion has a purpoſe to obtain, how artful it is in concealment.

I have another quarrel with myſelf, for having been ſo deſirous of proving to my own conviction that the world's pre⯑judices and the prejudices of my family ought to be reſpected, while that opinion accorded with my practice; and of be⯑ing now ſo equally alert to prove the re⯑verſe. Such are the deceptions which the mind puts upon itſelf! For indeed I have been very deſirous of acting with [27] ſincerity in both inſtances. I can only ſay that I feel more certain at preſent; for before I had doubts, and now I have none. If you ſuſpect me to be influ⯑enced by inclination, tell me ſo without reſerve.

All good be with my friend! May ſhe profit by my miſtakes!

LETTER CI.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

YOU will perceive, Fairfax, I have changed the ſcene, and am now in the country. I have a long narrative to de⯑tail, and am ſitting in an old hall with gloom and leiſure enough to make it as tedious and as dull as you could wiſh. My poor mother has taken her laſt [29] leave of us, and lies now a corpſe in the room under me. I could be me⯑lancholy, or mad, or I know not what—But 'tis no matter—She brought me here unaſked to make the journey of this world, and now I am obliged to jog on. Not that I think I ſhould much care if it were ſhortened, nor how ſoon; except that I would live to have my revenge; and that I will have, little troubling myſelf though the next minute were certain to be my laſt. It rankles at my heart, and lies there corroding, biting, feſtering, night and day.

I have quarrelled with my ſiſter, and I am ſure ſhall never forgive her; nor will ſhe forgive me, ſo that we ſhall eaſily balance our accounts. This Anna St. Ives is her ſupreme favourite. But [30] no wonder—No wonder—It would be ſtrange if ſhe were not! Still to be ſo ready to give up a brother, and write me ſuch a letter as ſhe did on the death of my mother! If I do not make her repent it Heaven renounce me!

But I conſider the whole world as my enemies at this moment; you per⯑haps, Fairfax, excepted. I ſay per⯑haps, for I do not know how ſoon you may turn upon and yelp at me with the reſt.

Forgive me, Fairfax. I am all ve⯑nom, all viper, and cannot forbear to hiſs even at my friend. But let my enemies beware! They ſhall find I can ſting!—Theſe curſed gnawings of heart will not let me begin my ſtory.

I told you I was determined to deny the anonymous letter. I have been very induſtrious with uncle Fitz-Allen and aunt Wenbourne; and have been equally careful to titilate the vanity of the coxcomb Edward, who is highly flattered with the attention I have paid him, and will I am certain become my warm partiſan.

They had all heard the ſtory, but were all ready enough to gape and ſwallow my tale; which conſidering it was wholly invention was not ill com⯑poſed. I begin to hate myſelf, to hate her, to hate the whole world, for being obliged to ſubmit to ſuch a damned ex⯑pedient. But I will not recede. I will [32] have my revenge! Were the devil himſelf waiting to devour me I would on; or were he engaged againſt me, I would over-reach him!

I concerted my meaſures, and learn⯑ing that this lad of mine, who wrote the letter for me, was down at Wenbourne-Hill, I ſent my man to inveigle him to come to me, at an inn where I purpoſely ſtopped, in my way to Roſe-Bank. How durſt they ſuborn my ſervant?—But—! I will ſtab and not curſe!

My valet executed his commiſſion, and prevailed on the lad to come; though with ſome difficulty, for he is a ſtubborn dog; and had not the valet followed my directions, and told him it was to do his old maſter a ſervice, he would have been foiled. But I took [33] him up at Paris, deſtitute and in ſome danger of ſtarving, which he has not forgotten.

This Henley however is a greater fa⯑vourite with him than I am; as I ſoon found by his diſcourſe.

I began by ſounding him, to try if it were poſſible to prevail on him to aſſert he had written the letter at the inſtiga⯑tion of Henley, inſtead of me; but I ſoon found it was in vain, and durſt not proceed to let him ſee my drift.

I then perſuaded him that they had totally miſtaken my purpoſe in writing the letter; that I had done it with a very friendly deſign; that I had myſelf a very great eſteem for Henley, and that I meant nothing but good to Anna; but that there were ſome reaſons, which I [34] could not explain to him, that had oc⯑caſioned me to write the letter.

As my next purpoſe, after that of making him an evidence in my favour, was to ſend him entirely out of the way, if I failed in the firſt attempt, I began to remind him of the condition in which I had found him in Paris, which he was ready enough to acknowledge, and ſeem⯑ed indeed afraid of acting ungratefully. I prompted and ſtrengthened his fears, and at laſt told him that, ſince I found he was a good lad and meant well, though he was miſtaken and had done me an injury, I would give him an opportunity of ſhewing his gratitude.

I then pretended that I had a packet of the utmoſt conſequence to be deli⯑vered to my friend in Paris; meaning [35] you, Fairfax; which I durſt not truſt to any but a ſure hand: and as I knew him to be an honeſt lad, I expected he would not refuſe to ſet off with it immediately. It was an affair almoſt of life and death! And, that I might impreſs his mind with ideas which would aſſociate and beget ſuitable images, I began to talk of the deceaſe of my mother, of my own af⯑fliction at the miſunderſtanding with Anna, of my very great friendſhip for Henley, and of the fatal conſequences that would attend the miſcarriage of the packet.

Still I found him reluctant. He ſeemed half to ſuſpect me; and yet I made a very clever tale of it. He talked of Henley and his aunt; and he had likewiſe a dread of Paris. His aunt I find has [36] been maintained by Henley, ſhe being lame and diſabled; and as ſending him out of the way was a preliminary ſtep abſolutely neceſſary, I gave him a thirty pound bank-note, deſired him to go to his aunt and give her ten pounds, and to keep the reſt to ſecure him againſt any accidents, of which he ſeemed afraid, in a ſtrange country; with a promiſe that he ſhould have as much more, if he performed his commiſſion faithfully, on his return.

I further enquired the direction of the aunt, telling him I would undertake to provide for her: and ſo I muſt, for ſhe too muſt be ſent out of the way.

At laſt, by repeating my profeſſions and again reminding him of my taking him up at Paris, I was ſucceſsful. [37] Though I had more trouble in gaining the compliance of this lout than would have been ſufficient, were I prime mi⯑niſter, and did I bribe with any thing like the ſame comparative liberality, to gain ten worthy members of parliament, though five knights of the ſhire had been of the number.

He wanted to return to Wenbourne-Hill for his neceſſaries and trifling pro⯑perty; and this reminded me not only of the danger of doing that but of his paſ⯑ſing through London. Accordingly I told him to keep the ten pounds meant for his aunt to buy himſelf what things he wanted, which I promiſed to replace to her, and informed him I now recol⯑lected that he muſt take the neareſt road to Dover, which I pretended lay through [38] Guildford, Bletchingly, and Tunbridge, leaving London on the left.

The importance, hurry and command I aſſumed did not give him time to re⯑flect; and the injunctions I gave were ſuch as I do not imagine he would have diſobeyed. But for my own ſecu⯑rity, pretending a fear that he might miſtake his way, I ſent my valet with him; privately ordering the valet not to part till he ſaw him ſafe on board the packet-boat.

And now, Fairfax, it is not impoſſible but the wiſe uncle, who has an excellent ſcent at diſcovery and no ſmall opinion of his own acuteneſs, may find out that Henley himſelf was the forger of this letter; that it was a colluſion between him and the lad, that he has himſelf re⯑moved [39] moved both the lad and the aunt, and that his charity is a farce. I ſay ſuch an event is poſſible. You may be ſure that the idea ſhall be wholly his own, and that I will allow him all the juſt praiſe which he will graciouſly beſtow upon his penetration.

My directions to the lad w ere to bring the packet immediately to you; which packet you will find to be blank paper, for I had no time for any thing more, except a ſhort note of which the fol⯑lowing is a copy.

I was obliged to pretend extreme hurry to the lad, but I gave my valet private inſtructions to take him round, and uſe as much delay as he conveni⯑ently could. Meanwhile I will ſend the letter I am now writing away expreſs, that you may be fully prepared; for this is a point of infinite conſequence. If you are not in Paris the expreſs is to [41] follow you; and you will be kind enough to take meaſures that the lad may follow the expreſs. He is ordered to wait your commands, which I told him might poſſibly detain him a month, or even more; though it might happen that the buſineſs would be tranſacted in a week.

Not that I can hope the real buſineſs can now poſſibly be ſo ſoon finiſhed.

You will take care to make your ac⯑count agree with mine; and circum⯑ſtances oblige me to require of you, Fairfax, to condeſcend to get the lad's favour, and not make his ſtay irkſome. You may command me to ten times this amount, as you know.

This is a melancholy ſcene, and a [42] gloomy houſe, and a diſmal country; and I myſelf am fretful, and moody, and mad, and miſerable. I ſhall ſoon get into action, and then it will wear off.

I will have her; ay, by the infernals will I! And on my own terms. I know ſhe is rejoicing now in her Hen⯑ley. Eternal curſes bite him! But I will haunt her! I will appear to her in her dreams, and her waking hours ſhall not want a glimpſe of me. I know ſhe hates me. So be it! If ſhe did not I could not ſo readily digeſt my venge⯑ance. But I know ſhe does! And ſhe ſhall have better cauſe! I never yet ſubmitted to be thus baffled. She is preparing an imaginary banquet, and I [43] will be there a real gueſt. I will meet her at Philippi!

I wiſh I were away from this place! I wiſh I were in my mother's coffin!

I hate to meet this inſolent ſiſter of mine. We have had a battle, and I was in ſuch a frantic rage that I could neither find ideas nor words; while ſhe was cool, cutting, inſolent, impudent—! I never in my life had ſo ſtrong an inclination to wring a huſſey's neck round.

But I will get away as faſt as I can. I am reſolved however to turn her out of the houſe firſt. She ſhall feel me too, before I have done. Brother with her is no tie, nor ſhall ſiſter be to me. Her mother has made but a ſmall pro⯑viſion [44] for her, and has recommended her to my mercy. She had better have taught her a little humility—

Plagues and peſtilence! Why do I worry myſelf about her? I have quite cauſes enough of diſtraction without that. I muſt not turn her out of doors neither, now I remember. If I did ſhe would fly to her friend, and would make her if poſſible as great a fury as herſelf.

Why do I ſay would make? Do I not know that I am her abhorrence? I loved her, Fairfax, better than ever I loved woman; and would have loved her more, have loved her entirely, in⯑finitely, heart and ſoul, if ſhe had not wronged me. From the firſt I was overlooked by her, catechiſed, repri⯑manded, [45] treated like a poor ignoramus; while her Henley—! If I write any more I ſhall go mad!—Daſh through the window, or do ſome deſperate act!—

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

SIR, I have received your letter, which I muſt acknowledge is far more ſatisfactory and in a more proper ſtyle than your laſt, at which I cannot but own I was exceedingly ſurpriſed.

With reſpect to your ſon, I muſt ſay [47] that he is a young gentleman of very great merit; and though a marriage into the family of St. Ives is a thing that he certainly has no right to expect, yet I cannot deny that your propoſal de⯑ſerves ſome conſideration; inaſmuch as you now come forward like a man, and have likewiſe a recollection of pro⯑priety.

Neither do I forget, good ſir, what you have hinted concerning Wenbourne-Hill, which is far from diſagreeable to me. And though there are many im⯑pediments, for which I cannot altogether anſwer juſt at preſent, yet I think it very probable that this affair ſhould end in ſomething like the manner you deſire. I accordingly expect, Mr. Henley, you [48] will have the kindneſs to ſtop proceed⯑ings relative to the forecloſures.

In return for which I aſſure you, on my honour, I will do every thing that becomes a gentleman to bring the affair to a proper concluſion. And as I have a very great reſpect for your ſon, and think very highly of his parts, and learning, and all that, I find when things come to be conſidered that he perhaps may make my daughter more happy, and the match may have other greater conveniences than perhaps one that might ſeem to the other branches of my family more ſuitable.

But I know that for the preſent it will be oppoſed by Lord Fitz-Allen; and though I do not think proper to [49] be governed by him or any man, yet I could rather wiſh not to come to an open rupture with ſo near a rela⯑tion.

It will perhaps be thought deroga⯑tory by ſome other branches of the family. But my daughter has a very high opinion of the good qualities of your ſon; and ſhe reminds me con⯑tinually that he has done us many ſignal ſervices, which I aſſure you, Mr. Henley, I am very willing to re⯑member.

When things ſhall be in a proper train, I imagine it will be our beſt way of proceeding to pay off all mortgages on Wenbourne-Hill, to⯑gether with the ſum for the docking of the entail to my ſon Edward, and [50] to ſettle the eſtate in reverſion on our children and their iſſue; my rental being made ſubject to the payment of legal intereſt to your ſon for the fifty thouſand pounds. But we will conſider further on theſe things when matters are ripe.

In the mean time, be pleaſed to ſend me up one thouſand pounds for preſent current expences, which you will place to account. And now I hope, good ſir, we ſhall from this time be upon proper terms: in expectation of which I re⯑main with all friendly intentions,

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

OH that I could write to my Louiſa as formerly, with flattering and gene⯑rous hopes in favour of a brother! Would it were poſſible! I am already weary of accuſation, though I fear this is but its beginning. I cannot help it, but I have ſtrong apprehenſions. Not [52] that I will be the ſlave of fear, or ſink before danger ſhould it happen to come.

The lad that copied the anonymous letter has left Wenbourne-Hill! Is run away! No one knows whither! He went the very day on which your brother left London, to be preſent with you at Mrs. Clifton's funeral; and Clifton now denies, with pretended in⯑dignation, having had any knowledge whatever of this letter!—Oh how auda⯑cious is he in error! Had the ſame energy but a worthy object, how excel⯑lent would be its effects!

It is a ſtrange circumſtance! And what is more ſtrange and indeed alarm⯑ing, Frank has been to enquire for the lad's aunt, and ſhe is gone! No one [53] can tell what is become of her, except that ſhe went away in a hackney-coach, after having as the people ſuppoſe re⯑ceived a preſent; becauſe ſhe diſcharged all her little debts contracted during the abſence of Frank, and bought herſelf ſome neceſſaries.

What can this ſudden and unac⯑countable removal of theſe two people mean? They had both apparently the ſtrongeſt motives to the contrary; and Frank has a very good opinion of the lad, and not a bad one of the aunt.

This is not all. We were yeſterday invited to dine with Lord Fitz-Allen; that is I and Sir Arthur, not Frank Henley, as you will ſuppoſe. I had a diſlike to the viſit, though I did not [54] ſuſpect it would have been half ſo diſa⯑greeable. My brother and my aunt Wenbourne were likewiſe invited; we found them there.

Ever ſince the ſcene with Mr. Clifton I have been conſtantly denied to him, and poſitively refuſed all his applications for an interview; conceiving it to be juſt not to let him imagine there was any doubt on my mind, relative to his proceedings and their motives. We had ſcarcely ſat down to table before he came in, as if by accident. This was a ſubterfuge. To what will not error and the abandonment of the paſſions ſubmit?

After apologies for dropping in and diſturbing ſo much good company, and a repetition of—I am very glad to ſee [55] you, ſir; you do my table honour, and other like marked compliments from Lord Fitz-Allen, Clifton ſeated himſelf and endeavoured to aſſume his former gaiety and humour. But it could not be—His heart was too ill at eaſe. His eye was continually glancing toward me, and there as often met that ſteady regard which he knew not how to ſupport, and by which he was as continually diſcon⯑certed. I did not affect to frown, and to ſmile would have been guilt. I put no reproof into my look, except the open-eyed ſobriety of fortitude, ſpring⯑ing from a conſciouſneſs of right. But this was inſupportable. He talked faſt, for he wanted to talk away his ſenſations, as well as to convince his obſervers that he was quite at his eaſe. I know not [56] how far he was ſucceſsful, for they laughed as much when he failed, or more perhaps, than they would have done had his wit preſerved its uſual brilliancy. His manner told them he intended to be jocular, and that was their cue to join chorus.

Lord Fitz-Allen was very marked in his attentions to him, which were re⯑turned with no leſs ardour. Clifton in⯑deed evidently laid himſelf out to pleaſe the whole table; but me leaſt, becauſe with me he had leaſt hope; and becauſe he found his efforts produced no altera⯑tion in that uniform ſeriouſneſs on which I had determined.

As ſoon as the deſſert was ſerved up the ſervants withdrew, and not one of them afterward came in till rung for; [57] which I imagine had been preconcerted. Looks then became more grave, and the converſation ſoon dwindled into ſi⯑lence. At laſt Lord Fitz-Allen, after various hems and efforts, for he has ſome fear of me, or rather of what he ſuppoſes the derogatory ſufferance of contradiction, addreſſed himſelf to me.

I am ſorry to hear, niece, there is a miſunderſtanding between you and Mr. Clifton; and as you happen now to be both together, I think it is a proper opportunity for explanation. You know, Miſs St. Ives, that an alliance with the family of Clifton has always met my approbation; and I ſuppoſe you will not deny me the favour of liſtening with patience—Why don't you ſpeak, niece?

[58] You deſired me to liſten, ſir, and I am ſilent—Let Mr. Clifton proceed.

Clifton after ſome ſtammering heſita⯑tion began—I know, madam, you have been prejudiced againſt me, and have been told very ſtrange things; very un⯑accountable things. I cannot tell what anſwer to make, till I know perfectly of what I am accuſed. All I requeſt is to be ſuffered to face my accuſers, and let Lord Fitz-Allen, or Sir Arthur, or this good lady [My aunt Wenbourne] or your brother, nay or yourſelf, though you think ſo ill of me, be my judge. I am told ſomething of an anonymous letter; I know not very well what; but if any good evidence can be brought of my having written, or cauſed to be written, or had any concern whatever in [59] the writing of ſuch a letter, I ſolemnly pledge myſelf to renounce the bleſſing I ſo ardently ſeek without a murmur.

Lord Fitz-Allen exclaimed nothing could be more gentleman-like. My aunt Wenbourne owned it was a very proper propoſal. Edward thought there could be no objection to it. Sir Arthur was ſilent.

His inſidious appeal to juſtice, and be⯑ing brought face to face with his ac⯑cuſers, revived the full picture of the flight of the lad, the removal of the aunt, and the whole chain of craft and falſehood connected with theſe circum⯑ſtances. It was with difficulty I re⯑preſſed feelings that were ſtruggling into indignation—I addreſſed myſelf to Mr. Clifton.

[60] Then, ſir, you coolly and deliberately deny all knowledge of the letter in queſ⯑tion?

I have told you, madam, that I will ſuffer Lord Fitz-Allen, yourſelf, any perſon to paſs ſentence, after having ex⯑amined witneſſes.

Anſwer me in an open direct manner, Mr. Clifton, without ambiguity. Were you not the author of that letter?

I am ſorry, madam, to ſee you ſo de⯑ſirous to find me guilty; and I would even criminate myſelf to give you plea⯑ſure, but that I know I muſt then nei⯑ther hope for your favour nor the coun⯑tenance of this good company. I aſſure you, Lord Fitz-Allen, I aſſure you, Sir Arthur, and you, madam, and all, upon [61] my honour I am incapable of what is at⯑tributed to me.

Do not appeal to my uncle and aunt, Mr. Clifton, but turn this way. Let your eyes be fixed here. Liſten while I read the letter; and then, without once ſhrinking from yourſelf, or me, repeat as you have done, though in an equivo⯑cal manner, upon your honour you are not the author.

I took the letter from my pocket and began to read. When I came to the following paſſage I again repeated—Look at me, Mr. Clifton—‘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.’ I proceeded to the end, and then add⯑ed—Once more, Mr. Clifton, look at [62] me and repeat—Upon my honour I was not the inventor and author of thoſe words.

Louifa—! He did look—! I hope I never ſhall ſee man look ſo again!—He ſtared and forced his eyes to do their office, and repeated—‘Upon my ho⯑nour I was not the inventor and au⯑thor of thoſe words.’—He ſtabbed me to the heart, Louiſa!—Can he do this?—Then what can he not do? He even felt a complacency at the victory he had obtained, and turning round to Lord Fitz-Allen and the company again repeated—‘Upon my honour I am not the inventor and author of thoſe words.’

Lord Fitz-Allen almoſt crowed with exultation. I am miſtaken, niece, ſaid [63] he, if you do not find there are other people who can write anonymous letters: people of no honour; upſtarts, mon⯑grels, muſhrooms, low contemptible fel⯑lows, that would fully the mouth of a Fitz-Allen to mention.

The tone of this lordly uncle was ſo high, Louiſa, and his paſſions ſo arro⯑gant, loud, and obſtinate, that it was with difficulty I could recover the forti⯑tude requiſite to aſſert truth and put falſe⯑hood to the bluſh. I again turned to my opponent.

Mr. Clifton, I feel at preſent you are a dangerous man. But I do not fear you. Obſerve, ſir, I do not fear you—[I turned to my uncle] Sir, Mr. Clifton cauſed this letter to be written. But, if there were no ſuch letter in exiſtence, I [64] have another proof, ſtronger, more un⯑deniable, of which I imagine you will not doubt when I inform you that no third perſon was concerned. It was ad⯑dreſſed to myſelf. It was a ſtrenuous, bold, unprincipled effort to ſeduce me. Let the gentleman again look me in the face and tell me I am guilty of falſe⯑hood.

I ſpoke with firmneſs, and Lord Fitz-Allen's features relaxed, and his eye be⯑gan to enquire with pain and apprehen⯑ſion. His great fear was of being con⯑victed of want of penetration. Clifton perceived the feelings of the company turn upon him with ſuſpicion; but his art, muſt I add? his hypocriſy did not fail him. He transformed the confu⯑ſion he felt into a look of contrition, and [65] with as much ardour as if it had been real replied—

It is that fatal error which has ruined me, madam, in your good opinion, and has occaſioned you to credit every accu⯑ſation againſt me, however improbable. I confeſs my guilt. Not guilt of heart, madam; for honour be my witneſs, my views were as pure as the words in which they were uttered. I was at that time dependant on the will of a mother, whom I loved, and whoſe memory I revere. My paſſions were impatient, and I wiſhed to remove impediments to my happineſs which now no longer exiſt. I do not pretend to palliate what is un⯑pardonable, and what I myſelf con⯑demn as ſeverely as you do; except that I abjure all diſhónourable intentions, and [66] meant as I ſaid to be your huſband. The ſtrongeſt proof I can give that this was my meaning I now offer, in the preſence of this noble and good company. I re⯑quire no conditions, I aſk for no fortune except yourſelf, which is the only bleſ⯑ſing I covet in this life. I will joyfully attend you to the altar whenever you and your worthy relations ſhall conſent; next week, to-morrow, to-day, this mo⯑ment; and ſhould think myſelf the moſt favoured, the moſt happy man on earth!

The offer is the offer of a gentleman, Sir Arthur, ſaid Lord Fitz-Allen. If Mr. Clifton had been guilty of any inde⯑corum, niece, [Turning to me] you could not require more honourable amends. This is acting with that dig⯑nity [67] which characterizes a man of family, Mrs. Wenbourne; and as it is impoſſi⯑ble for Miſs St. Ives to ſee it in any other point of view, here the affair will na⯑turally end, and there is no more to be ſaid.

I immediately anſwered—If, ſir, by the affair ending here, you underſtand any further intercourſe between me and Mr. Clifton, I muſt not ſuffer you to continue in ſuch an error. We are and ever muſt remain ſeparate. Habit and education have made us two ſuch dif⯑ferent beings, that it would be the ex⯑ceſs of folly to ſuppoſe marriage could make us one.

Miſs St. Ives—[My uncle collected all his ideas of rank and grandeur] Miſs St. Ives, you muſt do me the honour to [68] conſider me as the head of our family, and ſuffer me to remind you of the re⯑ſpect and obedience which are due to that head. The propoſal now made you I approve. It is made by a man of family, and I muſt take the liberty to lay my injunctions upon you to liſten to it in a decorous and proper manner.

I anſwered—I am ſorry, ſir, that our ideas of propriety are ſo very oppoſite. But whether my judgment be right or wrong, as I am the perſon to be married to Mr. Clifton, and not your Lordſhip, my judgment as well as yours muſt and ought to be conſulted.

Lord Fitz-Allen could ſcarcely re⯑ſtrain his anger within the bounds of his own decorum. He burſt into exclama⯑tions—Exceedingly well, miſs!—Very [69] proper behaviour to a perſon of my rank, and your uncle!—You hear, Sir Arthur!—You hear, Mrs. Wenbourne! You all hear!—But your motives and inclinations are known, miſs: I am ſorry that it would diſhonour the tongue of Fitz-Allen to repeat them: and I can⯑not help telling you, Sir Arthur, that you have been exceedingly to blame to admit ſuch a fellow to any familiarity with a woman of rank and my niece; a fellow better entitled to be her footman than her—I will not permit the word to paſs my lips.

I felt the cowardice of ſuffering worth and virtue to be inſulted without a de⯑fender, from the fear that I myſelf ſhould be involved in the inſult, and re⯑plied—

[70] The gentleman, ſir, to whom you have twice alluded in terms of ſo much contempt, were he preſent would ſmile at your miſtake. But there are more peo⯑ple at this table than myſelf who have been witneſſes how little he deſerves to be ſpoken of in the language of oppro⯑brium.

Mr. Clifton appeared eager to be the firſt to acknowledge Mr. Henley was a very worthy perſon. Edward muttered ſomething to the ſame tune; and Sir Ar⯑thur ſeemed very willing to have ſpoken out, but wanted the courage. He began at Turnham Green, but could get no further. Lord Fitz-Allen anſwered—

What tell you me of Turnham-Green, Sir Arthur? I was ſtopped once myſelf, by a highwayman, and my foot⯑man [71] fired at him, and ſent him packing; but I did not for that reaſon come home and marry my footman to my daugh⯑ter.

The full image of Frank and his vir⯑tues pervaded my mind, my heart ſwell⯑ed, my thoughts burſt from my lips, and I exclaimed—Oh, ſir, that you had a thouſand daughters, and that each of them were worthy of ſuch a footman for a huſband!

Had you beheld this uncle of mine, Louiſa!—The daughters of the peer Fitz-Allen married to footmen! The inſult was almoſt agony. The only an⯑tidote to the pain which his countenance excited was the abſurdity and ridicule of the prejudice. But I perceived how vain it was to expect that in this com⯑pany [72] the voice of juſtice ſhould be heard, and I roſe. My aunt roſe at the ſame time, to retire with me; but, recol⯑lecting myſelf, I turned and thus ad⯑dreſſed Lord Fitz-Allen and Mr. Clif⯑ton, alternately:

That I may not be liable to any juſt blame from your lordſhip, or you, ſir, for want of being explicit, you muſt permit me to repeat—I never will again admit of the addreſſes of Mr. Clifton. I have an abhorrence of the errors in which he is now indulging. He him⯑ſelf has told me what a mad and vicious act it would be to marry a huſband in whom I could not confide, and I never can confide in him. My perſuaſion at this moment of his hypocriſy is ſuch that, could I prevail on myſelf to the de⯑baſement [73] of putting him to the trial, by pretending to accept his hand, I am con⯑vinced he would refuſe. I read his heart. He ſeeks an opportunity to re⯑venge imaginary injuries; for I never did, do not, nor ever can wiſh him any thing but good. I think I would lay down my life, without heſitation, to ren⯑der him all of which his uncommon powers are capable: but I perceive the impoſſibility of its being effected by me, and I here ultimately and determinedly renounce all thought of him, or of ſo dangerous an attempt.

Mr. Clifton eagerly ſtarted up, and with a momentary ſoftening of counte⯑nance, a pleading voice, and ſomething like the tone of returning virtue ex⯑claimed—Hear me, madam!—I con⯑jure [74] you, hear me! My appeal is to the benevolence, the dignity of your heart! Remember the virtuous plan you had formed—!

The combat in his mind was violent but ſhort. Truth made a ſtruggle to gain the maſtery, and hope raiſed up a tranſient proſpect of ſucceſs, which was as quickly overclouded by anger and de⯑ſpair, and he ſtopped abruptly. At leaſt his voice and features were ſo impaſſion⯑ed that, if theſe were not his ſenſations, I have no clue to the human heart. Perceiving him pauſe and doubt, I re⯑plied—

It cannot be, Mr. Clifton! You this moment feel it cannot! You have be⯑gun a courſe of fraud, and which the whole arrangement of to-day is only [75] meant as ſo much pitiful machinery to effect. You are conſcious, Mr. Clifton, you are conſcious, Lord Fitz-Allen, that our meeting was not, as you have both pretended, accidental. And I here call upon you—you, Mr. Clif⯑ton, to tell for what purpoſe or where you have ſent the lad who wrote the letter, and to what place you have removed his aunt? Such an artifice is vile, ſir! And to challenge your accuſers to ſtand forward, and with a look ſuch as you aſſumed to affirm, ‘Upon your honour you were not the inventor and author of the letter,’ is ſo much more vile that I ſhudder for you! Your own proceedings have con⯑jured up a train of recollections that ſpeak a concerted plan of perfidy. You mean miſchief! But I once more tell [76] you, ſir, I do not fear you! I will not fear you! My fears indeed are ſtrong, but they are for yourſelf. Beware! The more guilt you have committed, the more you will be driven to commit. Turn back! You are in a dreadful path! It is unworthy of you, Mr. Clifton! It is unworthy of you!

I inſtantly withdrew, and was follow⯑ed by Mrs. Wenbourne, who began to expreſs ſomething like blame of the po⯑ſitive manner in which I had ſpoken, and the high language I had uſed to Lord Fitz-Allen; but it was too feeble to incite an anſwer in my then ſtate of mind. I requeſted ſhe would order her carriage, and ſet me down. She aſked if I would not firſt pay my reſpects to my uncle. I anſwered yes, when my un⯑cle ſhould be more deſerving of reſpect. [77] She ſaid I was a ſtrange young lady. I replied I ſincerely hoped there were many young ladies ſtranger even than I.

She took offence at theſe retorts upon her words, and I perceived that, though the ſpirit of my anſwer was right, the manner was wrong; and explained and apologiſed as became me. She was ap⯑peaſed, and when the carriage came again aſked if I would not go with her to take leave. I anſwered I imagined my uncle would be glad to wave the ce⯑remony; and, as I thought he had acted very improperly, curtſying and taking leave would but be practiſing the cuſ⯑tomary hypocriſy of our manners, which I hoped I ſhould on all occaſions have the firmneſs to oppoſe.

Accordingly my aunt went herſelf; [78] and his lordſhip, ſtill preſerving his dig⯑nity, pretended to forbid me his pre⯑ſence, till I better underſtood what was due to the relationſhip and rank in which he ſtood. This my aunt re⯑ported, and I returned no anſwer, but left her to make her own reflections.

Thus ended this painful interview—Tell me, what ought I to think? What can be the purport of a conduct ſo very wrong? Such a ſtring of falſehoods! How different would the behaviour of Mr. Clifton have been, had not con⯑ſcious criminality oppreſſed and chained up his faculties! Such perſiſtence in du⯑plicity muſt have ſome end in view. Could I conſent to marriage, which is now utterly impoſſible, he has certainly no ſuch meaning. If he had he could [79] not have written, he could not have act⯑ed as he has done; and even leſs in this laſt inſtance ſince his writing than be⯑fore, for he could not but know that, though he could appear this generous man of honour to Lord Fitz-Allen, he muſt ſtand detected by me. It was not poſſible he ſhould ſuppoſe otherwiſe.

Well! Let him mean me all the harm he pleaſes; only let me find ſome opportunity of convincing him what a depraved, unmanly, trivial turn his mind has taken, and let me but give it a different bent, and I will willingly ſuffer all he ſhall have the power to inflict. I do not find myſelf, Louiſa, diſpoſed to ſtand in that dread of baſeneſs and vio⯑lence which they generally inſpire. Virtue is not a paſſive but an active [80] quality; and its fortitude is much more potent than the raſh vehemence of vice.

Adieu, dear Louiſa. Peace and feli⯑city guard you!

LETTER CIV.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

THANK you, Fairfax, for your ſpeed and precautions, which I muſt re⯑queſt you not to ſlacken. Do not let the lad eſcape you: his appearance here would be ruin. Let but my grand ſcheme be completed, and then I care [82] not though the legions of hell were to riſe, and mow and run a tilt at me. I would face their whole fury. The ſcene would delight me. Let them come all! I burn to turn upon and rend them! The more deſperate the more grateful.

I told you, Fairfax, ſhe hated me! I have it now from her own mouth! She feels I am become her foe! My hand is already upon her! My deepeſt darkeſt thoughts of vengeance do not exceed her imagination.

And yet ſhe fears me not! Her words, her looks, her geſtures are all cool, firm defiance! She is a miracle, Fairfax! A miracle! But I will over⯑match her. A heroine! She would have unhorſed Orlando himſelf, had ſhe [83] lived in the times of the knights Pa⯑ladin.

I am an inſufferable booby, an eternal lunatic, for having firſt thought of quar⯑relling with her. But it is too late! I might have foreſeen the advantages I give a woman like her. She openly, magnanimouſly tells me what my in⯑tents are, and then ſpurns at them. She keeps her anger under indeed, but does not repreſs its energy; a proof of the ſubjection in which ſhe holds her paſ⯑ſions. She once endeavoured to teach me this art, would I but have liſtened. But that is paſt!

I could not have thought it was in wo⯑man! The poor, wailing, watery-eyed beings I had before encountered would not ſuffer me to ſuppoſe a female could [84] poſſeſs the high courage of the daring, noble mind. Never but one ſhort mo⯑ment did I overtop her: nor are there any means but thoſe I then uſed. In⯑ſpire her with the dread of offending what ſhe thinks principle, and ſhe be⯑comes a coward!

But I will rouſe! I will ſoar above her, will ſubdue her, will have her proſ⯑trate in humble ſubmiſſion, or periſh! In the preſence of witneſſes I feel I can⯑not ſucceed; but ſingly, face to face, paſſion to paſſion, and being to being, diſtinct and eminent as ſhe ſtands above all woman-kind, I will yet prove to her ſhe is not the equal of the man Clif⯑ton.

She herſelf has even thrown the gauntlet. I have had ſuch a ſcene with [85] her! A public exhibition! I cannot re⯑late the manner of it. I dare not truſt my brain with the full reminiſcence.

Why did I quarrel with her? She meant me well—Tortures!—I am a lu⯑natic to teaſe myſelf with ſuch recollec⯑tions. This is a damned, wrong▪head⯑ed, ignorant, blundering, vile world▪ and I cannot ſee my way in it. I ſhould have had no ſuſpicion that it is all this but for her.

That Henley ſhall never have her! I'll murder him firſt! Though the bot⯑tomleſs pit were to gape and ſwallow me, he ſhall not have her! The con⯑temptible buzzard, Sir Arthur, is now completely veered about. But in vain! It ſhall not be! By hell it ſhall not!

This fellow, this Henley muſt ſome [86] how or other be diſpoſed of. The con⯑tempt of the arrogant peer, her uncle, will harm him but little; for the lord, with all his dignity, is no match for the plebeian.

Neither will his lordſhip haſtily ſeek another combat with his niece. The only advantage I have, in ſo inſignifi⯑cant an ally, is that of hereafter making ſuſpicion alight on Henley, and not on me; for I mean to carry them both off, Henley and Anna. I know not where or how I ſhall yet diſpoſe of them, but there is no other mode of accompliſhing vengeance. They muſt be confined too. I care not how deſperate the means! I will not retract! They ſhall be taught the danger of raiſing up an enemy like me! I will have them at my feet! Will [87] ſeparate them! Will glut my revenge, and do the deed that ſhall prevent their ever meeting more, except perhaps to reproach each other with the madneſs of having injured, aggravated, and defied a Clifton!

My whole days are dedicated to this ſingle object. I have been riding round the ſkirts of this ſhapeleſs monſter of a city, on all ſides, in ſearch of lonely te⯑nantleſs houſes; ſome two of which I mean to provide with inhabitants. I have met with more than one that are not ill ſituated.

But I want agents! Deſperados! Hungry and old traders in violence! I care not where I go for them; have them I will, though I ſeek them in the purlieus of infamy and deteſtation. To [88] ſucced by any other means is impoſſible. She will not admit me in the ſame apart⯑ment with herſelf, nor I believe in the ſame world, had ſhe the power to ex⯑clude me.

I met her indeed at Lord Fitz-Al⯑len's, where the ſcene above-mentioned paſſed; but it was a plan concerted with his lordſhip, which ſhe eaſily detected, and publicly reproached him with his duplicity. I gloried to hear her; for ſhe had not injured him. A poor com⯑pound of pride and ſelfiſhneſs! Incapa⯑ble of underſtanding the worth of ſuch a niece! But ſhe made him feel his own inſignificance.

Henley and ſhe are now never aſun⯑der. I have mentioned the maid Laura to you. She tells me they have long [89] converſations in the morning, long walks in the afternoon, and at night they have neither of them the power to riſe and ſeparate. But I will come upon them! My ſpirit at preſent is haunting them, never leaves them, girds at and terrifies them at every inſtant, during their amo⯑rous dalliance! I know it does! They cannot get quit of me! I am with them, weighing them down, convulſing them! They feel they are in my gripe!—Hah! The thought is heart's eaſe.

When there is no company, and when Sir Arthur is not ſitting with them, this maid, Laura, has that honour. Whence it appears that even theſe immaculate ſouls have ſome dread of ſcandal.

And who is it inſpires that dread? It is I! They ſeem to have diſcovered [90] that all circumſtances, all incidents wear a double face; and that I am the ma⯑lignant genius who can make which he pleaſes the true one—Yes! I am with them! I ſend the Incubus that hag⯑rides them in their dreams! They gaſp and would awake, but cannot!

Why could ſhe not have beſtowed all this affection upon me? Why could ſhe not? I once thought a woman might have loved me!—But it ſeems I was miſtaken—The things that go by the general name of woman might; but when I came to woman herſelf, ſhe could not, though ſhe tried.

Would I were any where but in this infernal gloom! It is a deteſtable coun⯑try! This town is one everlaſting fog, and its inhabitants are as cloudy as its [91] ſkies! Every man broods over ſome ſo⯑litary ſcheme of his own, avoids human intercourſe, and hates to communicate the murk of his mind. I am in a wil⯑derneſs. I fly the herd, and the herd flies me. We paſs and ſcowl enmity at each other, for I begin to look with ab⯑horrence on the face of man. There is not a ſingle gleam of cheerfulneſs around me. The ſun has not once ſhone ſince the day of my diſappointment, which was itſelf thick darkneſs.

Would I could getrid of myſelf!—I am going to take a ride, and make a ſecond examination of a large lonely houſe be⯑yond Knightſbridge. It lies to the left, and is at a ſufficient diſtance from the road. I think it will ſuit my purpoſe. I muſt not have far to convey them; [92] and Laura informs me their walks are moſt frequently directed through Hyde-Park, and among the fields at the back of Brompton.

I muſt be as quiet and appear as lit⯑tle myſelf as poſſible; for which reaſon I ride without a ſervant. And though I have been induſtrious in reading adver⯑tiſements, and getting intelligence of empty houſes, I have not ventured to enquire perſonally. Laura attends them in their walks; but ſhe is ſecure.

They muſt both be ſeized at the ſame time, and in a manner that ſhall fruſtrate all reſearch. It will then be concluded they have gone off together. He is a powerful fellow, a dangerous fellow, and I muſt be well provided. He ſhall ne⯑ver have her, Fairfax! I would die upon [93] the wheel, hang like a negro, and parch alive in the ſun ere he ſhould have her!

P. S. All ſociety is become odious to me, but chiefly that ſociety which I am obliged to frequent. This uncle Fitz-Allen, aunt Wenbourne, and brother Edward are three ſuch poor beings, and the cenſures they paſs on a woman who is of an order ſo much above them are ſo vapid, ſo ſelfiſh, or ſo abſurd, that it is nauſeating to ſit and liſten to them. Yet theſe are the animals I am obliged to court! Hypocriſy is a damned trade, Fairfax; and I will have full vengeance for having been forced upon ſuch a practice. The only preſent relief I have is to make the arrogant peer foam [94] with the idea of his relationſhip to a gar⯑dener's ſon. This would be an exqui⯑ſite pleaſure, but that it is millions of times more maddening to me than to him!

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

ABIMELECH is come up to town. I am obliged very reſpectfully to call him Mr. Henley when Sir Ar⯑thur hears me, in compliance to his feelings: and he has hinted that hereafter, when his name is written, it muſt be tagged with an eſquire.

[96] The old miſer [Well, Louiſa, let it be the old gentleman] is ſo eager in purſuit of his project that he can take no reſt, and is unwilling Sir Arthur ſhould take any. He has a prodigious quantity of cunning! Whatever he may know of the theory of the paſſions as a general ſubject, no perſon certainly knows better how to work upon the paſ⯑ſions of Sir Arthur: at leaſt no perſon who will condeſcend to take ſuch an advantage. His diſcourſe is ſuch a con⯑tinued mixture of Wenbourne-Hill, his money, mortgages, grottos, groves, the wherewithals, and the young gentleman his ſon, that laughter ſcarcely can hold to hear him. Were the thing practica⯑ble, he would render Frank Henley him⯑ſelf ridiculous.

[97] It is pleaſant to remark what a check the preſence of this favourite ſon is upon his loquacity. He never ſuſpects the poſſibility of there being a mortal ſupe⯑rior to himſelf at other times; whereas he has then a latent conſciouſneſs of his own ridicule. The effect which the ab⯑ſence of Frank has produced, with the favour he is in with me, and the reſo⯑lute manner in which he conquered his father when he laſt went down to Wen⯑bourne-Hill, have made a total change in the old man's behaviour to this for⯑merly neglected but now half adored ſon. Were habits ſo inveterate capable of being eradicated, Frank would yet teach him virtue; but the taſk is too difficult.

He is certainly in a moſt delicious [98] trance. His ſon to be married to the daughter of his maſter! That maſter a baronet! And the eſtates of that baronet to be his own, as he ſuppoſes, to all eter⯑nity. For the avaricious dreams of ſelfiſhneſs are ſatisfied with nothing leſs. Theſe are joys that ſwell and enlarge even his narrow heart, into ſomething that endeavours to mimic urbanity.

Whenever Sir Arthur mentions Lord Fitz-Allen, or the family conſent, ho⯑neſt Aby in a moment conjures up Wen⯑bourne-Hill, a hermitage, and a wil⯑derneſs; and for the firſt day, if he found that doſe not ſtrong enough to produce its effect, forecloſures were add⯑ed to the mixture. Your own heart, Louiſa, will tell you what Frank's feel⯑ings were at ſuch a mean menace; and, [99] though to ſtop his garrulity entirely was not in the power of man, he determined to ſilence him on that ſubject. But the cunning Abimelech turned even this in⯑cident to advantage, by taking care to inform Sir Arthur of Frank's generoſity.

Thus, Louiſa, things are at preſent in a train which ſome months ago I ſhould indeed very little have expected. But ſuch are the energies of virtue! How changed at preſent do all ſurrounding objects ſeem! To me they were never dark; but they were not always plea⯑ſant. They are now all cheerfulneſs and perſpicacity. We have the moſt charming walks and the moſt delightful converſations, Louiſa; and on ſubjects ſo expanſive, ſo ſublime—! Often do I ſay—‘Why is my friend not with us? [100] Why does ſhe not come and bear her part in diſcuſſion? She whoſe mind is ſo penetrating and whoſe thoughts are ſo grand?’ But we ſhall meet! Days and years of happineſs are before us! The proſpect is rapture! Yes, Lou⯑iſa, we ſhall meet, and I hope quickly!

LETTER CVI.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

JOIN chorus and rejoice with me, Fairfax, for I feel ſomething like a tran⯑ſient hilarity of heart. I think I am half in a temper to tell my tale as it ought to be told. Time was when it would have been pregnant with humour.

The very maſter-devil that I wanted [102] has appeared to me, and we have ſigned and conſigned ourſelves over to the great work of mutual vengeance! Be patient and you ſhall hear the manner of it.

Two nights ago I was at the theatre. The king was there; Garrick played; the crowd was great, and no places were to be procured. During the firſt act I and two more ſtood elbowing each other at the door of one of the front boxes, the ſeats of which were all full. The perſon who was next me was hard-fa⯑voured, had a look of audacious impu⯑dence, with that mixture of dreſs which forms the vulgar genteel, and ſpoke the brogue.

The act being over the audience roſe, and my gentleman, with the noncha⯑lance [103] aſſurance of his character, a total diſregard of the feelings and conveni⯑ence of others, and an entire complai⯑ſance for his own, ſtepped forward into the ſecond ſeat from the door, on which there were previouſly four people, its full compliment. But he had noticed they were not all ſo athletic as himſelf, and was determined to make them ſit cloſe.

The perſons next him, obſerving his redoubtable look, heſitated for a mo⯑ment, but at length began to remon⯑ſtrate. They addreſſed him two or three times without his deigning to appear to hear them; till, either encouraged by his ſilence or warmed by vexation, they ſpoke loud enough to call the attention of the people around them.

[104] The Hibernian then ſat himſelf down, threw his arm over the railing of the box, and his body in a careleſs poſture, and very coolly anſwered—‘Pray now be aſy, and don't diſturb the good company.’

A ſquabble enſued, and the Iriſhman continued to anſwer them with the ut⯑moſt contempt. In a ſhort time two of them gained courage enough to threaten to turn him out; to which he replied—‘Oh! By the ſweet Jaſus but I ſhould be glad to ſee the pretty boy that would dare to lay a little finger upon me!’

After another wrangle, and treating their reaſonings and half menaces with the moſt contemptuous diſregard, a gen⯑tleman from the next box interfered, [105] and obſerved it certainly was very im⯑proper behaviour. The Iriſhman turned round, ſurveyed him from head to foot, and anſwered—‘I find you have all got your quarrelling tackle on board to night; and ſo as I muſt fight ſome⯑body, and as you, miſter, appear to be the moſt of a gintleman, why I will talk to you when the play is over. For which raiſon ſit down, and make all yourſelves aſy.’

The beginning of the ſecond act and the impatience of the houſe to hear their favourite ſoon impoſed ſilence, and the Iriſhman kept his ſeat.

I was ſo much diverted by the com⯑plete impudence of the fellow, that though one of the box-keepers had found me a place, I determined to re⯑turn, [106] and ſee how this petty brawl was to end. Accordingly I took care to be round in time, before the curtain drop⯑ped; till which the hero of it had kept quiet poſſeſſion of his uſurped ſeat.

The moment the audience roſe he turned about, and with a look which I imagine no man but himſelf could aſ⯑ſume, firſt on this ſide of him and next on that, addreſſed his opponents with—‘Now if any of you are ſtill diſordered in the body, and want to loſe a little blood, why follow me.’

The two perſons that ſat next to him were both Jews, and one of them who appeared to have the moſt ſpirit had a knotted crab-ſtick in his hand, and in⯑ſiſted that the Iriſhman ſhould not leave the company, till he had firſt given ſa⯑tisfaction [107] for the inſult he had committed on them all. The Hibernian replied—‘All? Is it all together you mane, or one after another? Perhaps you don't underſtand the tools of a gintle⯑man, and want to box me! Faith and I ſhould have no great objection to that either, with any half dozen of you, one down and t'other come on. But you muſt uſe no unlawful wea⯑pons, my ſweet fillow.’

So ſaying, he wreſted the Jew's crab⯑ſtick from him, laid hold of it at each end, and ſnapped it in two acroſs the railing of the box; adding with infi⯑nite compoſure of countenance—‘This is an improper plaything for you, maſter Jackey, and you might do yourſelf a damage with it. Here is [108] half a crown for you. Take it, man, and buy yourſilf a genteel bit of rat⯑tan, to beat the little pug dogs away, when they bark after you in the ſtreet.’

Inſolent as the fellow was, there was no reſiſting his humour, and the laugh was general. The vexed Iſraelite en⯑deavoured to perſiſt, and the Iriſhman drew a dirty letter out of his pocket, from the back of which he tore the di⯑rection, and giving it to the angry Jew, ſaid—‘If you have any ſtomach for a good breakfaſt tomorrow morning, I ſhall be at home; and the hot rolls and butter will be ready at ten.’

He then ſtrode over the ſeats and went into the lobby, where he was fol⯑lowed by the crowd.

[109] My curioſity was highly excited, and I requeſted the Jew to let me read his addreſs.

Imagine, Fairfax, my ſurpriſe at ſee⯑ing the name of Mac Fane! That is, of the gambler and bully who ſome time ago had been attempting to plunder brother Edward; and who had been ſo ſucceſsfully oppoſed by the family knight-errant, Henley! Among the buſy conjectures of my fermenting brain concerning the inſtruments I might hap⯑pen to want, ſhould things as they have done come to an extremity, the ſuppoſed qualifications of this hero had more than once paſſed in review. The behaviour to which I had this evening been a wit⯑neſs perfectly confirmed all my former conjectures, which I inſtantly recol⯑lected; [110] I therefore determined not to loſe ſight of him.

Before I knew who he was I had been glad to ſee the ſquabble continued, be⯑cauſe it drew out the ſtrong traits of this very eccentric genius; but I grew im⯑patient to put an end to it the moment I had made the diſcovery.

The thing was not difficult. His character was too deſperate and deter⯑mined not to inſpire fear; and the hu⯑mour of his phraſeology and brogue made the laugh always on his ſide. The paſſions of his opponents counteracting each other died away. The farce was going to begin, and he adviſed them to ‘go, and not loſe full eighteen penny⯑worth out of their five ſhillings.’

Finding the morſel was too hard for [111] their digeſtion, they took his advice and returned quietly to their ſeats: while he ſeveral times traverſed the lobby, and looked firſt into one box and then into another, to let them ſee that there he was.

My reſolution was formed, and I ſoon found an opportunity of falling into con⯑verſation with him; and as I took care that my tone ſhould anſwer the intended purpoſe, he preſently invited me to ad⯑journ, and take what he called a bottle and a bird at the Shakeſpeare.

The propoſal exactly ſuited me, and away we went.

He called for a private room, which I ſhould have done if he had not, though with a very different view. My appear⯑ance made him hope he had caught a [112] gudgeon. He preſently began to turn the diſcourſe upon various kinds of gaming. Billiards, tennis, hazard, and paſs-dice, were each of them mentioned; and, to encourage him, I gave him to underſtand I knew them all. He then talked of cards, and aſked if I had any objection to take a hand at picquet; ‘juſt to paſs away an hour before ſup⯑per.’ I anſwered none.

Accordingly the waiter was rung for, and the cards were preſently upon the table.

He propoſed playing for a trifle; from one guinea to five; not more; ‘becaſe as why, he was tied up from deep play. He had loſt five thouſand pounds within ſix weeks, and they had had a pretty pigeon of him!’— [113] [Had you but ſeen the form and fea⯑tures of this pigeon, Fairfax!] ‘For which raiſon he muſt take care and not be plucked any more. It was the misfortune of his timper not to know when to ſtop; and there was not ſo unlucky a fillow in the three kingdoms. He was always the bubble, play at what he would, and every ſnap-jack knew him to be his mark.’

Such was the leſſon which this fellow had got by rote, and had been retailing to all comers for years. But I have obſerved of gamblers that they cannot forbear rehearſing their own cant even in the company of each other, and when they are convinced every ſoul that hears them knows they are lying.

I however had my purpoſe to ſerve, [114] and we ſat down to our game. The ſtakes were five guineas a ſide. Ac⯑cording to cuſtom, I won the three or four firſt games; and he pretended to curſe, and fret, and again ran over his bead-roll of being pigeoned, plucked bare, bubbled, done up, and the whole catalogue of like genteel phraſes.

The firſt game he won he propoſed, as luck was perhaps taking a turn in his favour, to double the ſtakes, and I in⯑dulged him. He ſuffered me to win the following game. I ſay ſuffered, cheating being taken into the account; for I am certain that at the fair game I am his maſter. But that is no mat⯑ter.

The three following games were all his own, and he then began to repeat [115] the remainder of his part. ‘By the bliſſed Jaſus he would not believe his own eyes! Three games together!’ The fellow ſwore, with one of the deep⯑eſt oaths his memory could furniſh, ſuch a thing had never happened to him be⯑fore in his whole life! ‘But now that he was in luck, he would as ſoon play for a hundred guineas as for a thir⯑teener.’

He endeavoured to provoke me to in⯑creaſe the ſtake; and, by the ſupper not coming up, I am convinced the waiter and he underſtood each other, and that the ſignal had been given. I refuſed to play for a greater ſum, and we continued till he had won fifty guineas, he inceſ⯑ſantly ſwearing—‘By the bliſſed crook! By the hind leg of the holy lamb! [116] By Saint Peter's pretty beard!’ and by all manner of oaths, ſome of them of the moſt whimſical and others of the moſt horrible kind, that he had never been a winner ſo much before in all his life. From the firſt ten guineas that he won to the laſt it was ſtill the ſame tune.

I then rang the bell and ordered ſupper, thinking the ſum ſacrificed quite ſufficient; though not more than enough to ſerve my purpoſe.

While we were eating, he endea⯑voured by all the arts he knew to excite the paſſion of gaming in me; and he is a tolerable adept. But my mind was too intent upon another ſubject. I watched the moment when he was at the height of his hopes, which I had purpoſely en⯑couraged to produce my intended effect, [117] and then aſked him if he did not know Captain St, Ives?

Impudent as the fellow is, his counte⯑nance for a moment was fixed, his mouth open, and his eye ſtruggling to get rid of alarm, that it might begin its enqui⯑ries. I followed up my blow by adding—

You won three thouſand guineas of him I think, Mr. Mac Fane, which I am told were never paid—

The fellow put his hand into a ſide⯑pocket, which he had in the body of his coat. I inſtantly ſuſpected he had a ſmall pair of piſtols there, and my ſuſpi⯑cions were afterward confirmed. He drew it back, having ſatisfied himſelf that they were actually forth-coming, and then recovered himſelf ſo far as to aſk—

[118] Pray, ſir, are you acquainted with Captain St. Ives?—

I am, ſir, anſwered I—I likewiſe know Mr. Henley.

You do, ſir? ſaid the aſtoniſhed Mac Fane.

I do, ſir. I am intimate with Sir Arthur St. Ives, and he is the ſon of his gardener: a low fellow that acts as the baronet's man of all work; his ſteward, his overſeer, and his caſh-keeper.

This contempt thrown on the cha⯑racter of Henley gave the Iriſhman ſome relief. By the holy poker, ſaid Mac Fane, but I always thought he was a ſpalpeen, and no gintleman!

I think you have no great cauſe to like him much, ſir, continued I, from the account that I have heard.

[119] His choler began to riſe, and his eyes aſſumed an uncommon ferocity. Like him! Sweet Jaſus ſnatch me out of the world if I don't pay off an old ſcore with him yet, before I die.

I thought as much, ſir, anſwered I.

Sir! Replied he, again ſtaring with reviving alarm and ſuſpicion—

I continued.—To tell you the truth, Mr. Mac Fane, that is the very ſubject which brought you and I into company this evening. I ſuſpected your hate of Henley, and to be ſincere I hate him too.

Had you ſeen the fellow's face brighten, Fairfax, and after brightening begin to flame, you would not have rea⯑dily forgotten the picture.

But I am rather ſurpriſed to meet you in public, ſir, added I.

[120] What do you mane by that, ſir?

I thought you deemed it prudent to keep out of the way, on account of that affair?

I felt ſome gratification in playing thus upon his fears—He now once more put his hand into his ſide-pocket, and pulling out his piſtols laid them before him. By Jaſus, ſir, I don't very well know what you would be at! But when I underſtand the full tote of your queſtions, I ſhall know how to give an anſwer.

I could not very well digeſt this ob⯑lique menace; but to have quarrelled with ſuch a raſcal would in every ſenſe have been madneſs. You have a well⯑mounted pair of piſtols there, ſaid I, Mr. Mac Fane. I'll bet you the fifty gui⯑neas, [121] double or quit, I break this china plate at the firſt ſhot, ten paces diſ⯑tant.

By the great grumbler, anſwered he, but I'll bet you don't! immediately delivering me one piſtol, and taking up and unlocking the other himſelf. Ac⯑cordingly I placed the plate againſt the wall, fired, and was not far from the centre. Upon my honour and ſoul, ſir, ſaid Mac Fane, but I find you are a good ſhot, and I ſhall be glad to be bet⯑ter acquainted with you.

Having convinced him that I could hit a mark as well as himſelf, I returned to the ſubject of Henley; and though I could not bring him to be explicit, I learned from him that he was acquainted with Henley's averſion to proſecute, but [122] does not know on what that averſion is founded. Beſide which he confides in a want of witneſſes, as I could perceive: except that he has ſome fear of his ac⯑complice, Webb; a man in whoſe com⯑pany this very Mac Fane once attempted to rob Sir Arthur, and whom I ſuſpect he would impeach, but that it would ruin all his gambling views. For he has found means of aſſociating with that whole claſs of young fools of fortune, whoſe perverted education leads them to take pleaſure in the impudence and hu⯑mour of ſuch a fellow, as well as in ſee⯑ing each other ſtripped and ruined by turns; but who would never admit him as a companion, did they know he had been guilty of an act ſo deſperate as that of going on the highway. Scarcely any [123] thing ſhort of this can expel ſuch a fel⯑low from ſuch ſociety.

But though he thinks himſelf ſecure in conſequence of the lenity of Henley, he hates him as ſincerely as if he were purſuing him to the gallows. The loſs of the three thouſand guineas is one great motive; and another is that he felt he was out-braved by Henley, whom he could not terrify, but who on the con⯑trary terrified him.

I found he had even formed a ſcheme of petty vengeance, which was to waylay Henley with ſome bruiſing fellows of his acquaintance, for he is acquainted with daring villains of all deſcriptions, one of whom was to inſult, provoke him to fight, and beat him, while Mac Fane [124] himſelf ſhould keep at ſome diſtance, diſguiſed.

It was with ſome difficulty I could perſuade him to deſiſt from this plan, and join in projects of my own. But at laſt however he was convinced that to rob him of his miſtreſs, and awaken him from all his dreams of imaginary bliſs to the torture I am preparing, would be more effectual revenge than a paltry beating. Not to mention that I firmly believe, inſtead of being beaten, he would conquer the beſt prize-fighter they could bring; for he is really a pow⯑erful and extraordinary fellow.

But you will perceive, Fairfax, I was obliged to inform him of a part of my own views; and that I might fix him I [125] determined to bid high. I told him I had Henley and another perſon to ſe⯑cure; and that if he would aid me him⯑ſelf and provide other aſſiſtants to act under his directions, without ſeeing or being informed of me, I would give him a thouſand guineas as ſoon as all this ſhould be perfectly accompliſhed. And, as an earneſt of my generoſity, I put down the fifty guineas; ſaying that the wager I had made with him was not a fair one, for that it was fifty guineas to a ſtraw in my favour: he had no chance of winning.

He was quite ſatisfied with my offer, ſtrengthened as it was by the gratifica⯑tion of his own paſſions. I told him what a puiſſant hero Henely is, and of the neceſſity of coming upon him by [126] ſurpriſe. I told him I had ſeen a houſe, as before deſcribed, beyond Knightſbridge, which pleaſed me; but that I could not find another near enough, in which to ſecure Henley.

The geography of the place I men⯑tioned ſeemed to ſtart an idea in his mind, and he told me, if I would meet him in two days at the ſame tavern, he would in the mean time not only make prepa⯑rations and procure aſſiſtants, but per⯑haps bring me further intelligence. As the fellow's brain ſeemed buſy, I did not wiſh to rob him of the ſelf-ſatisfaction of invention, and we accordingly parted, making the appointment he pro⯑poſed.

Of all exiſting beings, he perhaps [127] was the only one who could in a country like this become the proper inſtrument of my revenge. And yet, Fairfax, he is a hateful fellow! His language, his looks, his manners, his paſſions, are all hateful! Courage excepted, there is not a ſingle trait in him but what is abo⯑minable! He delights in talking of hocking men, chalking them, and cut⯑ting them down! Every time his anger riſes againſt any one, theſe are its atten⯑dant ideas. Such a fellow muſt come to ſome tragical end. He can never die of old age, and ſcarcely of diſeaſe. No⯑thing but the lead and ſteel in which he delights can end him.

So it is, and I have no remedy. But he ſhall be to me no more than an im⯑plement, [128] with which I will carve the coming banquet.

How minute are the chances and events on which we depend! A few ſlight alterations of incident, and how dif⯑ferent would have been the train of my thoughts! She might have been happy with me, for I loved her, Fairfax. I loved her. I feel it more and more; and were but circumſtances a little more ſavourable, I believe I ſhould turn about and take a contrary path.

But it cannot be! The barrier is in⯑ſurmountable! An adamantine wall, reaching to the ſkies! I remember what ſhe ſaid, at her proud uncle's ta⯑ble—‘I have an abhorrence, Mr. Clif⯑ton, of the errors in which you are [129] now indulging.’—Abhorrence was the word, Fairfax!—It has been at my tongue's end ever ſince—And when ſhe talked of my errors ſhe meant me.—‘I ultimately and determinedly renounce all thought of him!’—This was her language! I knew before which way her heart went; and can I ſuppoſe, now ſhe has got a fair excuſe, that ſhe will not profit by it? Oh no! I am not ſo ill read as that in the paſſions. But I have ſaid the word—They ſhall never come together!—They never never ſhall!

LETTER CVII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

I HAVE received your diſſuaſive epiſtle, Fairfax. It found me moody and did not contribute to make me merry. To own the truth, no ghoſt need riſe to tell me the methods I uſe are inclined to the violent. Can you find me better? Nay can you find any [131] other? I care not for conſequences; I brave them all.

Time was that I could have been happy with her! Ay and ſhould, but for this fiend Henley. He ſleeps ſe⯑curely! Let him ſleep on! I will ſoon awaken him!

I thought I ſhould have been tortured but by one chief paſſion, and that the love of vengeance would have enveloped me wholly: but they are all devouring me by turns. I certainly hate her, and him I abhor. Yet pictures of imaginary happineſs, that might have been, are continually riſing, and vaniſhing in gloomy regret. He too, at the very moment that I could murder him, I am obliged to admire!

Still he ſhall not have her! Though [132] death overtake him, her and me, he ſhall not have her! But what is death? A thing to covet, not to dread. 'Tis exiſtence only that is hateful!—Would that my bones were now moul⯑dering!—Why have I brains and nerves and ſenſibilities?—Oh that I were in the poiſonous deſert, where I might gulp mephitic winds and drop dead; or in a moment be buried in tornados of burn⯑ing ſand! Would that my ſcull were grinning there, and blanching; rather than as it is conſciouſly parching, ſcorched by fires itſelf has kindled!

P. S. I meant to notice that paſſage in your letter in which you mention Beaunoir; but I forgot it till this mo⯑ment. So you are at laſt inclined to think Anna St. Ives muſt be ſomething more than you every day meet, from [142] the rapturous deſcription of that rodo⯑montade Count? After all I have writ⯑ten, your faith wanted the ſeal of ſuch a lunatic? Had you forgotten that the time was when I would have married her? And did that ſay nothing?

The Count is preparing for England? Let him come! I remember one of his crazy phraſes and claims was that he would be her champion, ſhould ever baſe knight attempt to do her harm. Nor have I forgotten his intended viſit, received by Henley. May the winds ſet fair and blow him quickly over! Should he have any ſuch frolics in his brain, we ſhall not be long in coming to terms.

This Mac Fane is inceſſantly impor⯑tuning me to play, and what is ſtrange [143] has ſeveral times excited the deſire in me. I took up the dice box, after we had been to the mad-houſe, and threw half a dozen caſts at hazard; but I ſoon found it was in vain, and checked my⯑ſelf. I know I have the command of my own temper in that reſpect.

I have been reading over this tedious homily, and find it moſt ineffably dull. But what is to be done? My gaiety is gone. My high ſpirits are converted into black bile. My thoughts are hel⯑lebore and deadly night-ſhade, and hi⯑larity is for ever poiſoned.

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

HAVE I been unjuſt to the bro⯑ther of my friend? Or had my words the power over him to turn him from a guilty purpoſe?—Well; rather, ay in⯑finitely rather let me be a falſe accuſer than he culpable! He ſeeks me no more, offers not to moleſt me, and I [145] hope has forgotten me; at leaſt has ſeen the error of endeavouring to ac⯑compliſh a purpoſe ſo criminal by means ſo baſe. I expected ſtorms, but a ſweet calm has ſucceeded that ſeems to por⯑tend tranquillity and happineſs.

With reſpect to me and Frank, our union appears to be haſtening to a conclu⯑ſion. Sir Arthur, impelled forward by his hopes and fears, proceeds though re⯑luctantly to act contrary to the wiſhes of my arrogant uncle. Mrs. Wenbourne is diſſatisfied; but her oppoſition is fee⯑ble, for Edward is reconciled to the match; having no other motive but the acquiſition of a ſum of money for his conſent to dock the entail; and of the manner in which this ſum will be ſquan⯑dered [146] we have already had ſufficient proof.

I underſtand Lord Fitz-Allen affects to credit a report of a very ridiculous, though as ſome would think it of a very injurious nature; which is that there was a colluſion between Frank Henley and Mac Fane reſpecting my brother's gambling affair. The circumſtances neceſſary to render this probable are ſo violent as immediately to expoſe its ab⯑ſurdity, and to make it matter of amaze⯑ment how ſuch an aſſertion could be in⯑vented, or circulated.

What could be Frank's motive?—My wiſe uncle has his anſwer ready—‘That of impoſing upon the family in order to marry me.’

[147] And what Mac Fane's? "A bribe" is a ſhort phraſe, and ſoon ſaid.

I imagine it to be ſome dream of my uncle's, who has an aptitude for this kind of invention; and who having once put a few incidents together that ſeem to agree, perſuades himſelf with great faci⯑lity that the fable he has created is fact. Petty calumny like this is wholly inca⯑pable of moving Frank Henley.

The reſtleſs crafty Abimelech has pre⯑vailed on Sir Arthur to go down with him to Wenbourne-Hill. He well knows how much his own power will be increaſed by the old habits of Sir Ar⯑thur, and the eaſe with which they can be revived by this his intereſted abettor. Not but I am well convinced, when once every thing ſhall be ſettled, and he have [148] no longer any thing to fear from the op⯑poſition of Sir Arthur, he will be as little a friend to improving as any of us. Va⯑rious hints which have dropped from him would have proved this to Sir Ar⯑thur, had he not been blind enough to ſuppoſe that, he being a baronet, honeſt Aby is bound ever to remain his moſt obedient ſlave and ſteward; forgetting the proofs he has received that Abime⯑lech at preſent is more inclined to com⯑mand than to obey; and that when he parts with money he muſt have what he calls the whys and the wherefores.

His confidence in Frank however is now ſo entire that he has entruſted the tranſaction of certain money buſineſs to him, neceſſary on the preſent occaſion, which he came up purpoſely to nego⯑tiate [149] himſelf, but which he is now con⯑vinced can be done full as prudently and ſafely by his ſon. But a few months ago, Frank tells me, he petitioned this father in vain for thirty pounds, who now commits thouſands to his keeping.

Not but it is from a conviction that there is no propenſity in Frank to waſte one of thoſe guineas of which he is ſo enamoured. Without the leaſt love of money, Frank is a rigid economiſt. The father indulges no falſe wants be⯑cauſe it would be expenſive; the ſon has none to indulge. Habits which in the one are the fruits of avarice, in the other are the offspring of wiſdom.

Abimelech has ſome confuſed ſuſpi⯑cion that Frank acts from higher mo⯑tives than himſelf, and ſuch as he does [150] not underſtand; but ſtill he hopes they are all founded on his own favourite baſis, the love of hoarding. Nor can he very well perſuade himſelf that this love is not the grand mover with all men of ſenſe, among whom he now ranks his ſon high.

But ah, Louiſa, how different are the views of this worthy, this heavenly⯑gifted ſon! He is anxiouſly ſtudious to diſcover how he may apply the wealth that may revert to him moſt to benefit that ſociety from which it firſt ſprang. The beſt application of riches is one of our frequent themes; becauſe it will be one of our firſt duties. The diffuſion of knowledge, or more properly of truth, is the one great good to which wealth, genius, and exiſtence ought all to be ap⯑plied. [151] This noble purpoſe gives birth to felicity which is in itſelf grand, inex⯑hauſtible, and eternal.

How ineffable is the bliſs of having diſcovered a friend like Frank Henley, who will not only purſue this beſt of purpoſes himſelf, but will through life conduct me in the ſame path, will aid my efforts to promote the great work, and, by a combination of thoſe powers we happen to poſſeſs, will add energy to effort, and perhaps render it fifty fold more pervading and effective!

Huſband and wife, parent and child are ties which at preſent claim, or rather extort a part of our attention. But oh how poor how inſignificant are they, when compared to the claims of eternal juſtice; which bind man to man in equal [152] and impartial benevolence over the face of the whole earth, and render the wan⯑dering Arab, who is in need of aid or inſtruction from me, as truly my brother as the one my mother gave me.

I ſeem now but beginning the journey of life; and to have found a compa⯑nion, guide, and conſoler like Frank Henley is ſurely no common felicity! May the fates grant my Louiſa juſt ſuch another!

P. S. You do not think, Louiſa, no I am ſure you cannot think that all the ardour I felt for the recovery of a mind like Mr. Clifton's is loſt. Far, far otherwiſe! I ſtill hope to ſee him even more than my fondeſt reveries have ima⯑gined! [153] But I am not the agent; or at leaſt this is not the moment; or which is ſtill more probable no agent now is wanted. His mind has been obliged to enquire, and though paſſion may for a time ſuppreſs truth, its ſtruggles will be inceſſant; muſt be ſo in a mind of ſuch activity, and muſt at laſt be victorious. The grand enemy of truth is the torpid ſtate of error; for the beginning of doubt is always the beginning of diſco⯑very. Let us then continue to love this man of wonderful genius; not for what he is, but what he ſhall be.

LETTER CIX.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

OH, Oliver, how fair is the proſpect before me! How fruitful of felicity, how abundant in bliſs! Yes, my friend, jointly will we labour, your moſt wor⯑thy father, you, I, Anna, her friend, and all the converts we can make to truth, [155] to promote the great end we ſeek! We will form a little band which will daily increaſe, will ſwell to a multitude, ay till it embrace the whole human ſpe⯑cies!

Surely, Oliver, to be furniſhed with ſo many of the means of promulgating univerſal happineſs is no ſmall bleſſing. My feelings are all rapture! And yet if I know my heart, it is not becauſe I have gained a ſelfiſh ſolitary good; but becauſe I live in an age when light be⯑gins to appear even in regions that have hitherto been thick darkneſs; and that I myſelf am ſo highly fortunate as to be able to contribute to the great the uni⯑verſal cauſe; the progreſs of truth, the extirpation of error, and the general perfection of mind! I and thoſe dear [156] friends I have named; who are indeed dear becauſe of their ardent and uniform love of virtue!

Neither, Oliver, are all our hopes of Clifton loſt. Anna thinks, and ſo do I, that he has heard too much ever to forget it all: or rather that he has a mind ſo penetrating, and ſo eternally buſy, that, having been once led to enquire, it is ſcarcely in the power of accident wholly to impede the progreſs of en⯑quiry. And ſhould accident be favoura⯑ble, that progreſs would indeed be ra⯑pid! By his intercourſe with Anna his mind is become impregnated with the ſeeds of truth; and ſurely the ſoil is too rich for theſe ſeeds not to ſpring, bud, and bear a plenteous harveſt. Ay, Oli⯑ver, fear not. It is not the beauty of [157] the picture that ſeduces, but the laws of neceſſity, which declare the reſult for which we hope to be inevitable.

My preſent ſtate of happineſs meets ſome ſlight check from incidental cir⯑cumſtances, not in my power to guide. My father and Sir Arthur are doing what I believe to be a right thing, but from wrong motives. The prodigal Ed⯑ward, from a very different avarice of enjoyment, is eager to dock the entail. The ſum he is to receive will ſoon be ſquandered, and he will then be as eager to imagine himſelf treated with injuſ⯑tice; and will conceive himſelf left half to periſh with want, if his accuſtomed diſſipation be not ſupplied. But that it muſt not be. If we can teach him bet⯑ter we will; if not he muſt be left to [158] repine and accuſe, and we muſt patiently ſuffer the error which we cannot cure.

Lord Fitz-Allen indulges himſelf in thinking as much ill of me as he can, and in ſpeaking all he thinks. But this is indeed a trifle. I know that the miſtakes of his mind, ſituated as he is, are incurable; and to grieve or feel pain for what cannot be avoided is nei⯑ther the act of wiſdom nor of virtue.

LETTER CX.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

I DID not intend to have written again ſo ſoon, but an incident has occurred which perplexes all reaſoning upon it, and again engenders doubt. It relates to Clifton.

I laſt night attended Anna to Covent-Garden playhouſe, where about eight [160] o'clock I was obliged to leave her, hav⯑ing an appointment with ſome gentlemen in the city relative to my father's money affairs at that hour; which having ſet⯑tled it was agreed I ſhould return in the carriage for Anna, before the play was ended, to conduct her home. Accord⯑ingly having met my men of buſineſs, whom on Friday next I am to meet again to receive eight thouſand pounds, I drove back to Covent Garden.

It was then about ten o'clock. The coachman ſtopped at the Piazza. I alighted; but, as I was ſtepping out of the carriage, whom ſhould I ſee but the gambler and highwayman, Mac Fane, linked arm in arm with Mr. Clifton! I was ſtruck with amazement, as well I might be. A thouſand confuſed doubts [161] ſucceeded to each other, which I had neither time nor indeed power to un⯑ravel.

However it ſeemed to me almoſt im⯑poſſible that Mr. Clifton ſhould know the man, and ſuffer himſelf to be ſeen in public with ſuch a character. For certainly a want of ſelf-reſpect is not one of the habitual miſtakes of Mr. Clifton. I ſtopped ſome little time in this ſtate of perplexity, but at laſt con⯑cluded it would be highly culpable in me to leave Mr. Clifton ignorant of the character of his acquaintance. They had gone toward King-Street, and I haſtened after them.

I ſoon came up with them, and addreſſ⯑ing myſelf to Mr. Clifton, ſaid—‘Sir, [162] it is incumbent on me to inform you of a particular of which I imagine you are ignorant. The name of the man you are in company with is Mac Fane. You have heard his hiſtory. He is the gambler who endeavoured to defraud Captain St. Ives of three thouſand pounds.’

I have before acquainted thee, Oliver, of the ferocious character of this Mac Fane; of which I have now had further proofs. I had ſcarcely finiſhed my phraſe before he replied, with one of his accuſtomary oaths—‘You're a ſcoun⯑drel and a liar’—and immediately made a blow at me.

Being previouſly on my guard and watchful of his motions, I ſtepped quickly [163] back, and he miſſed me and reeled. This was in King-Street, where I overtook them.

I turned back, intending not to notice his inſult; but he was too much enraged to ſuffer me to eſcape, unleſs I had thought proper to run. He is a very muſcular fellow, and confident of his own ſtrength. No man could be more determined than I was to avoid ſo abſurd a conteſt, had it been poſſible; but it was not. He made ſeveral blows at me, two or three of which took effect, before I returned one of them. But finding that I muſt be obliged to beat him in order to get rid of him, and that there was abſolutely no other mode, I began my taſk with all neceſſary determination.

The mob collected apace, and we [164] were preſently ſurrounded by paſſengers, waiters, chairmen, footmen, hackney⯑coachmen and link-boys. It was a ſtrange diſguſting ſituation; but it did not admit of a remedy. This fellow, Mac Fane, has ſtudied the whole ſchool of aſſault, and is a practiſed pugiliſt. When I was a boy thou knoweſt, Oliver, and before thy worthy father had taught me better, I was myſelf vain of my ſkill and proweſs. I was not therefore the novice which he expected to have found. Not to mention, Oliver, that energy of mind, if it be real and true energy, is itſelf, without any ſuch contemptible knowledge, ſufficient to overcome the ſtrongeſt efforts of tyranny.

Of this I preſently made Mr. Mac Fane ſenſible. After the very firſt onſet, [165] he felt himſelf cowed; which increaſed his rage ſo much that he endeavoured to have recourſe to the moſt malignant and cruel expedients, to obtain victory. This obliged me to give him ſeveral hard and very dangerous blows, which I ſhould otherwiſe have been cautious of doing, and the effects of which he will for ſome time continue to feel.

He fought however with great obſti⯑nacy, and in a manner which proved how much his ambition was wounded by being conquered. The mob, as in all ſuch caſes, choſe different ſides; but much the greateſt part was for me. They ſeveral times ſaw the malicious and evil intentions of Mac Fane; and he once received a blow for them, from [166] one of the aſſiſtants, which made him more guarded.

It is delightful to the philoſopher to perceive how, even in error, juſtice ſtrug⯑gles to ſhew itſelf. Thoſe rules which are the laws of honour to the mob origi⯑nate in this noble principle: and never is the infraction of juſtice more danger⯑ous than at ſuch moments, when the mind is awakened to full exertion.

Still it was a painful and degrading ſituation! Wert thou ever at the mercy of a mob? Didſt thou ever feel the lit⯑tleneſs of thy own faculties, when ex⯑erted to make a confuſed multitude act rationally, at the very time that thou thy⯑ſelf wert apparently acting like a fool, or a madman? If ſo, Oliver, thou [167] canſt conceive ſomething of the con⯑tempt which I felt for myſelf, during this ſcene. Can a general, thinkeſt thou, if he be really a fit perſon to be a gene⯑ral, feel otherwiſe in the heat of battle? For I am miſtaken if armies of the beſt diſciplined men, brought into action, do not more or leſs become a mob. And added to this ſenſe of imbecility, what muſt the general's feelings be the next morning, when he goes to view the wretched ſcene of his own making? Does he go to view it, thinkeſt thou, or does he ſhun the ſight? If he go he is a fiend; and if he ſtay away he is worſe!

The battle being ended and the rage of Mr. Mac Fane, though perhaps in⯑creaſed, obliged to reſtrain itſelf, there [168] ſtood I, ſurrounded by my applauding admirers, ſuffering a thouſand ridiculous interrogatories, and confined to the ſpot for the want of clothes! My hat and coat I had committed to one perſon, and my watch and purſe to another; taking it for granted the latter would have been ſtolen from me if I had not, as was actually the fact, for my breeches pockets were turned inſide out. I had rightly concluded that the chances were more favourable in truſting to a perſon I ſhould ſelect, than to the honeſty of a mob in the confines of Covent-Garden.

I was fortunate: the whole of my moveables again made their appearance; and it gave me great pleaſure, becauſe I had truſted my purſe and watch to a poor fellow. The conſciouſneſs of his own [169] honeſty was a greater pleaſure to him than the recompenſe he received from me; though I thought it my duty to reward him liberally. Beſide he had ſeen me ill treated, and had conceived an affection for me, or more properly for the juſtice of my cauſe, and he re⯑joiced exultingly in my victory.

I eſcaped from the ſhouts and congra⯑tulations of my greaſy well-meaning companions as faſt as I could; and after a further delay of ſtepping into a coffee⯑houſe, to waſh and adjuſt my appearance as well as circumſtances would permit, I joined Anna, who began to be alarmed, the play being over and the houſe almoſt empty.

I ſaw no more of Clifton. But that [170] affords me no clue. If he were before unacquainted with Mac Fane, he would haſten from ſuch a companion with vex⯑ation and contempt: and if the contrary, his chagrin at being ſeen by me would equally induce him to ſhun us. Mind, as I have always remarked, Oliver, and as I have before reaſoned with thee re⯑lative to him, is ſlow in ridding itſelf of the habits of prejudice, even when pre⯑judice itſelf ſeems to have ceaſed.

'Tis true that conjectures diſadvanta⯑geous to Clifton have, when Anna and I were conſidering this incident, in⯑truded themſelves forcibly upon us: but they were only conjectures, and I hope ill founded. Indeed they are improba⯑ble; for Clifton could not knowingly [171] league himſelf with a man like Mac Fane, except for purpoſes too black or too deſperate for even paſſions ſo violent as his to entertain.

I know mind to be capable of aſto⯑niſhing miſtakes; nor can I pretend, when I recollect the proofs on record, to ſay what are the boundaries of error; nor indeed what are the boundaries of probability. But I think Clifton could not make himſelf the aſſociate of Mac Fane!

I ſhould pronounce more boldly ſtill, but that I cannot conceive how it was poſſible for a character ſo legible and groſs, as that of this gambler, to impoſe for a moment on Coke Clifton; ac⯑quainted as he is with the world, and [172] accuſtomed to detect and ſatirize what he underſtands to be abſurdity! I can only ſay, if he be proceeding in error ſo flagrant and deep as this, he is a man much to be feared, but more to be pi⯑tied.

LETTER CXI.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

AGAIN and again, Fairfax, this is an infernal world! A vile, diſguſting, deſpicable, beſotted aſs of a world! Exiſtence in it is not worth accepting; and the ſooner we ſpurn it from us the better we ſhall aſſert our claim to the [174] dignity and wiſdom of which it is deſti⯑tute.

How do I deſpiſe the blundering in⯑ſolent ſcoundrel with whom I am link⯑ed! How deſpicable am I to myſelf!

I laſt night met the fellow again at the Shakeſpeare. Of all his dirty qua⯑lities, not one of them is ſo tormenting as his familiar impudence! There is no repreſſing it except by cutting his throat; a buſineſs at which he is always alert. Nothing delights him ſo much as to talk of extinguiſhing men, tread⯑ing out their ſouls, feeding upon their life-time, and other ſtrange revolting phraſes, all of the ſame ſanguinary ſort.

Having conſulted with him concern⯑ing the ſeizure of Anna and Frank, and concluded that the affair ſhould be ended [175] as ſpeedily as poſſible, I wiſhed to have ſhaken him off and retired: but the thing was impracticable. I do not chooſe that my own carriage ſhould at⯑tend me on theſe expeditions; and as it was a rainy night, I knew the difficulty of getting a coach. I therefore ſtaid an hour till the entertainment ſhould be be⯑gun, and the Piazza probably more clear.

As there is no ſitting in his company without ſome ſpecies of gaming, for his whole converſation, that ſubject ex⯑cepted, conſiſts of oaths, duels, and the impudent ſcoundrels he has put out of the world, I took a few throws at hazard with him; and, as I was very careful to call for freſh dice and to watch his motions, I was a winner; hazard per⯑haps [176] being the faireſt of all games, if the dice be not foul. He ran over his uſual litany of being pigeoned, and about ten o'clock I left play, and de⯑termined to ſally forth; being appre⯑henſive of engaging too deeply at the game, if I ſtaid longer.

The moment we had deſcended the ſtairs he impudently laid hold of my arm. My blood boiled, Fairfax! Yet I was obliged to ſubmit.

This was not all! The precautions I had taken were but a kind of preſen⯑timent of the vexation that was prepar⯑ing for me. Juſt as we quitted the door of the tavern, who ſhould bolt upon us but the hated Henley! I ſhook with the broad ſhame! My teeth gnaſh⯑ed curſes! How willingly could I have [177] piſtoled him, Mac Fane, every being that eyed me, and ſtill more willingly myſelf!

But there was nothing for it but to walk on, and ſeem not to ſee him. He however would not ſuffer me to depart without a double doſe of damnation! The ſame infernal officiouſneſs, with which from the firſt moment he ſaw me to the laſt he has been ſeized, came upon him; and though I hurried through the Piazza to eſcape, like a perjurer from the pillory, he purſued us purpoſely to inform me I was in company with a raſ⯑cal, and to warn me of my danger.

I never can recollect my own ſitua⯑tion, without an impulſe to ſnatch up the firſt implement that would deprive me of a conſciouſneſs ſo deteſtable!

[178] The iraſcible fury of the bully rid me of my tormentor; he immediately aſ⯑ſaulted Henley, and I haſtened away from two beings ſo almoſt equally ab⯑horrent, but from cauſes ſo oppoſite.

On the following evening, having another appointment with the gambling raſcal, I took care to have a coach wait⯑ing, and to go muffled up and diſguiſed as much as poſſible. But for once my caution was ſuperfluous. No Mac Fane appeared.

Not knowing what had happened, and it being night, and I thus properly equipped, I reſolved to drive to his lodgings. Being there I ſent up my name, and was admitted to the bed⯑chamber of this doughty exterminator of men. If the temper of my mind [179] were not obnoxious to all cheerfulneſs, I could almoſt have laughed, the bully was ſo excellently beaten, mortified, and enraged! His head was bound up, his eyes were plaiſtered, his thumb ſprained, his body of all colours, and his mind as hotly fevered as Alexander's itſelf could have been, had Alexander been vanquiſhed at the battle of Iſſus!

His impatience to have Henley in his power is now almoſt phrenſy; and it will be phrenſy itſelf when he comes to find, as find he will, that though he can tie the hands of Henley his conqueſt muſt end there, and that the priſoner will ſtill defy and contemn his jailor. So would I have him. Henley, though I hate, I cannot but reſpect and ad⯑mire. [180] The other is a creature I deteſt myſelf for ever having known!

Yet who but he could have gratified the unabating burning paſſion of my heart? I feel, Fairfax, as if I had taken my leave of hope, joy, and human in⯑tercourſe! I have a quarrel with the whole race, for having been forced into exiſtence and into miſery! I have ſuf⯑fered an accumulation of diſgrace, for which I can never pardon myſelf! And ſhall I permit the authors of it to live undiſturbed in their inſult and triumph over me? No, by hell, come of me what will! Lower I cannot be in my own eſteem than I already am: tremble thoſe who made me ſo!

Beating has but rendered this raſcal [181] more impatient and active. Every thing is prepared. The houſe is hired, aired, and provided with a proper guardian. The madman keeper has all his implements ready. We have now only to watch and catch them at a pro⯑per diſtance from all ſuccour, to which in their amorous walks they have fre⯑quently ſtrayed.

Though even you, Fairfax, ſeem to diſapprove my conduct, I care not. Not to give yourſelf further trouble with what you call ſuch poſitive prudes might be a very good maxim for you, who love your eaſe too much ever to be ſen⯑ſible of the boiling emotions of a ſoul like mine! You are Guy Fairfax; I am Coke Clifton. Not but I ſhould have imagined the ſwelling volumes of [182] injuries I have communicated would have lighted up a ſympathetic flame of retributive vengeance even in you, which not all your phlegm could have quenched. But no matter—Though heaven, earth, and hell were to face me frowning, I would on! My purpoſe is fixed: let it but be accompliſhed, and conſequences to myſelf will be the leaſt of all my cares.

LETTER CXII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

SINCE the world began, never yet had ſcoundrel wight ſo many damning acceſſary incidents to contend with, as I have had during the whole progreſs of this affair! All hell ſeems buſy to blacken me!—I have done the deed—They are ſecure—But the hour of exul⯑tation [184] itſelf is embittered, and the legiti⯑mate triumph of vengeance made to wear the face of baſeneſs—I have them; but as I tell you there is an event, that happened the very moment preceding the ſeizure, which ſeems to have been contrived by the moſt malignant of the fiends of darkneſs, purpoſely to ſteep me in guilt indelible!

After our myrmidons had been three days in vain upon the watch, on Friday laſt Anna and Henley ſallied forth, about two in the afternoon, to take one of their amorous rambles. As uſual they were followed by Laura, who had ſent me word of their intention, which ſhe had learnt at breakfaſt time. Henley it ſeems had previouſly been into the city.

[185] A ſcout was on the watch, and when they appeared ſoon brought the intelli⯑gence. All was in readineſs. The keeper with three ſtout fellows in one party, and Mac Fane with four more in another. The earlineſs of their ſetting out denoted they intended to lengthen their walk. The great danger was that it ſhould have been directed to Kenſington Gar⯑dens, as it has been ſeveral times lately; but in this inſtance fortune was on our ſide.

They went into the park, paſſed the gardens, walked beſide the wall, croſſed the Kenſington road, and ſtrayed exactly as we could have wiſhed into the fields inclining toward Brompton.

I was on horſeback, and by the help [186] of a pocket teleſcope kept them in view, without the danger of being ſeen, while they were in the park; but as ſoon as they had left it I thought it neceſſary to ſpur on, and be ready to prevent any blunders. I croſſed the road down the lane at the turnpike, paſſed them, and ſaw them arm in arm. The ſight was inſupportable!

From what afterward happened they muſt have ſeen me too, though I ima⯑gined myſelf under cover of the hedge.

You know my determination not to be robbed; and indeed robbery at ſuch a time, and in ſuch a place, was a thing I had little reaſon to expect. But a fel⯑low, who was lying in ambuſh at the turn of the lane, calculated differently. [187] He imagined nobody to be near, and ſuddenly preſented himſelf and his piſtol, with a demand of my money.

I made a blow at him with the butt end of my whip, which miſſed his head, but fell on his ſhoulder. My horſe ſtarted, he fired and miſſed, but ſprung ſuddenly forward, and ſeized hold of the bridle. He had another piſtol which he was pre⯑paring, imagining I ſhould be more in⯑timidated when I found him ſo deſpe⯑rate. All this happened immediately after I had paſſed Anna and Henley; and the latter perhaps having ſeen the fellow, and certainly having heard the piſtol, flew in an inſtant, leaped the hedge, and juſt as the robber was again preſenting his piſtol made a blow, and knocked it out of his hand.

[188] The piſtol went off, and the fellow took to his heels. Henley, inſtead of purſuing him, ſtayed to enquire with much earneſtneſs whether I had received any hurt.

At this very damning ſpeck of time, Fairfax, the keeper and his ſcoundrels who had been dogging them came up. There were four of them: two be⯑fore and two behind. The undaunted Henley ſeverally knocked down the two fellows in front, and in an inſtant would undoubtedly have been far enough out of all reach; but, in the very act of ſtriking the ſecond raſcal, he received a blow from a bludgeon, dealt by the blood-hound keeper, which levelled him with the earth.

Never did my heart feel a twinge [189] like that moment! I thought he was dead! He lay motionleſs; notwithſtand⯑ing which the infernal keeper continued his occupation with unconcern, turned the unreſiſting body over, ſlipped on the ſtraight waiſtcoat, and bound down his arms.

At length he gave a groan! The in⯑ſtant I heard it I galloped off, full ſpeed. It was too much for heart to endure!

I ſoon afterward heard him ſhout for aid more than once, but to this they preſently put a ſtop, by forcing a gag into his mouth. They were not very far diſtant from the houſe where he was to be confined, and to which he was immediately hurried away.

There he at preſent remains. His morning dialogues, his noon-day walks, [190] and his nightly raptures are ended. They are things paſt, never more to return! Of that torment at leaſt I have rid myſelf; and others compared to that are bliſs ineffable! I had ſworn it ſhould not be! They might have read the oath largely written on my brow, and ought inſtinctively to have known it to be the decree of fate!

No, Fairfax! I never aſked a favour from him; never by my own conſent received one! Not all the tortures of all the tyrants the earth ever beheld ſhould have extorted a conſent ſo de⯑grading! His repeated interference was but a repetition of inſult, and as ſuch de⯑ſerves only to be remembered. I aſked not life at his hands; and giving life, inſtead of a bleſſing, he did but give [191] torture! The gift was deteſtable and the giver! Had I periſhed, he might have been ſafe and I at reſt. I aſked not charity of him. No! On any terms I abhor exiſtence; but on thoſe, darkneſs and hell are not ſo hateful! It has ulcerated my heart, which not even vengeance itſelf I find has now the power to heal. For life I am made mi⯑ſerable; but it ſhall not be a ſingle mi⯑ſery!

LETTER CXIII.
COKE CLIFTON TO GUY FAIRFAX.

ALARM has ſounded her horn. The family is all confuſion, all doubt, hurry, fruitleſs enquiry, and indeciſion. The abſence of Anna and Henley at dinner threw Mrs. Clarke into conſter⯑nation; for Sir Arthur is down at Wen⯑bourne-Hill, with old Henley and his [196] ſon Edward. Each is indulging his dreams of improvement, marriage, dock⯑ing of entails, and other projects, to which I have put an eternal ſtop.

Finding the evening advance, and that the two priſoners did not appear, the houſekeeper ſent to the aunt, Wen⯑bourne. She heard the ſtory and was amazed. She knew nothing of them.

Ten o'clock came, and terror in⯑creaſed. A meſſenger was diſpatched to Lord Fitz-Allen; and he could not at firſt tell whether to be ſorry or glad, for he did not an inſtant forget to hope that it was ſome raſcally act on the part of Henley.

He ſent for the houſekeeper. She came, and he interrogated her. The anſwers ſhe gave did not pleaſe him, for [197] the tendency of all his queſtions was to the diſadvantage and crimination of Henley, whom ſhe pertinaciouſly de⯑fended. She affirmed ſo poſitively, and ſo violently, that it could not be any plan or evil intention of his, that the proud lord was half angry but half obliged to doubt.

I took care to be in the way, expect⯑ing as it happened that a meſſage would be ſent to me. I immediately attended his lordſhip, and learned all that I have been relating. I condoled with him, and pretended to pity the family; not neglecting to lead his thoughts into the channel that would beſt ſerve my purpoſe, and to recapitulate every circumſtance I could remember, or invent, that ſhould induce him to believe Henley and Anna had eloped; but affecting candour, and [198] pretending to argue againſt the poſſibi⯑lity of ſuch a ſuppoſition.

The effect I intended was produced. He was fully convinced of Henley's being a low, ſelfiſh, contemptible ſcoun⯑drel; and Anna a forward, diſobedient, inſolent miſs.

I offered my ſervices to purſue them, and preſſed his acceptance of them vio⯑lently; but was careful to counteract the offer, by ſhewing the impoſſibility of their being overtaken, and by exciting him rather to wiſh for their eſcape, that Anna might be flagrantly diſgraced, and his penetration and authority vindicated to the whole world.

I did not neglect, before the departure of Mrs. Clarke, to diſplay all my eager⯑neſs, by ſending round to numerous [199] inns and ſtable-keepers, to enquire whe⯑ther any poſt-chaiſe had been hired, that ſhould any way accord with the circum⯑ſtances. Other meſſengers were diſ⯑patched, by my advice, to the different turnpikes; and a third ſet ſent off to various watch-houſes, to enquire whe⯑ther any intelligence could be obtained of accidental deaths, or other miſchances.

In ſhort, I was very diligent to hurry the legs of the ſervants and the brains of their governors into every direction, but the right; and thus for a little while in ſome ſort diverted myſelf, with the vagaries of the fools upon whom I was playing. One chop-fallen runner trod upon the heels of another, each with a repetition of his diverſified nothings; till his lordſhip thought proper to recol⯑lect [200] it was time for his dignity to retire, and not further diſturb itſelf on per⯑ſonages and circumſtances ſo derogatory.

In the morning I was careful to be with him again. I breakfaſted with him, and reiterated the ſame ſtring of doubts, conjectures, alarms, and inſinuations.

Mrs. Clarke returned. She had been up all night, and her looks teſtified the diſtreſs of her mind. She propoſed ſending an expreſs after Sir Arthur; of the propriety of which I endeavoured to make the uncle doubt; but ſhe was too zealous, and her oratory had too much paſſion, to be counteracted without dan⯑ger. I therefore, when I ſaw reſiſtance vain, became the moſt eager adviſer of the meaſure.

There is no merit in impoſing upon [201] ſtupidity ſo groſs as that of this ſuperci⯑lious blockhead. Mrs. Clarke would be much more to be feared, but that what ſhe may ſay will be much leſs re⯑garded. Her affection for Anna is ex⯑treme, and a high proof of the excellent qualities of her miſtreſs.

Nor was ſhe one whit leſs enthuſiaſtic in her praiſe of Henley. Notwith⯑ſtanding the forbidding frowns and re⯑proofs of his lordſhip, ſhe ran over his whole hiſtory; and dwelt particularly on an act of benevolence done by him to her niece; that being a circumſtance that had come immediately within her know⯑ledge. She ſpoke with ſuch a fervour and overflow of heart that ſhe once or twice moved me.

She perceived ſomething of the ridi⯑culous [202] compunction I felt, and fell on her knees, wrung my hand, and adjured me, in a tone of very extraordinary em⯑phaſis, to ſave her dear her precious young lady. I ſcarcely could recover myſelf ſufficiently to aſk her which way it was in my power to ſave her; and to turn the converſation, by exclaiming to the peer—‘Ah! Had ſhe but allowed me the happineſs and honour of being her protector, I think no man would have dared to do her harm.’

The old houſekeeper however con⯑tinued, and began to denounce impend⯑ing and inevitable evil on the perſecutors of Henley and Anna. I have no doubt ſhe glanced at me, and that her miſtreſs had informed her of the triumph gained over me. Why ay! I ſhould indeed [203] have been the ſcoff of the very rabble, had I not taken vengeance for my wrongs!

Yet her denunciations ſeemed pro⯑phetic: or rather were feeble deſcrip⯑tions of the excruciating pangs by which I am hourly gnawn!

I grew weary of the dull farce, and put an end to it as ſpeedily as I conve⯑niently could; leaving his ſage lordſhip with the full conviction that the ſudden diſappearance of Henley, and his niece, could no otherwiſe be accounted for but by wilful elopement.

I am now preparing for a very dif⯑ferent viſit. A viſit of vengeance! I expect no pleaſure, no gratification but that alone! To prove the danger of in⯑jury done to me, to puniſh the perpe⯑trators, [204] to exult at their lamentations, and to look down with contempt at all menace, or retribution, is now my laſt remaining hope! Let me but enjoy this and all other expectation I willingly re⯑linquiſh!—I am going—I have them in my graſp!—They ſhall feel me now!

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

WHERE I am, what is to become of me, or whether I am ever to ſee my Louiſa more, are things of which I am utterly ignorant. I write not with an expectation that my friend ſhould read, but to memorandum events of which perhaps the world will never hear; and [206] which, ſhould this paper by any acci⯑dent be preſerved, it will ſcarcely be⯑lieve.

This vile Clifton—[Surely I ought never again to call him my Louiſa's brother]—This perverſe man has grown deſperate in error! The worſt of my forebodings have not equalled his in⯑tents! His plan has long been miſ⯑chief! Hypocriſy, violence, rape, no means are too foul!—Such things are incomprehenſible!

I am confined in a lone houſe, ſome⯑where behind Knightſbridge. I was ſeized I know not how by a band of ruffians, and conveyed hither. Every kind of deſpicable deceit appears to have been practiſed. Frank was decoyed from me. He flew once again to ſave [207] the life, as he thought, of this baſe minded man. I know not what is be⯑come of him, but have no doubt that he like me is ſomewhere ſuffering im⯑priſonment, if he be permitted yet to live.

No thoughts are ſo tragical, no ſuſ⯑picions ſo horrid as not to be juſtified, by deductions and appearances which are but too probable. Yet I will not ſink under difficulties, nor be appalled at the ſight of danger; be it death, or what elſe it may. That I am in a ſtate of jeopardy my ſeizure and impriſon⯑ment prove. That Frank is ſtill in greater peril, if ſtill in exiſtence, I have juſt cauſe to conclude. There were piſ⯑tols fired, and one after he leaped the hedge; I know not at whom directed, [208] nor what its fate!—I would if poſſible ward off apprehenſion. I know it to be folly, and I will endeavour to ſteel my heart againſt this as well as other miſ⯑takes. If he be dead, or if he be to die, grief will not revive or make him invul⯑nerable. His own virtue muſt preſerve him, or nothing can; and in that I will confide.

That evil is meant to me it would be abſurd to doubt; but of what nature, where it is to begin, or where end, that time muſt diſcloſe. For I will not per⯑mit myſelf to imagine the trifling indig⯑nities, or violence I have hitherto en⯑countered, an evil worthy of com⯑plaint.

'Tis true my arms are bruiſed, and I was rudely dealt with by the vile men [209] who ſeized me: and that there ſhould be ſuch men is an evil. But to me it is none; or not worth a thought. If I would firmly meet what is to come, I muſt not weakly bewail what is paſt.

I am not immortal, neither is my ſtrength infinite; but the powers I have I will uſe. We are oftener vanquiſhed becauſe we are fearful than becauſe we are feeble. Our debility takes birth in our cowardice, and true fortitude is not to be abaſhed by trifling dan⯑gers.

I meant to write a narrative, but theſe reflections are forced upon me by my ſituation. I will proceed.

LETTER CXV.
COKE CLIFTON. TO GUY FAIRFAX.

MY actions are now become one continued chain of artifice. But were that all, and were not the objects of this artifice of a nature ſo new and ſo pain⯑ful, it would afford me amuſement, and not be any cauſe of vexation.

[225] As it is I feel apprehenſions which are wholly different from any I ever felt before. To deceive in countries where deception is a paſtime, authoriſed, prac⯑tiſed, and applauded, is I find ſome⯑thing very oppoſite to what would ſeem the ſame thing, in this gloomy land of apathy and phlegm. There it is a ſport and a pleaſure. Here it is a buſi⯑neſs of ſerious danger and general deteſ⯑tation. But no matter!

I am obliged to watch times and ſea⯑ſons, for I have little doubt that I my⯑ſelf am watched. That old houſekeeper I am ſure ſuſpects me; and her affection for her miſtreſs is ſo full, ſo reſtleſs, that it cannot but ſharpen her intellects, and make her employ every engine ſhe can imagine for diſcovery. I walked up to [226] Fozard's as I often do for my horſe, and I ſaw one of Sir Arthur's ſervants paſs the yard, ſoon after I entered it. I have little doubt but he was dogging me.

I got on horſeback and rode ſlowly down toward Pimlico, and over Weſt⯑minſter bridge, but I ſaw no more of him.

As ſoon as I was out of town I mend⯑ed my pace, and gradually increaſed it to a full gallop. Paſſing through Vaux⯑hall, I croſſed the Thames again at Batterſea-bridge, rode through Chel⯑ſea, and preſently gained the Brompton road.

My firſt viſit was to the keeper. The fellow has a ſtrange look! A vil⯑lainous phyſiognomy! I enquired after [227] his priſoner and found he was ſafe. The houſe is well ſecured; not modern, but in the ſtyle of the laſt century; ſtrong and heavy, and before this affair was thought of had been fitted up for the purpoſes of confinement, but is now ſtill better fortified. It has a garden, which is ſurrounded by a high wall, in which the priſoner is ſuffered to exerciſe him⯑ſelf; but not without the very neceſſary precaution of confining his arms in the ſtrait waiſtcoat, ſecuring the doors, and attentively watching his motions.

I ordered the fellow to ſee that Hen⯑ley wanted for nothing, to let a boy he has wait upon him, and to keep out of his way himſelf, for two reaſons of my own. I do not wiſh Henley to ſuffer the inſults of ſuch a vulgar and narrow⯑ſouled [228] raſcal: my revenge is of a nobler kind. Neither am I quite certain that this keeper, hardened, obdurate, and pitileſs as he is, could withſtand Hen⯑ley's oratory. At leaſt I would not willingly have him ſubjected to the temptation: though the fellow is ſo averſe to any ſenſe of human pity that I think the danger is very ſmall.

He was offended however at my thinking proper to direct him, and ſur⯑lily told me he underſtood his trade.

Here I met Mac Fane, by appoint⯑ment. He cannot forget the diſgrace of Covent-garden, and ſpoke of Henley with a degree of malignity that would want but little encourageing to become dangerous. I am to pay him the thou⯑ſand pounds in a few days, and our [229] place of rendezvous is then to be once more at the Shakeſpeare.

I was glad to eſcape from the com⯑pany of theſe new inmates of mine, theſe firſt-born of Beelzebub, and to fly to my other priſoner. I ſay fly, for I ſet out with eagerneſs enough; but every ſtep I took I felt my ardour abate. The houſes are more than half a mile apart, and I thought proper to go thither on foot, and not to take any common path, but to croſs the fields, as the ſecureſt mode.

Laura knew I was to be there, and had her tale ready. She preſently came down. I enquired after her miſtreſs, and if her account be true, this heroic woman has not ſhed a tear, but has be⯑haved [230] with all her apparent cuſtomary calm. She is a divine creature!

As I rode along, I made a thouſand determinations that all ſhould be that day ended. I curſed myſelf, pledged my honour, uſed every method which might have ſhewn me how much I doubted my own reſolution, to prove to myſelf how irrevocably determined I was! The little remaining firmneſs I had left wholly died away at the rela⯑tion of Laura.

I muſt ſtay till the calm dignity of her mind ſhall begin to decline. The nature of her confinement, the fears ſhe cannot but have for her Henley, the recollection of her friends and father, and her apprehenſions of me muſt all [231] quickly contribute to produce this effect.

I do not pretend to deny that I feel a reluctance to a firſt interview: but I am determined the firſt ſhall be the only one. I know myſelf, and know when once I am heated it will not then be Anna St. Ives, a miracle though ſhe be, that can over-awe or conquer me. I have the ſtubbornneſs of woman, and the ſtrength of man. I am reck⯑leſs of what is to follow, but the thing ſhall be! There is not a particlè in my frame that does not ſtand pledged to the deed, by honour and oath! It is the only event for which I care, or for which I live.

Nor ſhall I live long when once it is over. I foreſee I ſhall not. But that [232] is not a painful, no, it is a ſatisfactory thought! I would even preſent her the piſtol, would ſhe but diſpatch me the mo⯑ment my revenge is gratified. I would then ſleep, and forget all that is, and all that might have been.

She has been writing. I knew it would be one ſource of amuſement to her, and I provided her with imple⯑ments. Laura aſked and ſhe owned it was a letter to my ſiſter, which ſhe could wiſh were ſent. But that muſt not be. She means to give it to Laura; I of courſe ſhall be the next receiver.

This girl, Laura, acts her part ill. She is not half ſorrowful enough. I wonder Anna does not remark it; and Laura ſays ſhe does not, though that is no very good proof. The complexion [233] of her letter I think will tell me how far ſhe does or does not confide in her maid. I know ſhe holds ſuſpicion in contempt; and yet I think my high opinion of her diſcrimination would find ſome abatement, were I certain that ſhe did not ſuſpect this ſhallow girl.

My ſoul burns to have it over! And yet like a coward I refrain. But I will not long ſubmit to ſuch contemptible qualms. I will not continue to be diffi⯑dent of myſelf; for it is that only by which I am withheld. Not a ſingle wrong is forgotten! I repeat them in my ſleep! Ay, Fairfax, ſuch ſleep as I have is nothing but a repetition of them; and a rehearſal of the revenge by which they are to be appeaſed! I will return to⯑morrow, [234] or perhaps next day; and then—! You ſhall then hear more from