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

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

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

My father is exceedingly busy with his head man, his plotter, his planner; giving directions concerning still further improvements that are to be made, in his grounds and park, during our absence. You know his mania. Improvement is his disease. I have before hinted to you that I do not like this factotum of his, this Abimelech Henley. The amiable qualities of his son more than compen­sate for the meanness of the father; [Page 4] whom I have long suspected to be and am indeed convinced that he is artful, selfish, and honest enough to seek his own profit, were it at the expence of his employer's ruin. He is continually insinuating new plans to my father, whom he Sir Arthurs, and Honours, and Nobles, at every word, and then persuades him the hints and thoughts are all his own. The illiterate fellow has a language peculiar to himself; energetic but half unintelligible; compounded of a few fine phrases, and an inundation of proverbial wisdom and uncouth cant terms. Of the scanty number of polite words, which he has endeavoured to catch, he is very bountiful to Sir Arthur. ‘That's noble! That's great your no­ble honour! Well, by my truly, [Page 5] that's an elegunt ideer! But I always said your honour had more nobler and elegunter ideers than any other noble gentleman, knight, lord, or dooke, in every thing of what your honour calls the grand gusto.’ Pshaw! It is ri­diculous in me to imitate his language; the cunning nonsense of which evapo­rates upon paper, but is highly cha­racteristic when delivered with all its attendant bows and cringes; which, like the accompaniments to a concerto, en­force the character of the composition, and give it full effect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heaven bless my Anna St. Ives!

LETTER III.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

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

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

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

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

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

But I?—Low bred and vulgar let Pride and Error call me, but not villain! I the seducer of men's daughters! No­ble [Page 24] men and still nobler daughters! I! Why, would I be so very vile a thing? Would I, if I could?

Yet who shall benumb the understand­ing, chain up the fancy, and freeze sen­sation? Can I command myself deaf when she sings, dead when she speaks, or rush into idiotism to avoid her enchant­ments?

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

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

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

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

Prithee lend me thy Petrarch, and [Page 28] send it in return by Thomas. I had no­thing to say, though I have written so much, except to ask for this book, and to burden thee with my complaints. Re­member me kindly to thy most worthy father, and all the family. Thine,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

During the day we passed many de­lightful scenes, and enjoyed the charm­ing prospects which the rich cultivation [Page 36] of England, and the road we travelled, afford. Frank Henley was scarcely ever out of sight, though he was rather watch­fully assiduous than communicative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER V.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I absolutely adore this youth, this Frank Henley!

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

P. S. I will write more at length to­morrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Page 69]

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can prophesy however that he will have no forbearance. Not to mention debts, he has too many imaginary and impatient wants to submit to delay. Nei­ther have I any great desire that he should; being convinced that the want of money is the only impediment that can put a stop to Sir Arthur's improvements.

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

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

Heydey, Anna! Where is your aunt?

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

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

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

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

My name is Wenbourne, sir.

Your name is St. Ives, miss.

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

This is extraordinary!—Very ex­traordinary, upon my soul!

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

What have you heard? What have you heard?

[Page 80] That you are going back to Wen­bourne-Hill.

Well, what then?

And that you do not intend we should visit France.

Who told you so?

The servants have orders to that effect.

The servants are a parcel of busy blockheads!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Upon my word! A very dutiful daughter! I thought the duty of chil­dren was to obey the wills of their pa­rents.

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

Of which children are to judge?

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

A fine system of obedience truly!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XI.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace be with thee.

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

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

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

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

What high proofs of courage, perse­verance, and of suffering, do men conti­nually give! And shall we wholly re­nounce the dignity of emulation, and willingly sign the unjust decree of preju­dice, that mind likewise has its sex, and [Page 128] that women are destitute of energy and fortitude?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is it possible?’ cried Mrs. Clarke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XIII.
FRANK HENLEY TO OLIVER TRENCHARD.

IT is an intolerably strange thing, Oliver, that a man cannot perform the mere necessary duties of humanity, with­out being supposed almost a prodigy. Where is the common sense, I will not say delicacy, which should teach people that such suppositions are an insult, not only to the person but to all mankind? [Page 144] I am young, I grant, and know but little of the barbarity which it is pre­tended is universal. I cannot think the accusation true. Or, if it be, I am con­vinced it must be the result of▪ some strange perversion of what may be called the natural propensities of man. I own I have seen children wrangle for and endeavour to purloin, or seize by force, each others apples and cherries; and this may be a beginning to future rapacity. But I know the obvious course of nature would be to correct, instead of to confirm, such mistakes. I know too that there are individual instances of cruelty, and insensibility. But these surely are the exceptions, and not the rule.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I have some trifling useless property, madam.

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

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

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

Madam!—Impossible.

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

That he denies, madam.

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

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

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

Madam!—

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

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

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

Then, madam, I submit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Page 164]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Page 173] So much for the history of a highway­man; which I think is at least as de­serving of remembrance as that of many other depredators.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pity for Frank ought not to be listen­ed to. It is always a false motive, un­less supported by justice. Frank will never condescend to endeavour to incite [Page 179] compassion; it is not in his character. He will rather assert his claims, for so he ought. I do not mean that a com­plaint will never escape him. The best of us are not always so perfectly master of our thoughts as never to be incon­sistent. But his system will not be to win that by intercession which he could not obtain by fair and honourable bar­ter. The moment I have entirely satis­fied and convinced myself, I have no doubt of inducing him to behave as no­bly on this as he has done on every other trying occasion.

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

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

LETTER XV.
FRANK HENLEY TO ABIMELECH HENLEY.

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

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

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

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

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

LETTER XVI.
ABIMELECH HENLEY TO FRANK HENLEY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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