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

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

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

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

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

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

I am once more just returned from the palace of Alcina! I broke off at the end of my last paragraph to attend my charmer; and here again am I detesting myself for want of resolution; and detesting myself still more for having made a resolution, for having undertaken that which I am so eternally tempted to renounce. Your sneer and your laugh are both ready—I know you, Fairfax—'The gentleman is sounding a retreat! The enterprise is too difficult!'—No—tell you no, no, no,—But I am almost afraid it is too damnable!

I pretended to be exceedingly anxious concerning the delay, and afflicted at not hearing any thing more from Sir Arthur. If I did not do this, it might be a clue to lead her to suspect hypocrisy, considering how very ardent I was at the commencement. And, to say the truth, I am weary enough of waiting; though it is not my wish to be relieved by any expedition of Sir Arthur's, who, as I hinted to you before, does not appear to be in the least hurry, and whose unction for the gardener's son increases.

But had you heard her console me! Had you seen her kindness! The tear glistening in her eye while she entreated me to consider delay as a fortunate event, which tended to permanent and ineffable happiness; had you I say beheld her soul, for it was both visible and audible, Fairfax though you are, the marauder of marriage land and the sworn foe of virginity, even you would have pardoned my tergiversation.

Did you never behold the sun burst forth from behind the riding clouds? The scene that was gloomy, dark and dismal is suddenly illumined; what was obscure becomes conspicuous; the bleak hills smile, the black meadows assume a bright verdure; quaking shadows dare no longer stay, cold damps are dispelled, and in an instant all is visible, clear, and radiant! So vanish doubts when she begins to speak! Thus in her presence do the feelings glow; and thus is gloom banished from the soul, till all is genial warmth and harmony!

These being my feelings now, when I am escaped, when I am beyond the circle of her sorceries, think, Fairfax, be just and think how seductive, how dangerous an enemy I have to encounter—Listen and judge.

'Oh! Clifton'—She speaks! Listen I say to her spells!—'Oh! Clifton, daily and hourly do I bless this happy accident, this delay! I think, with the heroic archbishop, I could have held my right hand firmly till the flames had consumed it, could I but have brought to pass what this blessed event has already almost accomplished! To behold your mind what it is and to recollect what it so lately was is bliss unutterable! I consider myself now as destined to be yours: but whether I am or am not is perhaps a thing of little moment. Let self be forgotten, and all its petty interests! What am I? What can I be, compared to what you may become? The patriot, the legislator, the statesman, the reconciler of nations, the dispenser of truth, and the instructor of the human race; for to all these you are equal. As for me, however ardent however great my good-will, I cannot have the same opportunities. Beside I must be just to myself and you, and it delights me to declare I believe you have a mind capable of conceptions more vast than mine, of plans more daring and systems more deep, and of soaring beyond me. You have the strong memory, the keen sensibility and the rapid imagination which form the poet. It is my glory to repeat that your various powers, when called forth, have as variously astonished me. To bid you persevere were now to wrong you, for I think I dare affirm you cannot retreat. You have at present seen too much, thought too much, known too much ever to forget. In private you will be the honour of your family and the delight of your wife; and in public the boast of your country and the admiration of the virtuous and the wise.'

I fell on my knee to the speaking deity! She seemed delivering oracles! My passions rose, my heart was full, her eulogium made it loath and abhor its own deceit; the words—'Madam, I am a villain!'—bolted to my lips, there they quivering lingered in excruciating suspense, and at last slunk back like cowards, half wishing but wholly ashamed to do their office.

By the immortal powers, Fairfax, it was past resisting! Why should I not be all she has described? The hero, the legislator, the great leader of this little world? Ay, why not? She seemed to prophesy. She has raised a flame in me which, if encouraged, might fertilize or desolate kingdoms. Body of Caesar, I know not what to say!

'Tis true she has treated me ill; nay vilely. It cannot be denied. But ill treatment itself, from her, is superior to all the maukish kindness which folly and caprice endeavour to lavish. Fairfax, would you did but behold her! My heart was never so assailed before!

My resolution is shaken, I own, but it is not obliterated. No; I will think again. My very soul is repugnant to the supposition of leaving its envenomed tumours unassuaged, and its angered stabs unavenged. Yet, if healed they could be, she surely possesses that healing art—Once more I will think again.

What you tell me in the Postscript to your last concerning Count Caduke [Consult your dictionary; or to save yourself trouble read Count Crazy, alias Beaunoir.] is wholly unintelligible to me. But as you say the name of the gardener's son was several times mentioned by him, I shall take an immediate opportunity of interrogating the 'squire of shrubs, who I am certain from principle will when asked tell me all he knows.

Apropos of poetry. The panegyric of this sylph of the sun-beams gave me an impulse which I could not resist, and the following was the offspring of my headlong and impetuous muse; for such the hussey is whenever the fit is upon her. I commit it as it may happen to your censure or applause; with this stipulation, if you do not like it either alter it till you do, or write me another which both you and I shall like better. If that be not fair and rational barter, I know nothing either of trade, logic, or common sense.

ANACREONTIC

I

When by the gently gliding stream, On banks where purple violets spring, I see my Delia's beauties beam, I hear my lovely Delia sing, When hearts combine, And arms entwine, When fond caresses, am'rous kisses Yield the height of human blisses, Entranc'd I gaze, and sighing say, Thus let me love my life away.

II

Or when the jocund bowl we pass, And joke and wit and whim abound, When song and catch and friend and lass In sparkling wine we toast around, When Bull and Pun Rude riot run, And finding still the mirth increasing, Pealing laughter roars sans ceasing, I peal and roar and pant and say, Thus let me laugh my life away.

III

When dreams of fame my fancy fill, Sweet soothing dreams of verse and rhyme, That mark the poet's happy skill, And bid him live to latest time, Each rising thought With music fraught, All full, all flowing, nothing wanting, All harmonious, all enchanting, Oh thus, in rapt delights I say, Thus let me sing my life away!

IV

Oh lovely woman, gen'rous wine, These potent pleasures let me quaff! Thy raptures, wit, oh make them mine! Oh let me drink and love and laugh! In flowing verse Let me rehearse How well I've used your bounteous treasure; Then at last when full my measure, Tho' pale my lip, I'll smile and say, I've liv'd the best of lives away.

C. CLIFTON



LETTER LXXXVI

Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard

London, Grosvenor Street

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

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

He seemed surprised, and said he hoped not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps so. But that is very uncommon doctrine.

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

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

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

And of him you have some doubts?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clifton has just been with me. Some correspondent from Paris has mentioned the visit paid to me instead of him by the Count de Beaunoir, but in a dark and unintelligible manner, and he came to enquire. I confess, Oliver, while I was answering his interrogatories, I seemed to feel that both you and I had drawn a false conclusion relative to secrecy; and that by concealment to render myself the subject of suspicion was an unworthy procedure. However as my motives were not indirect, whatever my silence might be, I answered without reserve and told him all that had passed; frankly owning my fears of his irritability as the reason why I did not mention the affair immediately.

He laughted at the Count's rhodomontade, acknowledged himself obliged to me, and allowed that at that time my fears were not wholly causeless. He behaved with ease and good humour, and left me without appearing to have taken any offence. I shall be with thee on Tuesday. I know it will be a day of feasting to the family, and I will do my best endeavour not to cast a damp on the hilarity of benevolence and friendship.

F. HENLEY



LETTER LXXXVII

Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton

London, Grosvenor Street

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, sir; he is incapable of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We are indeed your debtors, said he to Mr. Henley. But I hope it is not true. I hope there is no danger that you should forsake us. Where would you go? Where can you be so happy? I mean first, replied Frank, to go to Wenbourne Hill; and after that my intentions are for America.

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

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

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

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

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

All kindness, peace, and felicity be with you.

A. W. ST. IVES



LETTER LXXXVIII

Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax

London, Dover Street

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

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

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

'I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapour of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For other's use.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Adieu.

C. CLIFTON



LETTER LXXXIX

Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton

London, Grosvenor-Street

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

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

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

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

Your brother has been with me. He found me in tears, enquired the cause, and truth demanded a full and unequivocal confidence. I shewed him what I had been writing. You may well imagine, Louisa, he did not read it with total apathy. But he suppressed his own feelings with endeavours to give relief to mine. He argued to shew me my motives had been highly virtuous. He would not say—[His candour delighted me, Louisa.]—He would not say there was no ground for my fears: he was interested and might be partial. He believed indeed I had acted in strict conformity to the purest principles; but, had I even been mistaken, the origin of my mistake was so dignified as totally to deprive the act of all possible turpitude.

He was soothing and kind, gave high encomiums to Frank, took blame to himself for the error of his former opinions, and, reminding me of the motives which first induced me to think of him, tenderly asked if I had any new or recent cause to be weary of my task.

What could I answer? What, but that I was delighted with the rapid change perceptible in his sentiments, and with the ardour with which his enquiries were continued?

Frank Henley is by this time at Wenbourne Hill. You will see him. Plead our cause, Louisa: urge him to remain among us. Condescend even to enforce my selfish motive, that he would not leave me under the torturing supposition of having banished him from a country which he was born to enlighten, reform, and bless!

There is indeed another argument; but I know not whether it ought to be mentioned. Sir Arthur owns he is in the power of the avaricious Abimelech, and I believe is in dread of foreclosures that might even eject him from Wenbourne Hill. This man must have been an early and a deep adventurer in the trade of usury, or he never could have gained wealth so great as he appears to have amassed.

Past incidents, with all of which you are acquainted, have given Sir Arthur a high opinion of Frank: and this added to his own fears, I am persuaded, would lead him to consider a union between us at present with complacency, were not such an inclination opposed by other circumstances. The open encouragement that he himself has given to Clifton is one, and it is strengthened by all the interest of the other branches of our family. Your brother is highly in favour with Lord Fitz Allen. My aunt Wenbourne equally approves the match, and Clifton and my brother Edward are become intimate. As to me, reason, consistency, and my own forward conduct, oblige me to be the enemy of Frank.

Louisa, I scarcely know what I write! Think not I have abandoned myself to the capricious gusts of passion; or that my love of uncontaminated and rigorous virtue is lessened. No, it is indecision, it is an abhorrence of injustice which shake and disquiet me.

Write to me; let me know your sentiments; and particularly how far your application to Frank, when you have made it, is successful. I am anxious to receive your letter, for I know it will inspire fortitude, of which I am in great, great need.

A. W. ST. IVES



LETTER XC

Louisa Clifton to Anna Wenbourne St. Ives

Rose-Bank

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

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

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

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

L. CLIFTON

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



LETTER XCI

Frank Henley to Anna Wenbourne St. Ives

Madam,

Wenbourne-Hill

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am, &c.

F. HENLEY



LETTER XCII

Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax

London, Dover Street

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C. CLIFTON



LETTER XCIII

Frank Henley to Anna Wenbourne St. Ives

Wenbourne-Hill

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

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

I received your letter[1], but have no thanks that can equal the favour. I hope the emotions to which it gave birth were worthy such a correspondent. I can truly and I believe innocently say my heart sympathises in all your joys, hopes, and apprehensions; and that my pleasure, at the progress of Mr. Clifton in the discovery of truth and the practice of virtue, is but little less than your own.

[Footnote 1: It contained the state of her feelings, with which the reader is already acquainted, but no new incidents; for which reason it is omitted.]

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

I am, dear madam, &c.

F. HENLEY



LETTER XCIV

Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax

London, Dover Street

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C. CLIFTON



LETTER XCV

Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax

London, Dover Street

Once more, Fairfax, here am I.

Well! And how—?

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

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

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

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

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

'What was it that disturbed me? What had I to communicate? She never saw me thus before! It was quite alarming!'

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

Mr. Clifton—

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

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

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

I am.

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

Oh, Clifton! Speak thus, be thus ever!

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

Nay, Clifton—

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

Clifton, you said you had a nobler motive.

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

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

No disgrace, madam?

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

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

I grant it.

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

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

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

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

You think—?

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

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

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

Then—You are my wife!

How?

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

It cannot.

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

A right?

An absolute, an indefeasible right!

You go too fast!

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

Clifton!

Justice!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I cannot forget this letter. It disturbs and pesters my imagination. I supposed it to be from Edward, who has been at Bath; but my valet has just informed me he is returned. Perhaps it is from my sister; and if so, by its coming express, my mother is dead! I really fear it bodes me harm—I am determined to rid myself of this painful suspense. I will therefore step to Grosvenor-street. I may as well face the worst at once. You shall hear more when I return.

Oh, Fairfax! I could curse most copiously, in all heathenish and christian tongues! She has shut herself up, and refuses to see me! This infernal fellow Frank Henley is returned too. He arrived two hours after the express. I suspect it came from him; nay I suspect—Flames and furies!—I must tell you!

I have seen Laura, though scarcely for two minutes. She is afraid she is watched. It is all uproar, confusion, and suspicion at Sir Arthur's. But the great curse is my groom, the lad that I told you copied my letter to Abimelech, has been sent for and privately catechised by her and her paramour! And what confirms this most tormenting of all conjectures is the absence of the fellow: he has not been home since, nor at the stables, though he was always remarkably punctual, but has sent the key; so that he has certainly absconded.

Had I not been a stupid booby, had I given Laura directions to keep out of the way of Anna, but in the way of taking messages for her, she might have received the express, and all might have been well. Such a blockheadly blunder well deserves castigation!

I'll deny the letter, Fairfax. They have no proof, and I'll swear through thick and thin rather than bring myself into this universal, this damnatory disgrace! I know indeed she will not believe me; and I likewise know that now it must be open war between us. For do not think that I will suffer myself to be thus shamefully beaten out of the field. No, by Lucifer and his Tophet! I will die a foaming maniac, fettered in straw, ere that shall happen! If not by persuasion, she shall be mine by chicanery, or even by force. I will perish, Fairfax, sooner than desist!

Oh for an agent, a coadjutor worthy of the cause! He must and shall be found.

The uncle and aunt must be courted: the father I expect will side with her. The brother too must be my partisan; for it will be necessary I should maintain an intercourse, and the shew of still wishing for wedlock.

I am half frantic, Fairfax! To be baffled by such an impossible accident, after having acted my part with such supreme excellence, is insupportable! But the hag Vengeance shall not slip me! No! I have fangs to equal hers, ay and will fasten her yet! I have been injured, insulted, frustrated, and fiends seize me if I relent!

C. CLIFTON



LETTER XCVI

Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton

London, Grosvenor Street

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beware of Mr. Clifton!—Had I not good cause, madam, I would not be so abrupt an accuser: but I am haunted, tortured by the dread of possibilities, and therefore send this away express—Beware of Mr. Clifton!—I will not be long after the letter, and I will then explain why I have written what to you may appear so strange.

F. HENLEY

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

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

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

The letter had not been delivered more than two hours before Frank arrived. You may think, Louisa, how hard he had ridden; but he refused to imagine himself fatigued. He brought another letter, which Abimelech had received, but which for some hours he obstinately refused to give up, and for this reason Frank sent off the express. A letter, not of Clifton's writing, but of his invention and sending!

Finding that Frank was likely to prevail on his father to raise the money for Sir Arthur, and obviate all further impediments to our marriage, Clifton, fearful that it should take place, wrote anonymously to Abimelech, to inform him I was in love with Frank, and to encourage him to persist. But read the letter yourself; the following is a true copy of it[1].

[Footnote 1: The reader has already perused it in Letter XCIV, to which he is referred.].

If such a letter be his, I am sure, Louisa, you will not say I have thought or spoken too unkindly of him; and that it is his we have indubitable proof, though it was anonymous and not in his handwriting.

You no doubt remember, Louisa, the short story of the English lad, whom your brother hired at Paris. It was written by him, though innocently and without knowing what was intended. This lad has an aunt, who after having laboured to old age is now lame, infirm, and in need of support. The active Frank has been with her, has aided her with money and consoled her with kindness. The lad himself was desirous of assisting her; and Frank, willing to encourage industry in the young, gave him some writings to copy at his leisure hours. By this accident he knew the lad's hand-writing.

I forgot to mention, in its proper place, the astonishment of Frank at the sudden change in his father, and the firm resolution he took to discover the cause of this change. The obstinacy of Abimelech was extreme; but Frank was still more pertinacious, more determined, and so unwearied and incessant, in his attacks on his father, that the old man at last could resist no longer, and shewed him this letter.

From what has preceded, that is from his manner of acting, you may well imagine what the alarms and sensations of Frank were. He brought the letter up with him, for he would not trust it out of his own custody, and immediately went himself to Clifton's stables in search of the lad, brought him to me, and then first shewed him the letter, which that no possible collusion might be alleged he had left in my keeping, and then asked if it were not his hand-writing. The lad very frankly and unhesitatingly answered it was; except the direction, which this plotting Clifton had procured to be written by some other person.

Without telling the lad more than was necessary, Frank advised him to quit his service, for that there was something relating to that letter which would certainly occasion a quarrel, and perhaps worse, between him and his master: and, as it would be prudent for him to keep out of the way, he sent him down to Wenbourne-Hill, where the lad is at present.

And now what shall I say to my Louisa? How shall I sooth the feelings of my friend? Do they need soothing? Does she consider all mankind as her relations and brothers, or does she indeed imagine that one whose principles are so opposite to her own is the only brother she possesses? Will she grieve more for him than she would for any other, who should be equally unfortunate in error? Or does she doubt with me whether grief can in any possible case be a virtue? And if so, is there any virtue of which she is incapable? What is relation, what is brother, what is self, if relation, brother, or self be at war with truth? And does not truth command us to consider beings exactly as they are, without any respect to this relationship, this self?

But I know my Louisa; she will never be impatient under trial, however severe; nor foolishly repine for the past, though she will strenuously labour for the future.

All good, all peace, all happiness, all wisdom be with her!

A. W. ST. IVES



LETTER XCVII

Louisa Clifton to her Brother Coke Clifton

Rose-Bank

Sir

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

L. CLIFTON

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



LETTER XCVIII

Coke Clifton to his Sister Louisa Clifton

London, Dover Street

Madam,

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

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

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

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

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

C. CLIFTON

END OF VOLUME V



VOLUME VI



LETTER XCIX

Abimelech Henley to Sir Arthur St. Ives, Baronet

Wenbourne-Hill

Most Onnurable Sir, my ever onnurd Master,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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