Anna St. Ives
by
Thomas Holcroft
Part 1 out of 11
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ANNA ST. IVES
THOMAS HOLCROFT
1792
CONTENTS
Volume I
Volume II
Volume III
Volume IV
Volume V
Volume VI
VOLUME VII
Explanatory Notes
ANNA ST. IVES
_A NOVEL_
VOLUME I
LETTER I
_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_
_Wenbourne-Hill_
Here are we, my dear girl, in the very height of preparation. We begin
our journey southward at five tomorrow morning. We shall make a short
stay in London, and then proceed to Paris. Expectation is on tiptoe: my
busy fancy has pictured to itself Calais, Montreuil, Abbeville, in
short every place which the book of post roads enumerates, and some of
which the divine Sterne has rendered so famous. I expect to find
nothing but mirth, vivacity, fancy, and multitudes of people. I have
read so much of the populousness of France, the gaiety of its
inhabitants, the magnificence of its buildings, its fine climate,
fertility, numerous cities, superb roads, rich plains, and teeming
vineyards, that I already imagine myself journeying through an
enchanted land.
I have another pleasure in prospect. Pray have you heard that your
brother is soon to be at Paris, on his return from Italy?--My father
surprised me by informing me we should probably meet him in that
capital. I suspect Sir Arthur of an implication which his words perhaps
will not authorize; but he asked me, rather significantly, if I had
ever heard you talk of your brother; and in less than five minutes
wished to know whether I had any objections to marriage.
My father is exceedingly busy with his head man, his plotter, his
planner; giving directions concerning still further improvements that
are to be made, in his grounds and park, during our absence. You know
his mania. Improvement is his disease. I have before hinted to you that
I do not like this factotum of his, this Abimelech Henley. The amiable
qualities of his son more than compensate for the meanness of the
father; whom I have long suspected to be and am indeed convinced that
he is artful, selfish, and honest enough to seek his own profit, were
it at the expence of his employer's ruin. He is continually insinuating
new plans to my father, whom he Sir Arthurs, and Honours, and Nobles,
at every word, and then persuades him the hints and thoughts are all
his own. The illiterate fellow has a language peculiar to himself;
energetic but half unintelligible; compounded of a few fine phrases,
and an inundation of proverbial wisdom and uncouth cant terms. Of the
scanty number of polite words, which he has endeavoured to catch, he is
very bountiful to Sir Arthur. 'That's noble! That's great your noble
honour! Well, by my truly, that's an _elegunt ideer_! But I always said
your honour had more _nobler_ and _elegunter ideers_ than any other
noble gentleman, knight, lord, or dooke, in every thing of what your
honour calls the grand gusto.' Pshaw! It is ridiculous in me to imitate
his language; the cunning nonsense of which evaporates upon paper, but
is highly characteristic when delivered with all its attendant bows and
cringes; which, like the accompaniments to a concerto, enforce the
character of the composition, and give it full effect.
I am in the very midst of bandboxes, portmanteaus, packing-cases, and
travelling trunks. I scarcely ever knew a mind so sluggish as not to
feel a certain degree of rapture, at the thoughts of travelling. It
should seem as if the imagination frequently journeyed so fast as to
enjoy a species of ecstasy, when there are any hopes of dragging the
cumbrous body after its flights.
I cannot banish the hints of Sir Arthur from my busy fancy.--I must not
I ought not to practise disguise with any one, much less with my
Louisa; and I cannot but own that his questions suggested a plan of
future happiness to my mind, which if realized would be delightful. The
brother of my dear Louisa, the chosen friend of my heart, is to be at
Paris. I shall meet him there. He cannot but resemble his sister. He
cannot but be all generosity, love, expansion, mind, soul! I am
determined to have a very sincere friendship for him; nay I am in
danger of falling in love with him at first sight! Louisa knows what I
mean by falling in love. Ah, my dear friend, if he be but half equal to
you, he is indeed a matchless youth! Our souls are too intimately
related to need any nearer kindred; and yet, since marry I must, as you
emphatically tell me it will some time be my duty to do, I could almost
wish Sir Arthur's questions to have the meaning I suspect, and that it
might be to the brother of my friend.
Do not call me romantic: if romance it be, it originates in the supreme
satisfaction I have taken in contemplating the powers and beauties of
my Louisa's mind. Our acquaintance has been but short, yet our
friendship appears as if it had been eternal. Our hearts understand
each other, and speak a language which, alas, we both have found to be
unintelligible to the generality of the world.
Once more adieu. You shall hear from me again at London. Direct to me
as usual in Grosvenor Street.
Ever and ever your
A. W. ST. IVES
P.S. I am sorry to see poor Frank Henley look so dejected. He has many
good, nay I am well persuaded many great, qualities. Perhaps he is
disappointed at not being allowed to go with us; for which I know he
petitioned his father, but was refused; otherwise I could easily have
prevailed on Sir Arthur to have consented.
I am determined to take King Pepin[1] with me. It is surely the most
intelligent of all animals; the unfeathered bipeds, as the French wits
call us two-legged mortals, excepted. But no wonder it was my Louisa's
gift; and, kissing her lips, imbibed a part of her spirit. Were I to
leave it behind me, cats, and other good for nothing creatures, would
teach it again to be shy, and suspicious; and the present charming
exertion of its little faculties would decay. The development of mind,
even in a bird, has something in it highly delightful.
[Footnote 1: A goldfinch which the young lady had so named.]
Why, my Louisa, my friend, my sister, ah, why are not you with me? Why
do you not participate my pleasures, catch with me the rising ideas,
and enjoy the raptures of novelty? But I will forbear. I have before in
vain exhausted all my rhetoric. You must not, will not quit a
languishing parent; and I am obliged to approve your determination,
though I cannot but regret the consequence.
LETTER II
_Louisa Clifton to Anna Wenbourne St. Ives_
_Rose Bank_
Health, joy, and novelty attend the steps of my ever dear and charming
Anna! May the whirling of your chariot wheels bring a succession of
thoughts as exhilarating as they are rapid! May gladness hail you
through the day, and peace hush you to sleep at night! May the hills
and valleys smile upon you, as you roll over and beside them; and may
you meet festivity and fulness of content at every step!
I too have my regrets. My heart is one-half with you; nay my beloved,
my generous mamma has endeavoured to persuade me to quit her, arguing
that the inconvenience to her would be more than compensated by the
benefit accruing to myself. The dear lady, I sincerely believe, loves
you if possible better than she does me, and pleaded strenuously. But
did she not know it was impossible she should prevail? She did. If my
cares can prolong a life so precious but half an hour, is it not an
age? Do not her virtues and her wisdom communicate themselves to all
around her? Are not her resignation, her fortitude, and her
cheerfulness in pain, lessons which I might traverse kingdoms and not
find an opportunity like this of learning? And, affection out of the
question, having such high duties to perform, must I fly from such an
occasion, afflicting though it be? No! Anna St. Ives herself must not
tempt me to that. She is indeed too noble seriously to form such a
wish. Answer, is she not?
Oh that I may be deceived, but I fear you expect too much from my
brother. Oh that he might be worthy of my Anna! Not for my own sake;
for, as she truly says, we [That is our souls, for I know of no other
we]. We cannot be more akin; but for his own. He is the son of my
beloved mother, and most devoutly do I wish he might be found deserving
of her and you. He would then be more deserving than any man, at least
any young man, I have ever known. Though brother and sister, he and I
may be said to have but little acquaintance. He has always been either
at school, or at college, or in town, or on his travels, or in some
place where I did not happen to be, except for short intervals. I have
told you that his person is not displeasing, that his temper appears to
be prompt and daring, but gay, and that his manners I doubt are of that
free kind which our young gentlemen affect.
To say the truth however, I have heard much in favour of Coke Clifton;
but then it has generally been either from persons whose good word was
in my opinion no praise, or from others who evidently meant to be civil
to me, or to the family, by speaking well of my brother. I believe him
to have much pride, some ambition, a high sense of fashionable honour;
that he spurns at threats, disdains reproof, and that he does not want
generosity, or those accomplishments which would make him pass with the
world for a man whose alliance would be desirable. But the husband of
my Anna [you perceive I have caught your tone, and use the word husband
as familiarly as if there were any serious intention of such an event,
and as if it were any thing more than the sportive effusion of fancy,
or rather the momentary expansion of friendship] the husband of my Anna
ought to be more, infinitely more, than what the world understands by
such phrases; if it can be said to understand anything. Forgive the
jingle, but, to pair with her, he ought to be her peer. And yet if she
wait till time shall send her such a one, and that one every way proper
for her alliance, in her father's opinion as well as in her own, I am
afraid her chance of marriage will be infinitely small.
Were I but assured that Coke Clifton would be as kind and as worthy a
husband, to Anna St. Ives, as any other whom it were probable accident
should ever throw in her way, I should then indeed seriously wish such
a thought might be something more than the transient flight of fancy.
But enough. You are on the wing to the city where you and he will
probably meet. Examine him well; forget his sister; be true to yourself
and your own judgment, and I have no fear that you should be deceived.
If he prove better even than a sister's hopes, he will find in me more
than a sister's love.
I like Sir Arthur's favourite, Abimelech Henley, still less than you
do. My fears indeed are rather strong. When once a taste for
improvement [I mean building and gardening improvement] becomes a
passion, gaming itself is scarcely more ruinous. I have no doubt that
Sir Arthur's fortune has suffered, and is suffering severely; and that
while that miserly wretch, Abimelech, is destroying the fabric, he is
purloining and carrying off the best of the materials. I doubt whether
there be an acre of land in the occupation of Sir Arthur, which has not
cost ten times its intrinsic value to make it better. It is astonishing
how Sir Arthur can be [pardon the expression, my dear] such a dupe! I
have before blamed, and must again blame you, for not exerting yourself
sufficiently to shew him his folly. It concerns the family, it concerns
yourself, nearly. Who can tell how far off the moment is when it may be
too late? My mamma has just heard of a new mortgage, in procuring of
which the worthy Abimelech acted, or pretended to act, as agent: for I
assure you I suspect he was really the principal. During my last visit,
if I do not mistake, I several times saw the pride of wealth betraying
itself; and only subdued by the superior thirst of gain.
Poor Frank Henley! Is it not miraculous that such a father should have
such a son? I am tempted to give utterance to a strange thought! Why
should I not? What is the opinion of the world; what are its
prejudices, in the presence of truth? Yet not to respect them is to
entail upon ourselves I know not what load of acrimony, contempt, and
misery! I must speak--I never yet met a youth whom I thought so
deserving of Anna St. Ives as Frank Henley! The obstacles you will say
are insurmountable. Alas! I fear they are. And therefore 'tis fortunate
that the same thought has not more strongly occurred to you. Perhaps my
caution would have been greater, but that I know your affections are
free; and yet I confess I wonder that they are so. If it be the effect
of your reason, the praise you merit is infinite: and I hope and
believe it is; for, notwithstanding all the tales I have heard and
read, my mind is convinced of nothing more firmly than that the passion
of love is as capable of being repressed, and conquered, as any other
passion whatever: and you know we have both agreed that the passions
are all of them subject to reason, when reason is sufficiently
determined to exert its power.
I have written a long letter; but, writing to you, I never know when to
end.
Heaven bless my Anna St. Ives!
LOUISA CLIFTON
LETTER III
_Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard_
_Wenbourne-Hill_
Oliver, I am wretched! The feeble Frank Henley is a poor miserable
being! The sun shines, the birds warble, the flowers spring, the buds
are bursting into bloom, all nature rejoices; yet to me this mirth,
this universal joy, seems mockery--Why is this? Why do I suffer my mind
thus to be pervaded by melancholy? Why am I thus steeped in gloom?
She is going--Thursday morning is the time fixed--And what is that to
me?--Madman that I am!--Who am I? Does she, can she, ought she to think
of me?--And why not? Am I not a man; and is she more than mortal?--She
is! She is!--Shew me the mortal who presumes to be her equal!
But what do I wish? What would I have? Is it my intention or my desire
to make her wretched? What! Sink her whom I adore in the estimation of
the world; and render her the scoff of the foolish, the vain, and the
malignant?--I!--I make her wretched!--I!--
Oliver, she treats me with indifference--cold, calm, killing
indifference! Yet kind, heavenly kind even in her coldness! Her
cheerful eye never turns from me, nor ever seeks me. To her I am a
statue--Would I were! Why does she not hate me? Openly and absolutely
hate me!--And could I wish her to love? Do I love? Do I? Dare I? Have I
the temerity so much as to suspect I love?--Who am I? The insignificant
son of--!
And who is she? The daughter of a Baronet--Pshaw! What is a
Baronet?--Away with such insolent, such ridiculous distinctions. She is
herself! Let Folly and Inferiority keep their distance!
But I?--Low bred and vulgar let Pride and Error call me, but not
villain! I the seducer of men's daughters! Noble men and still nobler
daughters! I! Why, would I be so very vile a thing? Would I, if I
could?
Yet who shall benumb the understanding, chain up the fancy, and freeze
sensation? Can I command myself deaf when she sings, dead when she
speaks, or rush into idiotism to avoid her enchantments?
Despise me, Oliver, if thou wilt, but the deep sense I have of my own
folly does but increase the distemper of my brain. She herself pities
me, yet does not suspect my disease. 'Tis evident she does not; for her
soul is above artifice. She kindly asked--was I not well? I owned I was
not quite so cheerful as I could wish to be; and [wouldst thou think
it?] was presumptuous enough to hint that I thought the enlivening air
of France might do me good. Thou seest how frantic I am! She answered
with the utmost ease, and without the most distant suspicion of my
selfish, my audacious motive, that she would speak to Sir Arthur. But I
was obliged to request her to forbear, till I had first tried to gain
my father's consent, of which indeed I had but feeble hopes.
Every way miserable, why am I obliged to think and speak of my father
with so little respect? Indeed he is--Well, well!--He is my father--I
am convinced he is become wealthy; nay indeed he gives me to understand
as much, when he wishes to gain any purpose, by endeavouring to excite
avarice in me, which he hopes is, and perhaps supposes must be, mine
and every man's ruling passion. Yet, no; he cannot: his complaints of
me for the want of it are too heartfelt, too bitter.
He has kept me in ignorance, as much as was in his power. Reading,
writing, and arithmetic is his grand system of education; after which
man has nothing more to learn, except to get and to hoard money. Had it
not been for the few books I bought and the many I borrowed, together
with the essential instruction which thy excellent father's learning
and philanthropy enabled and induced him to give me, I should probably
have been as illiterate as he could have wished. A son after his own
heart! One of his most frequent and most passionate reproaches is 'the
time I _waste_ in reading.'
I scarcely need tell thee he was almost in a rage, at my request to
accompany Sir Arthur to France; stating, as I did, that it ought to be
and must be at his expence. Otherwise he cares but little where I go,
being rather regarded by him as a spy on his actions than as his son.
Thou canst not conceive the contempt with which he treats me, for my
want of cunning. He despises my sense of philanthropy, honour, and that
severe probity to which no laws extend. He spurns at the possibility
of preferring the good of society to the good of self--But, once again,
he is my father.
Prithee lend me thy Petrarch, and send it in return by Thomas. I had
nothing to say, though I have written so much, except to ask for this
book, and to burden thee with my complaints. Remember me kindly to thy
most worthy father, and all the family. Thine,
F. HENLEY
LETTER IV
_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_
_London, Grosvenor Street_
Oh, Louisa! I have such a narrative! Such accidents! Such--! But you
shall hear.
We are arrived; and, thank God and good fortune, are all alive; which,
every thing considered, is no small consolation. The chaise was at the
door punctually at five on Thursday morning. Abimelech Henley had been
very busy with Sir Arthur over night; and was in close conference with
him again previous to our departure.
Frank too was there, as disconsolate and as attentive as ever; active
and watchful that every thing was as it should be. How the difference
between soul and soul discovers itself in such scenes! I very much fear
his father treats him unkindly, and that he grieves more than he ought;
nay more than a person of his youth, strong form, and still stronger
mind, could be supposed to grieve. I understand he very much laments
the loss of a college education, which the miser his father could very
well have bestowed upon him, had not his heart been as contracted as
the mouth of his purse.
Mr. Trenchard, luckily for Frank, early discovered his genius, and
gratuitously aided him in his studies. Frank reveres him as a more than
father, and loves his son Oliver like a brother. He is but too sensible
that a true father feeds the mind, and that he who only provides for
the body is no better than a step-father. I have some fear that there
is another cause for his dissatisfaction, and that he has cherished
some silly thoughts of an impossible nature. If so, an effort must be
made which I hope will restore him to reason. And yet what right have I
to conclude that he reasons erroneously? Have I sufficiently examined?
This is a question which has several times lately forced itself upon my
mind. I am not insensible of his high worth: it opens upon me daily.
What I am going to relate will picture that worth better than any
praise of mine. I will therefore continue my narrative.
Every thing being adjusted, off we went; I, Laura, and Sir Arthur, in
the chaise, and one footman only with us, who was to ride before as our
courier, and prepare horses.
I told you of my intention to take King Pepin with me; but the morning
of our departure was all hurry, and it seldom happens that something is
not forgotten, amid the tumult into which the passions seem to plunge
as it were with delight, gratified with the confusion which themselves
create. I must own I was vexed and offended with myself, when I found
that the something overlooked on this occasion was the gift of my
Louisa. Ingratitude with all its reproaches rose up to sting me; and I
immediately resolved to punish myself, by informing my Louisa how
unworthy I am of the gifts of such a friend. It was at the first stage
where we changed horses that I made this discovery. One moment I was
inclined to petition Sir Arthur to stay, while a messenger should be
sent; but the next I determined that my fault should incur its due
pains and penalties.
Every thing was ready; but just as we had seated ourselves in the
chaise, and were again proceeding on our journey, one of the servants
of the inn called to Sir Arthur to stop, for young Mr. Henley was
coming up full speed on the bay mare. Frank and the bay mare are both
famous through the whole country. My father immediately prognosticated
some bad accident, and I began to be alarmed. Our fears however were
soon dissipated, his only errand being to bring my charming favourite.
I confess I was not a little moved by this mark of attention, which
indeed is but one among many, as well as by the peculiarity of the
youth's manner in delivering the bird. He was fearful, visibly fearful,
that his desire to oblige should be thought officious. He attempted to
apologize, but knew not what to say. I thanked him very sincerely, and
in the kindest manner I could; and, seeing him booted, the thought
instantly struck me to request Sir Arthur's permission for him to
accompany us to London, which I imagined might give him pleasure.
The request happened to coincide with some new project of alteration
which Sir Arthur had conceived, and which, he said, after having
further digested, he could better communicate to Frank than describe on
paper. The mare is said to be one of the best travellers in the
kingdom; and, as she was very capable of performing the journey, and
the carriage being rather heavily loaded, he accordingly kept pace with
us.
During the day we passed many delightful scenes, and enjoyed the
charming prospects which the rich cultivation of England, and the road
we travelled, afford. Frank Henley was scarcely ever out of sight,
though he was rather watchfully assiduous than communicative.
Sir Arthur, for his part, did not forget to point out to us what a
charming park such and such grounds might be turned into; how
picturesque a temple, or a church steeple, would look in this place;
what a fine effect a sheet of water would have in that bottom; and how
nobly a clump of trees would embellish the hill by which it was
overlooked.
I believe I am a sad wicked girl, Louisa! I was once strangely tempted
to tell him I was much afraid his father had mistaken the trade to
which his genius was best adapted, when he made him a baronet instead
of a gardener. However I had the grace to bite my tongue and be silent.
He might have had the retort courteous upon me, and have replied that
gardening was much the most honourable trade of the two. But he would
never have thought of that answer.
Thus the day, as I tell you, passed pleasantly and whimsically enough.
But the night! Oh!--The night!--You shall hear.
It was the dusk of evening when we were at Maidenhead. We had then
three stages to go, and Sir Arthur began to be alarmed by the rumours
of depredations which had lately been committed on the road. I really
do not know what to say to it; but there appears to be something deeper
in the doctrine of sympathies than such silly girls as I can either
account for or comprehend. I endeavoured with all my might to oppose
the sensation, and yet I found my father's fears were catching. Frank
Henley indeed begged of me, with great energy, not to be alarmed; for
that he would die sooner than I should be insulted. Upon my honour,
Louisa, he is a gallant youth!--You shall hear--But he is a brave, a
gallant youth.
I cannot say but I wished I were a man; though I am convinced it was
a foolish wish, and that it is a great mistake to suppose courage has
any connexion with sex; if we except, as we ought, the influence of
education and habit. My dear mother had not the bodily strength of Sir
Arthur; but, with respect to cool courage and active presence of mind,
I must say, Louisa, there was no comparison.
We set off, however, Frank having first provided himself with a hanger
and a pair of pistols; and he now kept close to the chaise-door,
without once quitting his station. I believe Sir Arthur was heartily
glad at being thus provided with a guard, as it were unexpectedly, and
without any foresight of his own. For, not to mention gold watches and
trinkets, he had more money with him than he would have chosen to have
lost, fright out of the question.
We proceeded thus without molestation as far as Brentford; but not
without receiving fresh hints that it was very possible we might be
visited; and then, though it began to be drawing toward midnight, Sir
Arthur thought the danger chiefly over. As it happened he was mistaken.
He was indeed, my dear! I assure you I could tremble now with the
thoughts of it, but that my woman-hood forbids. I remember how valiant
I have been in laughing at the pretty fears of pretty ladies, with
their salts, hartshorn, fits, and burnt feathers. Beside, I would not
have my Louisa think too meanly of me. Yet I assure you it was a
terrible night.
We had just passed the broad part of Turnham Green, as Frank has since
told me, and were near the end of a lane which strikes into the
Uxbridge road, when the postillion was stopped by one highwayman, while
almost at the same instant another dashed his pistol through the
side-glass into the chaise, full in Sir Arthur's face.
Frank was on my side--Notwithstanding the length of the journey, he
seemed to infuse his own ardour into the spirited animal on which he
rode, and was round instantaneously--It was really dreadful!--The
highwayman saw, or rather heard him coming, for it was prodigiously
dark, and fired. Poor Frank was shot!--In the shoulder--But he says he
did not feel it at first--He returned the fire; and the highwayman
exclaimed, with a shocking oath, 'I am a dead man!' He rode away
however full speed; and his associate, who stood to guard the post-boy,
rode after him. Frank imagines that, owing to the darkness of the
night, and his being so close under the chaise, they had not perceived
him when they came to the attack.
But here let me tell you, for I am sure I ought, our protector, our
hero is not dangerously wounded. He indeed makes very light of it; but
I am persuaded he would do that if he had lost an arm. The moment the
highwaymen were gone, he rode round to me to intreat me not to be
alarmed, for that all was safe.
Imagine whether I did not thank him, and bless him; at least in
ejaculation. Imagine what I felt, after what I _had_ heard, at hearing
him talk to me, and at being convinced that he was actually alive. I
had not the least suspicion of his being wounded, he spoke so
cheerfully; yet I naturally enquired if he were hurt. His answer
was--'No no--Not _hurt_'--But he spoke with an emphasis that
immediately raised my apprehensions. I repeated my question--'Are you
sure you are not hurt; not wounded?' He could not say no to that, and
therefore answered 'He believed he felt a slight contusion in the
shoulder; but that he was convinced it was trifling.'
I was now seized with a fit of terror much greater, in effect, than my
former panic. I fervently intreated Sir Arthur to let the servant take
the bay mare, and ride for help! I begged, urgently, violently, for
God's sake, that he would take my place in the chaise! I would mount
the mare myself! I would do any thing! All the replies I could get were
still more vehement intercessions from Frank Henley, that I would not
be alarmed, assurances that there was not the least danger, the most
obstinate determination not to quit his post, and, notwithstanding the
pain which he could not but feel, a persisting to reload the discharged
pistol, and then to proceed.
I know not myself how my fears were so far pacified as to yield to
this, except that his energy seemed to overpower mine. Indeed I
suffered dreadfully the rest of the way. I knew the youth's generous
spirit, and my imagination was haunted with the idea, that the blood
was flowing every foot of the road, and that he would rather drop from
the horse than be subdued. It is impossible, indeed it is, to tell you
what I felt.
At last we arrived in Grosvenor Street; and sure enough the poor fellow
was faint with the loss of blood. 'My God!'--said I to Sir Arthur, when
the light was brought, and I saw him--'Send for a surgeon! Good
Heavens! Run! Somebody run for help!'--He still insisted he was but
slightly hurt, and began to resume all his earnestness to quiet me. Sir
Arthur did it more effectually by sending as I desired, and by telling
me that, if I continued to agitate by contending with him so much, I
might very possibly throw him into a fever, and make a wound, which
most probably was not in itself dangerous, mortal.
I said not another word, except seriously and solemnly requesting him
to calm his mind, for his own sake, if not for mine; for that, after
being wounded in defence of me and my father, to die by my fault were
dreadful indeed. He retired with more apparent satisfaction in his
countenance than I think I ever saw before.
I was resolved however not to go to bed, till I had received some
account from the surgeon. He came, the wound was examined, and word was
immediately sent me, by the express command of Frank, who had been told
I was sitting up for that purpose, that there was, as he had assured
me, no danger. The surgeon indeed thought proper to qualify it with no
_great_ danger. It is an old remark that surgeons are not prone to
speak too lightly of the miracles they perform. This short syllable,
great, did not fail however to disturb me very considerably. I waited
till the ball was extracted, and [Would you believe it?] brought us;
for I insisted upon seeing it. Sir Arthur called me a mad girl, adding
there was no ruling me. I persisted in questioning and cross-examining
the surgeon, till I was convinced that, as he said, there was no
_great_ danger; and I then retired to rest: that is, I retired to the
same swimming motion which the chaise had communicated to my nerves, or
my brain, or I know not what, and to dreaming of swords, pistols,
murdered men, and all the horrid ramblings of the fancy under such
impressions.
To convince me how trifling the hurt was, the gallant Frank insisted
the next day on coming down to dinner; though he was allowed to eat
nothing but chicken broth, and a light pudding. I never saw him so
lively. His only present danger of death, he said, was by famine; and
complained jocularly of the hardship of fasting after a long journey. I
could almost have persuaded him to eat, for indeed he is a brave, a
noble youth.
I know I never need apologize to my Louisa for the length of my
letters. How can we enjoy equal pleasure to that of thus conversing in
despite of distance, and though separated by seas and mountains? Indeed
it is a kind of privation to end; but end I must--therefore--Adieu.
A. W. ST. IVES
LETTER V
_Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard_
_London, Grosvenor Street_
You did not expect, dear Oliver, to receive a letter from me dated at
this distance. By the luckiest accident in the world, I have been
allowed to accompany her thus far, have ridden all day with my eye
fixed upon her, and at night have had the ecstatic pleasure to defend,
to fight for her! Perhaps have saved her life! Have been wounded for
her!--Would I had been killed! Was there ever so foolish, so wrong, so
romantic a wish? And yet it has rushed involuntarily upon me fifty
times. To die for her seems to be a bliss which mortal man cannot
merit! Truth, severe truth, perhaps, will not justify these effusions.
I will, I do, endeavour to resist them.--Indeed I am ashamed of
myself, for I find I am very feeble. Yet let not thy fears be too
violent for thy friend: he will not lightly desert his duty.
Let me tell thee, before I proceed, that my wound is slight.--We were
stopped by a couple of highwaymen. Thou never wert a witness of such
angelic sensibility as the divine creature discovered, when she found I
had received some hurt. She alarmed me beyond description, by the
excess of her feelings. Oh! She has a soul alive to all the throbs of
humanity! It shoots and shivers in every vein!--Then too when we
arrived, when candles were brought [I had bled somewhat freely, and I
suppose looked rather pale] thou hast no conception of, it is
impossible to conceive the energy with which she insisted on sending
for the best and most immediate help.
We had another battle of sensibility; for I assure thee I was almost as
much [Did I not know her I should say more.] alarmed for her as she
could be for me.
Yet do not imagine I am fool enough to flatter myself with any false
hopes. No: it was humanity; it was too deep a sense of a slight benefit
received; it was totally distinct from love.--Oh no! Love, added to
such strong, such acute sensations, surely, Oliver, it would have
shrieked, would have fainted, would have died!--Her fears and feelings
were powerful I grant, but they were all social, and would have been
equally awakened for any creature whom she had known, and had equal
cause to esteem. And she esteems all who have but the smallest claims
to such respect; even me!--Did I tell thee it was she who petitioned
Sir Arthur to lay his commands on me to attend them to London, knowing
I wished it; and that this was in return for the trifling favour I had
done her, in galloping after her with her favourite bird? Oh! She is
all benignity! All grace! All angel!
Never did I feel such raptures as since I have received this fortunate,
this happy wound!--Yet why?--Is not her heart exactly what it was? It
is. I should be an idiot not to perceive it is. Strange contradiction!
Hopeless yet happy!--But it is a felicity of short duration.
Would it were possible for me to accompany her to France! My restless
foreboding imagination has persuaded me she will be in danger the
moment she is from under my protection. Vain fool! Who, what am
I?--Because a couple of dastardly highwaymen have galloped away at the
first report of a pistol, my inflated fancy has been busy in persuading
me that I am her hero!
Yet I wish I might go with her! Tell me, Oliver, wouldst not thou wish
so too? Would not all the world wish the same? Didst thou ever in thy
life behold her without feelings unusual, throbs, doubts, desires, and
fears; wild, incoherent, yet deriving ecstasy from that divinity which
irradiates her form and beams on every object around her?--Do!--Think
me a poor, raving, lovesick blockhead! And yet it is true! All I have
said of her, and infinitely more, is true! Thou nor the world cannot
disprove it! Would I might go with her!
I have seen the fellow with whom I had the rencounter. His wound is
much more severe than mine. Sir Arthur sent information to the office
in Bow Street. Wouldst thou think a highwayman could be so foolish a
coxcomb as to rob in a bright scarlet coat, and to ride a light grey
horse? The bloodhunters [I am sorry that our absurd, our iniquitous
laws oblige me to call them so] the bloodhunters soon discovered the
wounded man. Forty pounds afforded a sufficient impulse. They were
almost ready to quarrel with me, because I did not choose to swear as
heartily as they thought proper to prompt. Thou knowest how I abhor the
taking away the life of man, instead of seeking his reformation.
After persisting that it was impossible for me to identify the person
of the highwayman, as indeed it really was, and luckily prevailing on
Sir Arthur to do the same [though he, like most folks who have any
thing to lose, was convinced it would be an excellent thing if all
rogues could be instantly hanged, like dogs, out of the way] I paid the
poor wretch a visit, privately, and gave him such a lecture as, I
should hope, he would not easily forget. It was not all censure:
soothing, reasoning, and menace were mingled. My greatest effort was to
convince him of the folly of such crimes; he had received some proof of
the danger. He was in great pain, and did not think his life quite
secure. He promised reformation with all the apparent fervour of
sincerity, prayed for me, blessed me very heartily, and praised me for
my bravery. He says the Bow Street runners will leave nothing
unattempted to secure the reward, and take away his life. I have
therefore engaged to hire a lodging, and bring a hackney coach for him
myself, at seven in the morning, the hour least likely for him to be
watched or traced. I believe I was more earnest to prevent harm
happening to him than he himself was; for, having met a man upon the
stairs, whose physiognomy, dress and appearance led me to suspect him,
I questioned my penitent, who owned it was his accomplice; a determined
fellow, according to his account; an Irish gambler, whose daring
character led him, after a run of ill luck, to this desperate resource.
It was with some difficulty I could persuade him the fellow might
betray him, and join the Bow Street people. The gambler, as he says,
expects a supply, and has promised him money. But he has consented to
leave his lodging; and I think I have convinced him of the folly,
danger, and guilt of such connections.
I found he was poor, and, except a few shillings, left him the trifle
of money which I had; endeavouring by every means to restore a lost
wretch to virtue and society. The fellow was not flint. The tears
gushed into his eyes, and I own I came away with hopes that my efforts
had not been wholly ineffectual.
I have written by the first post, that you mayst know what is become of
me. Farewell.
F. HENLEY
LETTER VI
_Louisa Clifton to Anna Wenbourne St. Ives_
_Rose Bank_
I have only time for a single line, but I cannot forbear to tell you
how great the emotions have been which I felt, my dear Anna, at reading
your last. Ten thousand thanks for your history; for so it may well be
called. You have quite filled my mind with the pictures, incidents, and
adventures of your journey.--Then your deliverer!--Such courage!--Such
fortitude!--Such--!
I must not finish my sentence. I must not tell you all I think
concerning him. There were two or three passages in your letter which
raised doubts in my mind; but of these I was soon cured by recollecting
a sentence at the beginning--'An effort must be made which will restore
him to reason. Yet the question must be examined.'--Certainly--You
could not be Anna St. Ives, and act or feel otherwise.
But I absolutely adore this youth, this Frank Henley!
The boy is waiting; he will be too late for the post. Be that my excuse
for the briefness of this; but do not fail, my dear dear Anna, to write
fully every thing that passes. Your last has both warmed my feelings,
nay in some measure my fears, and excited my curiosity.
Yours eternally,
L. CLIFTON
P.S. I will write more at length tomorrow.
LETTER VII
_Abimelech Henley to Sir Arthur St. Ives, Baronet_
_Wenbourne-Hill_
Most onnurable Sir, my ever onnurd Master,
The instructions[1] you wus pleased to give me have bin kept in mind.
Your onnur's commands is my duties; your precepts is my laws. For why?
Your noble onnur knows how to command, and I knows how to obey.
[Footnote 1: The editor has sometimes found it very difficult to
translate the letters of this correspondent, out of bad spelling into
English. Had they been left as they were written, they would have been
half unintelligible. The editor however has used his own judgment, in
suffering various words to retain their primitive dress; the better to
preserve what would otherwise have been too much unlike its author, had
the orthography been rendered perfect. It would have been assassination
to have omitted any of the dialectic or cant terms, in which this
honest Abimelech takes so much delight: for which reason they have been
carefully retained.]
The willow dell is fillin up; all hands is at work. I keeps 'em to it.
The sloap of the grande kinal will be finisht and turft over in 3
wekes; and I have chosen the younk plants for the vardunt hall: nice
wons they be too, your onnur!
But I have a bin ponderaitin on all these thinks, and sooth an trooth
to say, your onnur, I doubt as how the bitt [I mean the kole, your
onnur] witch your noble onnur has a bin pleesd to stipilate and lay by
for these here improvements [And glorious improvements they will be,
let me tell your onnur. I think I knows a sumthink of the matter; thos
to be sure I must a say as how I am no more nur a chit, a kintlin, to
your onnur, in matters of taste and the grande goosto, and all a that
there; but I'll give your onnur my two ears if there be any think at
all komparissuble or parallel to it in all England.] But as I wus a
sayin to your noble onnur--I am afeard we shall want cash; and I am a
sure that would be a ten m of pitties. Especially if your onnur thinks
any think more of the vister, with another church steepil in
prospekshun. And to be sure it was a noble thoft; I must say it would
be a sin and a shame to let sitch an elegunt ideer a slip through your
fingurs. And then, pardn me your onnur, but for what, and for why, and
for wherefore?
Besides all witch, your onnur wus a menshinnin a willdurness, and a
hermmutidge, and a grotto; all witch as your onnur said would conceal
the dead flat anenst the 3 old okes. And would your onnur think of
stoppin short, after havin a done all that your onnur has a done, to
bring Wenbourne Hill into vogue an reppitaishun, and make it the talk
of the hole kuntree? Nay, for the matter of that, it is a that already;
that I must say. But then, as your onnur says, in answer, nothink is
done till every think is done.
And so I have paradventerd umbelly to speak my foolish thofts, on this
here business. For why? I knows a what your onnur will say. Your onnur
will tell me, when your onnur comes back. Ay, honest Aby, I wish the
shiners' that I a spent and a bamboozild in that there France had a bin
strewed over these here grounds. For, over and above of what I a bin a
menshinnin to your onnur, there is the tempel beside a the new
plantation, of a witch your onnur has so long a bin talkin of a buildin
of. And then there is the extenshun and ogmenshun of the new ruins. So
that all together, I must say that if simple honest Aby might
paradventer to put in my oar to so generous and so noble a gentleman,
and moreover won of his majesty's baronets, why I would keep the money
now I had a got it; since, as your onnur finds, money is not so easy to
be a come at. Pray your onnur, I beesiege your onnur don't forget that;
money is not so easy to be a come at.
And so I most umbelly rimmane, with the blessin of almighty mercifool
praise, your onnur's most umbel and most obedient, very faithfool and
very thankfool, kind sarvent to command,
ABIMELECH HENLEY
P.S. I pray your onnur to think of the vister, and the willdurness, and
the hermmutidge; I pray your onnur doo ee; not forrgettin the tempel.
Think of the money your most dear gracious noble onnur; and think to
what vantidge I could a lay it out for your onnur; that is, take me
ritely your most exceptionable onnur, a savin and a sayin under your
wise onnur's purtection, and currection, and every think of that there
umbel and very submissive obedient kind. Bring me the man that a better
knows how to lay-out his pound or his penni than myself; that is,
always a savin and exceptin your noble onnur, as in rite and duty
boundin. And then as to forin parts! Why, lawjus mighty! Your noble
onnur has 'em at your fingur's ends. The temple will stand; blow or
snow, a there it will be; I'll a answer for that; a shillin's worth for
every shillin: but ast for the money a squitterd a here and a there in
forin parts, what will your most noble onnur ever see for that? I most
umbelly condysend to beg and beesiege your good and kind onnur's noble
pardn for all this audacious interpolation, of and by witch any but
your most disrespectfool onnur would say wus no better but so much mag:
but I hopes and trusts your onnur, as you always have bin henceforth in
times passt, is in the mind a well to take what a well is meant.
And so I wonce and again most perrumptallee beg leave, in all lowliness
by the grace and blessin of God in his infinit goodness and mercy to
superscribe meself.
ABIMELECH HENLEY
LETTER VIII
_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_
_London, Grosvenor Street_
Frank Henley's accident has necessarily delayed our journey for a
fortnight; nay, it was within an ace of being delayed for ever, and
[Would you think it possible?] by the artful remonstrances of this
Abimelech Henley. I have been obliged to exert all my influence, and
all my rhetoric, upon Sir Arthur, or it would have been entirely given
up. Rapacious and narrow in his own plans, this wretch, this honest
Aby, as my father calls him, would not willingly suffer a guinea to be
spent, except in improvements: that is, not a guinea which should not
pass through his hands. A letter from him to Sir Arthur has been the
cause of this contest.
I hope however, my dear, that Sir Arthur's affairs are not in so bad a
train as your fears [expressed in your letter of the third] cause you
to imagine. Should they be so, what will become of my brother? A mere
man of fashion! Active in the whole etiquette of visiting, dressing,
driving, riding, fencing, dancing, gaming, writing cards of compliment,
and all the frivolous follies of what, by this class of people, is
called _the world_; but indolent in, or more properly incapable of all
useful duties.
I stand rather high in his opinion, and he has done me the honour to
consult me lately on a family affair. The Edgemoor estate, of eight
hundred per annum, is entailed on him, as the heir of St. Ives, by my
grandfather's will; with right of possession at the age of twenty-four.
Sir Arthur I suppose does not find it convenient to abridge his income
so materially, and has been endeavouring to persuade him that it is his
duty and interest not to insist upon possession; at least for the
present. My brother is not pleased with the proposal, and has
complaisantly written to ask my opinion, with an evident determination
to follow his own, he having now almost completed his twenty-fourth
year. My answer was an attempt [I fear a vain one] to call to his mind
the true use of money; and, unless he should have found the art of
employing it worthily, I advised him to shew his filial affection and
oblige Sir Arthur.
I can prophesy however that he will have no forbearance. Not to mention
debts, he has too many imaginary and impatient wants to submit to
delay. Neither have I any great desire that he should; being convinced
that the want of money is the only impediment that can put a stop to
Sir Arthur's improvements.
But this honest Aby!--The same post that brought me your letter of the
eleventh,[1] brought one for Sir Arthur; and while I was meditating on
the contents of yours, and not a little chagrined at the confirmation
of your intelligence concerning the mortgage--[Chagrined that my father
should be the instrument, the tool of such a fellow: chagrined that his
family should be in danger, and himself made a jest]--while I was
considering what were the best means, if there were any, of inducing
Sir Arthur to abandon projects so foolish, and so fatal, Laura came
running with the news that our journey to France was all over, that
orders to that effect had been given, and that a chaise was to be at
the door in an hour, to take Sir Arthur back to Wenbourne-Hill.
[Footnote 1: This and other letters are occasionally omitted, as not
containing any new information.]
This incident, in my then temper of mind, produced its full effect. I
knew Sir Arthur's way: I knew he would not willingly see me himself;
and, immediately suspecting that his letter was from honest Aby, I
determined if possible he should not escape me. He was in his own room;
and how to draw him out? An hour would soon be gone! I therefore
employed an artifice, which, on after recollection, I am convinced was
wrong; very wrong! I went into the drawing-room, and bade the footman
go to him and announce Miss Wenbourne. I have a maiden aunt of that
name, whom I was christened after, who lives in London, and whom I
believe you never saw. The trick succeeded, and Sir Arthur came into
the drawing-room. He looked disconcerted at seeing me, and the
following dialogue began.
Heydey, Anna! Where is your aunt?
Sir, I am afraid I have done an unjustifiable thing. [My conscience
then first smote me, with a conviction that what I had persuaded myself
was a defensible artifice was neither more nor less than a direct
falsehood; which of all crimes, you know, I think one of the most mean,
hateful, and pernicious. The just confusion I felt had nearly ruined my
cause.]
Why!--What!--What do you mean?--Where is your aunt?
She is not here, sir. It was I who wished to speak to you.
You! And send in your aunt's name?
My name is Wenbourne, sir.
Your name is St. Ives, miss.
I feel, sir, how exceedingly culpable I am; and perhaps do not deserve
that you should pardon me. [My father began to suspect the reason of my
wishing to speak with him, and did not know whether good nature or ill
would serve his cause the best. I perceived him cast an eye toward the
door.]
This is extraordinary!--Very extraordinary, upon my soul!
[I saw it was time to recover my spirits.] I have heard something which
I scarcely can believe to be true, sir.
What have you heard? What have you heard?
That you are going back to Wenbourne-Hill.
Well, what then?
And that you do not intend we should visit France.
Who told you so?
The servants have orders to that effect.
The servants are a parcel of busy blockheads!
What can have occasioned you, sir, to change your opinion so suddenly?
My affairs. [He looked again toward the door, but he felt it was too
late; and that he must now either defend or abandon his cause.] The
journey will be too expensive.
If, sir, the journey would in the least embarrass your affairs, and if
I did not daily see you entering into expences so infinitely greater
than this, I would not answer a word to such an argument. I think it my
duty to be as careful of your property as you yourself could be; and
for that reason have often wished I could prevail on you, in some
measure, to alter your plans.
I have no doubt, miss, of your prodigious wisdom; you remind me of it
daily. Your plans to be sure would, as you say, be infinitely better
than mine. When you are married, or I am dead, you may do as you
please; but, in the mean time, suffer me to act for myself. I do not
choose to be under tutelage.
I am sorry, my dear papa, to see that I offend you; but indeed I mean
the very reverse. Indeed I do! It is my zeal for your interest, my love
of you, [I ventured to take his hand] that oblige me to speak--
And plainly to tell me you do not approve of my proceedings!
Plainly to tell you the truth, because I believe it to be my duty.
Upon my word! A very dutiful daughter! I thought the duty of children
was to obey the wills of their parents.
Obedience--[Pardon my sincerity, sir.]--Obedience must have limits.
Children should love and honour their parents for their virtues, and
should cheerfully and zealously do whatever they require of them, which
is not in itself wrong.
Of which _children_ are to judge?
Yes, sir: of which children are to judge.
A fine system of obedience truly!
They cannot act without judging, more or less, be they obedient or
disobedient: and the better they judge the better will they perform
their duty. There may be and there have been mistaken parents, who have
commanded their children to be guilty even of crimes.
And what is that to me? Upon my word, you are a very polite young lady!
A very extraordinarily polite miss!
God forbid, my dear papa, that you should imagine I think you one of
those parents.
I really don't know nor don't care, madam, what you think me.--My
plans, indeed!--Disapproved by you!
If I saw any person under a dangerous mistake, misled, wronged, preyed
upon by the self-interested, should I not be indolent or cowardly, nay
should I not be criminal, if I did not endeavour to convince such a
person of his error? And what should I be if this person were my
father?
Upon my honour, miss, you take intolerable liberties! The license of
your tongue is terrible!
It were better, sir, that I should subject myself to your displeasure,
and make you think unkindly of me, than that others, who pretend to be
your servants and your humble but friendly advisers, should
injure--should--I know not what! We have often heard of stewards, who
have acted the mortgagee to their own masters. [This hint was a thunder
stroke. Sir Arthur was wholly disconcerted. His mind apparently made
several attempts to recover itself; but they were all ineffectual.]
Well, well--I, I--I know what the meaning of all this is. You--You are
vexed at being disappointed of your journey--But make yourself easy,
child; you shall go: you shan't be disappointed.
'Tis true, sir, I wish to visit Paris; but not if it will be in the
least inconvenient to you, in money affairs. Though I own I should
indeed be vexed to see the small sum you had appropriated for this
journey wrested from you, to throw up a hill, or build a fantastic
temple in some place where its very situation would render it
ridiculous.
Upon my word!--Was ever the like of this heard?--Don't I tell you, you
shall go?
Indeed, sir, going is but a small part of the subject: there is another
point, which, if I could but gain, would give me infinitely more
pleasure.
Pshaw! Girl! I can't stay to argue points with you now! I tell you, you
shall go. I give you my word you shall go; and so let's have no more of
it.--Do you hear, Anna? I am too old to be schooled. I don't like it!
Mind me! I don't like it!
I am very sorry, sir, that I cannot find words to speak the truth which
would be less offensive.
I tell you again there is no truth to be spoken! Have not I promised
you shall go? There's an end of the business. You shall go.
And away went Sir Arthur; apparently happy to get rid both of me and
himself: that is, of the disagreeable ideas which, as he thought, I had
so impertinently raised. You blamed me in your last for not exerting
myself sufficiently, to shew him his folly. You see the sufficiently is
still wanting. Perhaps I have not discovered the true mode of
addressing myself to Sir Arthur's passions. For, though my
remonstrances have often made him uneasy, I cannot perceive that they
have ever produced conviction. And yet I should suppose that a certain
degree of momentary conviction must be the result of such
conversations. But the fortitude to cast off old habits, and assume
new, is beyond the strength of common mortals.
Frank Henley is a favourite with you, and very deservedly. But, in
answer to the surprise in your former, my dear, that he has never
engaged my affections, as well as to the cautionary kind hints in your
two last, for so I understand them, let me say that, had I imagined
love to be that unconquerable fatality of which I have been speaking, I
do not know what might have happened: but, having been early convinced
that a union between him and me must be attended with I know not what
scenes of wretchedness, in short, knowing the thing in a certain sense
to be impossible, it has always been so considered by me, and therefore
I have no reason to think myself in any danger. Doubts occasionally
rise in my mind, but in general soon disappear. Should they return I
will not conceal them.
I remember it was a remark of yours that 'Admiration is the mother of
love.' So it is, of love such as I bear to my Louisa; and of such
perhaps as angels might be supposed to bear to angels. I admire Frank
Henley, greatly, ardently admire him; yet I certainly do not love: that
is, I certainly do not permit myself to feel any of those anxieties,
alarms, hopes, fears, perturbations, and endearments, which we are told
are inseparable from that passion. I extinguish, I suffocate them in
their birth.
I am called for: Adieu, my ever dear Louisa.
A. W. ST. IVES
LETTER IX
_Sir Arthur St. Ives to Abimelech Henley_
_London, Grosvenor Street_
I have received your letter, good Abimelech, and own your reasoning has
its force. Much is yet to be done to Wenbourne-Hill. Year after year I
have said--'This shall be the last: we will now bring affairs to a
finish.' But improvement is my delight; walking, talking, sitting,
standing, or lying, waking or sleeping, I can think of nothing else. We
live you know, honest Aby, only to amend: so that, instead of
concluding, I find more things to do at present than ever.
I have the wilderness very much at heart: but the soil is excellent,
and I scarcely know, Aby, how we shall make the land sufficiently
barren. Yet it would have a fine effect! Yes, that it certainly would,
and we will try our utmost. The hermitage too at the far end! The
moss-grown cell, Aby! With a few scattered eglantines and wild roots!
We will plant ivy round the three old oaks, and bring a colony of owls
to breed! Then at the bottom of all a grotto: Oh! it will be delicious!
Shells will be expensive, for we are not within forty miles of the sea.
But no matter: it must and it shall be done, for I have set my heart on
it. Nay, from what you said to me, honest Aby, knowing you to be a
careful thrifty fellow, full of foresight, I was so warm in the cause
that I had determined to take your advice, and renounce or defer the
journey to France; but the blabbing servants got a hint of the matter,
and it came to my daughter's ears. So, for peace and quietness sake, I
think I must e'en indulge her, and take her a short trip to the
continent. But we will go no further than the neighbourhood of Paris.
Beside I wish, for my own part, to see how the country is laid out. I
am desirous to know whether all France has any thing to equal
Wenbourne-Hill.
And yet, Aby, I find it is impossible to please every body. You know
what continual improvements I have been making, for these last twenty
years; for you have superintended them all. I have planted one year,
and grubbed up the next; built, and pulled down; dug, and filled up
again; removed hills, and sent them back to their old stations; and all
from a determination to do whatever could be done. And now, I believe,
there are no grounds in all England so wooded and shut in as those of
Wenbourne-Hill; notwithstanding its situation on a very commanding
eminence. We are surrounded by coppices, groves, espaliers, and
plantations. We have excluded every vulgar view of distant hills,
intervening meadows, and extensive fields; with their insignificant
green herbage, yellow lands, and the wearisome eternal waving of
standing corn.
And yet, Aby, after having done all this, comes me Sir Alexander
Evergreen, and very freely tells me that we have spoiled
Wenbourne-Hill, buried ourselves in gloom and darkness, and shut out
the finest prospects in all England! Formerly the hall could be seen by
travellers from the road, and we ourselves had the village church in
view, all of which we have now planted out of sight! Very true: but,
instead of the parish steeple, have we not steeples of our own in every
direction? And, instead of the road, with the Gloucestershire hills and
lessening clouds in perspective, have we not the cedar quincunx? Yet
see the curse of obstinacy and want of taste! Would you think it, Aby?
Of this Sir Alexander complains!
It is in vain to tell him that we are now all within ourselves; that
every body is surprised to see how snug we are; and that nobody can
suspect so many temples, and groves, and terraces, and ascents, and
descents, and clumps, and shrubberies, and vistas, and glades, and
dells, and canals, and statues, and rocks, and ruins are in existence,
till they are in the very midst of them. And then! Oh how have I
enjoyed their admiration! Nothing is so great a pleasure to me as to
bring a gentleman of taste, who knows how to be struck with what he
sees, and set him down in the middle of one of my great gravel walks!
For all the world allows, Abimelech, that our gravel walks at
Wenbourne-Hill are some of the broadest, the straightest, and the
finest in the kingdom.
Yet observe how men differ, Abimelech. Sir Alexander wants me to turf
them over! He says that, where you may have the smooth verdure, gravel
walks are ridiculous; and are only tolerable in common pathways, where
continual treading would wear away the greensward. But I know what has
given him such a love for the soft grass. Sir Alexander is gouty, and
loves to tread on velvet.
Beside he is a cynic. He blames all we have done, and says he would
render one of the deserts of Arabia the garden of Eden, with the money
we have wasted in improving Wenbourne-Hill; which he affirms, before we
touched it, was one of the most beautiful spots in the three kingdoms.
I confess, Aby, that, if as I said I did not know him to be a cynic, I
should be heartily vexed. But it either is, or at any rate it shall be,
one of the most beautiful spots in the three kingdoms, ay or in the
whole world! Of that I am resolved; so go on with your work, Abimelech.
Do not be idle. The love of fame is a noble passion; and the name of
Arthur St. Ives shall be remembered at Wenbourne-Hill, long after his
remains are laid in their kindred clay, as the poet says.
I desired your son Frank to accompany us to London. He is a spirited
young fellow, and behaved well on the road, where he had an affair with
a highwayman, and got a slight wound; but he is in no danger. He is a
fine fellow, a brave fellow, and an honour to you, honest Aby.
Some grounds which I saw on my journey, with water purling, meandering,
and occasionally dashing down a steep declivity, or winding along a
more gentle descent, as it happened to be, suggested an idea to me. It
came into my mind that, as we lie high, if we had but a lake
sufficiently large on the top of the hill, we could send the water down
in rivulets on every side. But then the difficulty struck me how to get
it up again. Perhaps it may be overcome. It would have a charming
effect, and we will think of it hereafter.
When you have received my address at Paris, do not fail to let me know,
once a week, how every thing proceeds. Be particular in your accounts,
and do not be afraid of wearying me. My heart is in my grounds and my
improvements; and the more places and things you name the more pleasure
you will give me. Write to me too concerning my herd of deer, my
Spanish sheep, my buffaloes, my Chinese pheasants, and all my foreign
live stock.
I will make my journey as short as possible; it shall not be long
before I will re-visit my Wenbourne-Hill. To own the truth, honest Aby,
after reading your letter, I had ordered the chaise to the door to come
down again; but Anna St. Ives would not hear of it, so I was obliged to
yield. But, as I tell you, my heart is with you; Wenbourne-Hill is
never out of my mind.
I could wish you to be cautious in your communications, Abimelech,
concerning our money matters. My daughter gave me a hint about the last
mortgage, which I did not half like. Children think they have a right
to pry into a father's expences; and to curb and brow-beat him, if the
money be not all spent in gratifying their whims. Be more close,
Abimelech, if you would oblige me.
ARTHUR ST. IVES
LETTER X
_Louisa Clifton to Anna Wenbourne St. Ives_
_Rose-Bank_
I am excessively angry with myself, my dear Anna. I have not treated
you with the open confidence which you deserve, because I have had
improper fears of you. I have doubted lest an excess of friendship and
generosity should lead you into mistake, and induce you to think well
of my brother rather for my sake than for his own. But the more I
reflect the more I am convinced that duplicity never can be virtue.
Your last letter has brought me to a sense of this. The noble sincerity
with which you immediately accused yourself, for having practised an
artifice [which I, like you, do not think was innocent, because
artifice cannot be innocent] has taught me how I ought to act; and Sir
Arthur's caprice is an additional incitement.
I have for some time known that it has been very much desired by my
mamma to see you and Coke Clifton united. She mentioned her wish to Sir
Arthur, and he seemed pleased with the idea. She did me the honour to
consult me; and I opposed precipitate proceedings, and strenuously
argued that all such events ought to take their natural course.
This was the origin of your present journey to Paris; and I
consequently was enjoined secrecy, of the propriety of which I doubted
at the moment. I am now convinced that secrets are always either
foolish or pernicious things, and that there ought to be none.
The fickleness of Sir Arthur however, relative to this journey, both
surprises and pains me. It shews his weakness as well as the power of
his favourite, Abimelech, to be greater than even I imagined; and my
former thoughts were not very favourable. After having concerted this
plan with my mamma, and after preparing and proceeding a part of the
way, I can scarcely imagine what excuse he would have made to her.
His mentioning my brother to you likewise surprised me. In conversing
with my mamma, I had told her that, if such an event were to take
place, it were desirable that you and my brother should become
acquainted, before any hint or proposal ought to be made to you. I at
present believe this to have been wrong and weak advice; but it
prevailed, and the arrangement was that my mamma should write to Coke
Clifton, to direct his route through Paris; that he should be there at
a fixed time, to transact some pretended business for her; that Sir
Arthur and you should make a journey thither on a party of pleasure,
which we all knew would be agreeable to you; and that you and my
brother should meet as if by accident. But it appears that Sir Arthur,
when he has any favourite project in view, can scarcely forbear being
communicative, not from principle but from incontinence.
With respect to my brother, having told you all that has passed, I have
only to add, it is my earnest advice that you should be careful to put
no deception on yourself, but to see him as he is. His being the
brother of your friend cannot give him dignity of mind, if he have it
not already. Were I a thousand times his sister, I could not wish him
another wife so deserving as my Anna. But sister shall be no motive
with me to make me desirous of seeing persons united whose sentiments
and souls may be dissimilar. Had I not so much confidence in your
discernment, and truth to yourself, I should not be without uneasiness.
My opinion is that the parties should themselves reciprocally discover
those qualities which ought mutually to fit them for the friendship of
marriage. Is not that the very phrase, Anna; the _friendship of
marriage_? Surely, if it be not friendship, according to the best and
highest sense in which that word is used, marriage cannot but be
something faulty and vicious.
I know how readily you will forgive the wrong I have done you by this
concealment; because you will perceive I acted from well meant but
mistaken sentiments. I have told my mamma my present thoughts, and have
shewed her all the former part of this letter, which she approves. Her
affection for me makes her delight in every effort of my mind to rise
superior to the prejudices that bring misery into the world; and I
often fear lest this affection should deprive her of that force, and
acumen, which in other instances would be ready to detect error,
whenever it should make its appearance.
I need not tell my Anna how tenderly she joins with me, in wishing her
a safe and pleasant journey. All other matters she entirely commits to
my Anna's penetration, and discretion.
Adieu.
L. CLIFTON
P.S. My brother is not rich, but has great expectations. This as I
imagine occasioned Sir Arthur to receive the proposal with pleasure;
and my mamma tells me they had some talk of settlements. He was
exceedingly warm and active, in contriving this journey, for a few
days; after which I thought I observed his ardour abate. And the
probability is that Abimelech, from the first, had opposed the
excursion; but that further conversations with my mamma, and the
pleasure which the projected journey had given you, kept Sir Arthur to
his purpose. I own I began to suspect that, should such a match take
place, the recollection of parting with money, which he would willingly
have expended on improvements, had influenced his conduct; and it is
some relief to hope that he was rather acted upon than acting, if he
really did feel any wish to retract. How far he may be, or may have
been, acted upon in other instances, as well as this, is still a
further question.
I cannot shake off a doubt which hangs on my mind; though I have been
debating all morning whether I ought to mention it or be silent. I
suspect that you yourself have not solved it entirely to your own
satisfaction. Frank Henley!--It is I think indubitable that he loves
you.--He would make you happier than perhaps any other man could upon
earth. Be not swayed by your affection for me: beware of any such
weakness. That you could love him if you would permit yourself, nay
that you are obliged to exert your whole force not to love him, I am
convinced. You are conscious of it yourself.--Is your decision
just?--Indeed it is a serious question. What is the magnitude of the
evil which would result from such a union; and what the good?
Enquire--I give no opinion. There is a mist before my eyes, and I dare
not give any, till I can see more distinctly. Think, be just, and
resolve. Your own judgment ought to determine you.
LETTER XI
_Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard_
_London, Grosvenor-Street_
Oliver, what are we? What is man? What is virtue? What is honour?--My
pride has received a wound much more acute than that which the ball of
the highwayman inflicted on my body--I have had money palmed upon
me--Money!--A man cannot behave as he ought, and as it would be
contemptible not to behave, but he must be paid! His vices are paid!
His virtues are paid!--All is mercenary! I to be sure must be one of
the number!--A twenty pound bank note, I tell thee, forced upon me by
Sir Arthur!--No, no--Not by him--He never could have made me accept
what I supposed [falsely, however; as fact and reflection have since
led me to suspect] it was mean and degrading to accept. She only could
prevail. She whose commands are irresistible, and who condescended to
entreat!--Her eye glistening with a tear, which she with difficulty
detained in its beauteous orbit, she entreated!--There was no opposing
such intercession! Her eloquence was heavenly! God be praised that it
was so! For, as it has happened, I am persuaded it has preserved a poor
distressed creature from phrensy--Have patience, and I will tell thee.
I had removed my penitent, and had been taking a short airing in the
park; and, as I was returning, I saw a crowd collected in a court. Led
by curiosity to enquire what was the matter, I was told that two men
had just been pursuing a third over the roofs of the neighbouring
houses; and that, having been obliged to descend through a trap-door,
they had followed him, where it was supposed he had at last been taken.
I asked what his crime was, but nobody knew. Some believed him to be a
thief, some thought it was a press-gang, and others conjectured they
were bailiffs.
It was not long, however, before a decent, well-looking, and indeed
handsome young woman, with a fine child in her arms, came running up
the court, made her way through the crowd with terror in her
countenance, and with the most piercing cries demanded--'Where is
he?--Where is my dear Harry?--Who has seen him? Where is he?'
Some of the people pointed out the house. She knocked violently,
continued her cries and lamentations, and at last gained admittance.
Her grief was so moving, so sympathetic, that it excited my compassion,
and made me determine to follow her. Accordingly I elbowed my way,
though I felt that I rather disturbed the surgeon's dressing; but that
was a trifle. I followed her up stairs without ceremony. With respect
to her, affection, 'masterless passion, had swayed her to its
mood'--she was not to be repulsed.
The prisoner and his pursuers had descended to the second floor, in
which the poor fugitive had endeavoured to seek refuge, but not soon
enough to find protection from the bailiffs, as they proved and as he
knew them to be. Never didst thou see terror so strong, nor affection
so pathetic, as this excellent young woman, his wife, discovered.
Excellent I am certain she is. She wrung her hands, she fell on her
knees, she held up her babe; and, finding these were ineffectual, she
screamed agonizing prayers to save her Harry. The idea she had
conceived of the loss of liberty, and the miseries of a prison, must
have been dreadful. But tears and prayers and cries were vain; she was
pleading to the deaf, or at least to the obdurate.
As soon as the violence of her grief gave a momentary respite, I
enquired what the sum was for which he was in thraldom, and found it to
be sixteen pounds, beside costs. It was not a debt originally
contracted by himself; it was for a note, in which he had joined to
serve his wife's brother. It seemed they are a young couple, who by
their industry have collected a trifling sum, with which they have
taken a small shop. I did not ask of what kind. She serves her
customers, and he follows his trade, as a journeyman carpenter. It did
not a little please me to hear the young creature accuse her brother of
being false to his friend; while the husband defended him, and affirmed
it could be nothing but necessity. I could perceive however that she
grieved to think her brother was not so good as she could have wished
him to be.
The horrors of a jail were so impressed, so rooted in her fancy, that
she was willing to sell any thing, every thing; she would give them all
she had, so that her Harry might not be dragged to a damp, foul
dungeon; to darkness, bread and water, and starving. Thou canst not
imagine the volubility with which her passions flowed, and her terrors
found utterance, from the hope that it was not possible for Christian
hearts to know all this, and not be moved to pity.
I am well persuaded however that, had I not been there, those good
Christians the bailiffs would have paid no other attention to her panic
than to see how it might be turned to profit. The miscreants talked of
five guineas, for the pretended risk they should run, in giving him a
fortnight to sell his effects to the best advantage. They too could
recommend a broker, a very honest fellow--By what strange gradations,
Oliver, can the heart of man become thus corrupt? The harpies looked
hatefully.
Luckily I happened to have the twenty pound note, which pride had
bidden me reject with so much scorn, in my pocket. Thou, I am certain,
wilt not ask what I did with it. I immediately tendered those same
Christians I told thee of their money. The rascals were disappointed,
and would have been surly; but a single look silenced their insolence.
One of them was dispatched, according to form, to see that there were
no detainers; and, being paid, they then set their prisoner free.
Now, if thou thinkest, Oliver, thou canst truly figure to thyself the
overflowing gratitude of the kind young creature, the wife, thou art
egregiously mistaken. She fell on her knees to me, she blessed me,
prayed for me, and said I was an angel from heaven, sent to save her
dear Harry from destruction; she kissed him, hugged, God blessed, and
half smothered her heavenly infant, as she truly called it, with
kisses; nay she kissed me--in spirit, Oliver--I could see she did: ay
and in spirit I returned her chaste caresses.
She entreated me with so much humble love and gratitude to come and see
her poor house, which I had saved, and to tell her my name, that she
might pray for me the longest day she had to live, that I could not
forbear gratifying her so far as to go with her. As for my name, I told
her it was man. The quick hussey understood me, for she replied--No, it
was angel.
I found her house, like her person, neat, and in order. What is still
better, her Harry seems a kind good young man, and alive to as well as
deserving of her affection.
Wouldst thou think it, Oliver?--The pleasure I had communicated had
reverberated back upon myself; yet the sight of a couple thus happy
gave birth to a thought of such exquisite pain that--! Something shot
across my brain--I know not what--But it seemed to indicate I should
never be so mated!
Still, this money, Oliver--Prithee be at the trouble to examine the
question, and send me thy thoughts; for I have not been able to satisfy
myself. What is the thing called property? What are _meum_ and _tuum_?
Under what circumstances may a man take money from another? I would not
be proud; neither would I render myself despicable.
Thou seest how I delight to impart my joys and griefs to thee. Thou
tellest me thou partakest them; and, judging by myself, I cannot but
believe thee. Tell me when thou art weary of me; I have long and often
been weary of myself.
Yet she is very kind to me, and so kind that I have lately been
betrayed into hopes too flattering, too ecstatic to be true. Oh! Should
she ever think of me! Were it only possible she ever should be
mine!--The pleasure is too exquisite! It is insupportable!--Let me gaze
and wonder at humble distance, in silence and in awe!--Do not call me
abject--Yet, if I am so, do; tell me all that ought to be told. It is
not before her rank that I bend and sink. Being for being I am her
equal: but who is her equal in virtue?--Heavens! What a smile did she
bestow on me, when I took the money I mentioned to thee! It has sunken
deep, deep in my heart! Never can it be forgotten! Never! Never!
Peace be with thee.
F. HENLEY
LETTER XII
_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_
_London, Grosvenor-Street_
Must I be silent? Must I not tell my Louisa how infinitely her candor
and justice delight me? With the voice of a warning angel she bids me
enquire, examine my heart, and resolve. I think I have resolved; and
from reasons which I believe are not to be overcome. Yet I will confess
my opinion, strong as it is, receives violent attacks; as, Louisa, you
will be convinced, when you have read the whole of this letter.
My friend cautions me against being partial, even in favour of her
brother. Such a friend is indeed worthy to advise, and I will remember
her precepts. This brother may be a degenerate scion from a noble
stock: yet I can hardly think the thing possible. That he may have
fallen into many of the mistakes, common to the world in which he has
lived, is indeed most likely. But the very qualities which you describe
in him speak an active and perhaps a dignified nature.
We have duties to fulfil. Few opportunities present themselves to a
woman, educated and restrained as women unfortunately are, of
performing any thing eminently good. One of our most frequent and
obvious tasks seems to be that of restoring a great mind, misled by
error, to its proper rank. If the mind of Clifton should be such, shall
I cowardly decline what I believe it to be incumbent on me to perform?
Let him be only such as I expect, and let me be fortunate enough to
gain his affections, and you shall see, Louisa, whether trifles shall
make me desist.
What high proofs of courage, perseverance, and of suffering, do men
continually give! And shall we wholly renounce the dignity of
emulation, and willingly sign the unjust decree of prejudice, that mind
likewise has its sex, and that women are destitute of energy and
fortitude?
But Frank Henley!--Let me not hide a thought from my Louisa. He is
indeed worthy of being loved, every day more worthy. I have a new story
to tell, which will be more effectual praise than any words of mine.
Like you I am persuaded he has some affection for me. I am not
insensible to his worth and virtues: I ought not to be. Were I to
indulge the reveries into which I could easily fall, I might be as much
misled by passion as others, who are so ready to complain and pity
themselves for being in love. But a wakeful sense of the consequences
is my safeguard. It cannot be. I should render my father, my relations,
and friends, miserable. I should set a bad example to my sex. I, who am
at shewing them mind is superior to sex.
Such are the thoughts that protect me from the danger. His mental
excellence perhaps I love as truly as heart could wish. But, as the
lover who is to be the husband, no! I will not suffer my thoughts to
glance in that direction. I might, but I will not. Nothing but a
conviction that my principles are wrong shall ever make me; and that
conviction I hold to be impossible.
Do not imagine I am guilty of the mistake of supposing myself his
superior. Far the reverse. The tale which I am now about to relate will
inform you better of the true state of my feelings.
You must know, my dear, that on our arrival in town, Sir Arthur, with
my help, prevailed on Frank Henley to accept a twenty pound bill, that
he might have the means of gratifying his inclinations, and enjoying
the pleasures which at his age it is natural he should wish to enjoy.
These means I had but too good reason to be convinced had been denied
him by his father, which I suspected to be, and am now satisfied was,
the true reason that Frank refused to attend us on our journey.
The youth has quite pride enough, my dear: he is desirous to confer,
but not to accept obligations; is ready enough to give, but not to
receive. As if he had not only a right to monopolize virtue, but to be
exempt from the wants which are common to all, and to supply which men
form themselves into societies. He seems to shrink with exquisite pain
from the acceptance of money. However I was determined to conquer, and
conquer I did. Nor can I say, considering them as I do, that I was
sorry to offend the false feelings even of Frank Henley, for whom I
have an infinite esteem.
After receiving this present, he accompanied me two or three times to
those public places to which crowns and half guineas gain admittance;
and, as you may imagine, was far from appearing insensible of the
powers of poetry and music. Suddenly however he refused to be any more
of such parties, for which I own I could divine no reason. I knew he
had been educated in habits of oeconomy, and therefore could not
suppose, generous though I knew him to be, that he had squandered away
his pocket-money in so short a time. I endeavoured both to rally and to
reason, but in vain; he was positive even to obstinacy; and I rightly
conjectured there must be some cause for it which I had not discovered.
You have heard me speak, I believe, my dear, of Mrs. Clarke, as of a
careful good woman, and a great favourite with my dear mamma, when
living. She was then our housekeeper in the country, but has lately
been left in the town house; because the furniture is too valuable to
be entrusted to a less attentive person. This Mrs. Clarke had a sister
whose name was Webb, and who left a son and a daughter, who are both
married. The son, as you will soon hear, has been a wild and graceless
fellow; but the daughter is one of the most agreeable and engaging
young creatures I think I ever saw.
Yesterday my good Mrs. Clarke and her niece were shut up together in
close conversation for a considerable time; and I perceived that their
cheeks were swelled, their eyes red, and that they had been crying
violently. I almost revere Mrs. Clarke as my mother, because of the
excellence of her heart and the soundness of her understanding. I
therefore could not forbear earnestly enquiring whether it were
possible for me to remove her cause of grief; for grieved, I told her,
I could plainly perceive she was. She burst into tears again on my
questioning her, and endeavoured to express feelings that were too big
for utterance. Turning to her niece she said--'I must inform my dear
young lady.' 'For God's sake don't! For the Lord's sake don't!' cried
the terrified creature. 'I must,' replied the aunt. 'It is proper.' 'He
will have no mercy shewn him! He will be hanged!' exclaimed the other,
in an agony. 'You do not know this lady,' said the aunt. 'Indeed she
does not,' added I, 'if she supposes I would have any creature upon
earth hanged.' 'Retire, Peggy,' said the aunt, 'while I relate the
vile, the dreadful tale.' 'No, no! For mercy's sake no!' replied the
niece. 'I must stay, and beg, and pray, and down on my knees for my
brother! He is a wild and a wicked young man, but he is my brother.'
'Pray let her stay,' said I to the aunt. 'And fear nothing, my
kind-hearted Peggy. Be assured I will not hurt a hair of your brother's
head. I will do him good if I can, but no injury.' 'The God of Heaven
bless and reward your angelic ladyship!' cried the half frantic
grateful Peggy.
Mrs. Clarke attempted to begin her story. She was almost suffocated. I
never heard so heart-rending a groan as she gave, when she came to the
fatal sentence! Would you believe it, Louisa? This nephew of the worthy
Mrs. Clarke, this brother of the good Peggy, is the very highwayman who
shot Frank Henley!
His benevolent aunt has been with him, for he is still under the
surgeon's hands; and he has confessed to her [I am angry with myself,
Louisa, to find I wonder at it] he has confessed that the brave, the
humane, the noble-minded Frank has visited him several times, and has
set the folly of his wicked pursuits in so true and so strong a light,
that the man protests, with the utmost vehemence, if he can but escape
punishment for the faults he has committed, he will sooner perish than
again be guilty of his former crimes.
The first time Frank visited him he gave the poor wretch a guinea; and
went himself in search of another lodging for him, as well to remove
him from the knowledge of his wicked companions as to protect him from
the forty pound hunters. The man wants to escape over to the continent;
and appears to be so sincere, in his resolves of reformation, that
Frank has undertaken to furnish him with the means.
You cannot imagine, Louisa, the heart-felt praises which the worthy
Mrs. Clarke bestowed on the youth. And Peggy said that she hoped she
should some time or another live to see him, that she might fall down
and kiss his footsteps! But, added she, with great ardor, I find indeed
there are very good men in the world!
Still there appeared something enigmatical to me, between Frank and the
money account. I could not conceive how he should want the means
immediately to furnish such a sum as would have been sufficient for the
poor fugitive. And this again reminded me how assiduously Frank had
lately avoided every occasion of expence.
While we were in the midst of our discourse, who should enter the room
but Frank! Never was I present at such a scene!--'Good God Almighty!'
exclaimed Peggy, the moment she saw him. 'This is he! This is the very
blessed, dear gentleman, that saved my poor Harry from those terrible
jailors.'
'Is it possible?' cried Mrs. Clarke.
'It is, it is he! He himself!' said the full-hearted Peggy, falling
down on her knees, and catching the flap of his coat, which she kissed
with inconceivable enthusiasm.
Poor Frank did not know which way to look. Good deeds are so uncommon,
and so much the cause of surprise, that virtue blushes at being
detected almost as deeply as vice. I knew Frank had a noble heart; and
I own, Louisa, I was not much amazed when Peggy, with abundance of kind
expressions and a flow of simple eloquence, related the manner in which
Frank had saved her husband from the bailiffs, by paying a debt which
with costs amounted to upward of eighteen pounds.
I did not however forbear severely to reprove myself, for having dared
so much as to imagine that a youth with such high virtues could not, in
a city like London, find opportunities of expending so small a sum as
twenty pounds in acts of benevolence. I ought at least to have supposed
the thing probable; yet it never once entered my mind.
The thanks, blessings, and prayers of Peggy were endless. Finding him
not only to be what she knew, the man who relieved her from the most
poignant distress, but likewise the vanquisher and the saviour of her
brother, she said and protested she was sure there was not such another
angel upon earth! She was sure there was not! Frank was ashamed of and
almost offended at her incessant praise. It was so natural and so
proper for him to act as he did, that he is surprised to find it can be
matter of wonder.
I must insist however upon seeing him reimbursed; and I persuade myself
there is one thought which will make him submit to it quietly. I have
but to remind him that the good of others requires that men, who so
well know the use of it, should never be without money.
Adieu. I have not time to write more at present.--Yet I must, for I
ought to add, that, though I thought myself so fully convinced when I
began this letter, concerning Frank and the only right mode of acting,
doubts have several times intruded themselves upon me, while I have
been writing. I will think when the fancy is not so busy as at present;
and when I have thought do not fear my resolution.
Ever most affectionately yours,
A. W. ST. IVES
LETTER XIII
_Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard_
_London, Grosvenor-Street_
It is an intolerably strange thing, Oliver, that a man cannot perform
the mere necessary duties of humanity, without being supposed almost a
prodigy. Where is the common sense, I will not say delicacy, which
should teach people that such suppositions are an insult, not only to
the person but to all mankind? I am young, I grant, and know but little
of the barbarity which it is pretended is universal. I cannot think the
accusation true. Or, if it be, I am convinced it must be the result of
some strange perversion of what may be called the natural propensities
of man. I own I have seen children wrangle for and endeavour to
purloin, or seize by force, each others apples and cherries; and this
may be a beginning to future rapacity. But I know the obvious course of
nature would be to correct, instead of to confirm, such mistakes. I
know too that there are individual instances of cruelty, and
insensibility. But these surely are the exceptions, and not the rule.
I visited a man whose vices, that is whose errors and passions were so
violent as to be dangerous to society, and still more dangerous to
himself. Was it not my duty? I thought myself certain of convincing him
of his folly, and of bringing back a lost individual to the paths of
utility and good sense. What should I have been, had I neglected such
an opportunity? I have really no patience to think that a thing, which
it would have been a crime to have left undone, should possibly be
supposed a work of supererogation!
I saw an industrious rising family on the brink of ruin, and in the
agonies of despair, which were the consequences of an act of virtue;
and I was not selfish enough to prefer my own whims, which I might
choose to call pleasures, to the preservation of this worthy, this
really excellent little family. And for this I am to be adored! For no
word is strong enough to express the fooleries that have been acted to
me. They were well meant? True. They were the ebullitions of virtue? I
do not deny it. But either they are an unjust satire upon the world in
general, or it is a vile world. I half suspect, indeed, it is not quite
what it ought to be.
In addition to all this, I have been obliged to receive a sum equal to
that which I thought it my duty to bestow. This is the second time; and
perhaps thou wilt tell me I am not difficult to persuade. Read the
following dialogue, which passed between me and the most angelic of
Heaven's creatures, and judge for thyself. She is really a prodigy! I
never knew another mind of such uncommon powers! So clear, so
collected, so certain of choosing the side of truth, and so secure of
victory!
I am an ass! I am talking Arabic to thee. I ought to have begun with
informing thee of a circumstance which is in itself odd enough. The
highwayman and Peggy. [Pshaw! The woman whose husband was arrested.]
They are not only brother and sister, but the nephew and niece of Mrs.
Clarke. Think of that, Oliver! The nephew of so worthy a woman so
audaciously wicked! Well might the distressed Peggy express anger which
I could perceive was heartfelt, though she herself at that time knew
not of this act. But to my dialogue. Listen to the voice of my charmer,
and say whether she charm not wisely!
You have made a generous and a noble use, Frank, of the small sum which
you were so very unwilling to accept. [She treats me with the most
winning familiarity! What does she mean? Is it purposely to shew me how
much she is at her ease with me; and how impossible it is that any
thing but civility should exist between us? Or is it truly as kind as
it seems? Can it be? Who can say? Is it out of nature? Wholly? Surely,
surely not. These bursting gleams of hope beget suspense more
intolerable than all the blackness of despair itself.]
I acted naturally, madam; and I confess it gives me some pain to find
it the subject of so much wonder.
It is no subject of wonder to me. Your inferiors in understanding I
know would not act like you; but the weak do not give law to the
strong. I own that I have been dull enough, unjust enough, not to
suspect your true motive for refusing, as you have done lately, to
accompany us to public places. But this is a heavy penalty on you which
an act of virtue ought not to incur.
If it be a penalty, madam, I am sure it is one which you have too much
generosity to wish to deprive me of the pleasure of paying.
I understand your hint: but I am not so generous as you think me; for I
am determined, and you know what a positive girl I am, to share both
the penalty and the enjoyment with you.
I beg your pardon, madam, but that cannot be.
Oh! But, in spite of your serious and very emphatical air, it must be.
Excuse me, madam. I am certain you have too high a sense of justice to
impose laws to which you yourself would not submit.
Very true. Prove me that and I am answered. Nay, so confident am I of
the goodness of my cause, that I will not require you to take up this
[Laying down another bank note, of equal value with the former.] unless
I can on the contrary prove it to be nothing but false pride, or
mistake, which can induce you to refuse. You perceive, Frank, I am not
afraid of offending you by speaking the plain truth. Pray tell me, when
you saw the worthy couple whom you relieved in distress, had you
persisted in your refusal of the paltry bit of paper which I before
prevailed on you to receive, what would you have said to yourself, what
would have been your remorse, when you found yourself unable to succour
the unfortunate, merely because you had been too proud to receive that
which you wanted, and which therefore you had no right to refuse. [You
see, Oliver, she snatched my own sword from my side, with which to
dispatch me. If thou art too dull to understand me, consult my last
letter.] You were ready to protect, though at the risk of your life,
those very persons at whose favours, as they are falsely called, your
spirit is so equally ready to revolt. Perhaps in defending us you did
no more than you ought; but we cannot be ignorant how few are capable
of doing so much. And, since you are thus prompt to perform all which
the most austere morality can require, so long as it shall be apparent
to the world that your motives are not selfish, proceed a step further;
disregard the world, and every being in it; that is, disregard their
mistakes; and, satisfied that your motives are pure, defy the false
interpretations to which any right action may subject you. Neither,
while you are actually discharging the highest offices of humanity,
deny to others the right to fulfil some of the most trivial.
I could not act otherwise than I did, on both the occasions to which
you allude, madam. I believe it is our duty always to be guided by
circumstances; but not to be guilty of an impropriety, because it is
possible such circumstances may again occur.
You are right. We only differ concerning the meaning of the word.
Impropriety, or propriety, we shall come to presently. You have
promised your wounded penitent money, to facilitate his escape, and you
have none.
I have some trifling useless property, madam.
But you have a journey to make back to Wenbourne-Hill, according to
your present intentions.
Do you imagine, madam, I cannot fast for a day?
Oh yes! I doubt it not; for a week, Frank, to effect any great, any
laudable purpose. But I must be plain with you. It is ungenerous of you
to wish to engross all virtue and sensibility. Beside, you have duties
to perform to yourself, which are as pressing as any you owe to
society, because they are to fit you for the social duties. [Hearken to
the angel, Oliver!] It is as much my duty, at present, to afford you
the means which you want, as it was yours to visit the wounded
highwayman, or aid the distressed Peggy. You ought to suffer me to
perform my duties, both for my sake and your own. You ought not to
neglect, while you are in London, to seize on every opportunity which
can tend to enlarge your faculties. You have no common part to act;
and, that you may act it well, you should study the beings with whom
you are to associate. You must not suffer any false feelings to unfit
you for the high offices for the execution of which men like you are
formed. [Didst thou ever hear such honeyed flattery, Oliver?] Something
more--You must accompany us to France.
Madam!--Impossible.
Hear me, Frank. The journey will be of infinite service to you. A mind
like yours cannot visit a kingdom where the manners of the people are
so distinct as those of the French must be from the English, without
receiving great benefit. Your father is rich.
That he denies, madam.
To you; and you and I know why. If your delicacy should object to a
gift, I am sure it cannot with propriety to a loan. Going with us, your
expences will in fact be only casual. I can supply you with such money
as you want, which you may hereafter repay me, when I may perhaps be
glad that I have such a debtor.
My father's property, madam, is of his own acquiring; I have no legal
claim upon it; and it would be dishonest in me to spend that, upon
speculation, which perhaps never may be mine.
Yes; to spend it in unworthy purposes would be dishonest. But I again
recur to your duties. However, since you are so tenacious on the
subject, I will become a usurer to pacify your feelings, and you shall
pay for risk. Fifty pounds, unless you meet with more Peggies, I dare
say will bear you free. [It is twenty pounds more, thou knowest, than I
asked of my father.] You shall give me eighty whenever you have a
thousand pounds of your own.
Madam!--
Well, well! You shall give me a hundred--[Very seriously] It almost
vexes me, Frank, to be refused so very slight a favour; for I can read
refusal and opposition in your eye. But, if you persist, you will give
me great pain; for you will convince me that, where your own passions
are concerned, you are not superior to the paltry prejudices by which
the rest of the world are governed.
I own, madam, my mind has had many struggles on the subject; and I am
afraid, as you say, it has been too willing to indulge its prejudices,
and its pride. But if you seriously think, from your heart, it is my
duty to act in this case as you direct--
I do, seriously, solemnly, and from my heart, think it is your duty.
Then, madam, I submit.
Why that's my kind Frank! As noble in this instance as in every
other--I could love you for it if you would let me--[In a moment my
heart was alarmed! I could feel myself change colour! I am certain she
saw my agitation; her manner told me so, for she instantly added, with
a kind of affectionate significance which I know not how to
interpret--] I would say as much to the whole world, but that it is a
foolish world, and wants the wit to conceive things truly as they are
meant.
She was gone in an instant, smiling, sailing, and her countenance
brightening with heavenly radiance, as she departed.
What can this be? Her words are continually resounding in my
ears!--_She could love me, if I would let her_!--Heavens!--Love
me?--Let her?--Let her!--Oh!--_It is a foolish world_--She fears its
censures--Love me!--Is it possible?--Tell me, Oliver, is it
possible?--_It wants the wit to conceive things truly as they are
meant_--Was this forbidding me to hope; or was it blaming the world's
prejudices?--I now not--Ah! To what purpose warn the moth, unless she
could put out the light?--Oh, blasphemy!--Love me if I would let
her?--I cannot forget it, Oliver!--I cannot!--Oh! I could weep like a
child, at my own conscious debility.
Why should I despair?--With a modern miss, a fine lady, I might; but
not with her. She has a mind superior to the world, and its mistakes.
And am I not convinced there ought to be no impediment to our union?
Why should I doubt of convincing her? She dare do all that truth and
justice can demand--And she could love me if I would let her--Is not my
despondency absurd?--Even did I know her present thoughts, and know
them to be inimical to my passion, what ought I to do? Not to desert my
own cause, if it be a just one: and, if it be the contrary, there is no
question: I will make none. Let me but be convinced of my error, and it
shall be renounced. Yes, Oliver, I dare boldly aver--it shall! But
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