Louisa Clifton to Her Brother, Coke Clifton
Rose-Bank
It is long, my dear brother, since I received a letter from you; and still longer since I had the pleasure to see you. How many rivers, seas, valleys, and mountains have you traversed, since that time! What various nations, what numerous opposite and characteristic countenances have you beheld! From all and each of them I hope you have learned something. I hope the succession of objects has not been so quick as to leave vacuity in the mind.
My propensity to moralize used formerly [And our formerlies you know, brother, are not of any long duration.] to tease and half put you out of temper. Indulge me once more in hoping it will not do so at present; for I believe I am more prone to this habit than ever. What can I say to my brother? Shall I tattle to him the scandal of the village, were I mistress of it? Shall I describe to him the fashion of a new cap; or the charms of a dress that has lately travelled from Persia to Paris, from Paris to London, and from London to Rose-Bank? Or shall I recount the hopes and fears of a sister; who has sometimes the temerity to think; who would be so unfashionable as to love her brother, not for the cut of his coat, not for the French or Italian phrases with which he might interlard his discourse, not for any recital of the delight which foreign ladies took in him and which he took in foreign ladies, not for a loud tongue and a prodigious lack of wit, not for any of the antics or impertinences which I have too frequently remarked in young men of fashion, but for something directly the reverse of all these: for well-digested principles, an ardent desire of truth, incessant struggles to shake off prejudices; for emanations of soul, bursts of thought, and flashes of genius. For such a brother, oh how eager would be my arms, how open my heart!
Do not think, my dear Clifton, I am unjust enough to mean any thing personal; to satirize what I can scarcely be said to have seen, or to condemn unheard. No. Your faculties were always lively. You have seen much, must have learned much, and why may I not suppose you are become all that a sister's heart can desire? Pardon me if I expect too much. Do we not all admire and seek after excellence? When we are told such a person is a man of genius, do we not wish to enquire into the fact? And, if true, are we not desirous of making him our intimate? And do not the ties of blood doubly enforce such wishes, in a brother's behalf? From what you were, I have no doubt but that you are become an accomplished man. But I hope you are also become something much better. I hope that, by the exertion of your talents, acquirements, and genius, I shall see you the friend of man, and the true citizen of the world.
If you are all that I hope, I think you will not be offended with these sisterly effusions. If you are not, or but in part, you may imagine me vain and impertinent. But still I should suppose you will forgive me, because you are so seldom troubled with such grave epistles; and one now and then, if not intolerably long, may be endured from an elder sister.
Yet why do I say elder? Neither age nor station have any just claim; for there can be none, except the claims of truth and reason; against which there is no appeal. I am eighteen months older than my brother, and up rises the claim of eldership! Such are the habits, the prejudices we have to counteract.
My dear mamma has mentioned Sir Arthur St. Ives, in her letter, and his lovely daughter, Anna; more lovely in mind even than in form, and of the latter a single glance will enable you to judge. I need not request you to be attentive and civil to her, for it is impossible you should be otherwise. Your own gratification will induce you to shew her the public places, and render her every service in your power; which will be more than overpaid by associating with her; for it is indeed a delight to be in her company. For grace and beauty of person, she has no equal; and still less can she be equalled, by any person of her age, for the endowments of wit and understanding. I am half angry with myself for pretending to recommend her; when, as you will see, she can so much more effectually recommend herself.
I have nothing to add except to say that, when my dear brother has a moment's leisure, I shall be glad to hear from him; and that I remain his very affectionate sister,
P.S. On recollection, I am convinced it is a false fear which has prevented me from mentioning another person, very eminently deserving of esteem and respect; a fear of doing harm where I meant to do good. We ought to do our duty, and risk the consequences. The absurd pride of ancestry occasions many of our young gentlemen to treat those whom they deem their inferiors by birth with haughtiness, and often with something worse; forgetting that by this means they immediately cut themselves off as it were from society: for, by contemning those who are a supposed step below them, they encourage and incur contempt from the next immediately above them. This is in some measure the practice: and, were it true that birth is any merit, it would be a practice to which we ought to pay a still more strict attention. The young gentleman however whom I mean to recommend, for his great and peculiar worth, is Mr. Frank Henley, the son of a person who is gardener and steward to Sir Arthur; or rather what the people among whom you are at present would call hishomme d'affaires. But I must leave my friends to speak for themselves; which they will do more efficaciously than can be done by any words of mine.
Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax, at Venice
Paris, Hotel de l'Université, près le Pont Royal
I write, Fairfax, according to promise, to inform you that I have been a fortnight in France, and four days in this city. The tract of country over which I have passed, within these three months, is considerable. From Naples to Rome; from Rome to Florence; from Florence to Venice, where we spent our carnival; from Venice to Modena, Parma, and Genoa; from thence to Turin; from Turin to Geneva; then, turning to the left, to Lyons; and from Lyons to Paris. Objects have passed before me in such a rapid succession, that the time I have spent abroad, though not more than a year and a half, appears something like a life. The sight of the proud Alps, which boldly look eternity in the face, imparts a sensation of length of time wholly inadequate to the few hours that are employed in passing them. The labour up is a kind of age; and the swift descent is like falling from the clouds, once more to become an inhabitant of earth.
Here at Paris I half fancy myself at home. And yet, to timid people who have never beheld the ocean, and who are informed that seas divide France and England, Paris appears to be at an unattainable distance. Every thing is relative in this world; great or small near or distant only by comparison. The traveller who should have passed the deserts, and suffered all the perils all the emotions of a journey from Bengal by land, would think himself much nearer home, at Naples, than I do, coming from Naples, at Paris: and those who have sailed round the world seem satisfied that their labour is within a hair's breadth of being at an end, when they arrive, on their return, at the Cape of Good Hope.
You, Fairfax, have frequently asked me to give you accounts of this and that place, of the things I have seen, and of the observations I have made. But I have more frequently put the same kind of questions to myself, and never yet could return a satisfactory answer. I have seen people whose manners are so different from those of my own country, that I have seemed to act with them from a kind of conviction of their being of another species. Yet a moment's consideration undeceives me: I find them to be mere men. Men of different habits, indeed, but actuated by the same passions, the same desire of self-gratification. Yes, Fairfax, the sun moon and stars make their appearance, in Italy, as regularly as in England; nay much more so, for there is not a tenth part of the intervening clouds.
When molested by their dirt, their vermin, their beggars, their priests, and their prejudices, how often have I looked at them with contempt! The uncleanliness that results from heat and indolence, the obsequious slavishness of the common people, contrasted with their loquacious impertinence, the sensuality of their hosts of monks, nay the gluttony even of their begging friars, their ignorant adoration of the rags and rotten wood which they themselves dress up, the protection afforded to the most atrocious criminals if they can but escape to a mass of stone which they call sacred, the little horror in which they hold murder, the promptness with which they assassinate for affronts which they want the spirit to resent, their gross buffooneries religious and theatrical, the ridiculous tales told to the vulgar by their preachers, and the improbable farces which are the delight of the gentle and the simple, all these, and many other things of a similar nature, seem to degrade them below rational creatures.
Yet reverse the picture, and they appear rather to be demi-gods than men! Listen to their music! Behold their paintings! Examine their palaces, their basins of porphyry, urns and vases of Numidian marble, catacombs, and subterranean cities; their sculptured heroes, triumphal arches, and amphitheatres in which a nation might assemble; their Corinthian columns hewn from the rocks of Egypt, and obelisks of granite transported by some strange but forgotten means from Alexandria; the simplicity the grandeur and beauty of their temples and churches; the vast fruitfulness of their lands, their rich vineyards, teeming fields, and early harvests; the mingled sublime and beautiful over the face of nature in this country, which is sheltered from invaders by mountains and seas, so as by a small degree of art to render it impregnable; their desolating earthquakes, which yet seem but to renovate fertility; their volcanos, sending forth volumes of flame and rivers of fire, and overwhelming cities which though they have buried they have not utterly destroyed; these and a thousand other particulars, which I can neither enumerate nor remember, apparently speak them a race the most favoured of heaven, and announce Italy to be a country for whose embellishment and renown earth and heaven, men and gods have for ages contended.
The recollection of these things appears to be more vivid, and to give me greater pleasure than I believe the sight of them afforded. Perhaps it is my temper. Impatient of delay, I had scarcely glanced at one object before I was eager to hunt for another. The tediousness of the Ciceroni was to me intolerable. What cannot instantly be comprehended I can scarcely persuade myself to think worthy of the trouble of enquiry. I love to enjoy; and, if enjoyment do not come to me, I must fly to seek it, and hasten from object to object till it be overtaken.
Intellectual pleasures delight me, when they are quick, certain, and easily obtained. I leave those which I am told arise from patient study, length of time, and severe application, to the fools who think time given to be so wasted. Roses grow for me to gather: rivers roll for me to lave in. Let the slave dig the mine, but for me let the diamond sparkle. Let the lamb, the dove, and the life-loving eel writhe and die; it shall not disturb me, while I enjoy the viands. The five senses are my deities; to them I pay worship and adoration, and never yet have I been slack in the performance of my duty.
What! Shall we exist but for a few years, and of those shall there be but a few hours as it were of youth, joy, and pleasure, and shall we let them slip? Shall we cast away a good that never can return; and seek for pain, which is itself in so much haste to seek for us? Away with such folly! The opposite system be mine.
The voluptuous Italian, as wise in this as in other arts, knows better. He lives for the moment, and takes care not to let the moment slip. His very beggars, basking in the sun, will not remove, so long as hunger will suffer them to enjoy the happiness of being idle. Who so perfectly understand the luxury of indolence as the Lazaroni of Naples?
The Italian, indeed, seems to exert all the craft for which he is so famous, to accomplish this sole purpose of enjoyment. He marries a wife, and the handsomest he can procure; that, when the ardour of desire is satiated, she may fleece some gallant, who shall pay for his pleasures elsewhere. And, as variety is the object of all, gallant succeeds to gallant, while he himself flies from mistress to mistress, and thus an equal barter is maintained.
This office of Cicisbeo is however an intolerably expensive one; especially to our countrymen. The Signora is so inventive in her faculties, there are so many trinkets which she dies to possess, and her wants, real and artificial, are so numerous, that the purse is never quiet in the pocket. And every Englishman is supposed to be furnished with the purse of Fortunatus.
The worst because the most dangerous part of the business is, the ugly and the old think themselves entitled to be as amorous as the young and beautiful; and a tall fellow, with a little fresh blood in his veins, is sure to have no peace for them. Prithee, Fairfax, tell me how the Contessa behaved, when she found I had escaped from her amorous pursuit. She began to make me uneasy; and I almost thought it was as necessary for me to have a taster as any tyrant in Christendom. Poison and the stiletto disturbed my dreams; for there were not only she, but two or three more, who seemed determined to take no denial. I congratulated myself, as I was rolling down mount Cenis, to think that I was at length actually safe, and that the damned black-looking, hook-nosed, scowling fellow from Bergamo, whom I had so often remarked dogging me, was no longer at my heels.
But I have now bidden adieu to theCassini, theCarnivali, and theDonne; and soon shall see what provision this land of France affords. For the short time that I have been here, I have no occasion to complain of my reception. I do not know why, Fairfax, but we Englishmen seem to be in tolerably good repute every where, with the ladies. Well, well, pretty dears, they shall find me very much at their service. I should be sorry to bring disgrace upon my nation, Fairfax. Would not you?
I expect to find you a punctual correspondent. Fail not to let me know, when, weary of being aCavaliere servente, you shall leave the proud banks of the Adriatic, and the wanton Venice, for some other abode; that our letters may never miss their aim. I will relate every thing that happens to me, when it can either afford you amusement to read, or me satisfaction to write. You have too much honour and honesty not to do the same. Or, if not, I will try what a threat can do: therefore remember that, unless you fulfil the terms of our agreement, and give me an account of all your rogueries, adventures, successes, and hair-breadth escapes, I will choose some other more punctual and more entertaining correspondent.
Observe further, and let that be a spur to your industry, I have a tale in petto; a whimsical adventure which happened to me yesterday evening; but which I shall forbear to regale you with, for three substantial reasons: first because it is my good pleasure; secondly because I like it; and lastly such is my sovereign will. Nay, if that be all, I can give you three more: first because I am almost at the end of my paper; next because I may want a good subject when I write again; and finally because the post is a sturdy unceremonious fellow, and does not think proper to wait my leisure.
So farewell; and believe me to be very sincerely yours,
P.S. I have this moment received information that Sir Arthur St. Ives and his daughter arrived yesterday in the afternoon at Paris. I have heard that the daughter is the most beautiful woman in England, and that her wit is even superior to her beauty. I am very glad of the accident, for I have a great desire to see her. My mother's last was partly a letter of business, but chiefly of recommendation, particularly of the young lady: and in it was enclosed one from my sister, Louisa, which gives a very high character of her friend, Anna St. Ives. They have become acquainted since I have been abroad. The letter is loaded with advice to me, at which as you may well think I laugh. These girls, tied to their mother's apron-strings, pretend to advise a man who has seen the world! But vanity and conceit are strange propensities, that totally blind the eyes of their possessors. I have lived but little at home, but I always thought the young lady a forward imperious miss; yet I never before knew her so much on the stilts. I expect she will soon put on boots and buckskin, and horsewhip her fellows herself; for she improves apace.
Once more farewell.
Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton
Paris, Hotel d'Espagne, Rue Guenegaude,
Fauxbourg St. Germain
After abundance of jolting in carriages, sea sickness, and such-like trifling accidents, incidental to us travellers, here we are at last, dear Louisa. My very first demand has been for pen ink and paper, to inform my kind friend of our safe arrival: though I am so giddy, after this post haste four day's hurry, that I scarcely can write a straight line. Neither do I know whether I have any thing to say; though I seemed to myself to have acquired an additional stock of ideas, at the very moment that I first beheld Calais and the coast of France.
What is there, my dear, in the human mind, that induces us to think every thing which is unusual is little less than absurd? Is it prejudice, is it vanity, or is it a short and imperfect view; a want of discrimination? I could have laughed, but that I had some latent sense of my own folly, at the sight of a dozen French men and women, and two or three loitering monks, whom curiosity had drawn together upon the pier-head, to see us come into port. And what was my incitement to laughter?—It was the different cut of a coat. It was a silk bag, in which the hair was tied, an old sword, and a dangling pair of ruffles; which none of them suited with the poverty of the dress, and meagre appearance, of a person who seemed to strut and value himself upon such marks of distinction.
Sterne was in my pocket, and his gentle spirit was present to my mind. Perhaps the person who thus excited a transient emotion of risibility was a nobleman. For the extremes of riches and of poverty are, as I have been informed, very frequent among the nobility of France. He might happen to think himself a man highly unfortunate and aggrieved. The supposition occasioned my smile to evaporate in a sigh.
But the houses!—They were differently built!—Could that be right? They were not so clean! That was certainly wrong. In what strange land is the standard of propriety erected?—Then the blue and brown jackets of the women; their undaunted manner of staring; their want of hats, and stays; the slovenly look of slippers not drawn up at the heel; the clumsy wooden shoes of some, and the bare feet of others; nay their readiness to laugh at the uncouth appearance of the people who were condemning them for being ridiculous; what could all this be? But how came I so unaccountably to forget that children and beggars sometimes go barefoot in England; and that few people, perhaps, are more addicted to stare and laugh at strangers than ourselves? Oh! But the French are so polite a nation that even the common people are all well bred; and would enter a drawing-room with more ease and grace than an English gentleman!—Have you never heard this nonsense, Louisa?
The character of nations, or rather of mind, is apparent in trifles. Granted. Let us turn our eyes back to the shores we have so lately left: let us examine the trifles we hang about ourselves. How many of them, which characterize and as it were stamp the nation with absurdity, escape unobserved! We see them every day; we have adopted and made them our own, and we should be strangely offended, should any person take the liberty, having discovered the folly of them, to laugh at us.
I wrote thus far last night; but learning, on enquiry, that Tuesdays and Fridays are foreign post days, I left off; being rather indisposed after my journey. 'Tis only a swimming in the head, which will soon leave me; though I find it has returned upon me occasionally all the morning. But to my pleasing task; again let me prattle to my friend.
The innkeepers of Calais come themselves, or send their waiters, to watch for and invite passengers to their houses; and will not be dismissed without difficulty. The most daring endeavour to secure customers, by seizing on some of their trunks, or baggage. But we had determined to go to Dessein's, and the active Frank soon made way for us.
I was amused with the handbill, stuck up against the walls of this inn, or hotel, as it is called; announcing it to be the largest, the completest, the most magnificent, with a thousand et caeteras, in the universe; and recounting not only its numerous accommodations, but the multifarious trades which it contained within its own walls; to all which was added a playhouse. A playhouse it is true there was, but no players; and as for trades, there were at least as many as we wanted. Sir Arthur took over his own carriage; otherwise this first of inns in the universe would not have furnished him with one, but on condition of its being purchased.
Sir Arthur observed it was strange that the French innkeepers should not yet have discovered it to be their interest to keep carriages for travellers, as in England. To which Frank Henley shrewdly answered, that the book of post roads, in his hand, informed him government was in reality every where the inn-keeper; and reserved to itself the profits of posting. And the deepest thinkers, added Frank, inform us that every thing in which governments interfere is spoiled. I remarked to him that this principle would lead us a great way. Yes, said he, but not too far: and, playing upon my words, added, it would lead us back to the right way, from which we appear at present to have strayed, into the very labyrinth of folly and blunders.
Frank is earnestly studious of the effects of governments, and laws; and reads the authors who have written best on such subjects with great attention, and pleasure. He and Sir Arthur by no means agree, in politics; and Sir Arthur has two or three times been half affronted, that a man so young and so inferior to himself, as he supposes Frank to be, should venture to be of a different opinion, and dispute with him; who was once in his life too a member of parliament. I am obliged now and then slily to remind him of the highwayman and Turnham Green.
And now, Louisa, traveller like, could I regale you with a melancholy narrative, relating how the fields in this country have no hedges; how the cows are as meagre as their keepers; how wretched the huts and their owners appear; how French postillions jump in and out of jack-boots, with their shoes on, because they are too heavy to drag after them; how they harness their horses with ropes; how dexterously they crack the merciless whips with which they belabour the poor hacks they drive; how we were obliged to pay for five of these hacks, having only four in our carriage, and two of them frequently blind, lame, or useless; with many other items, that might be grievous to hear, could I but persuade myself thoroughly to pity or be angry at the whole French nation, for not exactly resembling the English. But do they themselves complain? Mercy on us! Complain?—Nothing is so grateful to their hearts, as the praise of that dear country, which English travellers are so prone to despise!
Frank as usual has been all attention, all ardour, all anxiety, to render our journey as pleasant as possible. His efforts have been chiefly directed to me; my ease, my satisfaction, my enjoyment, have been his continual care. Not that he has neglected or overlooked Sir Arthur. He overlooks no living creature, to whom he can give aid. He loses no opportunity of gaining the esteem and affection of high and low, rich and poor. His delicacy never slumbers. His thirst of doing good is never assuaged. I am young it is true, but I never before met a youth so deserving. Think of him myself I must not; though I would give kingdoms, if I had them, to see him completely happy.
And now, dear Louisa, I am soon to meet your brother. Why do I seem to recollect this with a kind of agitation? Is there rebellion in my heart? Would it swerve from the severe dictates of duty? No. I will set too strict a watch over its emotions. What! Does not Louisa honour me with the title of friend, and shall I prove unworthy of her friendship? Forbid it emulation, truth, and virtue!
How happy should I be were your brother and Frank Henley to conceive an immediate partiality for each other! How much too would it promote the project I wish to execute! I have been taxing my invention to form some little plot for this purpose, but I find it barren. I can do nothing but determine to speak of Frank as he deserves; which surely will gain him the love of the whole world. And for his part, I know how ready he will be to give merit its due.
I have more than once purposely mentioned your brother's name to Sir Arthur, when Frank was present; in some manner to prepare and guard him against surprise. But I could not but remark my hints had an effect upon him that betrayed how much his heart was alarmed. He thinks too favourably, and I fear too frequently of me. What can be done? The wisest of us are the slaves of circumstances, and of the prejudices of others. How many excellent qualities are met in him! And for these to be rejected—! Alas!—We must patiently submit to the awful laws of necessity.
Neither is Sir Arthur without his fears and suspicions. His discourse betrays his alarms. He cannot conceive that a love of the merits of Frank can be distinct from all love of his person. The crime of disobedience in children, the ruin of families by foolish and unequal marriages, and the wretchedness which is the result of such guilty conduct, have been hinted at more than once lately; and though not with many words, yet with a degree of anxiety that gave me pain, for it taught me, being suspected, half to suspect myself.
But I must conclude: my travelling vertigo I find is not immediately to be shaken off. I imagine that a few hours calm sleep will be my best physician. Adieu. I shall wait, with some impatience, for a letter from my dear Louisa.
Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard
Paris, Hotel d'Espagne, Rue Guenegaude,
Fauxbourg St. Germain
My emotions, Oliver, are too strong to permit me to narrate common occurrences. I can only tell thee our journey is ended, that we arrived yesterday, and that we are now at Paris. My feelings are more tumultuous than they ought to be, and seek relief in the mild and listening patience of friendship.
First however I must relate a singular adventure, which happened yesterday evening.
After I had seen our baggage properly disposed of, curiosity led me, though night was approaching, to walk out and take a view of the famous façade of the Louvre. From thence I strayed, through the gardens of the Thuilleries, to the Place de Louis XV; being delighted with the beauties around me, but which I have not now time to describe. A little farther are the Champs Elysées, where trees planted in quincunx afford a tolerably agreeable retreat to the Parisians.
It was now twilight. The idlers had retired; for I suppose, from what followed, that it is not very safe to walk after dark, in these environs. Ignorant of this, and not apprehensive of any danger, I had strayed to a considerable distance among the trees, against one of which I stood leaning, and contemplating the banks of the Seine, the Palais Bourbon, and other surrounding objects. All was silent, except the distant hum of the city, and the rattling of carriages, which could but just be heard.
Amid this calm, I was suddenly alarmed by voices in anger, and approaching. They spoke in French, and presently became more distinct and loud.
Draw, sir, said one.
Mort de ma vie, come along, answered the other.
Draw, sir, I say; replied the first. I neither know who you are nor what your intentions may be. I will go no further. Draw!
Sacristi, answered his antagonist, we shall be interrupted: the guard will be upon us in a moment.
The first however was resolute, and in an imperious voice again bade him draw. Their swords were instantly out, and they began to assault each other. Thou mayst imagine, Oliver, I would not cowardly stand and be a spectator of murder. They were not twenty paces from me. I flew; when, to my great surprise, one of them called, in English, Keep off, sir! Who are you? Keep off! And, his enemy having dropt his guard, he presented his point to me.
It was no time to hesitate. I rushed resolutely between them; holding up my open hands above my head, to shew the Englishman, who seemed apprehensive of a conspiracy, he had nothing to fear from me. His anger almost overcame him: he held up his sword, as if to strike with it, and with great haughtiness and passion again bade me begone. Have patience, sir, answered I. Men shall not assassinate each other, if I can prevent it.
Let us retire, said the Frenchman: I knew we should be interrupted.
You shall not fight. I will follow you, added I, I will call for help.
You are a damned impertinent fellow, said the Englishman.
Be it so; but you shall not fight, was my answer.
The combatants, finding me so determined, put up their swords, and mutually exchanged their address; after which they separated. So that it is probable, Oliver, my interference has done no good. But that I must leave to chance. I could not act otherwise.
This incident, so immediately after my arrival, in a place so strange to me, and coming so suddenly, made too great an impression upon me not to tell it thee. Though I have another topic much nearer my heart; the true state of which has been shewn me, by an event of which I will now inform thee.
We are lodged here in the first floor, consisting of many chambers, each of which is a thoroughfare to the most distant. It is not ten minutes since I was seated, and preparing to write to thee, when Anna came to pass through the room where I was, and retire to her own apartment. She was fatigued, I imagine, by the journey; though I frequently fear the ardour of her mind will injure her constitution. She walked with some difficulty, was evidently giddy, and staggered. I was alarmed, and was rising, when she called to me faintly,—'Help me, Frank!'
I sprung and caught her as she was falling. I received her in my arms! And my agitation was so violent, that it was with difficulty I could preserve strength enough to support her, and seat her in the chair I had quitted.
The house to me was a kind of wilderness. I knew not where to run, yet run I did for water. I called Laura, with a latent wish that nobody might help her but myself; and, as it happened, nobody heard. I returned; she recovered, thanked me, with her usual heavenly kindness, and I conducted her to her apartment, she leaning on my arm.
Oh! Oliver, is it wrong to feel what I feel, at the remembrance? If it be, reprove me sternly; teach me my duty, and I will thank thee. Surely there is something supernatural hovers over her! At least she resembles no other mortal! Then her kindness to me, her looks, her smiles, her actions, are all intentional benignancy. She is now but three chambers distant from me; enjoying as I hope refreshing slumbers. Angels guard her, and inspire her dreams. No matter for the nonsense of my words, Oliver; thou knowest my meaning. She desired me to bid Laura not disturb her; and here I sit, watchful of my precious charge. Grateful, heart-soothing office!
And now, Oliver, what am I to think? My fears would tie my tongue; but, either I am deluded or hope brightens upon me, and I want the self-denying resolution of silence. Yes, Oliver, I must repeat, there is such sweetness in her countenance, when she speaks to me, such a smile, so inviting, so affirmative, that I am incessantly flattering myself it cannot but have a meaning. I have several times lately heard her sigh; and once so emphatically that I think it impossible I should be deceived. I and Sir Arthur were conversing. I was endeavouring to shew the pernicious tendency of the prejudices of mankind, and inadvertently touched upon the absurdity of supposing there could be any superiority, of man over man, except that which genius and virtue gave. Sir Arthur did not approve the doctrine, and was pettish. I perhaps was warmed, by a latent sense of my own situation, and exclaimed—'Oh! How many noble hearts are groaning, at this instant, under the oppression of these prejudices! Hearts that groan, not because they suffer, but because they are denied the power effectually to aid their very oppressors, who exert the despotism of numbers, to enforce claims which they themselves feel to be unjust, but which they think it dishonourable to relinquish!'—It was then the sigh burst forth of which I told thee. I turned and found her eyes fixed upon me. She blushed and looked down, and then again bent them toward me. I was heated and daring. We exchanged looks, and said—! Volumes could not repeat how much!—But surely neither of us said any thing to the other's disadvantage.
Oh! The bliss to perceive myself understood and not reproved! To meet such emanations of mind! Ecstasy is a poor word! Once more she seemed to repeat—She would love me if I would let her.
Tell me, then—Have I not reason on my side? And, if I have, will she not listen? May she not be won? Shall I doubt of victory, fighting under the banners of truth? Alas!—Well well—
My own sensations, Oliver, are so acute, and I am so fearful lest they should lead me astray, that I could not forbear this detail—Let us change the theme.
Well, here we are, in France; and, wonderful to tell, France is notEngland!
I imagine it is impossible to travel through a foreign country, without falling into certain reveries; and that each man will fashion his dreams in part from accident, and in part according to the manner in which he has been accustomed to ruminate. Thy most excellent father, Oliver, early turned my mind to the consideration of forms of government, and their effects upon the manners and morals of men. The subject, in his estimation, is the most noble that comes under our cognizance; and the more I think myself capable of examining, and the more I actually do examine, the more I am a convert to his opinion. How often has it been said of France, by various English philosophers, and by many of its own sages, What a happy country would this be, were it well governed! But, with equal truth, the same may be said of every country under heaven; England itself, Oliver, in spite of our partialities, not excepted.
How false, how futile, how absurd is the remark that a despotic government, under a perfect monarch, would be the state of highest felicity! First an impossible thing is asked; and next impossible consequences deduced. One tyrant generates a nation of tyrants. His own mistakes communicate themselves east, west, north, and south; and what appeared to be but a spark becomes a conflagration.
How inconsistent are the demands and complaints of ignorance! It wishes to tyrannize, yet exclaims against tyranny! It grasps at wealth, and pants after power; yet clamours aloud, against the powerful and the wealthy! It hourly starts out into all the insolence of pride; yet hates and endeavours to spurn at the proud!
Among the many who have a vague kind of suspicion that things might be better, are mingled a few, who seem very desirous they should remain as they are. These are the rich; who, having by extortion and rapine plundered the defenceless, and heaped up choice of viands and the fat of the land, some sufficient to feed ten, some twenty, some a hundred, some a thousand, and others whole armies, and being themselves each only able to eat for one, say to the hungry, who have no food—'Come! Dance for my sport, and I will give you bread. Lick the dust off my shoes, and you shall be indulged with a morsel of meat. Flatter me, and you shall wear my livery. Labour for me, and I will return you a tenth of your gain. Shed your blood in my behalf, and, while you are young and robust, I will allow you just as much as will keep life and soul together; when you are old, and worn out, you may rob, hang, rot, or starve.'
Would not any one imagine, Oliver, that this were poetry? Alas! It is mere, literal, matter of fact.
Yet let us not complain. Men begin to reason, and to think aloud; and these things cannot always endure.
I intended to have made some observations on the people, the aspect of the country, and other trifles; I scarcely now know what: but I have wandered into a subject so vast, so interesting, so sublime, that all petty individual remarks sink before it. Nor will I for the present blur the majesty of the picture, by ill-placed, mean, and discordant objects. Therefore, farewell.
P.S. Examine all I have said, and what I am going to add, relative to myself, with severity. Mine is a state of mind in which the jealous rigour of friendship appears to be essentially necessary. I have been seized with I know not what apprehensions, by some hints which she has two or three times lately repeated, concerning the brother of her dear and worthy friend, Louisa; who, it seems, is to give us the meeting at Paris. Is it not ominous? At least the manner in which she introduced the subject, and spoke of him, as well as the replies of Sir Arthur, were all of evil augury. Yet, why torment myself with imaginary terrors? Should the brother resemble the friend—! Well! What if he should? Would it grieve me to find another man of virtue and genius, because it is possible my personal interest might be affected by the discovery? No. My mind has still strength sufficient to reject, nay to contemn, so unworthy a thought. But he may be something very different! Love her he must: all who behold her love! The few words she has occasionally dropped, have led me to suspect 'more was meant than met the ear.' Whenever this chord is touched, my heart instantly becomes tremulous; and with sensibility so painful as fully to lay open its weakness; against which I must carefully and resolutely guard. It is these incongruous these jarring tokens that engender doubt, and suspense, almost insupportable.
Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton
Pans, Hotel d'Espagne, Rue Guenegaude,
Fauxbourg St. Germain
The oddest and most unlucky accident imaginable, Louisa, has happened. Your brother and Frank have unfortunately half quarrelled, without knowing each other. I mentioned a giddiness with which I was seized; the consequence, as I suppose, of travelling. I was obliged to retire to my chamber; nay should have fallen as I went, but for Frank. I desired he would tell Laura not to disturb me; and he it seems planted himself sentinel, with a determination that neither Laura nor any other person should approach. I am too often in his thoughts: he is wrong to bestow so much of his time and attention on me. Sir Arthur was gone to look about him; having first sent a note, unknown to me, to inform your brother of our arrival; and requesting to see him, as soon as convenient.
Away hurried your brother, at this mal apropos interval, with SirArthur's note in his pocket, to our hotel. He enquired for my father?
He was gone out.
For me?
Laura answered she would call me.
She was running with great haste, for this purpose, but was intercepted by Frank; who, agreeably to my desire, would not suffer her to proceed. She returned; and your brother, referring again to Sir Arthur's note, was much surprised, and rather vexed.
He asked by whose order she was sent back.
She answered by the order of Mr. Frank.
Who was Mr. Frank?
A young gentleman; [Laura has repeated all that passed] the son of Mr.Aby Henley.
And who was Mr. Aby Henley?
The steward and gardener of Sir Arthur; his head man.
Steward and gardener? The son of a gardener a gentleman?
Yes, sir. To be sure, sir, among thorough bred quality, though perhaps he may be better than the best of them, he is thought no better than a kind of a sort of a gentleman; being not so high born.
Well, said your brother, shew me to this son of Mr. Aby; this peremptory gentleman; or, as you call him, kind of a sort of a gentleman!
Laura obeyed; and she says they were quite surprised at the sight of each other; but that I suppose to be one of the flourishes of her fancy. Your brother, however, as I understand, desired, with some haughtiness, that Frank would suffer the maid to pass, and inform me he was come, agreeably to Sir Arthur's request, to pay his respects to me. Frank resolutely refused; alleging I was not well. Not well! Said your brother. Is not this Sir Arthur's handwriting? Yes, replied Frank; but I assure you she is not well: and I am afraid that even our speaking may awaken her, if she should chance to be asleep. I must therefore request, sir, you would retire.
The oddness of the circumstances, and the positiveness of Frank, displeased your brother. Sir Arthur happened to return; and he went to him, scarcely taking time for first compliments, but asking whether it were true that I was not well. Sir Arthur was surprised: he knew nothing of it! I had not thought a giddiness in the head worth a complaint. Laura was again sent to tell me; and was again denied admittance. Sir Arthur then, with your brother, came to question Frank; who continued firm in his refusal; and when Sir Arthur and your brother had heard that I was so dizzy as to be in danger of falling, had not he supported me, they were satisfied. But such a meeting, between Frank and your brother, was quite vexatious: when the very reverse too was wished! However he is to visit us this morning; and I will then endeavour to do justice to the worth of Frank, and remove false impressions, which I have some reason to fear have been made. I will pause here; but, if I find an opportunity, will write another short letter, under the same cover, by this post: that is, should I happen to have any thing more to say—This accident was exceedingly unlucky, and I seem as if I felt myself to blame; especially as I am quite in spirits this morning, and relieved from my giddy sensations. I am sorry; very sorry: but it cannot be helped.
Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax
Paris, Hotel de l'Université, près le Pont Royal
It was well I did not tell my tale in my last, Fairfax; it would have been spoiled. I knew it only by halves. It has ended in the most singular combination of circumstances one could well imagine.
You remember I told you of the arrival of Sir Arthur St. Ives, and his daughter; I believe it was in the postscript; and that I was immediately going to—Pshaw! I am beginning my story now at the wrong end. It is throughout exceedingly whimsical. Listen, and let amazement prop your open mouth.
You must have observed the ease with which Frenchmen, though perfect strangers to each other, fall into familiar conversation; and become as intimate in a quarter of an hour, as if they had been acquainted their whole lives. This is a custom which I very much approve. But, like all other good things, it is liable to abuse.
The other day I happened to be taking a walk on the Boulevards, it being a church festival, purposely to see the good Parisians in all their gaiety and glory; and a more cheerful, at least a more noisy people, do not, I believe, exist. As I was standing to admire a waxwork exhibition of all the famous highwaymen, and cut-throats, whose histories are most renowned in France, and listening to the fellow at the door, bawling—Aux Voleurs! Aux grands Voleurs!—Not a little amused with the murderous looks, darkness, dungeons, chains and petty horror which they had mimicked, a man uncommonly well-dressed, with an elegant person and pleasing manners, came up and immediately fell into discourse with me. I encouraged him, because he pleased me. We walked together, and had not conversed five minutes before, without seeming to seek an opportunity, he had informed me that he was the Marquis de Passy, and that he had left his carriage and attendants, because he like me took much pleasure in observing the hilarity of the holiday citizens. He had accosted me, he said, because he had a peculiar esteem for the English; of which nation he knew me to be, by my step and behaviour.
We talked some time, and though he made no deep remarks, he was very communicative of anecdotes, which had come within his own knowledge, that painted the manners of the nation. Among other things, he told me it was not uncommon for valets to dress themselves in their masters clothes, when they supposed them to be at a distance, or otherwise engaged, assume their titles, and pass themselves upon theBourgeoisieand foreigners for counts, dukes, or princes. It was but this day fortnight, said he, that the Marechal de R—surprised one of his servants in a similar disguise, and with some jocularity publicly ordered the fellow to walk at his heels, then went to his carriage, and commanded him, full dressed as he was, to get up behind.
He had scarcely ended this account before another person came up, and with an air of some authority asked him where his master was, what he did there, and other questions.
To all this my quidam acquaintance, with a degree of surprise that seemed to be tempered with the most pleasing and unaffected urbanity, replied, without being in the least disconcerted, sir, you mistake me: but I am sure you are too much of a gentleman to mean any wilful affront.
Affront! Why whom do you pretend yourself to be, sir?
Sir, I am the Marquis de Passy.
You the Marquis de Passy?—
Yes, sir; I!—
Insolent scoundrel!—
No gentleman, sir, can suffer such language; and I insist upon satisfaction.—And accordingly my champion drew his sword. His antagonist, looking on him with ineffable contempt, answered he would take some proper opportunity to cane him as he deserved.
I own I was amazed. I reasoned a short time with myself, and concluded the person was mistaken; for that it was impossible for any man to counterfeit so much ease, or behave with so much propriety, who was not a gentleman. I therefore thought proper to interfere, and told the intruder that, having given an insult, he ought not to be afraid of giving satisfaction—
And pray, sir, said he, who are you?
A gentleman, sir, answered I—
Yes. As good a one as your companion, I suppose—
You know, Fairfax, it is not customary with me to suffer insolence to triumph unchastised, and I ordered him immediately to draw.
What, sir, in this place, said he? Follow me, if you have any valour to spare.
His spirit pleased me, and I followed. I know not what became of the fellow, whose cause I had espoused; for I saw him no more.
My antagonist led me across the rue St. Honoré, to a place which I suppose you know, called the Elysian Fields. It began to be late, and I am told there is danger in passing the precincts of the guard. I apprehended a conspiracy, and at last refused to proceed any farther. Finding me obstinate he drew, but said we should be interrupted.
He was no false prophet; for we had not made half a dozen passes before a youth, whom from his boots and appearance I supposed to be English, came running and vociferating—Forbear! I was not quite certain that his appearance might not be artifice; I therefore accosted him in English, in which language he very readily replied. He was quite a sturdy, dauntless gentleman; for, though our swords were drawn, and both of us sufficiently angry, he resolutely placed himself between us, declaring we should not fight; and that, if we went farther, he would follow.
Nothing was to be done; and I now began to suspect the person, with whom I had this ridiculous quarrel, to be really a gentleman. I gave him my address, and he readily returned his; after which we parted, he singing a French song, and I cursing the insolence of the English youth, who seemed to disregard my anger, and to be happy that he had prevented the spilling of blood.
Remember that all this happened on the preceding evening, after I had written the greatest part of my last long letter. The next morning I finished it, and received a note from Sir Arthur St. Ives, as I mentioned.
As soon as I could get dressed, I hastened away; and, arriving at the hotel, enquired for the knight?
He was gone out.
For his daughter?
She had retired to her apartment.
I sent in my name. The maid went, and returned with an answer that Mr. Frank did not think it proper for her mistress to be disturbed. Now, Fairfax, guess who Mr. Frank was if you can! By heaven, it was the very individual youth who, the night before, had been so absolute in putting an end to our duel!
I was planet-struck! Nor was his surprise less, when he saw me, and heard my errand and my name.
I found my gentleman as positive in the morning as in the evening. He was the dragon; touch the fruit who dared! Jason himself could not have entrance there! And he was no less cool than determined. I was almost tempted to toss him out of the window.
However I am glad I contained myself; for, on the entrance of Sir Arthur, we came to an explanation; and I find the young lady was really indisposed. But, considering his mongrel birth and breeding, for he is the son of a gardener, I really never saw a fellow give himself such high airs.
Sir Arthur received me with great civility. I have not yet seen the daughter, but I expect to find her a beauty. She is the toast of the county where her father resides. I am to be with her in half an hour; and, as I suppose I shall be fully engaged with this and other affairs for some days, I shall seal up my letter: you must therefore wait for an account of her, till inclination and the full tide of events shall induce me again to indite of great matters.
I shall direct this, agreeably to your last, to your banker's, inParma. Do not fail to tell me when you shall be at Turin.
Yours very sincerely,
P.S. My opponent of the Elysian Fields has just paid me a visit. He is a man of family; seems to be of a slightly pleasant humour; and acknowledged that what he had heard convinced him he had mistaken my character; for which he was very ready either to cut my throat or ask my pardon. His ease and good temper spoke much in his favour; and I laughed, and answered, in mercy to my throat, I would accept his apology. In consideration of which we are to cultivate an acquaintance, and be sworn friends.
Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton
Paris, Hotel d'Espagne, Rue Guenegaude,
Fauxbourg St. Germain
I return eagerly to my Louisa. Mr. Clifton, my dear, has this instant left us. I give you joy! Yes, he is the brother of my friend! I do not say he is her equal, though I am not quite sure that he is her inferior. He is all animation, all life. His person is graceful, his manners pleasing, and his mind vigorous. I can say but little from so short an acquaintance; except that I am convinced his virtues, or his errors, if he have any, [And who is without?] are not of the feeble kind. They are not characterised by dull mediocrity; which, of all qualities, is the most hopeless, and incapable. He gave his earnest desire to see me, when he was refused by Frank, the air of a handsome compliment; politely accusing himself of improper impatience, when he was in expectation of what he was pleased to call an uncommon pleasure. Though it was our first interview, he felt no restraint; but said many very civil things naturally, and with an exceedingly good grace.
I purposely turned the conversation on Frank, related some anecdotes of him, and bestowed praise which was confirmed by Sir Arthur. Your brother, whose imagination is warm and active, called him a trusty Cerberus; and said he had a mouth to answer each of the three; meaning Laura, himself, and Sir Arthur. Various remarks which escaped him shew that he has a fondness for pleasant satire, and similes of humour.
He praised Frank, after hearing our account of him; but his praise was qualified with the word obstinacy. There was an appearance of feeling that the gentleman ought not to have been so sternly repulsed, by the son of a steward.—And was this his kindred equality to my friend?—Forgive me, Louisa—It was unjust in me to say I was not quite sure he is your inferior—However I can very seriously assure you, he is not one of your every day folks.
Frank came in, and your brother addressed him with good humour, but in a tone denoting it was the gentleman to the sort of a gentleman. I own it pleased me to observe the ease with which Frank, by his answers, obliged Mr. Clifton to change his key. But I soon had occasion to observe that the warmth of your brother's expressions, his eagerness to be immediately intimate with us, and the advances which he with so little sense of embarrassment made to me, had an effect upon Frank which, I greatly fear, was painful. I must look to this; it is a serious moment, and I must seriously examine, and quickly resolve. In the mean time, your brother has kindly insisted upon devoting himself wholly to our amusements; to attend on us, and shew us the public buildings, gardens, paintings, and theatres; as well as to introduce us to all his friends.
And what must we do in return for this well-meant kindness? Must we not endeavour to weed out those few errors, for few I hope they are, which impoverish a mind in itself apparently fertile and of high rank?—Yes, it instantly suggested itself to me as an indispensable act of duty—The attempt must be made—With what obstinate warfare do men encounter peril when money, base money is their proposed reward! And shall we do less for mind, eternal omnipotent mind?
He is returned. Adieu. You shall soon hear again from your
Coke Clifton to His Sister, Louisa Clifton
Paris, Hotel de l'Université, près le Pont Royal
I write agreeably to your desire, sister, to thank you for all obligations, not forgetting your advice. Not but I am excessively obliged to you; I am upon my soul, and seriously, for having done me the favour to bring me acquainted with your charming friend. I have seen many women and in many countries, but I never beheld one so sweet, so beautiful, so captivating! I had heard of her before I left England, her fame had reached Italy, and your letters had raised my expectations. But what were these? The accomplishments and graces of her person, the variety, the pleasure inspiring heaven of her countenance, the cupids that wanton in her dimples, and the delights that swim and glisten in her eyes, are each and all exquisite beyond imagination!
Whatever you may think of me, Louisa, I do persuade myself I know something of women. I have studied them at home and abroad, and have often probed them to the soul. But I never before met with any one in the least comparable to the divine Anna! She is so unreserved, so open, that her soul seems to dwell upon her lips. Yet her thoughts are so rapid, and her mind so capacious, that I am persuaded it will cost me much longer time to know her well than any other woman with whom I ever met.
Having thanked you very heartily and sincerely for this favour, I shall just say a word or two in answer to yours. And so you really think you have some morality on hand, a little stale or so but still sound, which you can bestow with advantage upon me? You imagine you can tell me something I never heard before? Now have you sincerely so much vanity, Louisa? Be frank. You acknowledged I have crossed rivers, seas, and mountains; but you are afraid I have shut my eyes all the time!A loud tongue and a prodigious luck of wit! Antics and impertinences of young men of fashion!Really, my dear, you are choice in your phrases! You could not love your brotherfor any recital of the delight which foreign ladies look in him, and which he took in foreign ladies!But you could be in ecstatics for a brother of your own invention.
Do not suppose I am angry! No, no, my dear girl; I am got far above all that! Though I cannot but laugh at this extraordinary brother, which you are fashioning for yourself. If, when I come into your sublime presence, I should by good luck happen to strike your fancy, why so! My fortune will then be made! If not, sister, we must do as well as we can. All in good time, and a God's name. Is not that tolerable Worcestershire morality?
I am obliged to lay down my pen with laughing at the idea of Miss Louisa's brother, supposing him to be exactly of her modelling. I think I see him appear before her; she seated in state, on a chair raised on four tressels and two old doors, like a strolling actress mimicking a queen in a barn! He dressed in black; his hair smugly curled; his face and his shoes shining; his white handkerchief in his right hand; a prayer book, or the morals of Epictetus in his left;not interlarding his discourse with French or Italian phrases,but ready with a good rumbling mouthful of old Greek, which he had composed, I mean compiled, for the purpose! Then, having advanced one leg, wiped his mouth, put his left hand in his breeches pocket, clenched his right, and raised his arm, he begins his learned dissertation onwell digested principles, ardent desire of truth, incessant struggles to shake off prejudices, and forth are chanted, in nasal twang and tragic recitative, hisemanations of soul, bursts of though, andflashes of genius!
Butyou would not be satirical. Gentle, modest maiden! And surely it becomes the tutored brother to imitate this kind forbearance.My faculties were always lively?AndI must pardon you if you expect too much?—Upon my soul, this is highly comic! Expect too much! And there is danger then that I should not equal your expectations?—Prithee, my good girl, jingle the keys of your harpsichord, and be quiet. Pore over your fine folio receipt book, and appease your thirst after knowledge. Satisfy your longing desire to do good, by making jellies, conserves, and caraway cakes. Pot pippins, brew rasberry wine, and candy orange chips. Study burns, bruises, and balsams. Distil surfeit, colic, and wormwood water. Concoct hiera picra, rhubarb beer, and oil of charity; and sympathize over sprains, whitloes, and broken shins. Get a charm to cure the argue, and render yourself renowned. Spin, sew and knit. Collect your lamentable rabble around you, dole out your charities, listen to a full chorus of blessings, and take your seat among the saints.
You see, child, I can give advice as well as yourself; aye and I will bestow it most plentifully, if you happen to feel any desire after more. I hate to be ungrateful; you shall have no opportunity to utter your musty maxim upon me—'That the sin of ingratitude is worse than the sin of witchcraft.' You shall have weight for weight, measure for measure, chicken; aye, my market woman, and a lumping pennyworth. Brotherly for sisterlyeffusions!
As for the right of eldership, I recollect that a dozen years ago I envied you the prerogative; but now you are welcome to it with all my heart. If, among your miraculous acquirements, you have any secret to make time stand still, by which you can teach me to remain at sweet five-and-twenty, and if you will disclose it to me, I will not only pardon all yourimpertinences, as you sopertinentlycall them, but do any other thing in reason to satisfy you; except turn philosopher and feed upon carrots! Nay I will allow you to grow as old as you please, you shall have full enjoyment of the rights of eldership.
In the mean time, sister, I once more thank you for bringing me acquainted with your friend. You seem to have 'put powder in her drink;' and I freely tell you I wish she loved me half as well as she professes to love her immaculate Louisa. But these I suppose are theflashes of genius, which you have taught her. However she is an angel, and in her every thing is graceful.
As for your other prodigy, I scarcely know what to make of him; except that he seems to have quite conceit enough of himself. Every other sentence is a contradiction of what the last speaker advanced. This is the first time he ever ventured to cross his father's threshold, and yet he talks as familiarly of kingdoms, governments, nations, manners, and other high sounding phrases, as if he had been secretary of state to king Minos, had ridden upon the white elephant, and studied under the Dalai Lama! He is the Great Mogul of politicians! And as for letters, science, and talents, he holds them all by patent right! He is such a monopolizer that no man else can get a morsel! If he were not a plebeian, I could most sincerely wish you were married to him; for then, whenever my soul should hunger and thirst after morality, I should know where to come and get a full meal. Though perhaps his not being a gentleman would be no objection to you, at least your letter leads me to suspect as much.
Do not however mistake me. I mean this jocularly. For I will not degrade my sister so much, as to suppose she has ever cast a thought on the son either of the gardener or the steward, of any man. Though, tied to her mother's apron-string and shut up on the confines of Worcestershire, she may think proper to lecture and give rules of conduct to a brother who has seen the world, and studied both men and books of every kind, that is but a harmless and pardonable piece of vanity. It ought to be laughed at, and for that reason I have laughed.
For the rest, I will be willing to think as well of my sister, as this sister can be to think of her catechised, and very patient, humble, younger brother,
P.S. I have written in answer to my mother by the same post. From the general tenor of her letter, I cannot but imagine that, just before she sat down to write, she had been listening to one of your civil lectures, against wild brothers, fine gentlemen, and vile rakes. Is not that the cant? One thing let me whisper to you, sister: I am not obliged to any person who suspects or renders me suspected. I claim the privilege of being seen before I am condemned, and heard before I am executed. If I should not prove to be quite the phoenix which might vie with so miraculous so unique a sister, I must then be contented to take shame to myself. But till then I should suppose the thoughts of a sister might as well be inclined to paint me white as black. After all, I cannot conclude without repeating that I believe the whole world cannot equal the lovely, the divine Anna St. Ives: and, whatever else you may say or think of me, do not lead her to imagine I am unjust to her supreme beauty, and charms. An insinuation of that kind I would never forgive—Never!