Sir Arthur St. Ives to Abimelech Henley
Paris, Hotel d'Espagne, Rue Guenegaude,
Fauxbourg St. Germain
You cannot imagine, honest Aby, the surprise I am in. Is this their famous France? Is this the finest country in the whole world? Why, Aby, from Boulogne to Paris, at least from Montreuil, I am certain I did not see a single hedge! All one dead flat; with an eternal row of trees, without beginning, middle, or end. I sincerely believe, Aby, I shall never love a straight row of trees again. And the wearisome right lined road, that you never lose sight of; not for a moment, Aby! No lucky turning. No intervening hill.
Oh that I were but the Grand Monarch! What improvements would I make! What a scope for invention, Aby! A kingdom! A revenue of four hundred millions of livres, and a standing army of three hundred thousand men! All which, if the king were a wise man, it is very evident, Abimelech, he might employ in improvements; and heaven knows there is a want of them. What are their petty corvées, by which these straight roads have been patched up, and their everlasting elms planted? I would assemble all my vassals—[Your son Frank, Aby, has given me much information concerning the present governments of Europe, and the origin of manors, fiefs, and lordships. I can assure you he is a very deep young man; though I could wish he were not quite so peremptory and positive; and has informed me of some things which I never heard of before, though I am twice his age. But he seems to have them so fast at his finger's ends that I suppose they must be true. I had often heard of entails, and mortmain, and lands held in fee or fief, I don't know which, and all that you know, Abimelech. One's deeds and one's lawyers tell one something, blindly, of these matters; but I never knew how it had all happened. He told me that—Egad I forget what he told me. But I know he made it all out very clear. Still I must say he is cursed positive.]—However, Aby, as I was saying, I would assemble all my vassals, all my great lords and fief holders, and they should assemble their vassals, and all hands should be set to work: some to plan, others to plant; some to grub, some to dig, some to hoe, and some to sow. The whole country should soon be a garden! Tell me, Aby, is not the project a grand one[1]? What a dispatch of work! What a change of nature! I am ravished with the thought!
[Footnote 1: The plan is in reality much grander than the good knight suspected; if embraced at the will of a nation, instead of at the will of an individual.]
As for any ideas of improvement to be picked up here, Abimelech, they must not be expected. I shall never forget the sameness of the scene! So unlike the riches of Wenbourne-Hill! Sir Alexander would have a country open enough here, at least. He would not complain of being shut in. The wind may blow from what point it pleases, and you have it on all sides. Except the road-side elms I mentioned, and now and then a coppice, which places they tell me are planted for the preservation of the game, I should have supposed there had not been a tree in the country; had I not been told that there were many large forests, to the right, and the left, out of sight. For my part I don't know where they have hidden them, and so must take their word for the fact. 'Tis true indeed that we travelled a part of the way in the dark.
I was mentioning the game, Aby. The game laws here are excellently put in execution. Hares are as plenty as rabbits in a warren, partridges as tame as our dove-house pigeons, and pheasants that seem as if they would come and feed out of your hand. For no scoundrel poacher dare molest them. If he did, I am not certain whether the lord of the manor could not hang him up instantly without judge or jury.
Though Frank tells me they have no juries here; which by the bye is odd enough; and as he says I suppose it is a great shame. For, as he put the case to me, how should I like, to have my estate seized on, by some insolent prince or duke? For you know, I being a baronet in my own right, Aby, no one less in rank would dare infringe upon me. Well! How should I like to have this duke, or this prince, seize upon my estate; and, instead of having my right tried by a special jury of my peers, to have the cause decided by him who can get the prettiest woman to plead for him, and who will pay her and his judges the best? For such Frank assures me is the mode here! Now really all this is very bad; very bad indeed, and as he says wants reforming.
But as for the game laws, as I was saying, Aby, they are excellently enforced; and your poor rascals here are kept in very proper subjection. They are held to the grindstone, as I may say. And so they ought to be, Aby. For, I have often heard you say, what is a man but what he is worth? Which in certain respects is very true. A gentleman of family and fortune, why he is a gentleman; and no insolent beggar ought to dare to look him in the face, without his permission. But you, Aby, had always a very great sense of propriety, in these respects. And you have found your advantage in it; as indeed you ought. It is a pity, considering what a learned young man you have made your son, that you did not teach him a little of your good sense in this particular. He is too full of contradiction: too confident by half.
Let me have a long and full and whole account of what you are doing, Aby. Tell me precisely how forward your work is, and the exact spot where you are when each letter comes away. I know I need not caution you to keep those idle fellows, the day labourers, to it. I never knew any man who worked them better. And yet, Aby, it is surprising the sums that they have cost me; but you are a very careful honest fellow; and they have done wonders, under my planning and your inspection.
I do not wish that the moment I receive a letter it should be known to every lacquey; especially here; where it seems to be one entire city of babblers. The people appear to have nothing to do but to talk. In the house, in the street, in the fields, breakfast, dinner, and supper, walking, sitting, or standing, they are never silent. Nay egad I doubt whether they do not talk in their sleep! So do you direct to me at the Café Conti—However I had better write the direction for you at full length, for fear of a mistake. And be sure you take care of your spelling, Aby, or I don't know what may happen. For I am told that many of these French people are devilish illiterate, and I am sure they are devilish cunning. Snap! They answer before they hear you! And, what is odd enough, their answers are sometimes as pat as if they knew your meaning. Indeed I have often thought it strange that your low poor people should be so acute, and have so much common sense. But do you direct your letters thus—
A Monsieur Monsieur le Chevalier de St. Ives, Baronet Anglois, an Café Conti, vis-à-vis le Pont Neuf, Quai Conti, à Paris.
And so, Abimelech, I remain
Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard
Paris, Hotel d'Espagne, rue Guenegaude,
Fauxbourg St. Germain
The black forebodings of my mind, Oliver, are fulfilled! I have been struck! The phantom I dreaded has appeared, has flashed upon me, and all the evils of which I prophesied, and more than all, are collecting to overwhelm me; are rushing to my ruin!
This brother of Louisa! Nothing surely was ever so unaccountable! The very same whom I prevented from fighting, in theChamps Elysées!Ay, he! This identical Clifton, for Clifton it was, has again appeared; has been here, is here, is never hence. His aspect was petrifying! He came upon me this second time in the strangest, the most insolent manner imaginable; just as I had sent away my last letter to thee; when I was sitting the guardian of a treasure, which my fond false reveries were at that moment flattering me might one day be mine! Starting at the sight of me! Nothing kind, nothing conciliating in his address; it was all imperious demand. Who was I? By what right did I deny admission to the young lady's woman, to inform her he was come to pay her his respects? He!—Having a letter from Sir Arthur, inviting him thither!—Were such orders to be countermanded by me? Again and again, who was I?—Oliver, he is a haughty youth; violent, headstrong, and arrogant! Believe me he will be found so.
What do I mean? Why do I dread him? How! The slave of fear? Why is my heart so inclined to think ill of him? Do I seek to depreciate? She has mentioned him several times; has expected, with a kind of eagerness, he would resemble her Louisa; has hoped he and I should be friends. 'Did not I hope the same?' Oliver, she has tortured me! All benevolence as she is, she has put me on the rack!
I must not yield thus to passion; it is criminal. I have too much indulged the flattering dreams of desire. Yet what to do?—How to act?—Must I tamely quit the field the moment an adversary appears; turn recreant to myself, and coward-like give up my claims, without daring to say such and such they are? No. Justice is due as much to myself as to any other. If he be truly deserving of preference, why let him be preferred. I will rejoice.—Yes, Oliver, mill.—He who is the slave of passion, is unworthy a place in the noble mind of Anna.
But this man is not my superior: I feel, Oliver, he is not; and it becomes me to assert my rights. Nay, his pride acts as a provocative—Oliver, I perceive how wrong this is; but I will not blot out the line. Let it remain as a memento. He that would correct his failings must be willing to detect them.
The anxiety of my mind is excessive; and the pain which a conviction of the weakness and error that this anxiety occasions renders it still more insupportable. I must take myself to task; ay and severely. I must enquire into the wrong and the right, and reason must be absolute. Tell me thy thoughts, plainly and honestly; be sure thou dost; for I sometimes suspect thee of too much kindness, of partiality to thy friend. Chastise the derelictions of my heart, whenever thou perceivest them; or I myself shall hereafter become thy accuser. I am dissatisfied, Oliver: what surer token can there be that I am wrong? I weary thee—Prithee forgive, but do not forget to aid me.
P.S. He—[I mean Louisa's brother; for I think only of one he and one she, at present.] He has not yet taken any notice of our strange first meeting; and thou mayst imagine, Oliver, if he think fit to be silent, I shall not speak. Not that it can be supposed he holds duelling to be disgraceful. I have enquired if any rencounter had taken place; for I was very apprehensive that the champions would have their tilting-match another time. However, as I can hear of no such accident, and as Mr. Clifton is here continually, I hope I have been instrumental in preventing such absurd guilt. The follies of men are scarcely comprehensible! And what am I? Dare I think myself wise? Oliver, my passions are in arms; the contest is violent; I call on thee to examine and to aid the cause of truth.
Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax
Paris, Hotel de l'Université
I have found it, Fairfax! The pearl of pearls! The inestimable jewel! The unique! The world contains but one!—And what?—A woman! The woman of whom I told you!—Anna St. Ives! You have seen the Venus de Medicis?—Pshaw!—Stone! Inanimate marble! But she!—The very sight of her is the height of luxury! The pure blood is seen to circulate! Transparent is the complexion which it illuminates!—And for symmetry, for motion, for grace, sculptor, painter, nor poet ever yet imagined such! Desire languishes to behold her! The passions all are in arms, and the mere enjoyment of her presence is superior to all that her sex beside can give!
Do not suppose me in my altitudes: all I can say, all you can imagine, are far short of the reality.
Then how unlike is her candour to the petty arts, the shallow cunning of her sex! Her heart is as open as her countenance; her thoughts flow, fearless, to her lips. Original ideas, expressed in words so select, phrases so happy, as to astonish and delight; a brilliancy and a strength of fancy that disdain limitation, and wit rapid and fatal as lightning to all opposition; these and a thousand other undescribable excellencies are hers.
I love her Love?—I adore her! Ay—Be not surprised—Even to madness and marriage!—No matter for what I have beforetime said, or what I have thought, my mind is changed. I have discovered perfection which I did not imagine could exist. I renounce my former opinions; which applied to the sex in general were orthodox, but to her were blasphemy.
I would not be too sudden; I have not yet made any direct proposal. But could I exist and forbear giving intimations? No. And how were they received? Why with all that unaffected frankness which did not pretend to misunderstand but to meet them, to cherish hope, and to give a prospect of bliss which mortal man can never merit.
She is all benevolence! Nay she is too much so. There is that youngster here; that upstart; he who bolted upon us and mouthed his Pindarics in the Elysian Fields; the surly groom of the chamber. This fellow has insinuated himself into her favour, and the benignity of her soul induces her to treat him with as much respect as if he were a gentleman.
The youth has some parts, some ideas: at least he has plenty of words. But his arrogance is insufferable. He does not scruple to interfere in the discourse, either with me, Sir Arthur, or the angelic Anna! Nay sets up for a reformer; and pretends to an insolent superiority of understanding and wisdom. Yet he was never so long from home before in his life; has seen nothing, but has read a few books, and has been permitted to converse with this all intelligent deity.
I cannot deny but that the pedagogue sometimes surprises me, with the novelty of his opinions; but they are extravagant. I have condescended, oftener than became me, to shew how full of hyperbole and paradox they were. Still he as constantly maintained them, with a kind of congruity that astonished me, and even rendered many of them plausible.
But, exclusive of his obstinacy, the rude, pot companion loquacity of the fellow is highly offensive. He has no sense of inferiority. He stands as erect, and speaks with as little embarrassment and as loudly as the best of us: nay boldly asserts that neither riches, rank, nor birth have any claim. I have offered to buy him a beard, if he would but turn heathen philosopher. I have several times indeed bestowed no small portion of ridicule upon him; but in vain. His retorts are always ready; and his intrepidity, in this kind of impertinence, is unexampled.
From some anecdotes which are told of him, I find he does not want personal courage; but he has no claim to chastisement from a gentleman. Petty insults he disregards; and has several times put me almost beyond the power of forbearance, by his cool and cutting replies. His oratory is always ready; cut, dry, and fit for use; and damned insolent oratory it frequently is.
The absurdity of his tenets can only be equalled by the effrontery with which they are maintained. Among the most ridiculous of what he calls first principles is that of the equality of mankind. He is one of your levellers! Marry! His superior! Who is he? On what proud eminence can he be found? On some Welsh mountain, or the pike of Teneriffe? Certainly not in any of the nether regions! What! Was not he the ass that brayed to Balaam? And is he not now Mufti to the mules? He will if he please! And if he please he will let it alone! Dispute his prerogative who dare! He derives from Adam; what time the world was all hail fellow well met! The savage, the wild man o' the woods is his true liberty boy; and the orang outang his first cousin. A Lord is a merry andrew, a Duke a jack pudding, and a King a tom fool: his name is man!
Then, as to property, 'tis a tragic farce; 'tis his sovereign pleasure to eat nectarines, grow them who will. Another Alexander, he; the world is all his own! Ay, and he will govern it as he best knows how! He will legislate, dictate, dogmatize; for who so infallible? What! Cannot Goliah crack a walnut?
As for arguments, it is but ask and have: a peck at a bidding, and a good double handful over. I own I thought I knew something; but no, I must to my horn book. Then, for a simile, it is sacrilege; and must be kicked out of the high court of logic! Sarcasm too is an ignoramus, and cannot solve a problem: Wit a pert puppy, who can only flash and bounce. The heavy walls of wisdom are not to be battered down by such popguns and pellets. He will waste you wind enough to set up twenty millers, in proving an apple is not an egg-shell; and thathomois Greek for a goose. Dun Scotus was a school boy to him. I confess, he has more than once dumbfounded me by his subtleties.—Pshaw!—It is a mortal murder of words and time to bestow them on him.
My sister is in correspondence with my new divinity. I thought proper to bestow a few gentle lashes on her, for a letter which she wrote to me, and which I mentioned in my first from Paris, insinuating her own superiority, and giving me to understand how fortunate it would be for the world should I but prove as consummate a paragon as herself. She richly deserved it, and yet I now wish I had forborne; for, if she have her sex's love of vengeance in her, she may injure me in the tenderest part. Never was woman so devoted to woman as Anna St. Ives is to Louisa. I should suspect any other of her sex of extravagant affectation; but her it is impossible to suspect: her manner is so peculiarly her own: and it comes with such unsought for energy, that there is no resisting conviction.
I have two or three times been inclined to write and ask Louisa's pardon. But, no; that pride forbids. She dare not openly profess herself my enemy? She may insinuate, and countermine; but I have a tolerably strong dependance on my own power over Anna. She is not blind. She is the first to feel and to acknowledge superior merit; and I think I have no reason to fear repulse from any woman, whose hand I can bring myself to ask.
One of Anna's greatest perfections, with me, is the ready esteem which she entertained for me, and her not being insensible to those qualities which I flatter myself I possess. Never yet did woman treat me with affected disdain, who did not at last repent of her coquetry.
'Tis true that Anna has sometimes piqued me, by appearing to value me more for my sister's sake even than for my own. I have been ready to say dissimulation was inseparable from woman. And yet her manner is as unlike hypocrisy as possible, I never yet could brook scorn, or neglect. I know no sensation more delicious than that of inflicting punishment for insult or for injury; 'tis in our nature.
That youngster of whom I have prated so much, his name is Frank Henley, denies this, and says that what the world calls nature is habit. He added, with some degree of sarcasm as I thought, that it was as natural, or in his sense as habitual, for some men to pardon, and to seek the good even of those by whom they were wronged, as it was for others to resent and endeavour to revenge. But, as I have said, he continually makes pretensions to an offensive superiority. You may think I do not fail to humble the youth, whenever opportunity offers. But no! Humble him, indeed! Shew him boiling ice! Stew a whale in an oyster-shell! Make mount Caucasus into a bag pudding! But do not imagine he may be moved! The legitimate son of Cato's eldest bastard, he! A petrified Possidonius, in high preservation!
There is another thing which astonishes me more than all I have mentioned. Curse me, Fairfax, if I do not believe that [God confound the fellow!] he has the impudence to be in love with Anna St. Ives! Nay that he braves me, defies me, and, in the insufferable frothy fermentation of his vanity, persuades himself that he looks down upon me!
I must finish, for I cannot think of his intolerable insolence with common patience; and I know not what right I have to tease you, concerning my paltry disputes with a plebeian pedant, and my still more paltry jealousies. But let him beware! If he really have the arrogance to place himself in my way, I will presently trample him into his original nonentity. I only forbear because he has had the cunning to make himself so great a favourite.
This must be horribly stupid stuff to you, Fairfax: therefore pay me in my own coin; be as dull as you sometimes know how, and bid me complain if I dare.
Louisa Clifton to Coke Clifton
Rose-Bank
I write, dear brother, in answer to your last, that I may not by any neglect of mine contribute to the mistake in which you are at present. Your letter shews that you suppose your sister to be vain, presumptuous, and rude; and, such being your feelings, I am far from blaming you for having expressed them.
Still, brother, I must be sincere, and I would by no means have it understood that I think you have chosen the best manner of expressing them; for it is not the manner which, if I have such faults, would be most likely to produce reformation. But your intention has been to humble me; and, desiring to be sarcastic, you have not failed in producing your intended effect. I am sincerely glad of it: had you shewn that desire without the power, I should have been as sincerely sorry. But where there is mind there is the material from which every thing is to be hoped.
I suppose I shall again incur chastisement, for rising thus as you call it to the sublime. But I will write my thoughts without fear, and I hope will patiently listen should they deserve reproach. If I have sinned, it is in most fervently wishing to find my brother one of the brightest and the best of men; and I have received more pleasure from the powers he has displayed, in reproving me, than I could have done by any dull expression of kindness; in which, though there might have been words, there would neither have been feeling, sentiment, nor soul.
The concluding sentence of your letter warns me not to defame you with my friend. I must speak without disguise, brother. You feel that, had you received such a letter, revenge would have been the first emotion of your mind. I hope its duration would have been short. I will most readily and warmly repeat all the good of my brother that I know: but I will neither conceal what ought to be said, nor say what I do not know. I take it for granted that he would not have me guilty of duplicity.
Adieu, dear brother; and believe me to be most affectionately your
Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard
Paris, Hotel d'Espagne, Rue Guenegaude,
Fauxbourg St. Germain
How severe, Oliver, are the lessons of truth! But to learn them from her lips, and to be excited to the practice of them by her example, are blessings which to enjoy and not to profit by would shew a degenerate heart.
I have just risen from a conversation which has made a deep impression on my mind. It was during breakfast. I know not whether reflecting on it will appease, or increase, the sensations which the behaviour of this brother of Louisa hourly exacerbates. But I will calm that irritability which would dwell on him, and nothing else, that I may repeat what has just happened.
The interesting part of what passed began by Mr. Clifton's affirming, with Pope, that men had and would have, to the end of time, each a ruling passion. This I denied, if by ruling passion were meant the indulgence of any irregular appetite, or the fostering of any erroneous system. I was asked, with a sneer, for my recipe to subdue the passions; if it were not too long to be remembered. I replied it was equally brief and efficacious. It was the force of reason; or, if the word should please better, of truth.
And in what year of the world was the discovery of truth to be made?
In that very year when, instead of being persecuted for speaking their thoughts, the free discussion of every opinion, true or false, should not only be permitted, but receive encouragement and applause.
As usual, the appeal was made to Anna: and, as usual, her decision was in my favour. Nothing, said she, is more fatal, to the progress of virtue, than the supposition that error is invincible. Had I persuaded myself I never could have learned French, Italian, or music, why learn them I never could. For how can that be finished which is never begun? But, though all the world were to laugh at me, I should laugh at all the world, were it to tell me it is more difficult to prevent the beginning, growth, and excess of any passion, than it is to learn to play excellently on the piano forte.
Is that really your opinion, madam? said Clifton.
It is.
Do you include all the passions?
All.
What! The passion of love?
Yes. Love is as certainly to be conquered as any of them; and there is no mistake which has done more mischief than that of supposing it irresistible. Young people, and we poor girls in particular, having once been thoroughly persuaded of the truth of such an axiom, think it in vain to struggle, where there are no hopes of victory. We are conquered not because we are weak, but because we are cowards. We seem to be convinced that we have fallen in love by enchantment, and are under the absolute dominion of a necromancer. It is truly the dwarf leading the giant captive. Is it not—[Oliver! She fixed her eyes upon me, as she spoke!]—Is it not, Frank?
I was confounded. I paused for a moment. A deep and heavy sigh involuntarily burst from me. I endeavoured to be firm, but I stammered out—Madam—it is.
I am convinced he is jealous of me. Nay he fears me; though he scorns me too much to think so meanly of himself. Yet he fears me. And what is worse, Oliver, I fear him! I blush for my own debility. But let me not endeavour to conceal my weakness. No: it must be encountered, and cured. His quick and audacious eye was searching me, while I struggled to think, and rid myself of confusion; and he discovered more than gave him pleasure.—She continued.
I know of no prejudice more pernicious to the moral conduct of youth than that of this unconquerable passion of love. Any and all of our passions are unconquerable, whenever we shall be weak enough to think them so. Does not the gamester plead the unconquerableness of his passion? The drunkard, the man of anger, the revengeful, the envious, the covetous, the jealous, have they not all the same plea? With the selfish and the feeble passion succeeds to passion as different habits give birth to each, and the last passion proves more unconquerable than its predecessor. How frequently do we see people in the very fever of this unconquerable passion of love, which disappears for the rest of their lives, after a few weeks possession of the object whom they had so passionately loved! How often do they as passionately hate; while the violence of their hatred and of their love is perhaps equally guilty!
Sir Arthur I observed was happy to join in this new doctrine; which however is true, Oliver. I am not certain that he too had not his apprehensions, concerning me: at least his approbation of the principle was ardent.
This was not all. After a short silence, she added, and again fixed her eyes on me—Next to the task of subduing our own passions, I know none more noble than that of aiding to subdue the passions of others. To restore a languishing body is held to be a precious art; but to give health to the mind, to restore declining genius to its true rank, is an art infinitely more inestimable.
She rose, and I withdrew; her words vibrating in my ear, where they vibrate still. Perceivest thou not their import?—Oliver, she has formed a project fatal to my hopes! Nay, I could almost fear, fatal to herself! Yet what, who can harm her? Does the savage, the monster exist, that could look upon her and do her injury? No! She is safe! She is immaculate! Beaming in beauty, supreme in virtue, the resplendent aegis of truth shields her from attaint!
Yes, Oliver, her answers were to him; but the intent, the soul of them was directed to me. It was a warning spirit, that cried, beware of indulging an unjustifiable passion! Awake, at the call of virtue, and obey! Behold here a sickly mind, and aid me in its recovery!—To me her language was pointed, clear, and incapable of other interpretation.
But is there not peril in her plan? Recover a mind so perverted? Strong, I own, nay uncommon in its powers; for such the mind of Clifton is: but its strength is its disease.
And is it so certain that for me to love her is error, is weakness, is vice? No. Or, if it be, I have not yet discovered why. Oliver, she shall hear me! Let her shew me my mistake, if mistaken I be, and I will desist: but justice demands it, and she shall hear me.
We are going to remove, at his repeated instances, to the hotel where he resides. He leads Sir Arthur as he pleases; but it grieved me to see her yield so readily. Now that I have discovered her intentions, I no longer wonder. Omnipotent as the power of truth and virtue is, I yet cannot approve the design. The enterprises of virtue itself may have their romance—I know not—This to me at least is fatal—Could I—? I must conclude!—Lose her?—For ever!—For ever!—I must conclude—
Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton
Paris, Hotel de l'Université
The assiduity of Clifton, my dear Louisa, is so great that we already seem to be acquaintance of seven years standing. This is evidently his intention. His temper is eager, impatient of delay, quick in resolving, and, if I do not mistake, sometimes precipitate. But his intellectual powers are of a very high order. His wit is keen, his invention strong, his language flowing and elegant, and his ideas and figures remarkable, sometimes for their humour, and at others for their splendour. His prejudices are many of them deep; nor are they few; but he speaks them frankly, defends them boldly, and courts rather than shuns discussion. What then may not be hoped from a mind like his? Ought such a mind to be neglected? No!—No!—Eternally no!—I have already given a strong hint of this to Frank.
I am persuaded that, since you saw him, he is greatly improved in person. The regularity of his features, his florid complexion, tall stature, and the facility and grace of all his motions, are with him no common advantages.
He has attached himself exceedingly to us, and has induced Sir Arthur to take apartments in theHotel de l'Université, where he resides himself, and where the accommodations are much better, the situation more agreeable, and the rooms more spacious.
A little incident happened, when we removed, which was characteristic of the manners of the people, and drew forth a pleasing trait of the acuteness of Clifton, and of his turn of thinking.
One of the men who helped us with our luggage, after being paid according to agreement, asked, as is very customary with these people, forquelque chose pour boire; which Sir Arthur, not being very expert in the French idiom, understood literally. He accordingly ordered a bottle of the light common wine, and being thirsty poured some into a tumbler and drank himself first, then poured out some more, and offered the porter.
The man took the glass as Sir Arthur held it out to him; and, with some surprise and evident sense of insult in his countenance, said to Sir Arthur—à moi, monsieur? To which Sir Arthur, perfectly at a loss to comprehend his meaning, made no answer; and the man; without tasting the liquor, set the glass down on a bench in the yard.
Clifton, well acquainted with the manners of the people, and knowing the man imagined Sir Arthur meant to insult him, by giving him the same glass out of which he had drunken, with great alacrity took it up the moment the man had set it down, and said—Non, mon ami, c'est à moi—and drank off the wine. He then called for another tumbler, and filling it gave it to the man.
The French are a people of active and lively feelings; and the poor fellow, after receiving the glass from Clifton, took up the other empty tumbler, poured the wine back into it, said in his own language forgive me, sir; I see I am in the wrong; and immediately drank out of the tumbler which he had before refused.
Each country you perceive, Louisa, has its own ideas of delicacy. The French think it very strange to see two people drink out of the same vessel. Not however that I suppose every porter in Paris would refuse wine, if offered, for the same reason. Neither would they all with the same sensibility be so ready to retract.
The good humour as well as the good sense of Clifton's reproof pleased me highly; and we must all acknowledge him our superior, in the art of easily conforming to the customs of foreigners, and in readily pardoning even their absurdities. For foreigners, Louisa, have their absurdities, as well as ourselves.
But I have not yet done. I have another anecdote to relate of Clifton, from which I augur still more.
I had observed our Thomas in conversation with a man, who from his dress and talking to Thomas I knew must be an Englishman; and the care which it becomes me to take, that such well-meaning but simple people should not be deceived, led me to inquire who he was. Thomas began to stammer; not with guilt, but with a desire of telling a story which he knew not how to tell so well as he wished. At last we understood from him it was a young English lad, who had neither money, meat, nor work, and who was in danger of starving, because he could find no means of returning to his own country. Poor Thomas finding himself among a kind of heathens, as he calls the French, pitied his case very sincerely, and had supplied him with food for some days, promising that he would soon take an opportunity of speaking to me, whom he is pleased to call the best young lady in the world; and I assure you, Louisa, I am proud of his good word.
Your brother heard this account, and immediately said—[For indeed I wished to know what his feelings were, and therefore did not offer to interrupt him.] 'Desire him to come up. Let me question him. If he be really what he says, he ought to be relieved: but he is very likely some idle fellow, who being English makes a trade of watching for English families, and living upon this tale.' So far said I to myself, Clifton, all is right. I therefore let him proceed. The lad came up, for he was not twenty, and your brother began his interrogations.
You are an English lad, you say?
Yes, sir.
Where do you come from?
Wolverhampton.
What is your trade?
A buckle plater.
And did you serve out your apprenticeship?
No.
How so?
My master and I quarrelled, he struck me, I beat him, and was obliged to run away.
Where did you run to?
I went to London. I have an aunt there, a poor woman, who chairs for gentlefolks, and I went to her.
How came you here?
She got me a place, with a young gentleman who was going on his travels. I had been among horses before I was bound 'prentice, and he hired me as his groom.
But how came you to leave him?
He is a very passionate gentleman. He has got a French footman, who stands and shrugs, and lets him give him thumps, and kicks; and one morning, because one boot was brighter than t'other, he was going to horsewhip me. So I told him to keep his hands off, or I would knock him down.
Why you are quite a fighting fellow.
No, sir; I never fought with any body in my life, if they did not first meddle with me.
So you quarrelled with your master, beat him, ran away from your apprenticeship, got a place, came into a foreign country, and then, because your master did not happen to please you, threatened to knock him down!
The poor fellow was quite confounded, and I was half out of breath from an apprehension that Clifton had taken the wrong side of the question. But I was soon relieved—This tale is too artless to be false, said he, turning to me.—You cannot conceive, Louisa, the infinite pleasure which these few words gave me—I still continued silent, and watching, not the lad, but your brother.
So you never meddle with any body who does not meddle with you?
No, sir, I would scorn it.
But you will not be horsewhipped?
No, sir, I won't; starve or not starve.
I need not ask you if you are honest, sober, and industrious; for I know you will say you are.
Why should I not, sir?
You have nobody to give you a character, have you?
My master is still in Paris; but to be sure he will give me a bad one.
Can you tell me his address—where he lives?
I can't tell it in French, but here it is.
Can you write and read?
Yes, sir.
And how long have you been out of place?
Above seven weeks.
Why did not you return to England, when you received your wages?
I had no money. I owed a fellow servant a guinea and a half, which I had borrowed to buy shirts and stockings.
And those you have made away with?
Not all. I was obliged to take some of them to Mount Pity.
Mont Piété, you mean.[1]
[Footnote 1: The general receptacle for pledges. Among other monopolies and trades, government in France used to be the common pawnbroker.]
Belike yes, sir.
Well, here's something for you, for the present; and come to me to-morrow morning.
The lad went away, with more in his countenance than he knew how to put into speech; and I asked Clifton what he meant by desiring him to come again. I intend, madam, said he, to make some inquiries of his master; and if they please me to hire him; for I want a servant, and if I am not deceived he will make a good one.
Think, Louisa, whether I were not pleased with this proof of discernment. By this accident, I learned more of Clifton's character in ten minutes than perhaps I might have done in ten months. He saw, for I wished him to see, that he had acted exactly as I could have desired.
He appears indeed to be a favourite with servants, which certainly is no bad omen. He is Laura's delight. He is a free gentleman, a generous gentleman, [I suppose he gives her money] a merry gentleman, and has the handsomest person, the finest eye, and the best manner of dressing his hair she ever beheld!—She quite overflows in his praise.
In a few days we are to go to the country seat of the Marquis of Villebrun, where we intend to stay about a fortnight. Your brother has introduced us to all his friends, among whom is the marquis; and, as we are intimate with our ambassador, we have more invitations than we can accept, and acquaintance than we can cultivate. Frank is to go with us.
And now, Louisa, with anxiety I own, my mind is far from satisfied. I have not thought sufficiently to convince myself, yet act as though I had. It is little less than open war between your brother and Frank. The supposition of a duty, too serious to be trifled with, has induced me to favour rather than repulse the too eager advances of Clifton; though this supposed duty has been but half examined.
The desire to retrieve mind cannot but be right; yet the mode may be wrong.
At this moment my heart bitterly reproaches me, for not proceeding on more certain principles. The merit of Frank is great, almost beyond the power of expression. I need not tell my Louisa which way affection, were it encouraged, would incline: but I will not be its slave. Nor can I reproach myself for erring on that side; but for acting, in resistance to inclination, with too little reserve. No arguments I believe can shew me that I have a right to sport with the feelings of my father, and my friends; though those feelings are founded in prejudice. But my inquiries shall be more minute; and my resolves will then be more permanent and self-complacent.
Adieu, my best and dearest friend. Write often: reprove me for all that I do amiss—Would my mind were more accordant with itself! But I will take it roundly to task.
Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax
Paris, Hotel de l'Université
This brief memorandum of my actual existence, dear Fairfax, will be delivered to you by the Chevalier de Villeroi; a worthy gentleman, to whom I have given letters to my friends, and who will meet you at Turin.
I have not a moment to waste; therefore can only say that I am laying close siege; that my lines of circumvallation do not proceed quite so rapidly as my desires; but that I have just blown up the main bastion; or, in other words, have prevailed on Sir Arthur to send this hornet, this Frank Henley, back to England. The fellow's aspiring insolence is not to be endured. His merit is said to be uncommon. 'Tis certain he strains after the sublime; and in fact is too deep a thinker, nay I suspect too deep a plotter, not to be dangerous. Adieu.
I am in a rage! Curse the fellow! He has countermined me; blown up my works! I might easily have foreseen it, had I not been a stupid booby. I could beat my thick scull against the wall! I have neither time nor patience to tell you what I mean; except that here he is, and here he will remain, in my despite.
Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard
Paris, Hotel de l'Université
It is as I told thee, Oliver. He fears me. He treats me, as he thinks, with the neglect and contempt due to an unqualified intruder: but he mistakes his own motives, and acts with insidious jealousy; nay descends to artifice. His alarmed spirit never rests; he is ever on the watch, lest at entering a room, descending a staircase, stepping into her carriage, or on any other occasion, I should touch her hand. He has endeavoured to exclude me from all their parties; and, though often successfully, has several times been foiled.
But his greatest disappointment was this very morning. Sir Arthur sent for me, last night, to inform me I must return to Wenbourne-Hill, with some necessary orders, which he did not choose to trust to the usual mode of conveyance. I immediately suspected, and I think I did not do him injustice, that my rival was the contriver of this sudden necessity of my return.
I received Sir Arthur's orders, but was determined immediately to acquaint Anna.
Clifton was present. She was surprised; and, I doubt not, had the same suspicions as myself; for, after telling me I must not think of going, she obliged Clifton himself to be the intercessor, with Sir Arthur, that I should stay. His reluctance, feigned assent, and chagrin were visible.
Her words and manner to me were kind; nay I could almost think they were somewhat more. She seemed to feel the injustice aimed at me; and to feel it with as much resentment as a spirit so benignant could know.
What!—Can he not be satisfied with half excluding me from her society; with endeavouring to sink me as low in her estimation as in his own; and with exercising all that arrogance which he supposes becoming the character of a gentleman?
Oliver, I am determined in my plan: my appeal shall be to her justice. If it prove to be ill-founded, why then I must acquiesce. I am angry at my own delay, at my own want of courage; but I shall find a time, and that quickly. At least, if condemned I must be, I will be heard; but equity I think is on my side—Yes—I will be heard.
Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard
Paris, Hotel de l'Université
Aid me if thou canst, Oliver, to think, or rather to unravel my own entangled thoughts. Do not suffer me to continue in a state of delusion, if thou perceivest it to be such. Be explicit; tell me if thou dost but so much as forebode: for at moments I myself despond; though at others I am wasted to the heaven of heavens, to certainty, and bliss unutterable. If I deceive myself?—Well!—And if I do, what is to follow?—Rashness?—Cowardice?—What! Basely abandon duty, virtue, and energy?—No!
Looks, words, appearances, daily events are all so contradictory, that the warfare of hope and fear increases, and becomes violent, almost to distraction! Clifton is openly countenanced by Sir Arthur, treated kindly by her, and is incessant in every kind of assiduity. His qualities are neither mean, insignificant, nor common. No: they are brilliant, and rare. With a person as near perfection as his mind will permit it to be, a knowledge of languages, a taste for the fine arts, much bravery, high notions of honour, a more than common share of wit, keen and ungovernable feelings, an impatience of contradiction, and an obstinacy in error, he is a compound of jarring elements, that augur tempests and peril. Vain, haughty, and self-willed, his family, his fortune, his accomplishments and himself are the pictures that fascinate his eye. It is attracted, for a moment, by the superior powers of another; but all his passions and propensities forebode that he is not to be held, even by that link of adamant.
And is she to be dazzled then by this glare? Can her attention be caught by person, attracted by wit? And does she not shrink from that haughty pride which so continually turns to contemplate itself; from those passions which are so eager to be gratified; and from those mistakes which it will be so almost impossible to eradicate? Even were I to lose her, must I see her thus devoted?—The thought is—I cannot tell what! Too painful for any word short of extravagance.
Impressed by feelings like these, the other day I sat down and threw a few ideas into verse. The mind, surcharged with passion, is eager by every means to disburthen itself. It is always prompt to hope that the expression of it's feelings, if any way adequate, cannot but produce the effect it wishes; and I wrote the following song, or love-elegy, or what thou wilt.
Rash hope avaunt! Be still my flutt'ring heart;Nor breathe a sorrow, nor a sigh impart;Appease each bursting throb, each pang reprove;To suffer dare—But do not dare to love!
Down, down, these swelling thoughts! Nor dream that worthCan pass the haughty bounds of wealth and birth.Yes, kindred feelings, truth, and virtue prove:Yes, dare deserve—But do not dare to love!
To noble tasks and dang'rous heights aspire;Bid all the great and good thy wishes fire,The mighty dead thy rival efforts move,And dare to die—But do not dare to love!
Thou knowest her supreme excellence in music; the taste, feeling, and expression with which she plays; and the enchanting sweetness and energy with which she sings. Having written my verses, I took them, when she was busied elsewhere, to the piano-forte; and made some unsuccessful attempts to please myself with an air to them. Sir Arthur came in, and I left my stanzas on the desk of the instrument; very inadvertently I assure thee, though I was afterward far from sorry that they had been forgotten.
I have frequently indulged myself in sitting in an antichamber, to listen to her playing and singing. I have thought that she is most impassioned when alone, and perhaps all musicians are so. The next day, happening to listen in the manner I have mentioned, I heard her singing an air which was new to me, and remarked that she once or twice stopped, to consider and make alterations.
I listened again and found she had been setting my verses!
By my soul, Oliver, I have no conception of rapture superior to what I experienced at that moment! She had collected all her feelings, all her invention, had composed a most beautiful air, and sung it with an effect that must have been heard to be supposed possible. The force with which she uttered every thought to the climax of daring, and the compassion which she infused into the conclusion 'But do not dare to love'—produced the most affecting contrast I ever heard.
This indeed was heaven, Oliver! But a heaven that ominously vanished, at the entrance of Clifton. I followed him, and saw her shut the book, and wipe the tear from her eye. Her flow of spirits is unfailing, but the tone of her mind was raised too high suddenly to sink into trifling. She looked at me two or three times. I know not for my part what aspect I wore; but I could observe that the haughty Clifton felt the gaiety of his heart in some sort disturbed, and was not pleased to catch me listening, with such mute attention, to the ravishing music she had made.
Once again prithee tell me, Oliver, what am I to think? It was impossible she should have sung as she did, had not the ideas affected her more than I could have hoped, nay as much as they did myself. She knew the writing. Why did she sigh? Why feel indignant? Why express every sentiment that had passed through my mind with increasing force?—What could she think?—Did she not approve?—She sung as if she admired!—The world shall not persuade me that her looks were not the true expressions of her heart; and she looked—! Recollect her, and the temper of mind she was in, and imagine how!—Remember—She could love me if I would let her!
I was displeased with the verses when I had written them: they were very inadequate to what I wished. I discovered in some of the lines a barren repetition of the preceding thought, and meant to have corrected them. But I would not now alter a word for worlds! She has deigned to set and sing them; and what was before but of little worth is now inestimable.
Yet am I far from satisfied with myself. My present state of mind is disgraceful; for it cannot but be disgraceful to be kept in doubt by my own cowardice. And if I am deceiving myself—Can it be possible, Oliver?—But if I am, my present error is indeed alarming. The difficulty of retreating momentarily increases, and every step in advance will be miles in return.
Clifton will suffer no impediment from the cowardice of which I complain; for I much mistake if he has been accustomed to refusal; or if he can scarcely think, when he deigns to sue, denial possible.
I find myself every day determining to put an end to this suspense, and every day delaying. The impulse however is too great to be long resisted; and my excuse to myself continually is that I have not yet found the proper moment.
If, Oliver, this history of my heart be troublesome to thee, it is thy duty to tell me so. But indeed thou tellest me the contrary; and I know not why at this instant I should do thee the injustice to doubt thy sincerity. Forgive me. It is a friendly fear, and not intended to do thee wrong. But I wish thee to judge of me and my actions; and even to let thy father judge, if thou shouldest at any time hesitate, and fear I am committing error. Do this, and continue thy usual kindness in communicating thy thoughts.
P.S. The day after tomorrow, we are to set off for the Chateau de Villebrun; on a party of pleasure, as it is called. Thus men run from place to place, without knowing of what they are in search. They feel vacuity; a want of something to make them happy; but what that something is they have not yet discovered.
Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton
Paris, Hotel de l'Université
I fear, my dear Louisa, I am at present hurried forward a little too fast to act with all the caution which I could wish. My mind is not coherent, not at peace with itself. Ideas rush in multitudes, and more than half obscure my understanding.
I find that, since we left Wenbourne-Hill, Frank has grown upon my thoughts very strangely. Indeed till then I was but partially acquainted with his true character, the energy of which is very uncommon. But, though his virtues are become more conspicuous, the impediments that forbid any thought of union are not lessened.
My chief difficulty is, I do not yet know how to give full effect to my arguments, so as to produce such conviction as he shall be unable to resist. Let me do but this, and I have no doubt of his perfect acquiescence, and resignation. But, should I fail, the warfare of the passions will be prolonged; and, for a time, a youth whose worth is above my praise rendered unhappy. A sense of injustice, committed by the person of whom, perhaps, he thought too highly to suppose it possible that either error or passion should render her so culpable, may prey upon his peace, and destroy the felicity of one to whom reason and recollection tell me I cannot wish too much good.
I am convinced I have been guilty of another mistake. I have on various occasions been desirous of expressing approbation, mingled with esteem and friendship. He has extorted it from me. He has obliged me to feel thus. And why, have I constantly asked myself, should I repress or conceal sensations that are the dues of merit? No: they ought not to have been repressed, or concealed, but they ought to have been rendered intelligible, incapable of misconstruction, and not liable to a meaning which they were never intended to convey. For, if ever they were more than I suppose, I have indeed been guilty.
Yes, my Louisa, let me discharge my conscience. Let no accusation of deceit rest with me. I can endure any thing but self-reproach. I avow, therefore, Frank Henley is, in my estimation, the most deserving man I have ever known. A man that I could love infinitely. A man whose virtues I do and must ever love. A man in whose company my heart assures me I could have enjoyed years of happiness. If the casuists in such cases should tell me this is what they mean by love, why then I am in love.
But if the being able, without a murmur, nay cheerfully, to marry another, or see him properly married, if the possession of the power and the resolution to do what is right, and if an unshaken will to exert this power prove the contrary, why then I am not in love.
When I may, without trespassing on any duty, and with the full approbation of my own heart, yield up its entire affections, the man to whom they shall be devoted shall then find how much I can love.
My passions must be, ought to be, and therefore shall be, under my control; and, being conscious of the purity of my own intentions, I have never thought that the emanations of mind ought to be shackled by the dread of their being misinterpreted. It is not only cowardly, but in my opinion pernicious.
Yet, with respect to Frank, I fear this principle has led me into an error. Among other escapes of this kind, there is one which has lately befallen me, and for which I doubt I am reprehensible.
Frank has written a song, in which his feelings and situation are very strongly expressed. He left it on my music desk, by accident; for his character is too open, too determined, to submit to artifice. The words pleased me, I may say affected me, so very much that I was tempted to endeavour to adapt an air to them; which, when it was written, I several times repeated, and accompanied myself on the piano-forte. Your brother came in just as I had ended; and, from a hint which he purposely gave, I suspect that Frank had been listening in the antichamber.
The behaviour of Frank afterward confirmed the supposition. He followed your brother, and sat down while we conversed. His whole soul seemed absorbed; but not, as I have sometimes seen it, in melancholy. Satisfaction, pleasure, I know not whether rapture would be too strong a word for the expressions which were discoverable in his countenance.
My own mind had the moment before been impassioned; and the same sensations thrilling as it were through my veins might mislead me, and induce me to suppose things that had no existence. Still I do not think I was mistaken. And if not, what have I done? Have I not thoughtlessly betrayed him into a belief that I mean to favour a passion which I should think it criminal to encourage?
I know not why I delay so long to explain my sentiments. It is the weak fear of not doing justice to my cause; of not convincing, and of making him unhappy, for whom I would sacrifice my life, every thing but principle, to make him the very reverse.
However this must and shall soon be ended. I do not pretend to fix a day, but it shall not be a very distant one. I will arrange my thoughts, collect my whole force, and make an essay which I am convinced cannot fail, unless by my fault. The task is perhaps the most severe I have ever yet undertaken. I will remember this, and I hope my exertions will be adequate.
Adieu, my dear Louisa: and, when you come to this place, imagine me for a moment in your arms.
Coke Clifton to Guy Fairfax
Chateau de Villebrun
Never was fellow so pestered with malverse accidents as I am; and all of my own contriving! I am the prince of Numskulls! The journey to the Chateau was a project of my own; and whom should I meet here but the Count de Beaunoir! The very same with whom I was prevented from fighting, by this insolent son of a steward! They knew each other instantly; and the whole story was told in the presence of Anna. My foolish pride would never before let me mention to her that a fellow, like him, could oblige me to put up the sword I had drawn in anger. Nor can I now tell why I did not run him through, the instant he dared to interfere!
I cut a cursed ridiculous figure! But the youth is running up a long score, which I foresee he will shortly be obliged to discharge. Damn him! I cannot think of him with common patience! I know not why I ever mention his name!
I have raised another nest of wasps about my ears. The French fops, here, all buzz and swarm around her; each making love to her, with all the shrugs, grimaces, and ready made raptures of which he is master; and to which I am obliged patiently to listen, or shew myself an ass. These fellows submit to every kind of monopoly, except of woman; and to pretend an exclusive right to her is, in their opinion, only worthy of a barbarian. But the most forward and tormenting of them all is my quondam friend, the Count; who is half a lunatic, but of so diverting a kind that, ere a man has time to be angry, he either cuts a caper, utters an absurdity, or acts some mad antic or other, that sets gravity at defiance.
Not that any man, who had the smallest pretensions to common sense, could be jealous, either of him or any one of these apes. And yet jealous I am! My dotage, Fairfax, is come very suddenly upon me; and neither you, nor any one of the spirited fellows, whose company I used to delight in, can despise me half so much as I despise myself—A plebeian!—A—! I could drink gall, eat my elbows, renounce all my gods, and turn Turk!—Ay, laugh if you will; what care I?—I have taken a turn into the park, in search of a little cool air and common sense.
All the world is met here, on purpose to be merry; and merry they are determined to be. The occasion is a marriage, in the true French style, between my very good friend, the Marquis de Villebrun, an old fellow upwards of sixty, and a young creature of fifteen; a child, a chit, just taken out of a convent; in which, but for this or some such preposterous match, she might have remained, till time should have bestowed wrinkles and ugliness as bountifully upon her as it has done upon her Narcissus, the bridegroom. The women flock busily round her, in their very good-natured way, purposely to form her. The men too are very willing to lend their aid; and, under such tuition, she cannot but improve apace. Why are not you here, Fairfax? I have had twenty temptations to take her under my pupillage; but that I dare not risk the loss of this divinity.
The purpose of our meeting however is, as I said, to be joyous. It is teeming time therefore with every brain, that has either wit, folly, or fancy enough to contribute to the general festivity. And various are their inventions, and stratagems, to excite surprise, attract visitors, and keep up the holiday farce of the scene. Musicians, painters, artists, jugglers, sages, all whose fame, no matter of what motley kind, has reached the public ear, and whom praise or pay can bring together, are assembled. Poets are invited to read their productions; and as reading well is no mean art, and writing well still much more difficult, you may think what kind of an exhibition your every day poetasters make. Yet, like a modern play, they are certain of unbounded applause.
Last night we had aFête Champêtre, which, it must be granted, was a most accurate picture of nature, and the manners of rustics! The simplicity of the shepherd life could not but be excellently represented, by the ribbands, jewels, gauze, tiffany, and fringe, with which we were bedaubed; and the ragouts, fricassees, spices, sauces, wines, andliqueurs, with which we were regaled! Not to mention being served upon plate, by an army of footmen! But then, it was in the open air; and that was prodigiously pastoral!
When we were sufficiently tired of eating and drinking, we all got up to dance; and the mild splendour of the moon was utterly eclipsed, by the glittering dazzle of some hundreds of lamps; red, green, yellow, and blue; the rainbow burlesqued; all mingled, in fantastic wreaths and forms, and suspended among the foliage; that the trees might be as fine as ourselves! The invention, disposition, and effect, however, were highly applauded. And, since the evil was small and the mirth great, what could a man do, but shake his ears, kick his heels, cut capers, laugh, sing, shout, squall, and be as mad as the best?
To-morrow night we are to have fireworks; which will be no less rural. I was in a splenetic humour, and indulged myself in an exclamation against such an abominable waste of gunpowder; for which I got reproved by my angelic monitress, who told me that, of all its uses and abuses, this was the most innocent.
I suppose our stay here will not be less than a fortnight. But I have left orders for all letters to be sent after me; so that your heroic epistles will come safe and soon to hand.
Which is all at this present writing from your very humble servant to command,