University of Virginia Library

“Your affectionate letter is received, and I sit
down to answer it, half hesitating, notwithstanding
the sincere friendship I entertain for you, whether
I ought to comply with your wishes, and relate to
you all the adventures of my life, and all the apprehensions
which agitate my mind. You will not,
even from this confession, doubt the sincerity of my
sentiments; for you are, my dear Denham, the only
man on earth whom I consider my friend. It is
melancholy to reflect how few among all my acquaintance
I place complete reliance on. Some
who could, perhaps, appreciate the nature of true
friendship, have their affections occupied elsewhere;
and many, who exhibit a desire to become intimate,
are not recommended by qualities which alone can
make intimacy agreeable. Of the young men whom
I have here associated much with, there is one in
particular whom I have learned to esteem. Were
we together for some years, I fear you would have
a rival. But I am in this metropolis only for so
short a time, and he is so much engaged with other
avocations, that the interest we feel in each other
will probably never grow beyond mutual wishes;
for what would be the use of cultivating a connexion,

of which the short period could scarcely be more
pleasant than the inevitable termination would be
painful? I see in this young man, however, much
which resembles you. He is naturally noble and
superior, born amid all the advantages of prosperity,
and spending his life in a sphere of fashion and
pleasure, among men beneath him in intellect; and
yet, while he equals and surpasses them in the elegant
frivolities of fashion, he has the taste and resolution
to cultivate his understanding, and the wisdom
to reason with impartiality and truth upon subjects
generally the least understood in such circles.
To see him in the drawing-room, you would suppose
him only the gay and light homme du monde;
while in his study he is evidently fitting himself for
a career of usefulness. This much in reply to your
inquiry respecting `new friends.' To your entreaty
that I should leave off travelling and seek myself
out a good wife, I have also something to say. I
have many objections to marriage in my case.
They are not those which generally influence men
who remain bachelors. I have no prejudices
against women, or apprehensions of the married
state. On the contrary, I soberly believe no man
can fulfil his duty, and enjoy all the happiness intended
for him, without a family. The pleasures and
affections—even the responsibilities, restraints, and
cares which they produce, all tend to develop and
balance his character, to enlarge his mind, and to
keep his heart in a medium point of enjoyment most
favourable to health, content, and honour. An old
bachelor is almost sure to have some inaccurate notion
or loose principle, which the reflection consequent
on a family protects a husband and father from.
No, my friend, do not suspect me of such flippant
objections to matrimony; but there are others which
I cannot easily overcome. You are aware of my
general history, but I do not think I ever ventured
to tell it to you distinctly, for it has been a subject
not very agreeable for me to touch upon. I will
sketch it for you, however, and let you judge whether
it does not offer me solid arguments against marrying.

“The earliest thing I can remember is a family
where I was badly treated, in the West Indies. I
was, at an early age, I scarce know how or why,
taken from thence. I crossed the ocean, and was
placed at an English school. I remained there till
I was prepared for the University. All these measures
concerning me were taken by invisible agents.
I saw no one, knew no one, suspected no one. I
became here acquainted with Lord Perceval, who
was considerably my senior, and whose friendship
has survived our school days. On leaving the University
I received a letter. I have preserved it. It
is in the keeping of Lord Perceval. The words are
engraven on my memory. The writing was in an
obviously disguised hand. It ran thus:

“`It is time you should know sufficient of your
history to keep you from inquiring more. You are
the child of guilt. You have been cast off by one
who for twenty years has kept a resolution, which
will be inviolable, never to see you. Your existence
is unknown to all but yourself and the writer
of this, who, from a sense of duty, will not throw
you utterly destitute upon the world, where all is
false, and that most false which seems most fair.
A yearly fund for your support, to the amount of
£500, shall be deposited in the hands of the London
bankers, N. B. & Co. You can draw it in half-yearly
instalments in advance. It is paid you from
one cause and on one condition. The cause is
this: You are said to have conducted yourself thus
far with rectitude and honour, and to be not unworthy
a better fate than the dishonour which you inherit,
and which, luckily for your peace, blackens
only on your forehead without festering in your
heart. The condition of this annuity is as follows:
You are never to seek to ascertain your real name

and family. The first step you take with such a
view will occasion the withdrawal of the sum; and
your appropriation of it will be considered a pledge
to that effect. Perhaps your pride may not readily
accept a support under such circumstances. One
who, however, has a right to command; who has
educated you, and suffered for you, requests it. It
will be continued for your life. It will then cease.
Should you marry, it will be withheld. It is also
desirable that you should pass the greater part of
your time abroad. The strictest obedience will be
exacted in respect to any search after your family;
and you may the less reluctantly comply with this
request, since, if you discovered all, you would only
discover wretchedness, crime, and dishonour. May
you be more happy and more virtuous than the
wretches from whom you drew your being!'

“You will not be surprised that I can write this
communication from memory. I have read it over
so often; I have examined and weighed every word
with such careful scrutiny, and repeated it so frequently
to myself, that it is engraven on my mind,
and I have exhausted all the conjectures to which
it can give rise. Who are my parents? Am I the
offspring of some unhappy mother, who writes this
document, and who, perhaps, as a penance, denies
herself the sight of the being whom she has brought
into the world? or is it from the pen of a father,
who has been betrayed by the object of his confidence?
Is my family noble or low? From some
intimations, I almost infer that they are outcasts
from the laws of society, and have taken this method
of saving me from the odium and fatality of being
known to be their offspring. Perhaps they are robbers,
perhaps murderers. Perhaps the money I
spend is the tribute wrung from society at the hazard
of life and soul. These conjectures, and a thousand
others, cross me.

“Thus adrift upon the world, I have, as you may
imagine, never had much temptation to marry. I
have even never had the wish, till now. And, to
cap the climax of the events with which fortune
clouds my life, who do you think is the person who
has first made me feel a weakness which I have so
often derided? One as far above my reach as a
queen; one in a dazzling sphere of rank; surrounded
by haughty friends, who would deem me a
lunatic for thinking of her, and who actually throw
me in her way with a stray carelessness, from the
very impossibility, as they suppose, of my ever having
the hardihood to regard her with warmer feelings
than respect. She is, moreover, affianced to
another; she has accepted him, and she loves him.
Her father himself told me so. He is our countryman,
Lord Elkington, whom you have probably
heard of, though I never did before. Do not suspect
me of the baseness of seeking to win this happy
girl's affections. No; I linger near her from a deep
fascination, of which I am heartily ashamed, and
which I shall by-and-by break through, leaving her
for ever, but bearing with me an impression which
will hereafter close my heart to all other women.
I linger near her, also, because I am welcomed by
the family with a kindness for which I know not
how to account. I have endeavoured to withdraw
from their hospitality, but could not without exciting
attention and awakening inquiry. Not only do they
oppose no obstacle to my being frequently in her
society, but it seems sometimes as if they took pains
to bring us together. Had she been but the poor
daughter of some husband-hunting mamma, and I
a rich noble, I might find here something more than
accident. But, alas! I see this perfect freedom arises
from the very antithesis of a design to entrap.
It is my insignificance; the distance between my
position and hers, which exempts me from all guards
and suspicion.”