_Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard_
_London, Grosvenor-Street_
It is an intolerably strange thing, Oliver, that a man cannot perform
the mere necessary duties of humanity, without being supposed almost a
prodigy. Where is the common sense, I will not say delicacy, which
should teach people that such suppositions are an insult, not only to
the person but to all mankind? I am young, I grant, and know but little
of the barbarity which it is pretended is universal. I cannot think the
accusation true. Or, if it be, I am convinced it must be the result of
some strange perversion of what may be called the natural propensities
of man. I own I have seen children wrangle for and endeavour to
purloin, or seize by force, each others apples and cherries; and this
may be a beginning to future rapacity. But I know the obvious course of
nature would be to correct, instead of to confirm, such mistakes. I
know too that there are individual instances of cruelty, and
insensibility. But these surely are the exceptions, and not the rule.
I visited a man whose vices, that is whose errors and passions were so
violent as to be dangerous to society, and still more dangerous to
himself. Was it not my duty? I thought myself certain of convincing him
of his folly, and of bringing back a lost individual to the paths of
utility and good sense. What should I have been, had I neglected such
an opportunity? I have really no patience to think that a thing, which
it would have been a crime to have left undone, should possibly be
supposed a work of supererogation!
I saw an industrious rising family on the brink of ruin, and in the
agonies of despair, which were the consequences of an act of virtue;
and I was not selfish enough to prefer my own whims, which I might
choose to call pleasures, to the preservation of this worthy, this
really excellent little family. And for this I am to be adored! For no
word is strong enough to express the fooleries that have been acted to
me. They were well meant? True. They were the ebullitions of virtue? I
do not deny it. But either they are an unjust satire upon the world in
general, or it is a vile world. I half suspect, indeed, it is not quite
what it ought to be.
In addition to all this, I have been obliged to receive a sum equal to
that which I thought it my duty to bestow. This is the second time; and
perhaps thou wilt tell me I am not difficult to persuade. Read the
following dialogue, which passed between me and the most angelic of
Heaven's creatures, and judge for thyself. She is really a prodigy! I
never knew another mind of such uncommon powers! So clear, so
collected, so certain of choosing the side of truth, and so secure of
victory!
I am an ass! I am talking Arabic to thee. I ought to have begun with
informing thee of a circumstance which is in itself odd enough. The
highwayman and Peggy. [Pshaw! The woman whose husband was arrested.]
They are not only brother and sister, but the nephew and niece of Mrs.
Clarke. Think of that, Oliver! The nephew of so worthy a woman so
audaciously wicked! Well might the distressed Peggy express anger which
I could perceive was heartfelt, though she herself at that time knew
not of this act. But to my dialogue. Listen to the voice of my charmer,
and say whether she charm not wisely!
You have made a generous and a noble use, Frank, of the small sum which
you were so very unwilling to accept. [She treats me with the most
winning familiarity! What does she mean? Is it purposely to shew me how
much she is at her ease with me; and how impossible it is that any
thing but civility should exist between us? Or is it truly as kind as
it seems? Can it be? Who can say? Is it out of nature? Wholly? Surely,
surely not. These bursting gleams of hope beget suspense more
intolerable than all the blackness of despair itself.]
I acted naturally, madam; and I confess it gives me some pain to find
it the subject of so much wonder.
It is no subject of wonder to me. Your inferiors in understanding I
know would not act like you; but the weak do not give law to the
strong. I own that I have been dull enough, unjust enough, not to
suspect your true motive for refusing, as you have done lately, to
accompany us to public places. But this is a heavy penalty on you which
an act of virtue ought not to incur.
If it be a penalty, madam, I am sure it is one which you have too much
generosity to wish to deprive me of the pleasure of paying.
I understand your hint: but I am not so generous as you think me; for I
am determined, and you know what a positive girl I am, to share both
the penalty and the enjoyment with you.