_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 worth
Can 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.