_Anna Wenbourne St. Ives to Louisa Clifton_
_Paris, Hotel de l'Université_
Your brother has this moment left me. Our conversation has been
animated; and, as usual, I sit down to commit what has passed to paper,
while it is fresh on my memory.
He began with the warmest expressions of the force of his passion. I
have no reason to doubt of their sincerity; and, if affection can be
productive of the end which I hope, its strength ought to give me
pleasure. He would scarcely suffer me to suppose it possible there
could be any cause of difference between us: let me but name my
conditions and they should be fulfilled. He would undertake all that I
did, all that I could require; and it was with difficulty that I could
persuade him of the possibility of promising too fast. This introduced
what was most material in our dialogue.
My heart assures me, madam, said he, that I never gave you the least
cause to suspect the sincerity and ardour of my passion: and I should
hope that the fears, which I have sometimes thought you too readily
entertained, are now dissipated.
My fears are chiefly for, or rather of, myself. I doubt whether any
person has so high an opinion of the powers and energy of your mind as
I have: but I think those powers ill directed, and in danger of being
lost.
I own, madam, I have been sometimes grieved, nay piqued, to perceive
that you do not always think quite so well of me as I could wish.
You wrong me. You yourself do not think so highly of yourself as I do.
Yet you suppose me to be in danger?
Of being misled. Some of my opinions and principles, or some of yours,
are erroneous, for they differ; I cannot at this moment but perceive
how liable I am to be misunderstood. I cannot be insensible of the
awkwardness of the situation in which I now place myself. My age, my
sex, the customs of the world, a thousand circumstances contribute to
cast an air of ridicule upon what ought to be very serious. But I must
persist. Do you endeavour to forget these circumstances; and consider
only the words, not the girl by whom they are spoken.
It is not you, madam, but I who ought to dread appearing ridiculous.
But for your sake--Let me but obtain your favour, and make me as
ridiculous as you please.
I told you so!--Should the lordly lettered man submit to have his
principles questioned, by an untutored woman? Be sincere: your mind
revolts at it?