Master Humphrey has been favoured with the following letter written on
strongly-scented paper, and sealed in light-blue wax with the
representation of two very plump doves interchanging beaks. It does not
commence with any of the usual forms of address, but begins as is here
set forth.
Bath, Wednesday night.
Heavens! into what an indiscretion do I suffer myself to be betrayed! To
address these faltering lines to a total stranger, and that stranger one
of a conflicting sex!—and yet I am precipitated into the abyss, and have
no power of self-snatchation (forgive me if I coin that phrase) from the
yawning gulf before me.
Yes, I am writing to a man; but let me not think of that, for madness is
in the thought. You will understand my feelings? O yes, I am sure you
will; and you will respect them too, and not despise them,—will you?
Let me be calm. That portrait,—smiling as once he smiled on me; that
cane,—dangling as I have seen it dangle from his hand I know not how oft;
those legs that have glided through my nightly dreams and never stopped
to speak; the perfectly gentlemanly, though false original,—can I be
mistaken? O no, no.
Let me be calmer yet; I would be calm as coffins. You have published a
letter from one whose likeness is engraved, but whose name (and
wherefore?) is suppressed. Shall _I_ breathe that name! Is it—but why
ask when my heart tells me too truly that it is!
I would not upbraid him with his treachery; I would not remind him of
those times when he plighted the most eloquent of vows, and procured from
me a small pecuniary accommodation; and yet I would see him—see him did I
say—_him_—alas! such is woman’s nature. For as the poet beautifully
says—but you will already have anticipated the sentiment. Is it not
sweet? O yes!
It was in this city (hallowed by the recollection) that I met him first;
and assuredly if mortal happiness be recorded anywhere, then those
rubbers with their three-and-sixpenny points are scored on tablets of
celestial brass. He always held an honour—generally two. On that
eventful night we stood at eight. He raised his eyes (luminous in their
seductive sweetness) to my agitated face. ‘_Can_ you?’ said he, with
peculiar meaning. I felt the gentle pressure of his foot on mine; our
corns throbbed in unison. ‘_Can_ you?’ he said again; and every
lineament of his expressive countenance added the words ‘resist me?’ I
murmured ‘No,’ and fainted.
They said, when I recovered, it was the weather. _I_ said it was the
nutmeg in the negus. How little did they suspect the truth! How little
did they guess the deep mysterious meaning of that inquiry! He called
next morning on his knees; I do not mean to say that he actually came in
that position to the house-door, but that he went down upon those joints
directly the servant had retired. He brought some verses in his hat,
which he said were original, but which I have since found were Milton’s;
likewise a little bottle labelled laudanum; also a pistol and a
sword-stick. He drew the latter, uncorked the former, and clicked the
trigger of the pocket fire-arm. He had come, he said, to conquer or to
die. He did not die. He wrested from me an avowal of my love, and let
off the pistol out of a back window previous to partaking of a slight
repast.
Faithless, inconstant man! How many ages seem to have elapsed since his
unaccountable and perfidious disappearance! Could I still forgive him
both that and the borrowed lucre that he promised to pay next week!
Could I spurn him from my feet if he approached in penitence, and with a
matrimonial object! Would the blandishing enchanter still weave his
spells around me, or should I burst them all and turn away in coldness!
I dare not trust my weakness with the thought.
My brain is in a whirl again. You know his address, his occupations, his
mode of life,—are acquainted, perhaps, with his inmost thoughts. You are
a humane and philanthropic character; reveal all you know—all; but
especially the street and number of his lodgings. The post is departing,
the bellman rings,—pray Heaven it be not the knell of love and hope to