Anna St. Ives | Page 9

did I feel such raptures as since I have received this fortunate,
this happy wound!--Yet why?--Is not her heart exactly what it was? It
is. I should be an idiot not to perceive it is. Strange contradiction!

Hopeless yet happy!--But it is a felicity of short duration.
Would it were possible for me to accompany her to France! My restless
foreboding imagination has persuaded me she will be in danger the
moment she is from under my protection. Vain fool! Who, what am
I?--Because a couple of dastardly highwaymen have galloped away at
the first report of a pistol, my inflated fancy has been busy in
persuading me that I am her hero!
Yet I wish I might go with her! Tell me, Oliver, wouldst not thou wish
so too? Would not all the world wish the same? Didst thou ever in thy
life behold her without feelings unusual, throbs, doubts, desires, and
fears; wild, incoherent, yet deriving ecstasy from that divinity which
irradiates her form and beams on every object around her?--Do!--Think
me a poor, raving, lovesick blockhead! And yet it is true! All I have
said of her, and infinitely more, is true! Thou nor the world cannot
disprove it! Would I might go with her!
I have seen the fellow with whom I had the rencounter. His wound is
much more severe than mine. Sir Arthur sent information to the office
in Bow Street. Wouldst thou think a highwayman could be so foolish a
coxcomb as to rob in a bright scarlet coat, and to ride a light grey horse?
The bloodhunters [I am sorry that our absurd, our iniquitous laws
oblige me to call them so] the bloodhunters soon discovered the
wounded man. Forty pounds afforded a sufficient impulse. They were
almost ready to quarrel with me, because I did not choose to swear as
heartily as they thought proper to prompt. Thou knowest how I abhor
the taking away the life of man, instead of seeking his reformation.
After persisting that it was impossible for me to identify the person of
the highwayman, as indeed it really was, and luckily prevailing on Sir
Arthur to do the same [though he, like most folks who have any thing
to lose, was convinced it would be an excellent thing if all rogues could
be instantly hanged, like dogs, out of the way] I paid the poor wretch a
visit, privately, and gave him such a lecture as, I should hope, he would
not easily forget. It was not all censure: soothing, reasoning, and
menace were mingled. My greatest effort was to convince him of the
folly of such crimes; he had received some proof of the danger. He was

in great pain, and did not think his life quite secure. He promised
reformation with all the apparent fervour of sincerity, prayed for me,
blessed me very heartily, and praised me for my bravery. He says the
Bow Street runners will leave nothing unattempted to secure the reward,
and take away his life. I have therefore engaged to hire a lodging, and
bring a hackney coach for him myself, at seven in the morning, the
hour least likely for him to be watched or traced. I believe I was more
earnest to prevent harm happening to him than he himself was; for,
having met a man upon the stairs, whose physiognomy, dress and
appearance led me to suspect him, I questioned my penitent, who
owned it was his accomplice; a determined fellow, according to his
account; an Irish gambler, whose daring character led him, after a run
of ill luck, to this desperate resource. It was with some difficulty I
could persuade him the fellow might betray him, and join the Bow
Street people. The gambler, as he says, expects a supply, and has
promised him money. But he has consented to leave his lodging; and I
think I have convinced him of the folly, danger, and guilt of such
connections.
I found he was poor, and, except a few shillings, left him the trifle of
money which I had; endeavouring by every means to restore a lost
wretch to virtue and society. The fellow was not flint. The tears gushed
into his eyes, and I own I came away with hopes that my efforts had not
been wholly ineffectual.
I have written by the first post, that you mayst know what is become of
me. Farewell.
F. HENLEY

LETTER VI
_Louisa Clifton to Anna Wenbourne St. Ives_
Rose Bank I have only time for a single line, but I cannot forbear to tell
you how great the emotions have been which I felt, my dear Anna, at
reading your last. Ten thousand thanks for your history; for so it may
well be called. You have quite filled my