Chapter XIX: Appendix: Reflections on Seduction (1)

Seduction, in the various baneful consequences hence arising to society and its moral disposition, is so intimately connected with the scope of my present general inquiries, that I cannot forbear to give a brief sketch of some of its most obvious evils, though a full description of the character would far exceed the limits of my present purpose; and to describe the pernicious consequences of that crime in all its baseness of effect would, I candidly confess, require abilities far superior to mine.

The British Constitution, and the salutary statutes made for the protection of life and property, have for many ages, one delights to contemplate, become deservedly the boast of every true-born Englishman: under the benignant influence of their mild atmosphere, the most extensive field has been opened for the cultivation of all those virtues that aggrandize a state, or can render private life amiable; and the combined powers of both, have united to excite the admiration and call forth the envy of surrounding nations.

The politician and the moralist behold with equal pleasure the glorious era, which a few years since successfully crowned our efforts to break the detested chain that tyranny had forged for the general enslavement of the world. The lover of science and the patient investigator of nature’s hidden laws, in other countries, must acknowledge with mingled feelings of pleasure and regret, that in no climate under heaven does genius flourish as in Britain; and under the influence of this impression, and in quest of knowledge, they are travelling daily from every corner of the globe to our favoured shores.

While, however, we exultingly contemplate our advancement, and that distinguished eminence we have risen to in the scale of kingdoms, shall we inertly fail to examine if some wheel or new power might not yet be added, that would tend to the improvement and perfection of the vast machine? In the multiplicity of legislative measures prudently enacted by our forefathers for the defence of our property, and the protection of liberty both civil and religious, is it not surprising that they should have thought it unnecessary to pass some law to guard, and some barrier to fence around, that greatest and most interesting of national glories, the chastity of our daughters? To me, I confess, this oversight, as it seems to be, is utterly unaccountable.

Let any dispassionate and well regulated mind take into active consideration the injury arising from the commission of those crimes which the statutes denominate petit and grand larceny, or even felony, with the overwhelming misery into which thousands of amiable and industrious families are plunged by the destructive seducer, and conscientiously declare which of them he thinks most pernicious to the peace and general interests of society; or which of those abhorred characters he would least dread to suffer from himself:—whether he would rather be deprived of part of his property, or have a lovely daughter, the pride of his life, ruined and debauched. Let us suppose a case as every day it too unhappily occurs in real life.

The miserable father of a family, worn down by misfortune, poverty and ill health, has to look upon a virtuous wife, and an interesting group of innocent children, whom his utmost industry cannot save from the merciless pressure of squalid rags worse than nakedness, and starvation worse than death. He beholds them pining away without a friendly hand near that will supply a morsel of bread, or even administer the imaginary relief of consoling pity: their reiterated cry for food pierces his agonized heart, and in feelings bordering on distraction he rushes forth to procure for them a temporary respite from the grave, determined to seize the first eatable that falls in his way: perhaps he breaks into a neighbour’s field, whence he carries off a sheep, or a pig, to protract the immediate destruction of his perishing family. For this, on detection, the laws of his country may sentence him to death, or at best the timely mercy of his gracious Sovereign may remit the punishment to transportation.

On the other hand, mark the seducer. Destitute of the principles of religion and humanity, he may wantonly, and with relentless soul, destroy the happiness and peace of a whole family, in basely undermining the virtue of an innocent and valued daughter, the flattering, brightest hope of their life,—the prop of their age, and on whose talents or industry the whole family were perhaps then immediately depending for bread. Insidiously and cautiously has the infamous attack been carried on; and if foiled in his first cruel attempt, her faith must be shaken, and her understanding perverted by specious arguments, wicked sophistry, and the deadly poison of irreligion, before she can be led by imperceptible degrees into guilt, misery, and certain present perdition, whatever fears may belong to the hereafter. What punishment can be found for the miscreant who thus deliberately and maliciously poisons the heart’s blood of unoffending innocence? Why, in nine cases out of ten, none at all! Humanity stands abashed.—Justice answers not.—Pity, in surprise and indignation, exclaims, Can it be?—In England too?—Can it, alas! be true?

Cold-blooded monster! with refined cruelty he often selects his intended victim from that station where fortune has denied not only the luxuries but the necessaries of life; and where the want of those comforts can only be compensated and rendered tolerable in heaven’s choicest blessing, a virtuous and contented mind. The abandoned sensualist knows but too well the poor man’s inability to vindicate in a court of law the violated purity of his once innocent and happy daughter. But what redress could he obtain even were he opulent? An action can only be brought against him who has unmercifully shut out every ray of future joy, for the mere loss of his child’s personal services, quaintly denominated “_per quod servitium amisit_;” and at best recover but a paltry adjudication in money for that which is above all price:—a sorry remuneration, truly, for such a loss! It is in fact a cruel mockery of justice, and the triumph of crime.

Contrast the narrow and grovelling spirit that seems to characterize this most miserably defective principle of legal justice, with that noble independence and manly defence which dictated MAGNA CHARTA and the BILL OF RIGHTS! It is far from my intention to cast the slightest shade on the memory of our ancestors, many of whom thought no price too great for liberty, often indeed purchased even with their own blood, that they might bequeath it to posterity unsullied and unfettered, the legitimate birthright and glory of their future sons. But where our forefathers have done so much for us, shall we not, in kindred spirit, attempt to do something for ourselves, or for our children? Shall we suffer the seducer to walk forth in open day, or at the midnight hour, to carry devastation into every cottage, and to ravage with impunity the sacred sanctuaries of virtue? Forbid it justice,—forbid it humanity,—forbid it Heaven!

I cannot believe that one father in a thousand has ever turned his mind to the contemplation of the direful effects on society, of indulgence in this ferocious and unlawful passion; or the general voice of mankind would have been raised to hunt from their abodes the hellish tiger in human form: the hand of power, too, would surely have been lifted up to shield the innocent from his fell assault. Might not the seducer, in strict justice, be classed in malice prepense and principle with the most sanguinary murderer? On comparison, it is my firm conviction that the former is the author of more pain and misery to the great family of mankind.

In the sketch of such a character my labour might be in some degree facilitated by a short account of one who, a very few years since, figured very conspicuously in the gay world; and presuming, therefore, on the idea, I venture to insert it. Would to God! that the miseries I shall have to unfold existed only in imagination; but, alas! fancy will have no place in the working of the dark picture.

The detail was written by the gentleman himself, principally during a twelvemonth’s confinement from a wound received in a duel. Of this he ultimately died; but not before the hideous forms of vice and crime had been exposed to his terrified view in all their naked deformity. At the time this melancholy scene took place I was in India; and on my return a packet containing his journal, and an elegant copy of the Bible, which I had many years before advised him to peruse, was put into my hand by a friend of his. This bequest, with the following letter, was marked for me by his own hand a few days before his dissolution:

“——, May 15th, 1816.

“However widely, my much valued friend, the theory and practice of
our lives may have differed, I flatter myself that at this moment
our sentiments are the same. That there is a just God, I never
once doubted; and that he is merciful, and willing to pardon the
sins of the penitent, it is now my interest firmly to believe. My
career is nearly finished—I have languished long, and been very
miserable; for, until within a few months, I never dared encourage
a hope of pardon from Heaven; and although my mind is become more
tranquil, I still fear that I am a great way from salvation,
though I feel I am but a step from the grave. I can now see that
your reasons for avoiding me were just, but I think they were
cruel. Great God! What have I been—what am I to be? Gracious
Heaven! If the very little you knew of me could make you avoid me,
what will you think after reading my journal? I have often
intended to burn it—I wish you would do so: yet, it may be useful
in warning some fellow-creature of the damnation which the labours
of my life had industriously prepared. If you think so, dispose of
it as you like.—My false shame is all gone. I care not now who
knows my wickedness. But should you ever make it public—oh! spare
my family—my beloved, wretched mother:—happy for us both had I
never been born. I wish you were now with me; but, it was my
misfortune through life never to have a friend—and I neglected Him
who in death would not have forsaken me.

“I leave this, together with the journal of my perdition, and
the blessed book you so long ago recommended, in the care of L.
G., who promises to deliver them to you. Have I fallen so low in
your estimation that you exclude me entirely from calling you
friend? Alas! I never had a friend. My proud heart could never
sue for any man’s pity; but I beseech you not do deny me yours.
O pray for me.—May your life be as happy as mine has been
miserable.—Adieu,—Adieu!

“—— F——.”

The only regret I feel in giving these interesting memoirs to the public is the fear, indeed almost the painful certainty, that the wounds of his respectable family may thus be made to bleed afresh, in the recollection of his errors. I persuade myself, however, that they will acquit me of any unworthy motive, much less wanton desire to inflict unnecessary pain: rather a thousand times would I pour into their afflicted bosoms the healing balm of friendly sympathy and pity; and whilst I pursue the dismal narrative, my own heart will remain no stranger to the feelings of sorrow due to the fate of my unfortunate hopeless friend.

Before I proceed to any extract from this curious biography, it may not be out of place just to glance at his early life and education.

F—— was the only child of a country gentleman of large fortune, and ancient family, still more distinguished for morality and virtue. At the early age of five years, this youth gave extraordinary proofs of mental energy, having in the short space of four days committed to memory one hundred and five verses of the New Testament, which he used to repeat to his father without a single mistake. With increasing years his genius expanded, and evinced a readiness and power of conception clearly reflecting talents of the first order. It was natural for parents to be proud of such a child, and to determine that his education should be fitted to his capacity. A tutor was accordingly provided, well qualified for the important task, who discharged the duty with honour and fidelity.

At fourteen, having read the whole of the classics, he was already qualified for entering the university, and made considerable progress in mathematics, logic, history, and painting. Being considered too young for college, a year was suffered to elapse, during which he was instructed in music, dancing, and fencing, and also became acquainted with French. In every thing he undertook, the utmost expectation was realized. Thus unusually accomplished, he went to college, and remained there five years; during which period his industry appears not to have relaxed; his avidity for knowledge, on the contrary, increased until he had drunk deeply of every source of information and knowledge.

On his return home he applied himself with such diligence to the cultivation of science, particularly chemistry and astronomy, that his health became impaired, whole nights being spent in a little observatory that had been constructed under his own direction.

That his mind should have all the polish it was capable of receiving, his father wished him to travel; to which, as in every thing else, he at once implicitly yielded. The short peace of Amiens furnished an opportunity for gratifying this wish, which they were the more anxious to see carried into effect, as an elderly gentleman of great scientific and literary attainments, about to proceed to Paris, offered the advantages of his experience and protection.

Dazzled with the lustre which accompanies the high-sounding term “philosopher,” the parents never inquired into the religious sentiments of the man whom they had chosen as the companion of their highly-gifted son: this sad inadvertence, in the issue proved his ruin. The religious principles, in truth, of this man, if religious principles he could be said to have, hung so very loosely about him, that he might be said to live in a sort of practical atheism: every action of his life evinced his belief that there could be no God, nor Governor of the universe; openly abjuring all dependence on that great Being by whose goodness and mercy alone he was permitted to exist.

The first lesson he endeavoured to impress on the generous mind of his pupil, was the non-existence of any omniscient eye to observe, or any omnipotent arm to punish; and that, as life was short, wisdom chiefly consisted in filling it up with as much pleasure as possible. Here it must be acknowledged he was treading upon tender ground; for though religion is by far the most important part of education, in the present case it had been the only one that had been neglected, and here alone could the assault have been made with any hope of success.

Introductory letters and other necessary documents being procured, the travellers commenced their journey. They were amongst the first from England who arrived in Paris, where their introductions, together with that politeness for which the French people have ever been remarked, and the unbounded festivity which always attends cessation of hostilities between contending nations, ensured them a reception not less hospitable than distinguished. Endowed with uncommon talents that gave an irresistible charm to their conversation, the society of both was courted; and neither of them showed much reluctance to drink deep at the voluptuous spring, which too often contaminates the morals of the unreflecting and gay in all countries, and by which the higher ranks of the French have been found to be particularly corrupted.

The accomplishments and agreeable qualities of the reputed philosopher made the pupil at first look up to him as an oracle; but, often staggered by his openly avowed sentiments of infidelity, he could not immediately reconcile that philosophy which destroys all distinctions between right and wrong: for, although his religious education had been so little attended to, still that little furnished many stumbling-blocks, which for a long time could not be got over; and he could not easily be brought to think that debauching the wife, or seducing the daughter, of a friend or benefactor, were not crimes. In maintaining these opinions, his arguments were often troublesome and embarrassing to the learned sceptic, who would either artfully evade the question, or decline the argument by some dogmatical assertion, which, if it did not convince, at least always silenced his young opponent.

Encircled by temptation in every form of allurement, seduced by pleasure the most bewitching, and blinded by passions at all times strong, but now more highly still inflamed by the sophistry and example of his vile associate, he, in a fatal moment of precipitate impulse, destroyed the peace of one who had treated him with the tenderness of a son, committing, it must with pain be confessed, the most deadly injury that human friendship can suffer, or hellish wickedness inflict—the violation of the marriage bed.

Thus was the noble faculty of reason disgracefully sacrificed on the polluted altar of sensuality. In a few hours, however, reflection returned, and conscience began to resume her empire, and remorse to sting his soul. He would have made the only reparation in his power by a speedy retreat; for he could not, as he declared, again look on the friend whom he had so injured, without the danger of annihilation. His own words are forcibly expressive:

“The sense of this crime,” he says, “was twisted round my heart like a serpent of hell, and the recollection still freezes my soul. The enormity of my guilt was magnified by the unexampled hospitality and friendship I experienced from them both. Their confidence was unlimited, and I repaid it with base ingratitude. For weeks afterwards an idea haunted me, that the first time the husband’s eye met mine, the wrath of God would consume me from the face of the earth. I would have fled from the fatal spot, as from a devouring pestilence; but I foolishly allowed myself to be overruled by W., who has been the murderer of every soul that had the misfortune to fall in his way. This is not the language of invective, nor do I think it uncharitable, for his crimes are of so deep a dye as to put all power of exaggeration at defiance. Most men endeavour to frame some excuse for their errors, but even this negative virtue W. never arrived at: he had no other motive for his villainy, than the malignant pleasure of seeing misery widely diffused.”

Upwards of a month had elapsed before this execrable old monster W. could give up a pursuit almost as infamous, though not quite so destructive in its effects, as that which scaled the debasement of his pupil, and the amiable family in which they had both been entertained for nearly three months. Several circumstances had occurred to render any longer stay in Paris exceedingly irksome, and he prudently suggested to his pupil the propriety of visiting Bourdeaux, whither they retired somewhat abruptly.

On their arrival in that city, they found that letters of introduction, which they expected from England, had not arrived: this they thought would occasion no great inconvenience, as W. was quite at home here, having formerly spent some years amongst the learned and the dissolute, to whom he now repaired: but, to his disappointment, some of them were dead, and many of the rest dispersed in various parts of the world. The travellers were therefore obliged to seek that accommodation at a hotel, which ill-requited hospitality had so readily afforded them in Paris.

The innkeeper had a young niece of interesting appearance, who was on the eve of being married to a man whom she tenderly loved. Returning from the house of God, where she had been attending divine worship, and where she had received the holy sacrament, the unsuspecting girl in a luckless moment fell under the basilisk glance of this veteran in iniquity, who immediately destined her for destruction. Flushed with the greatness of his project, _so worthy of a philosopher_, he hastened to his less hardened companion, and unfolded the grand scheme with as much self-exultation as if he had discovered a new planet. The generous mind of his pupil, once noble and pure, was not yet sufficiently corrupted to hear the diabolical disclosure without indignation. He declared that the vengeance of a guilty conscience still rankled in his heart; for, although he had used every effort to stifle or dispel the painful remembrance of his crimes in Paris, he was tormented continually. He applied the golden rule of “doing to others as he would that others should do unto him,” which for the present put an end to the discussion.

Meanwhile the expected letters from England had arrived, which procured them admission into the higher walks of life, and apparently diverted their attention from meaner objects: but this was not the case. W. was inflexibly bent on robbing the innocent girl of what could not enrich him, yet would leave her “_poor indeed_.” An unforeseen accident favoured his purpose. The intended husband was taken dangerously ill; and W., who had studied medicine not only as an amusement but also as an accomplishment, was induced, by motives of pure humanity of course, to give his opinion in consultation with other physicians. He used often to call at the Inn to console the weeping bride elect, and by enumerating the favourable changes in her lover’s complaint he succeeded in securing to himself her friendship and gratitude. Sleepless nights and anxiety of mind brought on an affection of the eyes, for which, in a friendly way, he gave her a prescription, and most kindly offered his further services. She got better; but her general health declined, and he recommended her removal to some convenient cottage in the outskirts of the city, where she might have the benefit of country air, and the society of her friends.

This was the master-stroke of his plot. The proud virtue of his pupil was now greatly subdued; but, to fit him for his infernal purpose with double certainty, W. engaged him in a party of pleasure, from which he took care he should not return sober, and, after inflaming his lustful passions, introduced him to the chamber of his unconscious victim. Thus was accomplished the ruin of a virtuous girl prepared for destruction by the _medicinal_ agency of this broker in turpitude.

During the perpetration of this outrage, the unhappy sufferer was in a state of total insensibility; but when the effects of the drugs that had been given to her began to subside, and returning day exposed her situation, in the arms of a man whom she had never before seen, her heart died within her. The involuntary instrument of her undoing endeavoured to restore her; but his efforts proving ineffectual, he dispatched a messenger for W., who on his arrival administered some stimulus, and carried his pupil to a _cock-fight_. They both returned in the evening, for the purpose, it would appear, of repeating the scene of the former night. They found the wretched girl recovered from her swoon, it is true; but they also found that her reason had forsaken the polluted tenement: a state of the most deplorable idiocy had supervened!

Here the journal is abruptly broken off, and in no part of it is the infamous W. again mentioned, except in a note on a slip of paper written in red ink and affixed with wafers to the last leaf, which may best, perhaps, be inserted here.

“The conduct of W., from the unfortunate day I quitted England with him, was such as I could not have expected from a fiend of hell. His breath was contagious, and he never opened his mouth but to wither and consume.”

How soon after this base transaction the travellers separated, I have no means of ascertaining; but it is certain they did not leave Bourdeaux together; for, about three weeks afterwards, W. returned to England, and his unfortunate pupil embarked for Marseilles, where he arrived with satisfaction after a short voyage. His time at this place appears to have been spent more rationally and usefully than it had hitherto been in France. His remarks on the state of literature and science, together with the “empty-headed, would-be philosophers,” as he terms them, of Marseilles, are strikingly demonstrative of the force of his mind when directed to any worthy pursuit. After a stay of about three weeks, (he is seldom minute in dates,) he embarked for Toulon, where he staid ten days, and made a drawing of the harbour and fortifications, unobserved by any of the officers or soldiers by whom he was always attended.

An English ship about to sail for Naples accommodated him with a passage, for which, he observes, the Master would not accept of any recompense. His own words are significantly expressive on this occasion: “This rude but worthy son of Neptune possessed the inestimable treasure of a truly honest English heart; insensible of personal danger even to hardihood, but feelingly alive to another’s woe; often bestowing a generous tear, the tribute of his manly heart, on affliction’s monument. In the breast of this unlettered man there was moral virtue enough to outweigh all I ever met in France put together.”

His voyage to Naples was tedious, and fraught with disaster. He says, “We had a fine view of Genoa and Leghorn, the weather being beautifully fine; the sky serene and cloudless, water perfectly smooth, and scarcely any wind. The prospect at midnight was inexpressibly sublime. The majesty of the moon slowly emerging from the deep, its diameter to appearance immensely increased; the peculiar brilliancy of the stars, together with awful flashes of lightning, and meteors shooting in every direction, exhibited a scene exquisitely grand.” The day following he has this remark, “The face of nature is changed, and the hand of God is now stretched out to punish my guilt.”

His fears of an approaching storm must have been unfounded; for the next day he gives an animated description of the appearance of Genoa, and the people who crowded to the beach to see the ship as she passed slowly within a league of the shore. The calms and westerly currents, which for many months in the year prevail on that coast, prevented them from making any progress for some days longer, when a storm visited them in reality. His fearful conscience represents every adversity as the finger of Providence pointed against him.

On the 9th day after leaving Toulon he says, “My evil destiny still pursues me. The enchanting beauty in which nature smiled so lately, is now changed to the alarming appearance of offended Heaven. Lowering clouds gathering from every point threaten an awful crisis to both fear and hope.

“The wind increasing to a hurricane, drives the ship with impetuosity irresistible; and the dreadful heaving of the sea, as the watery mountains recede from their convulsed pursuers, leaves a tremendous chasm resembling the abrupt valleys interposed between highest alpine summits, which speedily meeting in all the agitation of confused conflict portend immediate destruction.

“The mariners, dismayed, can no longer exert themselves for the safety of the crazy vessel; a wave has just broken over her and washed away two of them, who, but a moment before, were blaspheming the sacred name of their Maker. Alas! alas! who dares stand in his dread presence!

“An awful crash, accompanied by faint cries ‘She is sinking’, has just reached my ear, and thundered on my soul. O God! how badly prepared!—A few minutes explained the disaster. A body of electric fluid struck the foremast, and shattered it into pieces, at the same moment depriving one of the sailors of life, and bruising two others most deplorably. The flash of lightning was so painfully vivid as to deprive most of us of vision for several seconds: but, to a man stationed on the bowsprit to look out ahead, it disclosed an object quite appalling—a rock towards which the ship was driving with fatal rapidity. A frantic shriek communicated the terrific fact.

“Despair seized on every heart, for the helm had ceased to produce its wonted power in directing the ship’s course. The Master, mistaking our situation, could not be persuaded of the danger until another immense sheet of lightning again exposed the dreadful evil. The helm was moved, and endeavours made to turn a remnant of sail which had not been blown away. A ray of hope appeared for a moment to illumine the drooping hearts of the seamen by the cry ‘_She goes off_’, which was eagerly caught and repeated by all.

“The lightning now becoming more vivid and frequent, contrasted with the intense darkness of the night,—the roaring of the wind,—the foamy rushing of the sea,—the noise of the ropes, and the indistinct cries of the despairing mariners, together with reiterated peals of thunder rolling over our heads for an amazing length of time and ending in a tremendous crash, gave existence to the most frightful picture that human imagination is capable of painting, or perhaps that human nature could sustain.

“Fear, when guilt is the cause, is indeed shocking. My apprehensions of danger may magnify the evils by which I am likely soon to be overwhelmed. I have tried to pray, ‘but the Lord laughed at my calamity.’ I have tried to meet death with philosophic composure; but, shaken by the angry voice of an avenging God, and involved in chaos, what sinner can affect to be unmoved?

“Another wave of vast magnitude has broken over the vessel, which I thought had actually sunk her never to rise again;—she was certainly a long while ingulfed, and, as I thought, completely upset. The undaunted Master endeavoured to cheer us with a hope that, in the event of the vessel foundering, our lives might be saved by the boat; but in the last afflicting crush that resource was dashed to atoms, and the mainmast broken in two. The lightning serves to unveil that wretchedness which darkness had so kindly concealed, and the sight is absolutely indescribable:—every thing floating about and dashing in furious confusion. When the lightning bursts upon our view, it appears to rend the heavens, leaving in its stead a wide gaping gulf of boundless and unutterable gloom.

“The long-wished-for day begins at length to appear, and the horrible spectacle it unfolds defies all attempt at description. The fury of the wind is unabated; by its force alone, large bodies of the waves are torn off, and driven over the vessel like frightful cataracts, and in smaller quantities resembling a violent shower of snow, so completely obstructing vision, as to render it impossible to see any object distinctly at two yards distance.

“Towards 9 o’clock, the storm began to abate, and a moment’s pause was given to contemplate the wreck. It was now discovered that when the mainmast broke and fell on the deck, it bruised the intrepid Master to death. The sight of the body of this amiable man will have a place in my recollection for ever. The mast having fallen on his head, shattered the skull, several pieces of which were driven into the deck so firmly that they could not be removed; and several portions of his brain and hair were still sticking to the wood!

“Within a few feet of this fatal spot, the mangled remains of him who had been destroyed by lightning were rolling about by the violent motion of the vessel, and so dreadfully bruised that not a feature of the human being could be traced. His two unfortunate companions, who were struck at the same time, being unable to shift for themselves, were discovered drowned; the right side and thigh of one of them being literally burned to a cinder.”

In the foregoing narrative, the stinging reproaches of a guilty conscience appear to have been keenly felt, as is manfully acknowledged as well as beautifully expressed. I shall not trespass on the reader’s attention with a further detail of the miseries of this shipwreck. By means of a fishing-boat my friend landed at Leghorn, where he suffered from an attack of inflammation of the lungs, which again put his life in danger. Being little satisfied either with his attendant physicians or visitors, he was induced to embark in a small coasting vessel for Naples.

Of his adventures in this gay city the journal makes but scanty mention, though he seems to have entered freely into the dissipation of that enervated and most licentious court, and was twice engaged in duels. After four or five months spent or rather killed in this manner, his golden dreams and extravagancies were interrupted by the arrival of a special messenger with directions from his father to return forthwith; but without assigning any reason for an order so unexpected and peremptory: with the summons, however, he cheerfully complied, and in a few days afterwards embarked for England.

The winds were propitious, and the ship had a speedy passage; but the pleasure he had promised himself in visiting his native shores was greatly alloyed by the infirm state of health in which he found an uncle whom he affectionately esteemed, and by whom he had been adopted in early life. Having no family, this venerable old gentleman had promised from the beginning to make F. his heir, which pledge he was now desirous of redeeming. The regard he bore him was further shown by a desire to see him settled in the world before he himself should leave it.

There lived in the neighbourhood for upwards of forty years an old gentleman of exemplary piety and benevolence, who had two daughters, both highly accomplished. Brought up and educated in their father’s house, the uncle of F. was acquainted with their dispositions and behaviour from infancy, and was therefore well convinced that they both possessed every excellent quality that could contribute to a husband’s happiness, or ensure a blessing on single life.

With one of these it was his ardent wish to have his nephew united, and he candidly communicated to him the affair; but at the same time he assured him, that although this union would greatly tend to smooth his path to the grave, yet would he impose no restraint on his inclination: let his decision be what it might, no change should be made in his will. My friend was deeply penetrated with this noble behaviour of his uncle, and declared that it should be his study to prove himself not undeserving such disinterested friendship; and if, on further acquaintance, he did not find it utterly impossible to bestow his affections on either of the ladies, he would endeavour to make himself agreeable to one of them.

The irregularities which F. had committed abroad had reached the ears of his parents, and given them many hours of sorrow. As their love for him was unbounded, their fears lest his happiness might be shipwrecked amongst the dangerous quicksands of temptation on the one hand, and indulgence in vicious passions on the other, were painfully increased; and they zealously exerted themselves in all their influence to promote the views of his dying uncle.

The behaviour of their son left them no cause now for uneasiness. He had conversed several times with each of the ladies, and declared himself much pleased with them both; but his partiality appeared to predominate in favour of the elder. His friends constantly importuned him to expedite the arrangements necessary for the completion of their happiness: to these entreaties he would answer, that however anxious he felt to identify their wishes with his own happiness, yet while his uncle continued in so doubtful a state, he would not make that darkness which he was persuaded the loss of so good a friend would long fix on his mind, more visible by unseasonably lighting the torch of Hymen. This answer, while it demonstrated his growing attachment for the young lady, and the grateful respect he had for his uncle, was highly pleasing to all parties.

Meanwhile his time was spent either in friendly visits to the young ladies, or in attendance on his uncle, whose health declined so fast that none of his friends any longer entertained a hope, and in a few days he paid the awful debt of nature. On this occasion F. was a sincere mourner: indeed his grief was often extravagant. To divert his mind, and to dispel that darkness which he himself had predicted, a journey to London was recommended, which he consented to with some reluctance.

Under the influence of grief, that elasticity of mind and naturally complaisant manner for which he was ever distinguished, entirely forsook him. Irritable, petulant, dissatisfied with himself and every thing around him, he suddenly left the country without giving any notice to his parents, or to her whom it was thought his own voluntary choice had determined to be the partner of his joys and sorrows.

Three weeks had already elapsed, and all inquiries to discover his retreat proved unsuccessful. At length he addressed a letter to his mother, in which was inclosed another to his bride-elect, informing them of his being in London, and in somewhat better health and spirits than when he left the country; and offering some apology for his conduct. Both his letters were answered by the ladies, and each had questions to ask, which in their turn they requested to have answered: but a fortnight was suffered to pass before he could find time or inclination to reply; and when he did, his letters were evasive and unsatisfactory.

His father wrote to him and urged the performance of the promise he had made to his uncle, which he assured him was registered in heaven, and was in effect a solemn oath: he finally enjoined him to return to the country. But his condition was considerably altered since his father’s last mandate reached him at Naples; the estate left him by his uncle was more than sufficient to meet the wants of prodigality.

No longer dependent on his father’s bounty, which heretofore had been liberal even to profusion, he now ventured to treat him with less ceremony, and determined to remain in town. His father’s health had long been imperceptibly declining; and this act of unseasonable and unaccountable ingratitude affected him greatly, under the conviction that self interest, devoid of affection, had hitherto directed the obedience which had been manifested by his son.

The mind of F. had now shaken off all the gloom and sadness occasioned by his uncle’s death. He had corresponded very regularly for some months with the young lady to whom it was expected he would soon be united, and his letters of late were soothing and affectionate. She received one from him, stating that the death of a friend in Ireland would make his presence there indispensable; that he would return in three weeks or a month at most, and then “he hoped she would crown all his wishes, and make him happy.”

It is truly painful to contemplate the deep villainy this letter was intended to conceal. Instead of visiting Ireland, as mentioned in his letter, he allured an unthinking creature, “not quite fourteen,” the daughter of a respectable tradesman in London, to accompany him to Scotland, under a solemn promise that he would marry her there. He had calculated that three weeks would be sufficient to glut his savage appetite, when the credulous victim of his passion was to be disposed of to any of his brutal companions, or in any other way that he could most conveniently get rid of her.

When he disclosed his real purpose, she fell into a state that occasioned him some apprehension. She fainted away, but of this he thought little; and, having profited by experience, he was able to act the part which the infamous W. had performed for him in Bourdeaux: accordingly stimulants were speedily procured and administered. On recovering, he tried to cajole her, but his sophistry effected nothing. Frantic with disappointment, and goaded by despair, her fury became ungovernable, which he allowed to rage uncontrolled; tritely remarking, Whatever is violent cannot last long. He was not in this mistaken, for she fell senseless at his feet, and blood foamed from her mouth.

It was now deemed prudent to call in a professed practitioner, who on his arrival pronounced her dying from the rupture of a large blood-vessel of the lungs. This intelligence startled F. not a little. His humanity was not entirely dead; besides, he was by no means ambitious of being thought her murderer. He inquired eagerly whether any thing could be done; to which he was answered in the negative.

In this state of alarm he evinced more presence of mind as well as sound therapeutical knowledge than the regular practitioner; for, the medical man having given her over, F. begged of him to open a vein as a _dernier ressource_, which it appears the other never thought of, as the only means by which her life could be prolonged. Finding that the cure would be tedious, or rather that she was likely to linger long, he placed her in lodgings, and provided a more intelligent medical attendant. He was prevailed on by her tears and entreaties to remain with her six weeks, which was double the time he had at first proposed.

Arriving at his lodgings in town, he received intelligence he had not at all expected, and which he was ill prepared to bear. The very day he left London a messenger arrived to inform him, that his father was dying, and desired his immediate attendance. The servants had been instructed to inform all inquirers that their master had gone to Ireland. Day after day messengers arrived, and still the same answer was given. His afflicted mother, suspecting some cheat, determined to travel to London herself, to awaken the slumbering soul of her undutiful son: to her also the same answer was returned; nor could she obtain any hint or clue that might enable her to discover his retreat; she was convinced, however, that he had not gone to Ireland. Although fatigued and almost exhausted by the journey, she could not be persuaded to take any refreshments in town, but hastened back to console her dying husband.

Uncertain what part of Scotland he should visit, and what stay he might make at each place, he had directed his confidential servant not to send any letters after him. A large packet had accumulated in his absence, which the servant put into his hand at the time he communicated the above unwelcome intelligence. Glancing over the letters, his attention was arrested by one in deep mourning, in the hand-writing of his mother; he guessed the rest. It contained an account of his father’s death; but shuddering at the apprehension of its contents, he could not muster resolution sufficient to break the seal.

His carriage was still at the door,—he threw himself in, and ordered the coachman to drive to the country; but the horses were fatigued, and fresh ones must be procured. To fill up the awful interval occasioned by this delay, he again looked over the packet of letters, and found three from his affianced bride. He opened and read one, which was filled with sweet murmurs and gentle upbraidings for his increased delay; the other was to the same effect; but the third was serious and important. It informed him of the death of her father, who, she said, “expired in an instant, without a moment’s warning.”

This news he declared thrust into his bosom like a dagger; and, to make his cup of misery overflow, the certainty of his own father’s death, with the reproaches of his last breath which he expected, only were wanting: his mother’s letter would have removed all doubt on this subject, and no man was more impatient of suspense, yet he durst not venture on the perusal; every time he took it up his heart misgave him, and his soul seemed to die away.

In this most awful uncertainty, with the letter in his hand, he continued till he arrived at his father’s gate. From a servant who came to open the carriage he learned the fatal tidings, that his father had been buried several days, and that his mother was now exceedingly ill. This was too much for endurance,—the dreaded letter fell from his paralysed hand, and he sunk down overwhelmed by racking remorse. The servants conveyed him to his chamber, where he lay some hours in a state of stupor, which was succeeded by a fever, or some disease that entirely deprived him of sense for upwards of three weeks. The journal, however, was discontinued for as many months.

The following is the first paragraph written after his recovery. “My dear mother and the angelic E. visited me this morning, and neither of them upbraided me! Their forgiveness and pity were in effect refined cruelty. I was prepared to hear their keenest reproach,—but their kindness took me by surprise, and wounded me to the soul. My mother wished to amuse me and attempted to be gay, while tears insensibly rolled down her cheeks. She said I must now look upon E. as my own, for her father had bequeathed her to me, and appointed me sole executor of his will. She was going to say something of a last wish of my father’s, when she fainted away.

“Miserable, infatuated wretch that I am! not all the guilty pleasures of a thousand years could compensate for the torture my soul endured at that moment.—Sainted father! methinks I hear thee in the clouds thundering thy abhorrence of my ungrateful and impious neglect, and threatening me with the vengeance of indignant Heaven. With what crimes am I not debased?—Innocence murdered—human happiness wantonly sacrificed in every spot I could meet with it—my family dishonoured and my life defiled by every species of hellish debauchery—the end of my being perverted—the intention of my Creator defeated by my own monstrous deeds—Alas! alas! I see nothing but an interminable gulf before me—God frowning from above—and the jaws of death and hell extended wide, ready to receive me—and close upon me for ever!”

Who, after reading this soliloquy, would expect to find the author of it again resuming those vicious practices which had occasioned him such intense misery? How humiliating to a proud but virtuous mind is the contemplation of human nature and reason so degraded and debased!

Notwithstanding his remorse and apparent repentance, which there is every reason to believe were sincere at the time, poor unhappy F. had not resolution to relinquish his licentious mode of life; not, he said, that it afforded him any pleasure, but because the presence of virtue confused, and in his own imagination reproached him. The remembrance of earlier days, when his growing accomplishments not only put forth the tender buds of hope, but exhibited fair flowers approaching fast to perfection—the joy of his family, and the admiration of his friends—now withered and decayed, his heart became callous, and he ingloriously yielded to the empire of sin and the slavery of passion without a struggle. Brooding over a thousand evils real and imaginary, his mind assumed the darkest gloom, and gradually sunk into savage melancholy.

Accompanied by his mother, the “angelic E.,” as he used to call that young lady, visited him often, for he had requested her to consider herself his betrothed wife. They tried various methods to engage his mind in some useful or even amusing pursuit, but he could endure nothing that did not present novelty at every instant. The visits of the ladies at length became irksome to him; and determining to rid himself of their importunity, he one morning bade them carelessly farewell, and set out for London.

Here he found that some of his old associates had been obliged, from different causes, to decamp; but some he still found hovering round those infamous sinks of lust and misery to which men of pleasure resort to kill time and escape from themselves: to those pests of society, and those haunts of dissipation, he now attached himself.

The shock he had sustained by his father’s death had greatly impaired his health, and the mode of life he now absurdly made choice of was rapidly destroying his constitution. After several months passed in the senseless bustle, and deeply engaged in the _important nothings_ which occupy so much of a rake’s time, he applied to me with a mind and body both wofully diseased.

I must here beg to obtrude myself, not through any motive of personal vanity, but an anxious desire faithfully to depict the errors that caused the ruin of my once excellent and happy friend. Knowing the expectations he had raised, and the engagements he was under to the lady whom his uncle had recommended, I inquired whether he had made any definitive arrangements: to this he replied, “My engagements with her and every other woman will last while I can feel myself happy in their society, and not an hour longer.” He freely acknowledged, that his mind was made up never to marry, but that he neither could nor would relinquish E. I expostulated with him seriously on the enormity of seducing any virtuous woman; but any injury done to E. would in my opinion be the most heinous crime he could commit, and one which, I was convinced, God would never pardon.

My arguments produced very little effect; for he gravely replied, “I have long been moving in a magic circle, and however full the poisoned cup might have been which the enchantress Pleasure offered, I always drank to the bottom. My soul is dead, and what have I now to fear?” Our acquaintance had been of some standing, and my friendship for him was sincere and disinterested. During the period of his cure I generally conversed with him every day on the cruelty of his design, and the unqualified execration with which the world would load the author of such wanton barbarity; but nothing could turn him from his stern and cruel purpose. “The die,” he said, “is cast;” and more than once did he declare that, should it cost him an eternity of perdition, E. must and should be his on his own terms.

While confined to his house by ill health, he regularly corresponded with the young lady through his mother, both whom it was equally his wish to deceive. His health being restored, he disclosed to me his deep plan for the destruction of E., whose confidence in him was unlimited; and as the assistance of a confidential friend would be indispensable, he now implored my good offices. I assured him that I was very ready to do him any _good_ in my power, and that I would now give a proof of my friendship by laying the whole matter before his mother and E. that very evening; and this pledge I carefully redeemed.

In my letter to his mother, the scheme he had formed to entrap the innocent and confiding E. was fully developed, and they were of course confounded and ashamed at its baseness. His plan was, to invite them both to town, having furnished a house fit for their reception, where, under his own roof, under the protecting eye of his amiable mother, the laws of hospitality, the ties of heaven, and the sacred commands of God, were to be violated and profaned. Unwilling to believe, yet hardly knowing how to doubt my statement, they were consulting what step was most proper to be taken, when they received a letter from F., couched in the most dutiful and affectionate terms, inviting them both to town. This tended to confirm their suspicions, and they decided on inclosing to him my letter, with a request that he would explain its meaning.

On this occasion his self-possession entirely forsook him. He called on me with the letter, and used the most unjustifiable language. Led away by the fury of disappointed passion, he would not listen to reason; his behaviour became indecently insulting, and I determined on withdrawing my friendship, and discontinuing his acquaintance. Almost immediately after this, professional avocations in the service of my country called me out of England, and I lost sight of him for upwards of four years.

The following remarks, which I think were written about the same time, stand in his journal: “Never was meanness equal to mine—never was contempt expressed with more poignant insult. This is the damning consequence of unlawful pleasure.—Pleasure do I call it?—It is pain equal to the severest torture of hell. How intolerably slavish are the galling chains with which sin binds her hopeless victims!”