―89―

For the Literary Magazine.

memoirs of carwin the bi-
loquist.

continued.

MEANWHILE, in a point of so
much moment, I was not hasty to
determine. My delay seemed to be,
by no means, unacceptable to Lud-
loe, who applauded my discretion,
and warned me to be circumspect.
My attention was chiefly absorb-
ed by considerations connected with
this subject, and little regard was
paid to any foreign occupation or
amusement.

One evening, after a day spent in
my closet, I sought recreation by
walking forth. My mind was chiefly
occupied by the review of incidents
which happened in Spain. I turned
my face towards the fields, and re-
covered not from my reverie, till I
had proceeded some miles on the
road to Meath. The night had con-
siderably advanced, and the dark-
ness was rendered intense, by the

―90―

setting of the moon. Being some-
what weary, as well as undeter-
mined in what manner next to pro-
ceed, I seated myself on a grassy
bank beside the road. The spot
which I had chosen was aloof from
passengers, and shrowded in the
deepest obscurity.

Some time elapsed, when my at-
tention was excited by the slow ap-
proach of an equipage. I presently
discovered a coach and six horses,
but unattended, except by coachman
and postillion, and with no light to
guide them on their way. Scarcely
had they passed the spot where I
rested, when some one leaped from
beneath the hedge, and seized the
head of the fore-horses. Another
called upon the coachman to stop,
and threatened him with instant
death if he disobeyed. A third drew
open the coach-door, and ordered
those within to deliver their purses.
A shriek of terror showed me that
a lady was within, who eagerly con-
sented to preserve her life by the
loss of her money.

To walk unarmed in the neigh-
bourhood of Dublin, especially at
night, has always been accounted
dangerous. I had about me the usual
instruments of defence. I was de-
sirous of rescuing this person from
the danger which surrounded her,
but was somewhat at a loss how to
affect my purpose. My single
strength was insufficient to contend
with three ruffians. After a mo-
ment's debate, an expedient was
suggested, which I hastened to exe-
cute.

Time had not been allowed for
the ruffian who stood beside the car-
riage to receive the plunder, when
several voices, loud, clamorous, and
eager, were heard in the quarter
whence the traveller had come. By
trampling with quickness, it was
easy to imitate the sound of many
feet. The robbers were alarmed,
and one called upon another to at-
tend. The sounds increased, and,
at the next moment, they betook
themselves to flight, but not till a
pistol was discharged. Whether it
was aimed at the lady in the car-

riage, or at the coachman, I was
not permitted to discover, for the
report affrighted the horses, and
they set off at full speed.

I could not hope to overtake them:
I knew not whither the robbers had
fled, and whether, by proceeding, I
might not fall into their hands…..
These considerations induced me to
resume my feet, and retire from the
scene as expeditiously as possible.
I regained my own habitation with-
out injury.

I have said that I occupied sepa-
rate apartments from those of Lud-
loe. To these there were means of
access without disturbing the family.
I hasted to my chamber, but was
considerably surprized to find, on
entering my apartment, Ludloe seat-
ed at a table, with a lamp before
him.

My momentary confusion was
greater than his. On discovering
who it was, he assumed his accus-
tomed looks, and explained appear-
ances, by saying, that he wished to
converse with me on a subject of
importance, and had therefore sought
me at this secret hour, in my own
chamber. Contrary to his expec-
tation, I was absent. Conceiving it
possible that I might shortly return,
he had waited till now. He took
no further notice of my absence, nor
manifested any desire to know the
cause of it, but proceeded to men-
tion the subject which had brought
him hither. These were his words.

You have nothing which the laws
permit you to call your own. Justice
entitles you to the supply of your
physical wants, from those who are
able to supply them; but there are
few who will acknowledge your
claim, or spare an atom of their
superfluity to appease your cravings.
That which they will not spontane-
ously give, it is not right to wrest
from them by violence. What then
is to be done?

Property is necessary to your own
subsistence. It is useful, by enabling
you to supply the wants of others.
To give food, and clothing, and shel-
ter, is to give life, to annihilate
temptation, to unshackle virtue, and

―91―

propagate felicity. How shall pro-
perty be gained?

You may set your understanding
or your hands at work. You may
weave stockings, or write poems,
and exchange them for money; but
these are tardy and meagre schemes.
The means are disproportioned to
the end, and I will not suffer you to
pursue them. My justice will sup-
ply your wants.

But dependence on the justice of
others is a precarious condition. To
be the object is a less ennobling state
than to be the bestower of benefit.
Doubtless you desire to be vested
with competence and riches, and to
hold them by virtue of the law, and
not at the will of a benefactor…...He
paused as if waiting for my assent
to his positions. I readily expressed
my concurrence, and my desire to
pursue any means compatible with
honesty. He resumed.

There are various means, besides
labour, violence, or fraud. It is
right to select the easiest within
your reach. It happens that the
easiest is at hand. A revenue of
some thousands a year, a stately
mansion in the city, and another in
Kildare, old and faithful domestics,
and magnificent furniture, are good
things. Will you have them?

A gift like that, replied I, will be
attended by momentous conditions.
I cannot decide upon its value, until
I know these conditions.

The sole condition is your consent
to receive them. Not even the airy
obligation of gratitude will be creat-
ed by acceptance. On the contrary,
by accepting them, you will confer
the highest benefit upon another.

I do not comprehend you. Some-
thing surely must be given in return.

Nothing. It may seem strange
that, in accepting the absolute con-
troul of so much property, you sub-
ject yourself to no conditions; that
no claims of gratitude or service will
accrue; but the wonder is greater
still. The law equitably enough fet-
ters the gift with no restraints, with
respect to you that receive it; but
not so with regard to the unhappy
being who bestows it. That being

must part, not only with property
but liberty. In accepting the pro-
perty, you must consent to enjoy the
services of the present possessor.
They cannot be disjoined.

Of the true nature and extent of
the gift, you should be fully apprized.
Be aware, therefore, that, together
with this property, you will receive
absolute power over the liberty and
person of the being who now pos-
sesses it. That being must become
your domestic slave; be governed,
in every particular, by your caprice.

Happily for you, though fully in-
vested with this power, the degree
and mode in which it will be exer-
cised will depend upon yourself…..
You may either totally forbear the
exercise, or employ it only for the
benefit of your slave. However in-
jurious, therefore, this authority may
be to the subject of it, it will, in some
sense, only enhance the value of the
gift to you.

The attachment and obedience of
this being will be chiefly evident in
one thing. Its duty will consist in
conforming, in every instance, to
your will. All the powers of this
being are to be devoted to your hap-
piness; but there is one relation be-
tween you, which enables you to
confer, while exacting, pleasure…..
This relation is sexual. Your slave
is a woman; and the bond, which
transfers her property and person
to you, is….marriage.

My knowledge of Ludloe, his prin-
ciples, and reasoning, ought to have
precluded that surprise which I ex-
perienced at the conclusion of his
discourse. I knew that he regarded
the present institution of marriage
as a contract of servitude, and the
terms of it unequal and unjust.
When my surprise had subsided,
my thoughts turned upon the nature
of his scheme. After a pause of re-
flection, I answered:

Both law and custom have con-
nected obligations with marriage,
which, though heaviest on the fe-
male, are not light upon the male.
Their weight and extent are not
immutable and uniform; they are
modified by various incidents, and

―92―

especially by the mental and perso-
nal qualities of the lady.

I am not sure that I should wil-
lingly accept the property and per-
son of a woman decrepit with age,
and enslaved by perverse habits and
evil passions: whereas youth, beau-
ty, and tenderness would be worth
accepting, even for their own sake,
and disconnected with fortune.

As to altar vows, I believe they
will not make me swerve from
equity. I shall exact neither ser-
vice nor affection from my spouse.
The value of these, and, indeed, not
only the value, but the very exist-
ence, of the latter depends upon its
spontaneity. A promise to love tends
rather to loosen than strengthen the
tie.

As to myself, the age of illusion
is past. I shall not wed, till I find
one whose moral and physical con-
stitution will make personal fidelity
easy. I shall judge without misti-
ness or passion, and habit will come
in aid of an enlightened and delibe-
rate choice.

I shall not be fastidious in my
choice. I do not expect, and scarcely
desire, much intellectual similitude
between me and my wife. Our opi-
nions and pursuits cannot be in com-
mon. While women are formed by
their education, and their education
continues in its present state, tender
hearts and misguided understand-
ings are all that we can hope to
meet with.

What are the character, age, and
person of the woman to whom you
allude? and what prospect of suc-
cess would attend my exertions to
obtain her favour?

I have told you she is rich. She
is a widow, and owes her riches to
the liberality of her husband, who
was a trader of great opulence, and
who died while on a mercantile ad-
venture to Spain. He was not un-
known to you. Your letters from
Spain often spoke of him. In short,
she is the widow of Bennington,
whom you met at Barcelona. She
is still in the prime of life; is not
without many feminine attractions;
has an ardent and credulent temper;

and is particularly given to devotion.
This temper it would be easy to re-
gulate according to your pleasure
and your interest, and I now submit
to you the expediency of an alliance
with her.

I am a kinsman, and regarded by
her with uncommon deference; and
my commendations, therefore, will
be of great service to you, and shall
be given.

I will deal ingenuously with you.
It is proper you should be fully ac-
quainted with the grounds of this
proposal. The benefits of rank, and
property, and independence, which
I have already mentioned as
likely to accrue to you from this
marriage, are solid and valuable be-
nefits; but these are not the sole ad-
vantages, and to benefit you, in these
respects, is not my whole view.

No. My treatment of you hence-
forth will be regulated by one prin-
ciple. I regard you only as one un-
dergoing a probation or apprentice-
ship; as subjected to trials of your
sincerity and fortitude. The mar-
riage I now propose to you is desir-
able, because it will make you inde-
pendent of me. Your poverty might
create an unsuitable bias in favour
of proposals, one of whose effects
would be to set you beyond fortune's
reach. That bias will cease, when
you cease to be poor and dependent.

Love is the strongest of all human
delusions. That fortitude, which is
not subdued by the tenderness and
blandishments of woman, may be
trusted; but no fortitude, which has
not undergone that test, will be
trusted by us.

This woman is a charming enthu-
siast. She will never marry but him
whom she passionately loves. Her
power over the heart that loves her
will scarcely have limits. The
means of prying into your transac-
tions, of suspecting and sifting your
thoughts, which her constant society
with you, while sleeping and wak-
ing, her zeal and watchfulness for
your welfare, and her curiosity, ad-
roitness, and penetration will afford
her, are evident. Your danger, there-
fore, will be imminent. Your forti-

―93―

tude will be obliged to have re-
course, not to flight, but to vigilance.
Your eye must never close.

Alas! what human magnanimity
can stand this test! How can I
persuade myself that you will not
fail? I waver between hope and
fear. Many, it is true, have fallen,
and dragged with them the author
of their ruin, but some have soared
above even these perils and tempta-
tions, with their fiery energies un-
impaired, and great has been, as
great ought to be, their recompense.

But you are doubtless aware of
your danger. I need not repeat the
consequences of betraying your trust,
the rigor of those who will judge
your fault, the unerring and un-
bounded scrutiny to which your ac-
tions, the most secret and indifferent,
will be subjected.

Your conduct, however, will be
voluntary. At your own option be
it, to see or not to see this woman.
Circumspection, deliberation, fore-
thought, are your sacred duties and
highest interest.

To be continued.