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LETTER III.

CLANRICKARD TO INCHIQUIN.

Dated at London.

Dear Brother,

WE received a few days ago, by an accidental conveyance through Holland, your letter from Liège, announcing your intended departure for America, whither I now address myself, as I take it for granted you must have arrived before this time. Your sister received the intelligence with considerable uneasiness, as you know she always had a dread of the climate in that unwholesome country. I regretted it for that, and for other reasons, which I will take this occasion to impart in the most unreserved manner; as I am sure, however we may differ in opinion, we can exchange sentiments without offence. It was your misfortune, at least I think so, to have been brought up at St. Omer's, where you imbibed prepossessions uncongenial with the habits and course of life, to which from your birth and fortune you were destined. You will do me the justice to admit that I never did approve of your attachment to the jesuits, and to a single life. Pardon my frankness; but it is

time I should be explicit. Had you never left Ireland until your ideas received a permanent cast, I am now fully persuaded that we should both have avoided those rocks, on which your fortunes were dashed to pieces, and from which mine had so narrow an escape. Be that however as it may, the question at present is not to remedy the past, but from its lessons to learn to provide for the future. It has always been matter of poignant regret with your family, that, whatever were your persecutions, you should seek refuge among the natural, and at this time the declared and cruel enemies of your country; among a people soiled with every crime as a nation, and of the utmost depravity as individuals. Mr. Burke's prophecies have been so dreadfully realized, and at the same time it has pleased an allwise Providence to vouchsafe such incredible success to their inhuman designs, that it truly may be said that sacrilege, massacre and perfidy, pile up "the sombre pyramids of their renown." All the iniquities in history are transcended by the vices and degradation of the modern French; not in their revolutionary excesses, which were popular ebullitions, capable, perhaps, of some extenuation, and of which I own that in common with many others, who are now smarting under their effects, I caught the sanguinary contagion. But their disregard of every religious and moral obligation, their abject submission to the most remorseless despot, at whose footstool an enslaved people ever crouched, above all, their insidious and barbarian persecution of Great Britain, a magnanimous and invulnerable foe, must render their

character so hateful in the eyes of all civilized mankind, that I hold it one of a Briton's most sacred duties to loathe a Frenchman; and I cannot reflect without shame and horror, that any person so near and dear to me as you are, by the ties of blood, connection and friendship, should be a willing participator of their dangers and depravity. This is strong language; but you must bear with me. What se

curity have you, my dear Inchiquin, that the monsters, who compose the police, may not at any moment tear you from your bed, and plunge you in a dungeon, or transport you to some remote and destructive latitude? Depend upon it, a foreigner must always be a mark of suspicion. I cannot at this distance think, without an involuntary shudder, of the Temple, the Wood of Vincennes, and the many other places appropriated to human immolation. How can you be certain that the next conscription, breaking through any immunities in which you may imagine yourself entrenched, may not drag you in chains like a malefactor to the frontier, and expose you to an ignominious death? for such it certainly would be to fall in the cause of France. These are portentous, and you may think idle bodings. But I urge them with the more zeal, because, while you resided on the continent, I feared to expose you by venturing an appeal, which, if discovered, (and the French post-offices have no regard for the sanctity of a private correspondence) might have not only defeated its own purpose, but betrayed you at once into the power of the police. Does not your late act indeed attest the probability of the results I depre

cate? Why else have you left France, where at least you might enjoy those social recreations to which you are accustomed, to wander in the wilds of America, where you must relinquish every such enjoy. ment? Your letter is silent respecting the motives for your voyage, which has set us adrift on an ocean of anxious conjectures. I presume it is political; for though your resources must be narrow, I do not suppose you can have launched into any mercantile speculations, with a view to retrieving them. But why have you gone at all? My last advices, if they ever reached you, gave you reason to expect that, upon showing a proper contrition, government may hereafter permit you to return to this, the only remaining asylum of tranquillity and happiness. It is now conceded, that you were not guilty of the crimes charged against you; and though it is too late to retrieve the ruin in which we were all involved, a disposition is entertained to forgive transgressions that flowed rather from youth and enthusiasm, than the judgment. But the first, and an indispensable step, is the abandonment of the French and their dominions. Nor will your voyage to the American states be an acceptable proceeding, unless, as I sometimes flatter myself, it should appear that in consideration of the difficulties attending a direct transit, you have gone there only preparatory to your return to England.

In the meanwhile we have happier tidings to communicate. I do not, you observe, date, as heretofore, from Killmallock. Since my last, every restraint has been removed from our persons, and I

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have succeeded, through the influence of Lord Moira, in obtaining a place in the Customs, which yields about 1001. a year: a miserable pittance, to be sure, compared with the affluence we fell from, but still a great amelioration of our condition for the last five years. Upon receiving the appointment, I repaired immediately to London, without even taking Dublin in my way, and entered with alacrity upon the duties of a place, which formerly I should have considered with much contempt. It requires, indeed, my most assiduous attention; and when I reflect on what I was born to, all the philosophy I have learned is requisite to enable me to dwell with composure on a reverse imposed upon me and my innocent family by an accusation so wicked and unjust. As long as we were under any sort of confinement, a principle of resistance suppressed the emotions of despair. But now that there is no longer any pressure to create such a reaction, the firstlings of misfortune prove extremely bitter, We are, however, tranquil, at least, if not contented, I have taken and furnished, in the homeliest style, a small house in Shugg Lane, where your sister has lately lain in with our fifth daughter, two of whom (I may almost thank God!) have been removed from this world of mourning. The expense of living is enormous, especially to us, who have all our economy to learn; and no one, who has not been in a similar situation, can conceive the infinite petty impositions and exactions of which we are the prey. The air of London, or perhaps it is of this confined part of it, does not agree with Jane. But she bears the inconveniences

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