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!”