answer to the surprise in your former, my dear, that he has never
engaged my affections, as well as to the cautionary kind hints in your
two last, for so I understand them, let me say that, had I imagined
love to be that unconquerable fatality of which I have been speaking, I
do not know what might have happened: but, having been early convinced
that a union between him and me must be attended with I know not what
scenes of wretchedness, in short, knowing the thing in a certain sense
to be impossible, it has always been so considered by me, and therefore
I have no reason to think myself in any danger. Doubts occasionally
rise in my mind, but in general soon disappear. Should they return I
will not conceal them.

I remember it was a remark of yours that 'Admiration is the mother of
love.' So it is, of love such as I bear to my Louisa; and of such
perhaps as angels might be supposed to bear to angels. I admire Frank
Henley, greatly, ardently admire him; yet I certainly do not love: that
is, I certainly do not permit myself to feel any of those anxieties,
alarms, hopes, fears, perturbations, and endearments, which we are told
are inseparable from that passion. I extinguish, I suffocate them in
their birth.

I am called for: Adieu, my ever dear Louisa.

A. W. ST. IVES




LETTER IX