LETTER XVI
MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.FRIDAY, JUNE 16.
I am sorry to hear of thy misfortune; but hope thou wilt not long lie byit. Thy servant tells me what narrow escape thou hadst with thy neck, Iwish it may not be ominous: but I think thou seemest not to be in soenterprising a way as formerly; and yet, merry or sad, thou seest arake's neck is always in danger, if not from the hangman, from his ownhorse. But, 'tis a vicious toad, it seems; and I think thou shouldstnever venture upon his back again; for 'tis a plaguy thing for rider andhorse both to be vicious.
The fellow tells me, thou desirest me to continue to write to thee inorder to divert thy chagrin on thy forced confinement: but how can Ithink it in my power to divert, when my subject is not pleasing tomyself?
Caesar never knew what it was to be hipped, I will call it, till hecame to be what Pompey was; that is to say, till he arrived at theheight of his ambition: nor did thy Lovelace know what it was to begloomy, till he had completed his wishes upon the most charmingcreature in the world.
And yet why say I completed? when the will, the consent, iswanting--and I have still views before me of obtaining that?
Yet I could almost join with thee in the wish, which thou sendest me upby thy servant, unfriendly as it is, that I had had thy misfortunebefore Monday night last: for here, the poor lady has run into acontrary extreme to that I told thee of in my last: for now is she asmuch too lively, as before she was too stupid; and 'bating that she haspretty frequent lucid intervals, would be deemed raving mad, and Ishould be obliged to confine her.
I am most confoundedly disturbed about it: for I begin to fear that herintellects are irreparably hurt.
Who the devil could have expected such strange effects from a cause socommon and so slight?
But these high-souled and high-sensed girls, who had set up for shininglights and examples to the rest of the sex, are with such difficultybrought down to the common standard, that a wise man, who prefers hispeace of mind to his glory, in subduing one of that exalted class,would have nothing to say to them.
I do all in my power to quiet her spirits, when I force myself into herpresence.
I go on, begging pardon one minute; and vowing truth and honour another.
I would at first have persuaded her, and offered to call witnesses tothe truth of it, that we were actually married. Though the license wasin her hands, I thought the assertion might go down in her disorder;and charming consequences I hoped would follow. But this would notdo.--
I therefore gave up that hope: and now I declare to her, that it is myresolution to marry her, the moment her uncle Harlowe informs me thathe will grace the ceremony with his presence.
But she believes nothing I say; nor, (whether in her senses, or not)bears me with patience in her sight.
I pity her with all my soul; and I curse myself, when she is in herwailing fits, and when I apprehend that intellects, so charming, arefor ever damped.
But more I curse these women, who put me upon such an expedient! Lord!Lord! what a hand have I made of it!--And all for what?
Last night, for the first time since Monday night, she got to her penand ink; but she pursues her writing with such eagerness and hurry, asshow too evidently her discomposure.
I hope, however, that this employment will help to calm her spirits.
***
Just now Dorcas tells me, that what she writes she tears, and throwsthe paper in fragments under the table, either as not knowing what shedoes, or disliking it: then gets up, wrings her hands, weeps, andshifts her seat all round the room: then returns to her table, sitsdown, and writes again.
***
One odd letter, as I may call it, Dorcas has this moment given me fromher--Carry this, said she, to the vilest of men. Dorcas, a toad,brought it, without any further direction to me. I sat down, intending(though 'tis pretty long) to give thee a copy of it: but, for my life,I cannot; 'tis so extravagant. And the original is too much anoriginal to let it go out of my hands.
But some of the scraps and fragments, as either torn through, or flungaside, I will copy, for the novelty of the thing, and to show thee howher mind works now she is in the whimsical way. Yet I know I am stillfurnishing thee with new weapons against myself. But spare thy comments.My own reflections render them needless. Dorcas thinks her lady willask for them: so wishes to have them to lay again under the table.
By the first thou'lt guess that I have told her that Miss Howe is veryill, and can't write; that she may account the better for not havingreceived the letter designed for her.
PAPER I(Torn in two pieces.)
MY DEAREST MISS HOWE,
O what dreadful, dreadful things have I to tell you! But yet I cannottell you neither. But say, are you really ill, as a vile, vilecreature informs me you are?
But he never yet told me truth, and I hope has not in this: and yet, ifit were not true, surely I should have heard from you before now!--Butwhat have I to do to upbraid?--You may well be tired of me!--And if youare, I can forgive you; for I am tired of myself: and all my ownrelations were tired of me long before you were.
How good you have always been to me, mine own dear Anna Howe!--But howI ramble!
I sat down to say a great deal--my heart was full--I did not know whatto say first--and thought, and grief, and confusion, and (O my poorhead) I cannot tell what--and thought, and grief and confusion, camecrowding so thick upon me; one would be first; another would be first;all would be first; so I can write nothing at all.--Only that, whateverthey have done to me, I cannot tell; but I am no longer what I was-inany one thing did I say? Yes, but I am; for I am still, and I everwill be,
Your true----
Plague on it! I can write no more of this eloquent nonsense myself;which rather shows a raised, than a quenched, imagination: but Dorcasshall transcribe the others in separate papers, as written by thewhimsical charmer: and some time hence when all is over, and I canbetter bear to read them, I may ask thee for a sight of them. Preservethem, therefore; for we often look back with pleasure even upon theheaviest griefs, when the cause of them is removed.
PAPER II(Scratch'd through, and thrown under the table.)
--And can you, my dear, honoured Papa, resolve for ever to reprobateyour poor child?--But I am sure you would not, if you knew what she hassuffered since her unhappy--And will nobody plead for your poor sufferinggirl?--No one good body?--Why then, dearest Sir, let it be an act of yourown innate goodness, which I have so much experienced, and so muchabused. I don't presume to think you should receive me--No, indeed!--Myname is--I don't know what my name is!--I never dare to wish to come intoyour family again!--But your heavy curse, my Papa--Yes, I will call youPapa, and help yourself as you can--for you are my own dear Papa, whetheryou will or not--and though I am an unworthy child--yet I am your child--
PAPER III
A Lady took a great fancy to a young lion, or a bear, I forgetwhich--but a bear, or a tiger, I believe it was. It was made her apresent of when a whelp. She fed it with her own hand: she nursed upthe wicked cub with great tenderness; and would play with it withoutfear or apprehension of danger: and it was obedient to all her commands:and its tameness, as she used to boast, increased with its growth; sothat, like a lap-dog, it would follow her all over the house. But mindwhat followed: at last, some how, neglecting to satisfy its hungry maw,or having otherwise disobliged it on some occasion, it resumed itsnature; and on a sudden fell upon her, and tore her in pieces.--And whowas most to blame, I pray? The brute, or the lady? The lady, surely!--For what she did was out of nature, out of character, at least: what itdid was in its own nature.
PAPER IV
How art thou now humbled in the dust, thou proud Clarissa Harlowe!Thou that never steppedst out of thy father's house but to be admired!Who wert wont to turn thine eye, sparkling with healthful life, andself-assurance, to different objects at once as thou passedst, as if(for so thy penetrating sister used to say) to plume thyself upon theexpected applauses of all
that beheld thee! Thou that usedst to go torest satisfied with the adulations paid thee in the past day, and couldstput off every thing but thy vanity!---
PAPER V
Rejoice not now, my Bella, my Sister, my Friend; but pity the humbledcreature, whose foolish heart you used to say you beheld through the thinveil of humility which covered it.
It must have been so! My fall had not else been permitted--
You penetrated my proud heart with the jealousy of an elder sister'ssearching eye.
You knew me better than I knew myself.
Hence your upbraidings and your chidings, when I began to totter.
But forgive now those vain triumphs of my heart.
I thought, poor, proud wretch that I was, that what you said was owing toyour envy.
I thought I could acquit my intention of any such vanity.
I was too secure in the knowledge I thought I had of my own heart.
My supposed advantages became a snare to me.
And what now is the end of all?--
PAPER VI
What now is become of the prospects of a happy life, which once I thoughtopening before me?--Who now shall assist in the solemn preparations? Whonow shall provide the nuptial ornaments, which soften and divert theapprehensions of the fearful virgin? No court now to be paid to mysmiles! No encouraging compliments to inspire thee with hope of laying amind not unworthy of thee under obligation! No elevation now forconscious merit, and applauded purity, to look down from on a prostrateadorer, and an admiring world, and up to pleased and rejoicing parentsand relations!
PAPER VII
Thou pernicious caterpillar, that preyest upon the fair leaf of virginfame, and poisonest those leaves which thou canst not devour!
Thou fell blight, thou eastern blast, thou overspreading mildew, thatdestroyest the early promises of the shining year! that mockest thelaborious toil, and blastest the joyful hopes, of the painful husbandman!
Thou fretting moth, that corruptest the fairest garment!
Thou eating canker-worm, that preyest upon the opening bud, and turnestthe damask-rose into livid yellowness!
If, as religion teaches us, God will judge us, in a great measure, by ourbenevolent or evil actions to one another--O wretch! bethink thee, intime bethink thee, how great must be thy condemnation!
PAPER VIIII
At first, I saw something in your air and person that displeased menot. Your birth and fortunes were no small advantages to you.--Youacted not ignobly by my passionate brother. Every body said you werebrave: every body said you were generous: a brave man, I thought, couldnot be a base man: a generous man, could not, I believed, be ungenerous,where he acknowledged obligation. Thus prepossessed, all the rest thatmy soul loved and wished for in your reformation I hoped!--I knew not,but by report, any flagrant instances of your vileness. You seemedfrank, as well as generous: frankness and generosity ever attracted me:whoever kept up those appearances, I judged of their hearts by my own;and whatever qualities I wished to find in them, I was ready to find;and, when found, I believed them to be natives of the soil.
My fortunes, my rank, my character, I thought a further security. Iwas in none of those respects unworthy of being the niece of Lord M.and of his two noble sisters.--Your vows, your imprecations--But, Oh!you have barbarously and basely conspired against that honour, whichyou ought to have protected: and now you have made me--What is it ofvile that you have not made me?--
Yet, God knows my heart, I had no culpable inclinations!--I honouredvirtue!--I hated vice!--But I knew not, that you were vice itself!
PAPER IX
Had the happiness of any of the poorest outcast in the world, whom Ihad neveer seen, never known, never before heard of, lain as much in mypower, as my happiness did in your's, my benevolent heart would havemade me fly to the succour of such a poor distressed--with what pleasurewould I have raised the dejected head, and comforted the despondingheart!--But who now shall pity the poor wretch, who has increased,instead of diminished, the number of the miserable!
PAPER X
Lead me, where my own thoughts themselves may lose me;Where I may dose out what I've left of life,Forget myself, and that day's guile!----Cruel remembrance!----how shall I appease thee?
[Death only can be dreadful to the bad;*To innocence 'tis like a bugbear dress'dTo frighten children. Pull but off the mask,And he'll appear a friend.]
* Transcriber's note: Portions set off in square brackets [ ] are writtenat angles to the majority of the text, as if squeezed into margins.
----Oh! you have done an actThat blots the face and blush of modesty; Takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love,And makes a blister there!
Then down I laid my head,Down on cold earth, and for a while was dead;And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled! Ah! sottish soul! said I,When back to its cage again I saw it fly; Fool! to resume her broken chain,And row the galley here again! Fool! to that body to return,Where it condemn'd and destin'd is to mourn!
[I could a tale unfold---- Would harrow up thy soul----]
O my Miss Howe! if thou hast friendship, help me,And speak the words of peace to my divided soul, That wars within me,And raises ev'ry sense to my confusion. I'm tott'ring on the brinkOf peace; an thou art all the hold I've left!Assist me----in the pangs of my affliction!
When honour's lost, 'tis a relief to die:Death's but a sure retreat from infamy.
[By swift misfortunes How I am pursu'd!Which on each other Are, like waves, renew'd!]
The farewell, youth, And all the joys that dwellWith youth and life! And life itself, farewell!
For life can never be sincerely blest.Heav'n punishes the bad, and proves the best.
***
After all, Belford, I have just skimmed over these transcriptions ofDorcas: and I see there are method and good sense in some of them, wildas others of them are; and that her memory, which serves her so wellfor these poetical flights, is far from being impaired. And this givesme hope, that she will soon recover her charming intellects--though Ishall be the sufferer by their restoration, I make no doubt.
But, in the letter she wrote to me, there are yet greater extravagancies;and though I said it was too affecting to give thee a copy of it, yet,after I have let thee see the loose papers enclosed, I think I may throwin a transcript of that. Dorcas therefore shall here transcribe it. Icannot. The reading of it affected me ten times more than the severestreproaches of a regular mind could do.
TO MR. LOVELACE
I never intended to write another line to you. I would not see you, if Icould help it--O that I never had!
But tell me, of a truth, is Miss Howe really and truly ill?--Very ill?-And is not her illness poison? And don't you know who gave it to her?
What you, or Mrs. Sinclair, or somebody (I cannot tell who) have done tomy poor head, you best know: but I shall never be what I was. My head isgone. I have wept away all my brain, I believe; for I can weep no more.Indeed I have had my full share; so it is no matter.
But, good now, Lovelace, don't set Mrs. Sinclair upon me again.--I neverdid her any harm. She so affrights me, when I see her!--Ever since--whenwas it? I cannot tell. You can, I suppose. She may be a good woman, asfar as I know. She was the wife of a man of honour--very likely--thoughforced to let lodgings for a livelihood. Poor gentlewoman! Let her knowI pity her: but don't let her come near me again--pray don't!
Yet she may be a very good woman--
What would I say!--I forget what I was going to say.
O Lovelace, you are Satan himself; or he helps you out in every thing;and that's as bad!
But have you really and truly sold yourself to him? And for how long?What duration is your reign to have?
Poor man! The contract will be out: and then what will be your fate!
O Lovelace! if you could be sorry for yourself, I would be sorry too--butwhen all my doors are fast, and nothing but the key-hole o
pen, and thekey of late put into that, to be where you are, in a manner withoutopening any of them--O wretched, wretched Clarissa Harlowe!
For I never will be Lovelace--let my uncle take it as he pleases.
Well, but now I remember what I was going to say--it is for your good--not mine--for nothing can do me good now!--O thou villanous man! thouhated Lovelace!
But Mrs. Sinclair may be a good woman--if you love me--but that you don't--but don't let her bluster up with her worse than mannish airs to meagain! O she is a frightful woman! If she be a woman! She needed notto put on that fearful mask to scare me out of my poor wits. But don'ttell her what I say--I have no hatred to her--it is only fright, andfoolish fear, that's all.--She may not be a bad woman--but neither areall men, any more than all women alike--God forbid they should be likeyou!
Alas! you have killed my head among you--I don't say who did it!--Godforgive you all!--But had it not been better to have put me out of allyour ways at once? You might safely have done it! For nobody wouldrequire me at your hands--no, not a soul--except, indeed, Miss Howe wouldhave said, when she should see you, What, Lovelace, have you done withClarissa Harlowe?--And then you could have given any slight, gay answer--sent her beyond sea; or, she has run away from me, as she did from herparents. And this would have been easily credited; for you know,Lovelace, she that could run away from them, might very well run awayfrom you.
But this is nothing to what I wanted to say. Now I have it.
I have lost it again--This foolish wench comes teasing me--for whatpurpose should I eat? For what end should I wish to live?--I tell thee,Dorcas, I will neither eat nor drink. I cannot be worse than I am.
I will do as you'd have me--good Dorcas, look not upon me so fiercely--but thou canst not look so bad as I have seen somebody look.
Mr. Lovelace, now that I remember what I took pen in hand to say, let mehurry off my thoughts, lest I lose them again--here I am sensible--andyet I am hardly sensible neither--but I know my head is not as it shouldbe, for all that--therefore let me propose one thing to you: it is foryour good--not mine; and this is it:
I must needs be both a trouble and an expense to you. And here my uncleHarlowe, when he knows how I am, will never wish any man to have me: no,not even you, who have been the occasion of it--barbarous and ungrateful!--A less complicated villany cost a Tarquin--but I forget what I wouldsay again--
Then this is it--I never shall be myself again: I have been a very wickedcreature--a vain, proud, poor creature, full of secret pride--which Icarried off under an humble guise, and deceived every body--my sistersays so--and now I am punished--so let me be carried out of this house,and out of your sight; and let me be put into that Bedlam privately,which once I saw: but it was a sad sight to me then! Little as I thoughtwhat I should come to myself!--That is all I would say: this is all Ihave to wish for--then I shall be out of all your ways; and I shall betaken care of; and bread and water without your tormentings, will bedainties: and my straw-bed the easiest I have lain in--for--I cannot tellhow long!
My clothes will sell for what will keep me there, perhaps as long as Ishall live. But, Lovelace, dear Lovelace, I will call you; for you havecost me enough, I'm sure!--don't let me be made a show of, for myfamily's sake; nay, for your own sake, don't do that--for when I know allI have suffered, which yet I do not, and no matter if I never do--I maybe apt to rave against you by name, and tell of all your baseness to apoor humbled creature, that once was as proud as any body--but of what Ican't tell--except of my own folly and vanity--but let that pass--sinceI am punished enough for it--
So, suppose, instead of Bedlam, it were a private mad-house, where nobodycomes!--That will be better a great deal.
But, another thing, Lovelace: don't let them use me cruelly when I amthere--you have used me cruelly enough, you know!--Don't let them use mecruelly; for I will be very tractable; and do as any body would have meto do--except what you would have me do--for that I never will.--Anotherthing, Lovelace: don't let this good woman, I was going to say vilewoman; but don't tell her that--because she won't let you send me to thishappy refuge, perhaps, if she were to know it--
Another thing, Lovelace: and let me have pen, and ink, and paper, allowedme--it will be all my amusement--but they need not send to any body Ishall write to, what I write, because it will but trouble them: andsomebody may do you a mischief, may be--I wish not that any body do anybody a mischief upon my account.
You tell me, that Lady Betty Lawrance, and your cousin Montague, werehere to take leave of me; but that I was asleep, and could not be waked.So you told me at first I was married, you know, and that you were myhusband--Ah! Lovelace! look to what you say.--But let not them, (for theywill sport with my misery,) let not that Lady Betty, let not that MissMontague, whatever the real ones may do; nor Mrs. Sinclair neither, norany of her lodgers, nor her nieces, come to see me in my place--realones, I say; for, Lovelace, I shall find out all your villanies in time--indeed I shall--so put me there as soon as you can--it is for your good--then all will pass for ravings that I can say, as, I doubt no many poorcreatures' exclamations do pass, though there may be too much truth inthem for all that--and you know I began to be mad at Hampstead--so yousaid.--Ah! villanous man! what have you not to answer for!
***
A little interval seems to be lent me. I had begun to look over what Ihave written. It is not fit for any one to see, so far as I have beenable to re-peruse it: but my head will not hold, I doubt, to go throughit all. If therefore I have not already mentioned my earnest desire, letme tell you it is this: that I be sent out of this abominable housewithout delay, and locked up in some private mad-house about this town;for such, it seems, there are; never more to be seen, or to be producedto any body, except in your own vindication, if you should be chargedwith the murder of my person; a much lighter crime than that ofhonour, which the greatest villain on earth has robbed me of. And denyme not this my last request, I beseech you; and one other, and that is,never to let me see you more! This surely may be granted to
The miserably abusedCLARISSA HARLOWE.
***
I will not bear thy heavy preachments, Belford, upon this affectingletter. So, not a word of that sort! The paper, thou'lt see, isblistered with the tears even of the hardened transcriber; which hasmade her ink run here and there.
Mrs. Sinclair is a true heroine, and, I think, shames us all. And she isa woman too! Thou'lt say, the beset things corrupted become the worst.But this is certain, that whatever the sex set their hearts upon, theymake thorough work of it. And hence it is, that a mischief which wouldend in simple robbery among men rogues, becomes murder, if a woman be init.
I know thou wilt blame me for having had recourse to art. But do notphysicians prescribe opiates in acute cases, where the violence of thedisorder would be apt to throw the patient into a fever or delirium? Iaver, that my motive for this expedient was mercy; nor could it be anything else. For a rape, thou knowest, to us rakes, is far from being anundesirable thing. Nothing but the law stands in our way, upon thataccount; and the opinion of what a modest woman will suffer rather thanbecome a viva voce accuser, lessens much an honest fellow's apprehensionson that score. Then, if these somnivolencies [I hate the word opiates onthis occasion,] have turned her head, that is an effect they frequentlyhave upon some constitutions; and in this case was rather the fault ofthe dose than the design of the giver.
But is not wine itself an opiate in degree?--How many women have beentaken advantage of by wine, and other still more intoxicating viands?--Let me tell thee, Jack, that the experience of many of the passive sex,and the consciences of many more of the active, appealed to, will testifythat thy Lovelace is not the worst of villains. Nor would I have theeput me upon clearing myself by comparisons.
If she escape a settled delirium when my plots unravel, I think it is allI ought to be concerned about. What therefore I desire of thee, is,that, if two constructions may be made of my actions, thou wilt afford methe most favourab
le. For this, not only friendship, but my owningenuousness, which has furnished thee with the knowledge of the factsagainst which thou art so ready to inveigh, require of thee.
***
Will. is just returned from an errand to Hampstead; and acquaints me,that Mrs. Townsend was yesterday at Mrs. Moore's, accompanied by three orfour rough fellows; a greater number (as supposed) at a distance. Shewas strangely surprised at the news that my spouse and I are entirelyreconciled; and that two fine ladies, my relations, came to visit her,and went to town with her: where she is very happy with me. She was surewe were not married, she said, unless it was while we were at Hampstead:and they were sure the ceremony was not performed there. But that thelady is happy and easy, is unquestionable: and a fling was thrown out byMrs. Moore and Mrs. Bevis at mischief-makers, as they knew Mrs. Townsendto be acquainted with Miss Howe.
Now, since my fair-one can neither receive, nor send away letters, I ampretty easy as to this Mrs. Townsend and her employer. And I fancy MissHowe will be puzzled to know what to think of the matter, and afraid ofsending by Wilson's conveyance; and perhaps suppose that her friendslights her; or has changed her mind in my favour, and is ashamed to ownit; as she has not had an answer to what she wrote; and will believe thatthe rustic delivered her last letter into her own hand.
Mean time I have a little project come into my head, of a new kind; justfor amusement-sake, that's all: variety has irresistible charms. Icannot live without intrigue. My charmer has no passions; that is tosay, none of the passions that I want her to have. She engages all myreverence. I am at present more inclined to regret what I have done,than to proceed to new offences: and shall regret it till I see how shetakes it when recovered.
Shall I tell thee my project? 'Tis not a high one.--'Tis this--to gethither to Mrs. Moore, Miss Rawlins, and my widow Bevis; for they aredesirous to make a visit to my spouse, now we are so happy together.And, if I can order it right, Belton, Mowbray, Tourville, and I, willshow them a little more of the ways of this wicked town, than they atpresent know. Why should they be acquainted with a man of my character,and not be the better and wiser for it?--I would have every body railagainst rakes with judgment and knowledge, if they will rail. Two ofthese women gave me a great deal of trouble: and the third, I amconfident, will forgive a merry evening.
Thou wilt be curious to know what the persons of these women are, to whomI intend so much distinction. I think I have not heretofore mentionedany thing characteristic of their persons.
Mrs. Moore is a widow of about thirty-eight; a little mortified bymisfortunes; but those are often the merriest folks, when warmed. Shehas good features still; and is what they call much of a gentlewoman, andvery neat in her person and dress. She has given over, I believe, allthoughts of our sex: but when the dying embers are raked up about thehalf-consumed stump, there will be fuel enough left, I dare say, to blazeout, and give a comfortable warmth to a half-starved by-stander.
Mrs. Bevis is comely; that is to say, plump; a lover of mirth, and onewhom no grief ever dwelt with, I dare say, for a week together; abouttwenty-five years of age: Mowbray will have very little difficulty withher, I believe; for one cannot do every thing one's self. And yetsometimes women of this free cast, when it comes to the point, answer notthe promises their cheerful forwardness gives a man who has a view uponthem.
Miss Rawlins is an agreeable young lady enough; but not beautiful. Shehas sense, and would be thought to know the world, as it is called; but,for her knowledge, is more indebted to theory than experience. A merewhipt-syllabub knowledge this, Jack, that always fails the person whotrusts to it, when it should hold to do her service. For such youngladies have so much dependence upon their own understanding and wariness,are so much above the cautions that the less opinionative may bebenefited by, that their presumption is generally their overthrow, whenattempted by a man of experience, who knows how to flatter their vanity,and to magnify their wisdom, in order to take advantage of their folly.But, for Miss Rawlins, if I can add experience to her theory, what anaccomplished person will she be!--And how much will she be obliged to me;and not only she, but all those who may be the better for the preceptsshe thinks herself already so well qualified to give! Dearly, Jack, doI love to engage with these precept-givers, and example-setters.
Now, Belford, although there is nothing striking in any of thesecharacters; yet may we, at a pinch, make a good frolicky half-day withthem, if, after we have softened their wax at table by encouragingviands, we can set our women and them into dancing: dancing, which allwomen love, and all men should therefore promote, for both their sakes.
And thus, when Tourville sings, Belton fiddles, Mowbray makes rough love,and I smooth; and thou, Jack, wilt be by that time well enough to join inthe chorus; the devil's in't if we don't mould them into what shape weplease--our own women, by their laughing freedoms, encouraging them tobreak through all their customary reserves. For women to women, thouknowest, are great darers and incentives: not one of them loving to beoutdone or outdared, when their hearts are thoroughly warmed.
I know, at first, the difficulty will be the accidental absence of mydear Mrs. Lovelace, to whom principally they will design their visit: butif we can exhilarate them, they won't then wish to see her; and I canform twenty accidents and excuses, from one hour to another, for herabsence, till each shall have a subject to take up all her thoughts.
I am really sick at heart for a frolic, and have no doubt but this willbe an agreeable one. These women already think me a wild fellow; nor dothey like me the less for it, as I can perceive; and I shall take care,that they shall be treated with so much freedom before one another'sfaces, that in policy they shall keep each other's counsel. And won'tthis be doing a kind thing by them? since it will knit an indissolubleband of union and friendship between three women who are neighbours, andat present have only common obligations to one another: for thou wantestnot to be told, that secrets of love, and secrets of this nature, aregenerally the strongest cement of female friendships.
But, after all, if my beloved should be happily restored to herintellects, we may have scenes arise between us that will be sufficientlybusy to employ all the faculties of thy friend, without looking out fornew occasions. Already, as I have often observed, has she been the meansof saving scores of her sex, yet without her own knowledge.
SATURDAY NIGHT.
By Dorcas's account of her lady's behaviour, the dear creature seems tobe recovering. I shall give the earliest notice of this to the worthyCapt. Tomlinson, that he may apprize uncle John of it. I must beproperly enabled, from that quarter, to pacify her, or, at least, torebate her first violence.