MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
TUESDAY, JUNE 6.
Unsuccessful as hitherto my application to you has been, I cannot for the
heart of me forbear writing once more in behalf of this admirable woman:
and yet am unable to account for the zeal which impels me to take her
part with an earnestness so sincere.
But all her merit thou acknowledgest; all thy own vileness thou
confessest, and even gloriest in it: What hope then of moving so hardened
a man?--Yet, as it is not too late, and thou art nevertheless upon the
crisis, I am resolved to try what another letter will do. It is but my
writing in vain, if it do no good; and if thou wilt let me prevail, I
knowthou wilt hereafter think me richly entitled to thy thanks.
To argue with thee would be folly. The case cannot require it. I will
only entreat thee, therefore, that thou wilt not let such an excellence
lose the reward of her vigilant virtue.
I believe there never were libertines so vile, but purposed, at some
future period of their lives, to set about reforming: and let me beg of
thee, that thou wilt, in this great article, make thy future repentance
as easy, as some time hence thou wilt wish thou hadst made it.
If thou proceedest, I have no doubt that this affair will end tragically,
one way or another. It must. Such a woman must interest both gods and
men in her cause. But what I most apprehend is, that with her own hand,
in resentment of the perpetrated outrage, she (like another Lucretia)
will assert the purity of her heart: or, if her piety preserve her from
this violence, that wasting grief will soon put a period to her days.
And, in either case, will not the remembrance of thy ever-during guilt,
and transitory triumph, be a torment of torments to thee?
'Tis a seriously sad thing, after all, that so fine a creature should
have fallen into such vile and remorseless hands: for, from thy cradle,
as I have heard thee own, thou ever delightedst to sport with and torment
the animal, whether bird or beast, that thou lovedst, and hadst a power
over.
How different is the case of this fine woman from that of any other whom
thou hast seduced!--I need not mention to thee, nor insist upon the
striking difference: justice, gratitude, thy interest, thy vows, all
engaging thee; and thou certainly loving her, as far as thou art capable
of love, above all her sex. She not to be drawn aside by art, or to be
made to suffer from credulity, nor for want of wit and discernment, (that
will be another cutting reflection to so fine a mind as her's:) the
contention between you only unequal, as it is between naked innocence and
armed guilt. In every thing else, as thou ownest, her talents greatly
superior to thine!--What a fate will her's be, if thou art not at last
overcome by thy reiterated remorses!
At first, indeed, when I was admitted into her presence,* (and till I
observed her meaning air, and heard her speak,) I supposed that she had
no very uncommon judgment to boast of: for I made, as I thought, but just
allowances for her blossoming youth, and for that loveliness of person,
and for that ease and elegance in her dress, which I imagined must have
taken up half her time and study to cultivate; and yet I had been
prepared by thee to entertain a very high opinion of her sense and her
reading. Her choice of this gay fellow, upon such hazardous terms,
(thought I,) is a confirmation that her wit wants that maturity which
only years and experience can give it. Her knowledge (argued I to
myself) must be all theory; and the complaisance ever consorting with an
age so green and so gay, will make so inexperienced a lady at least
forbear to show herself disgusted at freedoms of discourse in which those
present of her own sex, and some of ours, (so learned, so well read, and
so travelled,) allow themselves.
* See Vol. IV. Letter VII.
In this presumption I ran on; and having the advantage, as I conceited,
of all the company but you, and being desirous to appear in her eyes a
mighty clever fellow, I thought I showed away, when I said any foolish
things that had more sound than sense in them; and when I made silly
jests, which attracted the smiles of thy Sinclair, and the specious
Partington: and that Miss Harlowe did not smile too, I thought was owing
to her youth or affectation, or to a mixture of both, perhaps to a
greater command of her features.--Little dreamt I, that I was incurring
her contempt all the time.
But when, as I said, I heard her speak, which she did not till she had
fathomed us all; when I heard her sentiments on two or three subjects,
and took notice of the searching eye, darting into the very inmost cells
of our frothy brains; by my faith, it made me look about me; and I began
to recollect, and be ashamed of all I had said before; in short, was
resolved to sit silent, till every one had talked round, to keep my folly
in countenance. And then I raised the subjects that she could join in,
and which she did join in, so much to the confusion and surprise of every
one of us!--For even thou, Lovelace, so noted for smart wit, repartee,
and a vein of raillery, that delighteth all who come near thee, sattest
in palpable darkness, and lookedst about thee, as well as we.
One instance only of this shall I remind thee of.
We talked of wit, and of it, and aimed at it, bandying it like a ball
from one to another, and resting it chiefly with thee, who wert always
proud enough and vain enough of the attribute; and then more especially
as thou hadst assembled us, as far as I know, principally to show the
lady thy superiority over us; and us thy triumph over her. And then
Tourville (who is always satisfied with wit at second-hand; wit upon
memory: other men's wit) repeated some verses, as applicable to the
subject; which two of us applauded, though full of double entendre.
Thou, seeing the lady's serious air on one of those repetitions,
appliedst thyself to her, desiring her notions of wit: a quality, thou
saidst, which every one prized, whether flowing from himself, or found in
another.
Then it was that she took all our attention. It was a quality much
talked of, she said, but, she believed, very little understood. At
least, if she might be so free as to give her judgment of it from what
had passed in the present conversation, she must say, that wit with men
was one thing; with women another.
This startled us all:--How the women looked!--How they pursed their
mouths; a broad smile the moment before upon each, from the verses they
had heard repeated, so well understood, as we saw, by their looks! While
I besought her to let us know, for our instruction, what wit with women:
for such I was sure it ought to be with men.
Cowley, she said, had defined it prettily by negatives. Thou desiredst
her to repeat his definition.
She did; and with so much graceful ease, and beauty, and propriety of
accent, as would have made bad poetry delightful.
A thousand diff'rent shapes it bears;
Comely in thousand shapes appears.
'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jest,
Admir'd with laughter at a feast,
Nor florid talk, which must this title gain:
The proofs of wit for ever must remain.
Much less can that have any place
At which a virgin hides her face.
Such dross the fire must purge away:--'Tis just
The author blush there, where the reader must.
Here she stopt, looking round upon her upon us all with conscious
superiority, as I thought. Lord, how we stared! Thou attemptedst to
give us thy definition of wit, that thou mightest have something to say,
and not seem to be surprised into silent modesty.
But as if she cared not to trust thee with the subject, referring to the
same author as for his more positive decision, she thus, with the same
harmony of voice and accent, emphatically decided upon it.
Wit, like a luxurious vine,
Unless to virtue's prop it join,
Firm and erect, tow'rd heaven bound,
Tho' it with beauteous leaves and pleasant fruit be crown'd,
It lies deform'd, and rotting on the ground.
If thou recollectest this part of the conversation, and how like fools we
looked at one another; how much it put us out of conceit with ourselves,
and made us fear her, when we found our conversation thus excluded from
the very character which our vanity had made us think unquestionably
ours; and if thou profitest properly by the recollection; thou wilt be of
my mind, that there is not so much wit in wickedness as we had flattered
ourselves there was.
And after all, I have been of opinion ever since that conversation, that
the wit of all the rakes and libertines down to little Johnny Hartop the
punster, consists mostly in saying bold and shocking things, with such
courage as shall make the modest blush, the impudent laugh, and the
ignorant stare.
And why dost thou think I mention these things, so mal-a-propos, as it
may seem!--Only, let me tell thee, as an instance (among many that might
be given from the same evening's conversation) of this fine woman's
superiority in those talents which ennoble nature, and dignify her
sex--evidenced not only to each of us, as we offended, but to the
flippant Partington, and the grosser, but egregiously hypocritical
Sinclair, in the correcting eye, the discouraging blush, in which was
mixed as much displeasure as modesty, and sometimes, as the occasion
called for it, (for we were some of us hardened above the sense of
feeling delicate reproof,) by the sovereign contempt, mingled with a
disdainful kind of pity, that showed at once her own conscious worth, and
our despicable worthlessness.
O Lovelace! what then was the triumph, even in my eye, and what is it
still upon reflection, of true jest, laughing impertinence, and an
obscenity so shameful, even to the guilty, that they cannot hint at it
but under a double meaning!
Then, as thou hast somewhere observed,* all her correctives avowed by her
eye. Not poorly, like the generality of her sex, affecting ignorance of
meanings too obvious to be concealed; but so resenting, as to show each
impudent laugher the offence given to, and taken by a purity, that had
mistaken its way, when it fell into such company.
* See Vol. IV. Letter XLVIII.
Such is the woman, such is the angel, whom thou hast betrayed into thy
power, and wouldst deceive and ruin.---Sweet creature! did she but know
how she is surrounded, (as I then thought, as well as now think,) and
what is intended, how much sooner would death be her choice, than so
dreadful a situation!--'And how effectually would her story, were it
generally known, warn all the sex against throwing themselves into the
power of ours, let our vows, oaths, and protestations, be what they
will!'
But let me beg of thee, once more, my dear Lovelace, if thou hast any
regard for thine own honour, for the honour of thy family, for thy future
peace, or for my opinion of thee, (who yet pretend not to be so much
moved by principle, as by that dazzling merit which ought still more to
attract thee,) to be prevailed upon--to be--to be humane, that's all--
only, that thou wouldst not disgrace our common humanity!
Hardened as thou art, I know that they are the abandoned people in the
house who keep thee up to a resolution against her. O that the sagacious
fair-one (with so much innocent charity in her own heart) had not so
resolutely held those women at distance!--that as she boarded there, she
had oftener tabled with them! Specious as they are, in a week's time,
she would have seen through them; they could not have been always so
guarded, as they were when they saw her but seldom, and when they
prepared themselves to see her; and she would have fled their house as a
place infected. And yet, perhaps, with so determined an enterprizer,
this discovery might have accelerated her ruin.
I know that thou art nice in thy loves. But are there not hundreds of
women, who, though not utterly abandoned, would be taken with thee for
mere personal regards! Make a toy, if thou wilt, of principle, with
respect to such of the sex as regard it as a toy; but rob not an angel of
those purities, which, in her own opinion, constitute the difference
between angelic and brutal qualities.
With regard to the passion itself, the less of soul in either man or
woman, the more sensual are they. Thou, Lovelace, hast a soul, though a
corrupted one; and art more intent (as thou even gloriest) upon the
preparative stratagem, that upon the end of conquering.
See we not the natural bent of idiots and the crazed? The very appetite
is body; and when we ourselves are most fools, and crazed, then are we
most eager in these pursuits. See what fools this passion makes the
wisest men! What snivellers, what dotards, when they suffer themselves
to be run away with by it!--An unpermanent passion! Since, if (ashamed
of its more proper name) we must call it love, love gratified, is love
satisfied--and where consent on one side adds to the obligation on the
other. What then but remorse can follow a forcible attempt?
Do not even chaste lovers choose to be alone in their courtship
preparations, ashamed to have even a child to witness to their foolish
actions, and more foolish expressions? Is this deified passion, in its
greatest altitudes, fitted to stand the day? Do not the lovers, when
mutual consent awaits their wills, retire to coverts, and to darkness, to
complete their wishes? And shall such a sneaking passion as this, which
can be so easily gratified by viler objects, be permitted to debase the
noblest?
Were not the delays of thy vile purposes owing more to the awe which her
majestic virtue has inspired thee with, than to thy want of adroitness in
villany? [I must write my free sentiments in this case; for have I not
seen the angel?] I should be ready to censure some of thy contrivances
and pretences to suspend the expected day, as trite, stale, and (to me,
who know thy intention) poor; and too often resorted to, as nothing comes
of them to be gloried in; particularly that of Mennell, the vapourish
lady, and the ready-furnished house.
She must have thought so too, at times, and in her heart despised thee
for them, or love thee (ungrateful as thou art!) to her misfortune; as
well as entertain hope against probability. But this would afford
another warning to the sex, were they to know her story; 'as it would
show them what poor pretences they must seem to be satisfied with, if
once they put themselves into the power of a designing man.'
If trial only was thy end, as once was thy pretence,* enough surely hast
thou tried this paragon of virtue and vigilance. But I knew thee too
well, to expect, at the time, that thou wouldest stop there. 'Men of our
cast put no other bound to their views upon any of the sex, than what want
of power compels them to put.' I knew that from one advantage gained,
thou wouldest proceed to attempt another. Thy habitual aversion to
wedlock too well I knew; and indeed thou avowest thy hope to bring her to
cohabitation, in that very letter in which thou pretendest trial to be
thy principal view.**
* See Vol. III. Letter XVIII.
** Ibid. See also Letters XVI. and XVII. of that volume.
But do not even thy own frequent and involuntary remorses, when thou hast
time, place, company, and every other circumstance, to favour thee in thy
wicked design, convince thee, that there can be no room for a hope so
presumptuous?--Why then, since thou wouldest choose to marry her rather
than lose her, wilt thou make her hate thee for ever?
But if thou darest to meditate personal trial, and art sincere in thy
resolution to reward her, as she behaves in it, let me beseech thee to
remove her from this vile house. That will be to give her and thy
conscience fair play. So entirely now does the sweet deluded excellence
depend upon her supposed happier prospects, that thou needest not to fear
that she will fly from thee, or that she will wish to have recourse to
that scheme of Miss Howe, which has put thee upon what thou callest thy
master-strokes.
But whatever be thy determination on this head; and if I write not in
time, but that thou hast actually pulled off the mask; let it not be one
of the devices, if thou wouldest avoid the curses of every heart, and
hereafter of thy own, to give her, no not for one hour, (be her
resentment ever so great,) into the power of that villanous woman, who
has, if possible, less remorse than thyself; and whose trade it is to
break the resisting spirit, and utterly to ruin the heart unpractised in
evil.--O Lovelace, Lovelace, how many dreadful stories could this horrid
woman tell the sex! And shall that of a Clarissa swell the guilty list?
But this I might have spared. Of this, devil as thou art, thou canst not
be capable. Thou couldst not enjoy a triumph so disgraceful to thy
wicked pride, as well as to humanity.
Shouldest thou think, that the melancholy spectacle hourly before me has
made me more serious than usual, perhaps thou wilt not be mistaken. But
nothing more is to be inferred from hence (were I even to return to my
former courses) but that whenever the time of cool reflection comes,
whether brought on by our own disasters, or by those of others, we shall
undoubtedly, if capable of thought, and if we have time for it, think in
the same manner.
We neither of us are such fools as to disbelieve a futurity, or to think,
whatever be our practice, that we came hither by chance, and for no end
but to do all the mischief we have it in our power to do. Nor am I
ashamed to own, that in the prayers which my poor uncle makes me read to
him, in the absence of a very good clergyman who regularly attends him, I
do not forget to put in a word or two for myself.
If, Lovelace, thou laughest at me, thy ridicule will be more conformable
to thy actions than to thy belief.--Devils believe and tremble. Canst
thou be more abandoned than they?
And here let me add, with regard to my poor old man, that I often wish
thee present but for one half hour in a day, to see the dregs of a gay
life running off in the most excruciating tortures that the cholic, the
stone, and the surgeon's knife can unitedly inflict, and to hear him
bewail the dissoluteness of his past life, in the bitterest anguish of a
spirit every hour expecting to be called to its last account.--Yet, by
all his confessions, he has not to accuse himself, in sixty-seven years
of life, of half the very vile enormities which you and I have committed
in the last seven only.
I conclude with recommending to your serious consideration all I have
written, as proceeding from the heart and soul of
Your assured friend,
JOHN BELFORD