MR. BELFORD, TO ROBERT LOVELACE, ESQ.
FRIDAY, SEPT. 22.
Just as I was sitting down to answer your's of the 14th to the 18th, in
order to give you all the consolation in my power, came your revoking
letter of Wednesday.
I am really concerned and disappointed that your first was so soon
followed by one so contrary to it.
The shocking letter you mention, which your friends withhold from you, is
indeed from me. They may now, I see, show you any thing. Ask them,
then, for that letter, if you think it worth while to read aught about
the true mother of your mind.
***
I will suppose that thou hast just read the letter thou callest shocking,
and which I intended to be so. And let me ask what thou thinkest of it?
Dost thou not tremble at the horrors the vilest of women labours with, on
the apprehensions of death, and future judgment?--How sit the reflections
that must have been raised by the perusal of this letter upon thy yet
unclosed eyelet-holes? Will not some serious thoughts mingle with thy
melilot, and tear off the callus of thy mind, as that may flay the
leather from thy back, and as thy epispastics may strip the parchment
from thy plotting head? If not, then indeed is thy conscience seared,
and no hopes will lie for thee.
[Mr. Belford then gives an account of the wretched Sinclair's terrible
exit, which he had just then received.]
If this move thee not, I have news to acquaint thee with, of another
dismal catastrophe that is but within this hour come to my ear, of
another of thy blessed agents. Thy TOMLINSON!--Dying, and, in all
probability, before this can reach thee, dead, in Maidstone gaol. As
thou sayest in thy first letter, something strangely retributive seems
to be working.
This is his case. He was at the head of a gang of smugglers,
endeavouring to carry off run goods, landed last Tuesday, when a party of
dragoons came up with them in the evening. Some of his comrades fled.
M'Donald, being surrounded, attempted to fight his way through, and
wounded his man; but having received a shot in his neck, and being cut
deeply in the head by a broad-sword, he fell from his horse, was taken,
and carried to Maidstone gaol: and there my informant left him, just
dying, and assured of hanging if he recover.
Absolutely destitute, he got a kinsman of his to apply to me, and, if in
town, to the rest of the confraternity, for something, not to support him
was the word, (for he expected not to live till the fellow returned,) but
to bury him.
I never employed him but once, and then he ruined my project. I now
thank Heaven that he did. But I sent him five guineas, and promised him
more, as from you, and Mowbray, and Tourville, if he live a few days, or
to take his trial. And I put it upon you to make further inquiry of him,
and to give him what you think fit.
His messenger tells me that he is very penitent; that he weeps
continually. He cries out, that he has been the vilest of men: yet
palliates, that his necessities made him worse than he should otherwise
have been; [an excuse which none of us can plead:] but that which touches
him most of all, is a vile imposture he was put upon, to serve a certain
gentleman of fortune to the ruin of the most excellent woman that ever
lived; and who, he had heard, was dead of grief.
Let me consider, Lovelace--Whose turn can be next?
I wish it may not be thine. But since thou givest me one piece of
advice, (which I should indeed have thought out of character, hadst thou
not taken pains to convince me that it proceeds not from principle,) I
will give thee another: and that is, prosecute, as fast as thou canst,
thy intended tour. Change of scene, and of climate, may establish thy
health: while this gross air and the approach of winter, may thicken thy
blood; and with the help of a conscience that is upon the struggle with
thee, and like a cunning wrestler watches its opportunity to give thee
another fall, may make thee miserable for thy life.
I return your revoked letter. Don't destroy it, however. The same
dialect may one day come in fashion with you again.
As to the family at Harlowe-place, I have most affecting letters from
Colonel Morden relating to their grief and compunction. But are you, to
whom the occasion is owing, entitled to rejoice in their distress?
I should be sorry, if I could not say, that what you have warned me of in
sport, makes me tremble in earnest. I hope, for this is a serious
subject with me, (though nothing can be so with you,) that I never shall
deserve, by my apostasy, to be the scoff of men, and the triumph of
devils.
All that you say, of the difficulty of conquering rooted habits, is but
too true. Those, and time of life, are indeed too much against me: but,
when I reflect upon the ends (some untimely) of those of our companions
whom we have formerly lost; upon Belton's miserable exit; upon the howls
and screams of Sinclair, which are still in my ears; and now upon your
miserable Tomlinson, and compare their ends with the happy and desirable
end of the inimitable Miss Harlowe, I hope I have reason to think my
footing morally secure. Your caution, nevertheless, will be of use,
however you might design it: and since I know my weak side, I will
endeavour to fortify myself in that quarter by marriage, as soon as I can
make myself worthy of the confidence and esteem of some virtuous woman;
and, by this means, become the subject of your envy, rather than of your
scoffs.
I have already begun my retributory purposes, as I may call them. I have
settled an annual sum for life upon poor John Loftus, whom I disabled
while he was endeavouring to protect his young mistress from my lawless
attempts. I rejoice that I succeeded not in that; as I do in
recollecting many others of the like sort, in which I miscarried.
Poor Farley, who had become a bankrupt, I have set up again; but have
declared, that the annual allowance I make her shall cease, if I hear she
returns to her former courses: and I have made her accountable for her
conduct to the good widow Lovick; whom I have taken, at a handsome
salary, for my housekeeper at Edgware, (for I have let the house at
Watford;) and she is to dispense the quarterly allotment to her, as she
merits.
This good woman shall have other matters of the like nature under her
care, as we grow better acquainted; and I make no doubt that she will
answer my expectations, and that I shall be both confirmed and improved
by her conversation: for she shall generally sit at my own table.
The undeserved sufferings of Miss Clarissa Harlowe, her exalted merit,
her exemplary preparation, and her happy end, will be standing subjects
with us.
She shall read to me, when I have no company; write for me, out of books,
passages she shall recommend. Her years (turned of fifty,) and her good
character, will secure me from scandal; and I have great pleasure in
reflecting that I shall be better myself for making her happy.
Then, whenever I am in danger, I will read some of the admirable lady's
papers: whenever I would abhor my former ways, I will read some of thine,
and copies of my own.
The consequence of all this will be, that I shall be the delight of my
own relations of both sexes, who were wont to look upon me as a lost man.
I shall have good order in my own family, because I shall give a good
example myself. I shall be visited and respected, not perhaps by
Lovelace, by Mowbray, and by Tourville, because they cannot see me upon
the old terms, and will not, perhaps, see me upon the new, but by the
best and worthiest gentlemen, clergy as well as laity, all around me. I
shall look upon my past follies with contempt: upon my old companions
with pity. Oaths and curses shall be for ever banished my mouth: in
their place shall succeed conversation becoming a rational being, and a
gentleman. And instead of acts of offence, subjecting me perpetually to
acts of defence, will I endeavour to atone for my past evils, by doing
all the good in my power, and by becoming an universal benefactor to the
extent of that power.
Now tell me, Lovelace, upon this faint sketch of what I hope to do, and
to be, if this be not a scheme infinitely preferable to the wild, the
pernicious, the dangerous ones, both to body and soul, which we have
pursued?
I wish I could make my sketch as amiable to you as it appears to me. I
wish it with all my soul: for I always loved you. It has been my
misfortune that I did: for this led me into infinite riots and follies,
of which, otherwise, I verily think I should not have been guilty.
You have a great deal more to answer for than I have, were it only in the
temporal ruin of this admirable woman. Let me now, while you yet have
youth, and health, and intellect, prevail upon you: for I am afraid, very
much afraid, that such is the enormity of this single wickedness, in
depriving the world of such a shining light, that if you do not quickly
reform, it will be out of your power to reform at all; and that
Providence, which has already given you the fates of your agents Sinclair
and Tomlinson to take warning by, will not let the principal offender
escape, if he slight the warning.
You will, perhaps, laugh at me for these serious reflections. Do, if you
will. I had rather you should laugh at me, for continuing in this way of
thinking and acting, than triumph over me, as you threaten, on my
swerving from purposes I have determined upon with such good reason, and
induced and warned by such examples.
And so much for this subject at present.
I should be glad to know when you intend to set out. I have too much
concern for your welfare, not to wish you in a thinner air and more
certain climate.
What have Tourville and Mowbray to do, that they cannot set out with you?
They will not covet my company, I dare say; and I shall not be able to
endure theirs, when you are gone: take them, therefore, with you.
I will not, however, forswear making you a visit at Paris, at your return
from Germany and Italy: but hardly with the hope of reclaiming you, if
due reflection upon what I have set before you, and upon what you have
written in your two last, will not by that time have done it.
I suppose I shall see you before you go. Once more I wish you were gone.
This heavy island-air cannot do for you what that of the Continent will.
I do not think I ought to communicate with you, as I used to do, on this
side the Channel: let me, then, hear from you on the opposite shore, and
you shall command the pen, as you please; and, honestly, the power of