After the discoveries I had made of the villanous machinations of the
most abandoned of men, particularized in my long letter of Wednesday*
last, you will believe, my dearest friend, that my surprise upon
perusing your’s of Thursday evening from Hampstead** was not so great
as my indignation. Had the villain attempted to fire a city instead of
a house, I should not have wondered at it. All that I am amazed at is,
that he (whose boast, as I am told, it is, that no woman shall keep him
out of her bed-chamber, when he has made a resolution to be in it) did
not discover his foot before. And it is as strange to me, that, having
got you at such a shocking advantage, and in such a horrid house, you
could, at the time, escape dishonour, and afterwards get from such a
set of infernals.
* See Vol. V. Letter XX. ** Ibid. See Letter XXI.
I gave you, in my long letter of Wednesday and Thursday last, reasons
why you ought to mistrust that specious Tomlinson. That man, my dear,
must be a solemn villain. May lightning from Heaven blast the wretch,
who has set him and the rest of his REMORSELESS GANG at work, to
endeavour to destroy the most consummate virtue!—Heaven be praised! you
have escaped from all their snares, and now are out of danger.—So I
will not trouble you at present with the particulars I have further
collected relating to this abominable imposture.
For the same reason, I forbear to communicate to you some new stories
of the abhorred wretch himself which have come to my ears. One, in
particular, of so shocking a nature!—Indeed, my dear, the man’s a
devil.
The whole story of Mrs. Fretchville, and her house, I have no doubt to
pronounce, likewise, an absolute fiction.—Fellow!—How my soul spurns
the villain!
Your thought of going abroad, and your reasons for so doing, most
sensibly affect me. But be comforted, my dear; I hope you will not be
under a necessity of quitting your native country. Were I sure that
that must be the cruel case, I would abandon all my better prospects,
and soon be with you. And I would accompany you whithersoever you went,
and share fortunes with you: for it is impossible that I should be
happy, if I knew that you were exposed not only to the perils of the
sea, but to the attempts of other vile men; your personal graces
attracting every eye; and exposing you to those hourly dangers, which
others, less distinguished by the gifts of nature, might avoid.—All
that I know that beauty (so greatly coveted, and so greatly admired) is
good for.
O my dear, were I ever to marry, and to be the mother of a CLARISSA,
[Clarissa must be the name, if promisingly lovely,] how often would my
heart ache for the dear creature, as she grew up, when I reflected that
a prudence and discretion, unexampled in woman, had not, in you, been a
sufficient protection to that beauty, which had drawn after it as many
admirers as beholders!—How little should I regret the attacks of that
cruel distemper, as it is called, which frequently makes the greatest
ravages in the finest faces!