MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. MONDAY MORN. FIVE O’CLOCK (JUNE
19.)
I must write on. Nothing else can divert me: and I think thou canst not
have been a dog to me.
I would fain have closed my eyes: but sleep flies me. Well says Horace,
as translated by Cowley:
The halcyon sleep will never build his nest
In any stormy breast.
’Tis not enough that he does find
Clouds and darkness in the mind:
Darkness but half his work will do.
’Tis not enough: he must find quiet too.
Now indeed do I from my heart wish that I had never known this lady.
But who would have thought there had been such a woman in the world? Of
all the sex I have hitherto known, or heard, or read of, it was once
subdued, and always subdued. The first struggle was generally the last;
or, at least, the subsequent struggles were so much fainter and
fainter, that a man would rather have them than be without them. But
how know I yet——
It is now near six—the sun for two hours past has been illuminating
every thing about me: for that impartial orb shines upon Mother
Sinclair’s house as well as upon any other: but nothing within me can
it illuminate.
At day-dawn I looked through the key-hole of my beloved’s door. She had
declared she would not put off her clothes any more in this house.
There I beheld her in a sweet slumber, which I hope will prove
refreshing to her disturbed senses; sitting in her elbow-chair, her
apron over her head; her head supported by one sweet hand, the other
hand hanging down upon her side, in a sleepy lifelessness; half of one
pretty foot only visible.
See the difference in our cases! thought I: she, the charming injured,
can sweetly sleep, while the varlet injurer cannot close his eyes; and
has been trying, to no purpose, the whole night to divert his
melancholy, and to fly from himself!
As every vice generally brings on its own punishment, even in this
life; if any thing were to tempt me to doubt of future punishment, it
would be, that there can hardly be a greater than that in which I at
this instant experience in my own remorse.
I hope it will go off. If not, well will the dear creature be avenged;
for I shall be the most miserable of men.
*** SIX O’CLOCK.
Just now Dorcas tells me, that her lady is preparing openly, and
without disguise, to be gone. Very probable. The humour she flew away
from me in last night has given me expectation of such an enterprize.
Now, Jack, to be thus hated and despised!—And if I have sinned beyond
forgiveness——
But she has sent me a message by Dorcas, that she will meet me in the
dining-room; and desires [odd enough] that the wretch may be present at
the conversation that shall pass between us. This message gives me
hope.