Because of thine indignation, and thy wrath: for thou hast lifted me up,
and cast me down.
My days are like a shadow that declineth, and I am withered like grass.
Grant not, O Lord, the desires of the wicked: further not his devices,
lest he exalt himself.
Why now, Mrs. Lovick, said I, when I had read this meditation, as she
called it, I think I am very severely treated by the lady, if she mean me
in all this. For how is it that I am the enemy of her soul, when I love
her both soul and body?
She says, that I am a violent man, and a wicked man.--That I have been
so, I own: but I repent, and only wish to have it in my power to repair
the injuries I have done her.
The gin, the snare, the net, mean matrimony, I suppose--But is it a crime
in me to wish to marry her? Would any other woman think it so? and
choose to become a pelican in the wilderness, or a lonely sparrow on the
house-top, rather than have a mate that would chirp about her all day and
all night?
She says, she has eaten ashes like bread--A sad mistake to be sure!--And
mingled her drink with weeping--Sweet maudlin soul! should I say of any
body confessing this, but Miss Harlowe.
She concludes with praying, that the desires of the wicked (meaning poor
me, I doubt) may not be granted; that my devices may not be furthered,
lest I exalt myself. I should undoubtedly exalt myself, and with reason,
could I have the honour and the blessing of such a wife. And if my
desires have so honourable an end, I know not why I should be called
wicked, and why I should not be allowed to hope, that my honest devices
may be furthered, that I MAY exalt myself.
But here, Mrs. Lovick, let me ask, as something is undoubtedly meant by
the lonely sparrow on the house-top, is not the dear creature at this
very instant (tell me truly) concealed in Mrs. Smith's cockloft?--What
say you, Mrs. Lovick? What say you, Mrs. Smith, to this?
They assured me to the contrary; and that she was actually abroad, and
they knew not where.
Thou seest, Jack, that I would fain have diverted the chagrin given me
not only by the women's talk, but by this collection of Scripture-texts
drawn up in array against me. Several other whimsical and light things I
said [all I had for it!] with the same view. But the widow would not let
me come off so. She stuck to me; and gave me, as I told thee, a good
deal of uneasiness, by her sensible and serious expostulations. Mrs.
Smith put in now-and-then; and the two Jack-pudding fellows, John and
Joseph, not being present, I had no provocation to turn the conversation
into a farce; and, at last, they both joined warmly to endeavour to
prevail upon me to give up all thoughts of seeing the lady. But I could
not hear of that. On the contrary, I besought Mrs. Smith to let me have
one of her rooms but till I could see her; and were it but for one, two,
or three days, I would pay a year's rent for it; and quit it the moment
the interview was over. But they desired to be excused; and were sure
the lady would not come to the house till I was gone, were it for a
month.
This pleased me; for I found they did not think her so very ill as they
would have me believe her to be; but I took no notice of the slip,
because I would not guard them against more of the like.
In short, I told them, I must and would see her: but that it should be
with all the respect and veneration that heart could pay to excellence
like her's: and that I would go round to all the churches in London and
Westminster, where there were prayers or service, from sun-rise to
sun-set, and haunt their house like a ghost, till I had the opportunity
my soul panted after.
This I bid them tell her. And thus ended our serious conversation.
I took leave of them; and went down; and, stepping into my chair, caused
myself to be carried to Lincoln's-Inn; and walked in the gardens till the
chapel was opened; and then I went in, and said prayers, in hopes of
seeing the dear creature enter: but to no purpose; and yet I prayed most
devoutly that she might be conducted thither, either by my good angel, or
her own. And indeed I burn more than ever with impatience to be once
more permitted to kneel at the feet of this adorable woman. And had I
met her, or espied her in the chapel, it is my firm belief that I should
not have been able (though it had been in the midst of the sacred office,
and in the presence of thousands) to have forborne prostration to her,
and even clamorous supplication for her forgiveness: a christian act; the
exercise of it therefore worthy of the place.
After service was over, I stept into my chair again, and once more was
carried to Smith's, in hopes I might have surprised her there: but no
such happiness for thy friend. I staid in the back-shop an hour and an
half, by my watch; and again underwent a good deal of preachment from the
women. John was mainly civil to me now; won over a little by my serious
talk, and the honour I professed for the lady. They all three wished
matters could be made up between us: but still insisted that she could
never get over her illness; and that her heart was broken. A cue, I
suppose, they had from you.
While I was there a letter was brought by a particular hand. They seemed
very solicitous to hide it from me; which made me suspect it was for her.
I desired to be suffered to cast an eye upon the seal, and the
superscription; promising to give it back to them unopened.
Looking upon it, I told them I knew the hand and seal. It was from her
sister.* And I hoped it would bring her news that she would be pleased
with.
* See Letter XXVI. of this volume.
They joined most heartily in the same hope: and, giving the letter to
them again, I civilly took leave, and went away.
But I will be there again presently; for I fancy my courteous behaviour
to these women will, on their report of it, procure me the favour I so
earnestly covet. And so I will leave my letter unsealed, to tell thee
the event of my next visit at Smith's.
***
Thy servant just calling, I sent thee this: and will soon follow it by
another. Mean time, I long to hear how poor Belton is: to whom my best
wishes.