Hither I had written, and was forced to quit my pen. And so much weaker
and worse I grew, that had I resumed it, to have closed here, it must
have been with such trembling unsteadiness, that it would have given you
more concern for me, than the delay of sending it away by last night's
post can do. I deferred it, therefore, to see how it would please God to
deal with me. And I find myself, after a better night than I expected,
lively and clear; and hope to give a proof that I do, in the continuation
of my letter, which I will pursue as currently as if I had not left off.
I am glad that you so considerately gave my cousin Morden favourable
impressions of Mr. Belford; since, otherwise, some misunderstanding might
have happened between them: for although I hope this Mr. Belford is an
altered man, and in time will be a reformed one, yet is he one of those
high spirits that has been accustomed to resent imaginary indignities to
himself, when, I believe, he has not been studious to avoid giving real
offences to others; men of this cast acting as if they thought all the
world was made to bar with them, and they with nobody in it.
Mr. Lovelace, you tell me, thought fit to intrust my cousin with the copy
of his letter of penitence to me, and with my answer to it, rejecting him
and his suit: and Mr. Belford, moreover, acquaints me, how much concerned
Mr. Lovelace is for his baseness, and how freely he accused himself to my
cousin. This shows, that the true bravery of spirit is to be above doing
a vile action; and that nothing subjects the human mind to so much
meanness, as the consciousness of having done wilful wrong to our fellow
creatures. How low, how sordid, are the submissions which elaborate
baseness compels! that that wretch could treat me as he did, and then
could so poorly creep to me for forgiveness of crimes so wilful, so
black, and so premeditated! how my soul despised him for his meanness on
a certain occasion, of which you will one day be informed!* and him whose
actions one's heart despises, it is far from being difficult to reject,
had one ever so partially favoured him once.
* Meaning his meditated second violence (See Vol. VI. Letter XXXVI.) and
his succeeding letters to her, supplicating for her pardon.
Yet am I glad this violent spirit can thus creep; that, like a poisonous
serpent, he can thus coil himself, and hide his head in his own narrow
circlets; because this stooping, this abasement, gives me hope that no
farther mischief will ensue.
All my apprehension is, what may happen when I am gone; lest then my
cousin, or any other of my family, should endeavour to avenge me, and
risk their own more precious lives on that account.
If that part of Cain's curse were Mr. Lovelace's, to be a fugitive and
vagabond in the earth; that is to say, if it meant no more harm to him
than that he should be obliged to travel, as it seems he intends, (though
I wish him no ill in his travels;) and I could know it; then should I be
easy in the hoped-for safety of my friends from his skilful violence--Oh!
that I could hear he was a thousand miles off!
When I began this letter, I did not think I could have run to such a
length. But 'tis to YOU, my dearest friend, and you have a title to the
spirits you raise and support; for they are no longer mine, and will
subside the moment I cease writing to you.
But what do you bid me hope for, when you tell me that, if your mother's
health will permit, you will see me in town? I hope your mother's health
will be perfected as you wish; but I dare not promise myself so great a
favour; so great a blessing, I will call it--and indeed I know not if I
should be able to bear it now!
Yet one comfort it is in your power to give me; and that is, let me know,
and very speedily it must be, if you wish to oblige me, that all matters
are made up between you and Mr. Hickman; to whom, I see, you are
resolved, with all your bravery of spirit, to owe a multitude of
obligations for his patience with your flightiness. Think of this, my
dear proud friend! and think, likewise, of what I have often told you,
that PRIDE, in man or woman, is an extreme that hardly ever fails, sooner
or later, to bring forth its mortifying CONTRARY.
May you, my dear Miss Howe, have no discomforts but what you make to
yourself! as it will be in your own power to lessen such as these, they
ought to be your punishment if you do not. There is no such thing as
perfect happiness here, since the busy mind will make to itself evils,
were it to find none. You will, therefore, pardon this limited wish,
strange as it may appear, till you consider it: for to wish you no
infelicity, either within or without you, were to wish you what can never
happen in this world; and what perhaps ought not to be wished for, if by
a wish one could give one's friend such an exemption; since we are not to
live here always.
We must not, in short, expect that our roses will grow without thorns:
but then they are useful and instructive thorns: which, by pricking the
fingers of the too-hasty plucker, teach future caution. And who knows
not that difficulty gives poignancy to our enjoyments; which are apt to
lose their relish with us when they are over easily obtained?