PART I

Liber Amoris,

or,

The New Pygmalion

by William Hazlitt

ADVERTISEMENT

The circumstances, an outline of which is given in these pages,

happened a very short time ago to a native of North Britain, who left

his own country early in life, in consequence of political animosities

and an ill-advised connection in marriage. It was some years after that

he formed the fatal attachment which is the subject of the following

narrative. The whole was transcribed very carefully with his own hand,

a little before he set out for the Continent in hopes of benefiting by

a change of scene, but he died soon after in the Netherlands—it is

supposed, of disappointment preying on a sickly frame and morbid state

of mind. It was his wish that what had been his strongest feeling while

living, should be preserved in this shape when he was no more.—It has

been suggested to the friend, into whose hands the manuscript was

entrusted, that many things (particularly in the Conversations in the

First Part) either childish or redundant, might have been omitted; but

a promise was given that not a word should be altered, and the pledge

was held sacred. The names and circumstances are so far disguised, it

is presumed, as to prevent any consequences resulting from the

publication, farther than the amusement or sympathy of the reader.

CONTENTS

PART I

THE PICTURE

THE INVITATION

THE MESSAGE

THE FLAGEOLET

THE CONFESSION

THE QUARREL

THE RECONCILIATION

LETTERS TO THE SAME

TO THE SAME

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMION

A PROPOSAL OF LOVE

PART II

LETTERS TO C. P., ESQ.

LETTER II

LETTER III

LETTER IV

LETTER V

LETTER VI

LETTER VII

LETTER VIII

TO EDINBURGH

A THOUGHT

ANOTHER

ANOTHER

LETTER IX

LETTER X

LETTER XI

TO S. L.

LETTER XII.

UNALTERED LOVE

PERFECT LOVE

FROM C. P., ESQ.

LETTER XIII

LETTER THE LAST

PART III

ADDRESSED TO J. S. K.——

TO THE SAME (In continuation)

TO THE SAME (In conclusion)

PART I

THE PICTURE

H. Oh! is it you? I had something to shew you—I have got a picture

here. Do you know any one it’s like?

S. No, Sir.

H. Don’t you think it like yourself?

S. No: it’s much handsomer than I can pretend to be.

H. That’s because you don’t see yourself with the same eyes that others

do. _I_ don’t think it handsomer, and the expression is hardly so fine

as yours sometimes is.

S. Now you flatter me. Besides, the complexion is fair, and mine is

dark.

H. Thine is pale and beautiful, my love, not dark! But if your colour

were a little heightened, and you wore the same dress, and your hair

were let down over your shoulders, as it is here, it might be taken for

a picture of you. Look here, only see how like it is. The forehead is

like, with that little obstinate protrusion in the middle; the eyebrows

are like, and the eyes are just like yours, when you look up and

say—“No—never!”

S. What then, do I always say—“No—never!” when I look up?

H. I don’t know about that—I never heard you say so but once; but that

was once too often for my peace. It was when you told me, “you could

never be mine.” Ah! if you are never to be mine, I shall not long be

myself. I cannot go on as I am. My faculties leave me: I think of

nothing, I have no feeling about any thing but thee: thy sweet image

has taken possession of me, haunts me, and will drive me to

distraction. Yet I could almost wish to go mad for thy sake: for then I

might fancy that I had thy love in return, which I cannot live without!

S. Do not, I beg, talk in that manner, but tell me what this is a

picture of.

H. I hardly know; but it is a very small and delicate copy (painted in

oil on a gold ground) of some fine old Italian picture, Guido’s or

Raphael’s, but I think Raphael’s. Some say it is a Madonna; others call

it a Magdalen, and say you may distinguish the tear upon the cheek,

though no tear is there. But it seems to me more like Raphael’s St.

Cecilia, “with looks commercing with the skies,” than anything

else.—See, Sarah, how beautiful it is! Ah! dear girl, these are the

ideas I have cherished in my heart, and in my brain; and I never found

any thing to realise them on earth till I met with thee, my love! While

thou didst seem sensible of my kindness, I was but too happy: but now

thou hast cruelly cast me off.

S. You have no reason to say so: you are the same to me as ever.

H. That is, nothing. You are to me everything, and I am nothing to you.

Is it not too true?

S. No.

H. Then kiss me, my sweetest. Oh! could you see your face now—your

mouth full of suppressed sensibility, your downcast eyes, the soft

blush upon that cheek, you would not say the picture is not like

because it is too handsome, or because you want complexion. Thou art

heavenly-fair, my love—like her from whom the picture was taken—the

idol of the painter’s heart, as thou art of mine! Shall I make a

drawing of it, altering the dress a little, to shew you how like it is?

S. As you please.—

THE INVITATION

H. But I am afraid I tire you with this prosing description of the

French character and abuse of the English? You know there is but one

subject on which I should ever wish to talk, if you would let me.

S. I must say, you don’t seem to have a very high opinion of this

country.

H. Yes, it is the place that gave you birth.

S. Do you like the French women better than the English?

H. No: though they have finer eyes, talk better, and are better made.

But they none of them look like you. I like the Italian women I have

seen, much better than the French: they have darker eyes, darker hair,

and the accents of their native tongue are much richer and more

melodious. But I will give you a better account of them when I come

back from Italy, if you would like to hear it.

S. I should much. It is for that I have sometimes had a wish for

travelling abroad, to understand something of the manners and

characters of different people.

H. My sweet girl! I will give you the best account I can—unless you

would rather go and judge for yourself.

S. I cannot.

H. Yes, you shall go with me, and you shall go WITH HONOUR—you know

what I mean.

S. You know it is not in your power to take me so.

H. But it soon may: and if you would consent to bear me company, I

would swear never to think of an Italian woman while I am abroad, nor

of an English one after I return home. Thou art to me more than thy

whole sex.

S. I require no such sacrifices.

H. Is that what you thought I meant by SACRIFICES last night? But

sacrifices are no sacrifices when they are repaid a thousand fold.

S. I have no way of doing it.

H. You have not the will.—

S. I must go now.

H. Stay, and hear me a little. I shall soon be where I can no more hear

thy voice, far distant from her I love, to see what change of climate

and bright skies will do for a sad heart. I shall perhaps see thee no

more, but I shall still think of thee the same as ever—I shall say to

myself, “Where is she now?—what is she doing?” But I shall hardly wish

you to think of me, unless you could do so more favourably than I am

afraid you will. Ah! dearest creature, I shall be “far distant from

you,” as you once said of another, but you will not think of me as of

him, “with the sincerest affection.” The smallest share of thy

tenderness would make me blest; but couldst thou ever love me as thou

didst him, I should feel like a God! My face would change to a

different expression: my whole form would undergo alteration. I was

getting well, I was growing young in the sweet proofs of your

friendship: you see how I droop and wither under your displeasure! Thou

art divine, my love, and canst make me either more or less than mortal.

Indeed I am thy creature, thy slave—I only wish to live for your sake—I

would gladly die for you—

S. That would give me no pleasure. But indeed you greatly overrate my

power.

H. Your power over me is that of sovereign grace and beauty. When I am

near thee, nothing can harm me. Thou art an angel of light, shadowing

me with thy softness. But when I let go thy hand, I stagger on a

precipice: out of thy sight the world is dark to me and comfortless.

There is no breathing out of this house: the air of Italy will stifle

me. Go with me and lighten it. I can know no pleasure away from thee—

“But I will come again, my love,

An’ it were ten thousand mile!”

THE MESSAGE

S. Mrs. E—— has called for the book, Sir.

H. Oh! it is there. Let her wait a minute or two. I see this is a

busy-day with you. How beautiful your arms look in those short sleeves!

S. I do not like to wear them.

H. Then that is because you are merciful, and would spare frail mortals

who might die with gazing.

S. I have no power to kill.

H. You have, you have—Your charms are irresistible as your will is

inexorable. I wish I could see you always thus. But I would have no one

else see you so. I am jealous of all eyes but my own. I should almost

like you to wear a veil, and to be muffled up from head to foot; but

even if you were, and not a glimpse of you could be seen, it would be

to no purpose—you would only have to move, and you would be admired as

the most graceful creature in the world. You smile—Well, if you were to

be won by fine speeches—

S. You could supply them!

H. It is however no laughing matter with me; thy beauty kills me daily,

and I shall think of nothing but thy charms, till the last word

trembles on my tongue, and that will be thy name, my love—the name of

my Infelice! You will live by that name, you rogue, fifty years after

you are dead. Don’t you thank me for that?

S. I have no such ambition, Sir. But Mrs. E—— is waiting.

H. She is not in love, like me. You look so handsome to-day, I cannot

let you go. You have got a colour.

S. But you say I look best when I am pale.

H. When you are pale, I think so; but when you have a colour, I then

think you still more beautiful. It is you that I admire; and whatever

you are, I like best. I like you as Miss L——, I should like you still

more as Mrs. ——. I once thought you were half inclined to be a prude,

and I admired you as a “pensive nun, devout and pure.” I now think you

are more than half a coquet, and I like you for your roguery. The truth

is, I am in love with you, my angel; and whatever you are, is to me the

perfection of thy sex. I care not what thou art, while thou art still

thyself. Smile but so, and turn my heart to what shape you please!

S. I am afraid, Sir, Mrs. E—— will think you have forgotten her.

H. I had, my charmer. But go, and make her a sweet apology, all

graceful as thou art. One kiss! Ah! ought I not to think myself the

happiest of men?

THE FLAGEOLET

H. Where have you been, my love?

S. I have been down to see my aunt, Sir.

H. And I hope she has been giving you good advice.

S. I did not go to ask her opinion about any thing.

H. And yet you seem anxious and agitated. You appear pale and dejected,

as if your refusal of me had touched your own breast with pity. Cruel

girl! you look at this moment heavenly-soft, saint-like, or resemble

some graceful marble statue, in the moon’s pale ray! Sadness only

heightens the elegance of your features. How can I escape from you,

when every new occasion, even your cruelty and scorn, brings out some

new charm. Nay, your rejection of me, by the way in which you do it, is

only a new link added to my chain. Raise those downcast eyes, bend as

if an angel stooped, and kiss me. . . . Ah! enchanting little trembler!

if such is thy sweetness where thou dost not love, what must thy love

have been? I cannot think how any man, having the heart of one, could

go and leave it.

S. No one did, that I know of.

H. Yes, you told me yourself he left you (though he liked you, and

though he knew—Oh! gracious God! that you loved him) he left you

because “the pride of birth would not permit a union.”—For myself, I

would leave a throne to ascend to the heaven of thy charms. I live but

for thee, here—I only wish to live again to pass all eternity with

thee. But even in another world, I suppose you would turn from me to

seek him out who scorned you here.

S. If the proud scorn us here, in that place we shall all be equal.

H. Do not look so—do not talk so—unless you would drive me mad. I could

worship you at this moment. Can I witness such perfection, and bear to

think I have lost you for ever? Oh! let me hope! You see you can mould

me as you like. You can lead me by the hand, like a little child; and

with you my way would be like a little child’s:—you could strew flowers

in my path, and pour new life and hope into me. I should then indeed

hail the return of spring with joy, could I indulge the faintest

hope—would you but let me try to please you!

S. Nothing can alter my resolution, Sir.

H. Will you go and leave me so?

S. It is late, and my father will be getting impatient at my stopping

so long.

H. You know he has nothing to fear for you—it is poor I that am alone

in danger. But I wanted to ask about buying you a flageolet. Could I

see that which you have? If it is a pretty one, it would hardly be

worth while; but if it isn’t, I thought of bespeaking an ivory one for

you. Can’t you bring up your own to shew me?

S. Not to-night, Sir.

H. I wish you could.

S. I cannot—but I will in the morning.

H. Whatever you determine, I must submit to. Good night, and bless

thee!

[The next morning, S. brought up the tea-kettle as usual; and looking

towards the tea-tray, she said, “Oh! I see my sister has forgot the

tea-pot.” It was not there, sure enough; and tripping down stairs, she

came up in a minute, with the tea-pot in one hand, and the flageolet in

the other, balanced so sweetly and gracefully. It would have been

awkward to have brought up the flageolet in the tea-tray and she could

not have well gone down again on purpose to fetch it. Something,

therefore, was to be omitted as an excuse. Exquisite witch! But do I

love her the less dearly for it? I cannot.]

THE CONFESSION

H. You say you cannot love. Is there not a prior attachment in the

case? Was there any one else that you did like?

S. Yes, there was another.

H. Ah! I thought as much. Is it long ago then?

S. It is two years, Sir.

H. And has time made no alteration? Or do you still see him sometimes?

S. No, Sir! But he is one to whom I feel the sincerest affection, and

ever shall, though he is far distant.

H. And did he return your regard?

S. I had every reason to think so.

H. What then broke off your intimacy?

S. It was the pride of birth, Sir, that would not permit him to think

of a union.

H. Was he a young man of rank, then?

S. His connections were high.

H. And did he never attempt to persuade you to any other step?

S. No—he had too great a regard for me.

H. Tell me, my angel, how was it? Was he so very handsome? Or was it

the fineness of his manners?

S. It was more his manner: but I can’t tell how it was. It was chiefly

my own fault. I was foolish to suppose he could ever think seriously of

me. But he used to make me read with him—and I used to be with him a

good deal, though not much neither—and I found my affections entangled

before I was aware of it.

H. And did your mother and family know of it?

S. No—I have never told any one but you; nor I should not have

mentioned it now, but I thought it might give you some satisfaction.

H. Why did he go at last?

S. We thought it better to part.

H. And do you correspond?

S. No, Sir. But perhaps I may see him again some time or other, though

it will be only in the way of friendship.

H. My God! what a heart is thine, to live for years upon that bare

hope!

S. I did not wish to live always, Sir—I wished to die for a long time

after, till I thought it not right; and since then I have endeavoured

to be as resigned as I can.

H. And do you think the impression will never wear out?

S. Not if I can judge from my feelings hitherto. It is now sometime

since,—and I find no difference.

H. May God for ever bless you! How can I thank you for your

condescension in letting me know your sweet sentiments? You have

changed my esteem into adoration.—Never can I harbour a thought of ill

in thee again.

S. Indeed, Sir, I wish for your good opinion and your friendship.

H. And can you return them?

S. Yes.

H. And nothing more?

S. No, Sir.

H. You are an angel, and I will spend my life, if you will let me, in

paying you the homage that my heart feels towards you.

THE QUARREL

H. You are angry with me?

S. Have I not reason?

H. I hope you have; for I would give the world to believe my suspicions

unjust. But, oh! my God! after what I have thought of you and felt

towards you, as little less than an angel, to have but a doubt cross my

mind for an instant that you were what I dare not name—a common

lodging-house decoy, a kissing convenience, that your lips were as

common as the stairs—

S. Let me go, Sir!

H. Nay—prove to me that you are not so, and I will fall down and

worship you. You were the only creature that ever seemed to love me;

and to have my hopes, and all my fondness for you, thus turned to a

mockery—it is too much! Tell me why you have deceived me, and singled

me out as your victim?

S. I never have, Sir. I always said I could not love.

H. There is a difference between love and making me a laughing-stock.

Yet what else could be the meaning of your little sister’s running out

to you, and saying “He thought I did not see him!” when I had followed

you into the other room? Is it a joke upon me that I make free with

you? Or is not the joke against HER sister, unless you make my

courtship of you a jest to the whole house? Indeed I do not well see

how you can come and stay with me as you do, by the hour together, and

day after day, as openly as you do, unless you give it some such turn

with your family. Or do you deceive them as well as me?

S. I deceive no one, Sir. But my sister Betsey was always watching and

listening when Mr. M—— was courting my eldest sister, till he was

obliged to complain of it.

H. That I can understand, but not the other. You may remember, when

your servant Maria looked in and found you sitting in my lap one day,

and I was afraid she might tell your mother, you said “You did not

care, for you had no secrets from your mother.” This seemed to me odd

at the time, but I thought no more of it, till other things brought it

to my mind. Am I to suppose, then, that you are acting a part, a vile

part, all this time, and that you come up here, and stay as long as I

like, that you sit on my knee and put your arms round my neck, and feed

me with kisses, and let me take other liberties with you, and that for

a year together; and that you do all this not out of love, or liking,

or regard, but go through your regular task, like some young witch,

without one natural feeling, to shew your cleverness, and get a few

presents out of me, and go down into the kitchen to make a fine laugh

of it? There is something monstrous in it, that I cannot believe of

you.

S. Sir, you have no right to harass my feelings in the manner you do. I

have never made a jest of you to anyone, but always felt and expressed

the greatest esteem for you. You have no ground for complaint in my

conduct; and I cannot help what Betsey or others do. I have always been

consistent from the first. I told you my regard could amount to no more

than friendship.

H. Nay, Sarah, it was more than half a year before I knew that there

was an insurmountable obstacle in the way. You say your regard is

merely friendship, and that you are sorry I have ever felt anything

more for you. Yet the first time I ever asked you, you let me kiss you;

the first time I ever saw you, as you went out of the room, you turned

full round at the door, with that inimitable grace with which you do

everything, and fixed your eyes full upon me, as much as to say, “Is he

caught?”—that very week you sat upon my knee, twined your arms round

me, caressed me with every mark of tenderness consistent with modesty;

and I have not got much farther since. Now if you did all this with me,

a perfect stranger to you, and without any particular liking to me,

must I not conclude you do so as a matter of course with everyone?—Or,

if you do not do so with others, it was because you took a liking to me

for some reason or other.

S. It was gratitude, Sir, for different obligations.

H. If you mean by obligations the presents I made you, I had given you

none the first day I came. You do not consider yourself OBLIGED to

everyone who asks you for a kiss?

S. No, Sir.

H. I should not have thought anything of it in anyone but you. But you

seemed so reserved and modest, so soft, so timid, you spoke so low, you

looked so innocent—I thought it impossible you could deceive me.

Whatever favors you granted must proceed from pure regard. No betrothed

virgin ever gave the object of her choice kisses, caresses more modest

or more bewitching than those you have given me a thousand and a

thousand times. Could I have thought I should ever live to believe them

an inhuman mockery of one who had the sincerest regard for you? Do you

think they will not now turn to rank poison in my veins, and kill me,

soul and body? You say it is friendship—but if this is friendship, I’ll

forswear love. Ah! Sarah! it must be something more or less than

friendship. If your caresses are sincere, they shew fondness—if they

are not, I must be more than indifferent to you. Indeed you once let

some words drop, as if I were out of the question in such matters, and

you could trifle with me with impunity. Yet you complain at other times

that no one ever took such liberties with you as I have done. I

remember once in particular your saying, as you went out at the door in

anger—“I had an attachment before, but that person never attempted

anything of the kind.” Good God! How did I dwell on that word BEFORE,

thinking it implied an attachment to me also; but you have since

disclaimed any such meaning. You say you have never professed more than

esteem. Yet once, when you were sitting in your old place, on my knee,

embracing and fondly embraced, and I asked you if you could not love,

you made answer, “I could easily say so, whether I did or not—YOU

SHOULD JUDGE BY MY ACTIONS!” And another time, when you were in the

same posture, and I reproached you with indifference, you replied in

these words, “Do I SEEM INDIFFERENT?” Was I to blame after this to

indulge my passion for the loveliest of her sex? Or what can I think?

S. I am no prude, Sir.

H. Yet you might be taken for one. So your mother said, “It was hard if

you might not indulge in a little levity.” She has strange notions of

levity. But levity, my dear, is quite out of character in you. Your

ordinary walk is as if you were performing some religious ceremony: you

come up to my table of a morning, when you merely bring in the

tea-things, as if you were advancing to the altar. You move in

minuet-time: you measure every step, as if you were afraid of offending

in the smallest things. I never hear your approach on the stairs, but

by a sort of hushed silence. When you enter the room, the Graces wait

on you, and Love waves round your person in gentle undulations,

breathing balm into the soul! By Heaven, you are an angel! You look

like one at this instant! Do I not adore you—and have I merited this

return?

S. I have repeatedly answered that question. You sit and fancy things

out of your own head, and then lay them to my charge. There is not a

word of truth in your suspicions.

H. Did I not overhear the conversation down-stairs last night, to which

you were a party? Shall I repeat it?

S. I had rather not hear it!

H. Or what am I to think of this story of the footman?

S. It is false, Sir, I never did anything of the sort.

H. Nay, when I told your mother I wished she wouldn’t * * * * * * * * *

(as I heard she did) she said “Oh, there’s nothing in that, for Sarah

very often * * * * * *,” and your doing so before company, is only a

trifling addition to the sport.

S. I’ll call my mother, Sir, and she shall contradict you.

H. Then she’ll contradict herself. But did not you boast you were “very

persevering in your resistance to gay young men,” and had been “several

times obliged to ring the bell?” Did you always ring it? Or did you get

into these dilemmas that made it necessary, merely by the demureness of

your looks and ways? Or had nothing else passed? Or have you two

characters, one that you palm off upon me, and another, your natural

one, that you resume when you get out of the room, like an actress who

throws aside her artificial part behind the scenes? Did you not, when I

was courting you on the staircase the first night Mr. C—— came, beg me

to desist, for if the new lodger heard us, he’d take you for a light

character? Was that all? Were you only afraid of being TAKEN for a

light character? Oh! Sarah!

S. I’ll stay and hear this no longer.

H. Yes, one word more. Did you not love another?

S. Yes, and ever shall most sincerely.

H. Then, THAT is my only hope. If you could feel this sentiment for

him, you cannot be what you seem to me of late. But there is another

thing I had to say—be what you will, I love you to distraction! You are

the only woman that ever made me think she loved me, and that feeling

was so new to me, and so delicious, that it “will never from my heart.”

Thou wert to me a little tender flower, blooming in the wilderness of

my life; and though thou should’st turn out a weed, I’ll not fling thee

from me, while I can help it. Wert thou all that I dread to think—wert

thou a wretched wanderer in the street, covered with rags, disease, and

infamy, I’d clasp thee to my bosom, and live and die with thee, my

love. Kiss me, thou little sorceress!

S. NEVER.

H. Then go: but remember I cannot live without you—nor I will not.

THE RECONCILIATION

H. I have then lost your friendship?

S. Nothing tends more to alienate friendship than insult.

H. The words I uttered hurt me more than they did you.

S. It was not words merely, but actions as well.

H. Nothing I can say or do can ever alter my fondness for you—Ah,

Sarah! I am unworthy of your love: I hardly dare ask for your pity; but

oh! save me—save me from your scorn: I cannot bear it—it withers me

like lightning.

S. I bear no malice, Sir; but my brother, who would scorn to tell a lie

for his sister, can bear witness for me that there was no truth in what

you were told.

H. I believe it; or there is no truth in woman. It is enough for me to

know that you do not return my regard; it would be too much for me to

think that you did not deserve it. But cannot you forgive the agony of

the moment?

S. I can forgive; but it is not easy to forget some things!

H. Nay, my sweet Sarah (frown if you will, I can bear your resentment

for my ill behaviour, it is only your scorn and indifference that

harrow up my soul)—but I was going to ask, if you had been engaged to

be married to any one, and the day was fixed, and he had heard what I

did, whether he could have felt any true regard for the character of

his bride, his wife, if he had not been hurt and alarmed as I was?

S. I believe, actual contracts of marriage have sometimes been broken

off by unjust suspicions.

H. Or had it been your old friend, what do you think he would have said

in my case?

S. He would never have listened to anything of the sort.

H. He had greater reasons for confidence than I have. But it is your

repeated cruel rejection of me that drives me almost to madness. Tell

me, love, is there not, besides your attachment to him, a repugnance to

me?

S. No, none whatever.

H. I fear there is an original dislike, which no efforts of mine can

overcome.

S. It is not you—it is my feelings with respect to another, which are

unalterable.

H. And yet you have no hope of ever being his? And yet you accuse me of

being romantic in my sentiments.

S. I have indeed long ceased to hope; but yet I sometimes hope against

hope.

H. My love! were it in my power, thy hopes should be fulfilled

to-morrow. Next to my own, there is nothing that could give me so much

satisfaction as to see thine realized! Do I not love thee, when I can

feel such an interest in thy love for another? It was that which first

wedded my very soul to you. I would give worlds for a share in a heart

so rich in pure affection!

S. And yet I did not tell you of the circumstance to raise myself in

your opinion.

H. You are a sublime little thing! And yet, as you have no prospects

there, I cannot help thinking, the best thing would be to do as I have

said.

S. I would never marry a man I did not love beyond all the world.

H. I should be satisfied with less than that—with the love, or regard,

or whatever you call it, you have shown me before marriage, if that has

only been sincere. You would hardly like me less afterwards.

S. Endearments would, I should think, increase regard, where there was

love beforehand; but that is not exactly my case.

H. But I think you would be happier than you are at present. You take

pleasure in my conversation, and you say you have an esteem for me; and

it is upon this, after the honeymoon, that marriage chiefly turns.

S. Do you think there is no pleasure in a single life?

H. Do you mean on account of its liberty?

S. No, but I feel that forced duty is no duty. I have high ideas of the

married state!

H. Higher than of the maiden state?

S. I understand you, Sir.

H. I meant nothing; but you have sometimes spoken of any serious

attachment as a tie upon you. It is not that you prefer flirting with

“gay young men” to becoming a mere dull domestic wife?

S. You have no right to throw out such insinuations: for though I am

but a tradesman’s daughter, I have as nice a sense of honour as anyone

can have.

H. Talk of a tradesman’s daughter! you would ennoble any family, thou

glorious girl, by true nobility of mind.

S. Oh! Sir, you flatter me. I know my own inferiority to most.

H. To none; there is no one above thee, man nor woman either. You are

above your situation, which is not fit for you.

S. I am contented with my lot, and do my duty as cheerfully as I can.

H. Have you not told me your spirits grow worse every year?

S. Not on that account: but some disappointments are hard to bear up

against.

H. If you talk about that, you’ll unman me. But tell me, my love,—I

have thought of it as something that might account for some

circumstances; that is, as a mere possibility. But tell me, there was

not a likeness between me and your old lover that struck you at first

sight? Was there?

S. No, Sir, none.

H. Well, I didn’t think it likely there should.

S. But there was a likeness.

H. To whom?

S. To that little image! (looking intently on a small bronze figure of

Buonaparte on the mantelpiece).

H. What, do you mean to Buonaparte?

S. Yes, all but the nose was just like.

H. And was his figure the same?

S. He was taller!

[I got up and gave her the image, and told her it was hers by every

right that was sacred. She refused at first to take so valuable a

curiosity, and said she would keep it for me. But I pressed it eagerly,

and she look it. She immediately came and sat down, and put her arm

round my neck, and kissed me, and I said, “Is it not plain we are the

best friends in the world, since we are always so glad to make it up?”

And then I added “How odd it was that the God of my idolatry should

turn out to be like her Idol, and said it was no wonder that the same

face which awed the world should conquer the sweetest creature in it!”

How I loved her at that moment! Is it possible that the wretch who

writes this could ever have been so blest! Heavenly delicious creature!

Can I live without her? Oh! no—never—never.

“What is this world? What asken men to have,

Now with his love, now in the cold grave,

Alone, withouten any compagnie!”

Let me but see her again! She cannot hate the man who loves her as I

do.]

LETTERS TO THE SAME

Feb., 1822.

—You will scold me for this, and ask me if this is keeping my promise

to mind my work. One half of it was to think of Sarah: and besides, I

do not neglect my work either, I assure you. I regularly do ten pages a

day, which mounts up to thirty guineas’ worth a week, so that you see I

should grow rich at this rate, if I could keep on so; AND I COULD KEEP

ON SO, if I had you with me to encourage me with your sweet smiles, and

share my lot. The Berwick smacks sail twice a week, and the wind sits

fair. When I think of the thousand endearing caresses that have passed

between us, I do not wonder at the strong attachment that draws me to

you; but I am sorry for my own want of power to please. I hear the wind

sigh through the lattice, and keep repeating over and over to myself

two lines of Lord Byron’s Tragedy—

“So shalt thou find me ever at thy side

Here and hereafter, if the last may be.”—

applying them to thee, my love, and thinking whether I shall ever see

thee again. Perhaps not—for some years at least—till both thou and I

are old—and then, when all else have forsaken thee, I will creep to

thee, and die in thine arms. You once made me believe I was not hated

by her I loved; and for that sensation, so delicious was it, though but

a mockery and a dream, I owe you more than I can ever pay. I thought to

have dried up my tears for ever, the day I left you; but as I write

this, they stream again. If they did not, I think my heart would burst.

I walk out here of an afternoon, and hear the notes of the thrush, that

come up from a sheltered valley below, welcome in the spring; but they

do not melt my heart as they used: it is grown cold and dead. As you

say, it will one day be colder.—Forgive what I have written above; I

did not intend it: but you were once my little all, and I cannot bear

the thought of having lost you for ever, I fear through my own fault.

Has any one called? Do not send any letters that come. I should like

you and your mother (if agreeable) to go and see Mr. Kean in Othello,

and Miss Stephens in Love in a Village. If you will, I will write to

Mr. T——, to send you tickets. Has Mr. P—— called? I think I must send

to him for the picture to kiss and talk to. Kiss me, my best beloved.

Ah! if you can never be mine, still let me be your proud and happy

slave.

H.

TO THE SAME

March, 1822.

—You will be glad to learn I have done my work—a volume in less than a

month. This is one reason why I am better than when I came, and another

is, I have had two letters from Sarah. I am pleased I have got through

this job, as I was afraid I might lose reputation by it (which I can

little afford to lose)—and besides, I am more anxious to do well now,

as I wish you to hear me well spoken of. I walk out of an afternoon,

and hear the birds sing as I told you, and think, if I had you hanging

on my arm, and that for life, how happy I should be—happier than I ever

hoped to be, or had any conception of till I knew you. “But that can

never be”—I hear you answer in a soft, low murmur. Well, let me dream

of it sometimes—I am not happy too often, except when that favourite

note, the harbinger of spring, recalling the hopes of my youth,

whispers thy name and peace together in my ear. I was reading something

about Mr. Macready to-day, and this put me in mind of that delicious

night, when I went with your mother and you to see Romeo and Juliet.

Can I forget it for a moment—your sweet modest looks, your infinite

propriety of behaviour, all your sweet winning ways—your hesitating

about taking my arm as we came out till your mother did—your laughing

about nearly losing your cloak—your stepping into the coach without my

being able to make the slightest discovery—and oh! my sitting down

beside you there, you whom I had loved so long, so well, and your

assuring me I had not lessened your pleasure at the play by being with

you, and giving me your dear hand to press in mine! I thought I was in

heaven—that slender exquisitely-turned form contained my all of heaven

upon earth; and as I folded you—yes, you, my own best Sarah, to my

bosom, there was, as you say, A TIE BETWEEN US—you did seem to me, for

those few short moments, to be mine in all truth and honour and

sacredness—Oh! that we could be always so—Do not mock me, for I am a

very child in love. I ought to beg pardon for behaving so ill

afterwards, but I hope THE LITTLE IMAGE made it up between us, &c.

[To this letter I have received no answer, not a line. The rolling

years of eternity will never fill up that blank. Where shall I be? What

am I? Or where have I been?]

WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMION

I want a hand to guide me, an eye to cheer me, a bosom to repose on;

all which I shall never have, but shall stagger into my grave, old

before my time, unloved and unlovely, unless S. L. keeps her faith with

me.

—But by her dove’s eyes and serpent-shape, I think she does not hate

me; by her smooth forehead and her crested hair, I own I love her; by

her soft looks and queen-like grace (which men might fall down and

worship) I swear to live and die for her!

A PROPOSAL OF LOVE

(Given to her in our early acquaintance)

“Oh! if I thought it could be in a woman

(As, if it can, I will presume in you)

To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love,

To keep her constancy in plight and youth,

Outliving beauties outward with a mind

That doth renew swifter than blood decays:

Or that persuasion could but thus convince me,

That my integrity and truth to you

Might be confronted with the match and weight

Of such a winnowed purity in love—

How were I then uplifted! But, alas,

I am as true as truth’s simplicity,

And simpler than the infancy of truth.”

TROILUS AND CRESSIDA.