I thank you and Mr. Hickman for his letter, sent me with such kind
expedition; and proceed to obey my dear menacing tyranness.
[She then gives the particulars of what passed between herself and Mr.
Lovelace on Tuesday morning, in relation to his four friends, and to
Miss Partington, pretty much to the same effect as in Mr. Lovelace's
Letter, No. XIII. And then proceeds:]
He is constantly accusing me of over-scrupulousness. He says, 'I am
always out of humour with him: that I could not have behaved more
reservedly to Mr. Solmes: and that it is contrary to all his hopes and
notions, that he should not, in so long a time, find himself able to
inspire the person, whom he hoped so soon to have the honour to call his,
with the least distinguishing tenderness for him before-hand.'
Silly and partial encroacher! not to know to what to attribute the
reserve I am forced to treat him with! But his pride has eaten up his
prudence. It is indeed a dirty low pride, that has swallowed up the true
pride which should have set him above the vanity that has overrun him.
Yet he pretends that he has no pride but in obliging me: and is always
talking of his reverence and humility, and such sort of stuff: but of
this I am sure that he has, as I observed the first time I saw him,* too
much regard to his own person, greatly to value that of his wife, marry
he whom he will: and I must be blind, if I did not see that he is
exceedingly vain of his external advantages, and of that address, which,
if it has any merit in it to an outward eye, is perhaps owing more to his
confidence that [sic] to any thing else.
* See Vol. I. Letter III.
Have you not beheld the man, when I was your happy guest, as he walked to
his chariot, looking about him, as if to observe what eyes his specious
person and air had attracted?
But indeed we had some homely coxcombs as proud as if they had persons to
be proud of; at the same time that it was apparent, that the pains they
took about themselves but the more exposed their defects.
The man who is fond of being thought more or better than he is, as I have
often observed, but provokes a scrutiny into his pretensions; and that
generally produces contempt. For pride, as I believe I have heretofore
said, is an infallible sign of weakness; of something wrong in the head
or in both. He that exalts himself insults his neighbour; who is
provoked to question in him even that merit, which, were he modest, would
perhaps be allowed to be his due.
You will say that I am very grave: and so I am. Mr. Lovelace is
extremely sunk in my opinion since Monday night: nor see I before me any
thing that can afford me a pleasing hope. For what, with a mind so
unequal as his, can be my best hope?
I think I mentioned to you, in my former, that my clothes were brought
me. You fluttered me so, that I am not sure I did. But I know I
designed to mention that they were. They were brought me on Thursday;
but neither my few guineas with them, nor any of my books, except a
Drexelius on Eternity, the good old Practice of Piety, and a Francis
Spira. My brother's wit, I suppose. He thinks he does well to point out
death and despair to me. I wish for the one, and every now-and-then am
on the brink of the other.
You will the less wonder at my being so very solemn, when, added to the
above, and to my uncertain situation, I tell you, that they have sent me
with these books a letter form my cousin Morden. It has set my heart
against Mr. Lovelace. Against myself too. I send it enclosed. If you
please, my dear, you may read it here: