Art thou able to say half the things in her praise, that I have said, and
am continually saying or writing?
Her gloomy father cursed the sweet creature, because she put it out of
his wicked power to compel her to have the man she hated. Thou knowest
how little merit she has with me on this score.--And shall I not try the
virtue I intended, upon full proof, to reward, because her father is a
tyrant?--Why art thou thus eternally reflecting upon so excellent a
woman, as if thou wert assured she would fail in the trial?--Nay, thou
declarest, every time thou writest on the subject, that she will, that
she must yield, entangled as she is: and yet makest her virtue the
pretence of thy solicitude for her.
An instrument of the vile James Harlowe, dost thou call me?--O Jack! how
could I curse thee!--I am instrument of that brother! of that sister!
But mark the end--and thou shalt see what will become of that brother,
and of that sister!
Play not against me my own acknowledged sensibilities, I desire thee.
Sensibilities, which at the same time that they contradict thy charge of
an adamantine heart in thy friend, thou hadst known nothing of, had I not
communicated them to thee.
If I ruin such a virtue, sayest thou!--Eternal monotonist!--Again; the
most immaculate virtue may be ruined by men who have no regard to their
honour, and who make a jest of the most solemn oaths, &c. What must be
the virtue that will be ruined without oaths? Is not the world full of
these deceptions? And are not lovers' oaths a jest of hundreds of years'
standing? And are not cautions against the perfidy of our sex a
necessary part of the female education?
I do intend to endeavour to overcome myself; but I must first try, if I
cannot overcome this lady. Have I not said, that the honour of her sex
is concerned that I should try?
Whenever thou meetest with a woman of but half her perfections, thou wilt
marry--Do, Jack.
Can a girl be degraded by trials, who is not overcome?
I am glad that thou takest crime to thyself, for not endeavouring to
convert the poor wretches whom others have ruined. I will not
recriminate upon thee, Belford, as I might, when thou flatterest thyself
that thou never ruinedst the morals of any young creature, who otherwise
would not have been corrupted--the palliating consolation of an Hottentot
heart, determined rather to gluttonize on the garbage of other foul
feeders than to reform.--But tell me, Jack, wouldst thou have spared such
a girl as my Rosebud, had I not, by my example, engaged thy generosity?
Nor was my Rosebud the only girl I spared:--When my power was
acknowledged, who more merciful than thy friend?
It is resistance that inflames desire,
Sharpens the darts of love, and blows its fire.
Love is disarm'd that meets with too much ease;
He languishes, and does not care to please.
The women know this as well as the men. They love to be addressed with
spirit:
And therefore 'tis their golden fruit they guard
With so much care, to make profession hard.
Whence, for a by-reflection, the ardent, the complaisant gallant is so
often preferred to the cold, the unadoring husband. And yet the sex do
not consider, that variety and novelty give the ardour and the
obsequiousness; and that, were the rake as much used to them as the
husband is, he would be [and is to his own wife, if married] as
indifferent to their favours, as their husbands are; and the husband, in
his turn, would, to another woman, be the rake. Let the women, upon the
whole, take this lesson from a Lovelace--'Always to endeavour to make
themselves as new to a husband, and to appear as elegant and as obliging
to him, as they are desirous to appear to a lover, and actually were to
him as such; and then the rake, which all women love, will last longer in
the husband, than it generally does.'
But to return:--If I have not sufficiently cleared my conduct to thee in
the above; I refer thee once more to mine of the 13th of last month.*
And pr'ythee, Jack, lay me not under a necessity to repeat the same
things so often. I hope thou readest what I write more than once.
* See Vol. II. Letter XIV.
I am not displeased that thou art so apprehensive of my resentment, that
I cannot miss a day without making thee uneasy. Thy conscience, 'tis
plain, tells thee, that thou has deserved my displeasure: and if it has
convinced thee of that, it will make thee afraid of repeating thy fault.
See that this be the consequence. Else, now that thou hast told me how I
can punish thee, it is very likely that I do punish thee by my silence,
although I have as much pleasure in writing on this charming subject, as
thou canst have in reading what I write.
When a boy, if a dog ran away from me through fear, I generally looked
about for a stone, or a stick; and if neither offered to my hand, I
skinned my hat after him to make him afraid for something. What
signifies power, if we do not exert it?
Let my Lord know, that thou hast scribbled to me. But give him not the
contents of thy epistle. Though a parcel of crude stuff, he would think
there was something in it. Poor arguments will do, when brought in
favour of what we like. But the stupid peer little thinks that this lady
is a rebel to Love. On the contrary, not only he, but all the world
believe her to be a volunteer in his service.--So I shall incur blame,
and she will be pitied, if any thing happen amiss.
Since my Lord's heart is set upon this match, I have written already to
let him know, 'That my unhappy character had given my beloved an
ungenerous diffidence of me. That she is so mother-sick and father-fond,
that she had rather return to Harlowe-place than marry. That she is even
apprehensive that the step she has taken of going off with me will make
the ladies of a family of such rank and honour as ours think slightly of
her. That therefore I desire his Lordship (though this hint, I tell him,
must be very delicately touched) to write me such a letter as I can shew
her; (let him treat me in it ever so freely, I shall not take it amiss, I
tell him, because I know his Lordship takes pleasure in writing to me in
a corrective style). That he may make what offers he pleases on the
marriage. That I desire his presence at the ceremony; that I may take
from his hand the greatest blessing that mortal man can give me.'
I have not absolutely told the lady that I would write to his Lordship to
this effect; yet have given her reason to think I will. So that without
the last necessity I shall not produce the answer I expect from him: for
I am very loth, I own, to make use of any of my family's names for the
furthering of my designs. And yet I must make all secure, before I pull
off the mask. Was not this my motive for bringing her hither?
Thus thou seest that the old peer's letter came very seasonably. I thank
thee for that. But as to his sentences, they cannot possibly do me good.
I was early suffocated with his wisdom of nations. When a boy, I never
asked anything of him, but out flew a proverb; and if the tendency of
that was to deny me, I never could obtain the least favour. This gave me
so great an aversion to the very word, that, when a child, I made it a
condition with my tutor, who was an honest parson, that I would not read
my Bible at all, if he would not excuse me one of the wisest books in it:
to which, however, I had no other objection, than that it was called The
Proverbs. And as for Solomon, he was then a hated character with me, not
because of his polygamy, but because I had conceived him to be such
another musty old fellow as my uncle.
Well, but let us leave old saws to old me. What signifies thy tedious
whining over thy departing relation? Is it not generally agreed that he
cannot recover? Will it not be kind in thee to put him out of his
misery? I hear that he is pestered still with visits from doctors, and
apothecaries, and surgeons; that they cannot cut so deep as the
mortification has gone; and that in every visit, in every scarification,
inevitable death is pronounced upon him. Why then do they keep
tormenting him? Is it not to take away more of his living fleece than of
his dead flesh?--When a man is given over, the fee should surely be
refused. Are they not now robbing his heirs?--What has thou to do, if
the will be as thou'dst have it?--He sent for thee [did he not?] to close
his eyes. He is but an uncle, is he?
Let me see, if I mistake not, it is in the Bible, or some other good
book: can it be in Herodotus?--O I believe it is in Josephus, a half-
sacred, and half-profane author. He tells us of a king of Syria put out
of his pain by his prime minister, or one who deserved to be so for his
contrivance. The story says, if I am right, that he spread a wet cloth
over his face, which killing him, he reigned in his place. A notable
fellow! Perhaps this wet cloth in the original, is what we now call
laudanum; a potion that overspreads the faculties, as the wet cloth did
the face of the royal patient; and the translator knew not how to render
it.
But how like forlorn varlet thou subscribest, 'Thy melancholy friend, J.
BELFORD!' Melancholy! For what? To stand by, and see fair play between
an old man and death? I thought thou hadst been more of a man; that thou
art not afraid of an acute death, a sword's point, to be so plaugily
hip'd at the consequences of a chronical one!--What though the
scarificators work upon him day by day? It's only upon a caput mortuum:
and pr'ythee go to, to use the stylum veterum, and learn of the royal
butchers; who, for sport, (an hundred times worse men than thy Lovelace,)
widow ten thousand at a brush, and make twice as many fatherless--learn
of them, I say, how to support a single death.
But art thou sure, Jack, it is a mortification?--My uncle once gave
promises of such a root-and-branch distemper: but, alas! it turned to a
smart gout-fit; and I had the mortification instead of him.--I have heard
that bark, in proper doses, will arrest a mortification in its progress,
and at last cure it. Let thy uncle's surgeon know, that it is worth more
than his ears, if he prescribe one grain of the bark.
I wish my uncle had given me the opportunity of setting thee a better
example: thou shouldst have seen what a brave fellow I had been. And had
I had occasion to write, my conclusion would have been this: 'I hope the
old Trojan's happy. In that hope, I am so; and
'Thy rejoicing friend,
'R. LOVELACE.'
Dwell not always, Jack, upon one subject. Let me have poor Belton's
story. The sooner the better. If I can be of service to him, tell
him he may command me either in purse or person. Yet the former with
a freer will than the latter; for how can I leave my goddess? But
I'll issue my commands to my other vassals to attend thy summons.
If ye want head, let me know. If not, my quota, on this occasion, is
money.