Yet, God knows my heart, I had no culpable inclinations!—I honoured virtue!—I hated vice!—But I knew not, that you were vice itself!
Paper IX
Had the happiness of any of the poorest outcast in the world, whom I had never seen, never known, never before heard of, lain as much in my power, as my happiness did in yours, my benevolent heart would have made me fly to the succour of such a poor distressed—with what pleasure would I have raised the dejected head, and comforted the desponding heart!—But who now shall pity the poor wretch, who has increased, instead of diminished, the number of the miserable!
Paper X
Lead me, where my own thoughts themselves may lose me;
Where I may dose out what I’ve left of life,
Forget myself, and that day’s guile!—
Cruel remembrance!—how shall I appease thee?Written in the margin
Death only can be dreadful to the bad;
To innocence ’tis like a bugbear dress’d
To frighten children. Pull but off the mask,
And he’ll appear a friend.—Oh! you have done an act
That blots the face and blush of modesty;
Takes off the rose
From the fair forehead of an innocent love,
And makes a blister there!Then down I laid my head,
Down on cold earth, and for a while was dead;
And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled!
Ah! sottish soul! said I,
When back to its cage again I saw it fly;
Fool! to resume her broken chain,
And row the galley here again!
Fool! to that body to return,
Where it condemn’d and destin’d is to mourn!Written in the margin
I could a tale unfold
—Would harrow up thy soul—O my Miss Howe! if thou hast friendship, help me,
And speak the words of peace to my divided soul,
That wars within me,
And raises ev’ry sense to my confusion.
I’m tott’ring on the brink
Of peace; an thou art all the hold I’ve left!
Assist me—in the pangs of my affliction!
When honour’s lost, ’tis a relief to die:
Death’s but a sure retreat from infamy.Written in the margin
By swift misfortunes
How I am pursu’d!
Which on each other
Are, like waves, renew’d!Then farewell, youth,
And all the joys that dwell
With youth and life!
And life itself, farewell!For life can never be sincerely blest.
Heav’n punishes the bad, and proves the best.
After all, Belford, I have just skimmed over these transcriptions of Dorcas: and I see there are method and good sense in some of them, wild as others of them are; and that her memory, which serves her so well for these poetical flights, is far from being impaired. And this gives me hope, that she will soon recover her charming intellects—though I shall be the sufferer by their restoration, I make no doubt.
But, in the letter she wrote to me, there are yet greater extravagancies; and though I said it was too affecting to give thee a copy of it, yet, after I have let thee see the loose papers enclosed, I think I may throw in a transcript of that. Dorcas therefore shall here transcribe it. I cannot. The reading of it affected me ten times more than the severest reproaches of a regular mind could do.
To Mr. Lovelace
I never intended to write another line to you. I would not see you, if I could help it—O that I never had!
But tell me, of a truth, is Miss Howe really and truly ill?—Very ill?—And is not her illness poison? And don’t you know who gave it to her?
What you, or Mrs. Sinclair, or somebody (I cannot tell who) have done to my poor head, you best know: but I shall never be what I was. My head is gone. I have wept away all my brain, I believe; for I can weep no more. Indeed I have had my full share; so it is no matter.
But, good now, Lovelace, don’t set Mrs. Sinclair upon me again.—I never did her any harm. She so affrights me, when I see her!—Ever since—when was it? I cannot tell. You can, I suppose. She may be a good woman, as far as I know. She was the wife of a man of honour—very likely—though forced to let lodgings for a livelihood. Poor gentlewoman! Let her know I pity her: but don’t let her come near me again—pray don’t!
Yet she may be a very good woman—
What would I say!—I forget what I was going to say.
O Lovelace, you are Satan himself; or he helps you out in everything; and that’s as bad!
But have you really and truly sold yourself to him? And for how long? What duration is your reign to have?
Poor man! The contract will be out: and then what will be your fate!
O Lovelace! if you could be sorry for yourself, I would be sorry too—but when all my doors are fast, and nothing but the keyhole open, and the key of late put into that, to be where you are, in a manner without opening any of them—O wretched, wretched Clarissa Harlowe!
For I never will be Lovelace—let my uncle take it as he pleases.
Well, but now I remember what I was going to say—it is for your good—not mine—for nothing can do me good now!—O thou villainous man! thou hated Lovelace!
But Mrs. Sinclair may be a good woman—if you love me—but that you don’t—but don’t let her bluster up with her worse than mannish airs to me again! O she is a frightful woman! If she be a woman! She needed not to put on that fearful mask to scare me out of my poor wits. But don’t tell her what I say—I have no hatred to her—it
