Letter 12: MISS HOWE, TO MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE THURSDAY MORNING, MARCH 2.

March 2

Indeed you would not be in love with him for the world ! —Your servant, my dear. Nor would he have you: For I think, with all the advantages of person, fortune, and family, he is not by any means worthy of you. And this opinion I give as well from the reasons you mention, which I cannot but confirm, as from what I have heard of him but a few hours ago from Mrs. Fortescue, a favourite of lady Betty Lawrance, who knows him well. —But let me congratulate you, however, on your being the first of our sex, that ever I heard of, who has been able to turn the lion, Love, at her own pleasure, into a lap-dog.

Well but, if you have not the throbs and the glows you have not: And are not in love; good reason why—because you would not be in love; and there’s no more to be said. —Only, my dear, I shall keep a good look-out upon you; and so I hope you will upon yourself: For it is no manner of argument, that because you would not be in love, you are not. —But before I part intirely with this subject, a word in your ear, my charming friend—‘Tis only by way of caution, and in pursuance of the general observation, that a stander-by is often a better judge of the game than those that play. —May it not be, that you have had and have, such cross creatures, and such odd hearts to deal with, as have not allow’d you to attend to the throbs? —Or, if you had them a little now and then, whether, having had two accounts to place them to, you have not, by mistake, put them to the wrong one?

But whether you have a value for this Lovelace, or not, I know you’ll be impatient to hear what Mr.

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Fortescue has said of him. Nor will I keep you longer in suspense.

An hundred wild stories she tells of him, from childhood to manhood: for, as she observes, having never been subject to contradiction, he was always as mischievous as a monkey. But I shall pass over these whole hundred of his puerile rogueries, altho’ indicative ones, as I may say, to take notice as well of some things you are not quite ignorant of, as of others you know not; and to make a few observations upon him and his ways.

Mrs. Fortescue owns, what every-body knows, that he is notoriously, nay, avowedly, a man of pleasure; yet says, that in any thing he sets his heart upon, or undertakes, he is the most industrious and persevering mortal under the sun. He rests, it seems, not above six hours in the twenty-four, any more than you. He delights in writing. Whether at his Uncle’s, or at Lady Betty’s, or Lady Sarah’s, he has always, when he retires, a pen in his fingers. One of his companions, confirming his love of writing, has told her, that his thoughts flow rapidly to his pen: And you and I, my dear, have observed, on more occasions than one, that tho’ he writes even a fine hand, he is one of the readiest and quickest of writers. He must indeed have had early a very docile genius; since a person of his pleasurable turn, and active spirit, could ever have submitted to take long or great pains in attaining the qualifications he is master of; qualifications so seldom attainable by youth of quality and fortune; by such especially of those of either, who, like him, have never known what it was to be controuled.

He had once the vanity, upon being complimented on these talents (and on his surprising diligence for a man of pleasure) to compare himself to Julius Cæsar; who perform’d great actions by day, and wrote them down at night: And valued himself, that he

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only wanted Cæsar’s outsetting, to make a figure among his contemporaries.

He spoke this, indeed, she says, with an air of pleasantry: For she observed, and so have we, that he has the art of acknowleging his vanity, with so much humour, that it sets him above the contempt which is due to vanity and self-opinion; and at the same time half-persuades those who hear him, that he really deserves the exaltation he gives himself.

But supposing it to be true, that all his vacant nightly hours are imploy’d in writing, what can be his subjects? If, like Cæsar, his own actions, he must undoubtedly be a very enterprising and very wicked man since no-body suspects him to have a serious turn. And, decent as he is in his conversation with us, his writings are not probably such as will redound either to his own honour, or to the benefit of others, were they to be read. He must be conscious of this, since Mrs. Fortescue says, that, in the great correspondence by letters which he holds, he is as secret and careful, as if it were of a treasonable nature;—yet troubles not his head with politics, tho’ no body knows the interests of princes and courts better than he.

That you and I, my dear, should love to write, is no wonder. We have always, from the time each could hold a pen, delighted in epistolary correspondencies. Our employments are domestic and sedentary; and we can scribble upon twenty innocent subjects, and take delight in them because they are innocent; tho’ were they to be seen, they might not much profit or please others. But that such a gay lively young fellow as this, who rides, hunts, travels, frequents the public entertainments, and by means to pursue his pleasures, should be able to set himself down to write for hours together, as you and I have heard him say he frequently does, that is the strange thing.

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Mrs. Fortescue says, that he is a complete master of short-hand writing. By the way, what inducements could such a swift writer as he have, to learn short-hand?

She says (and we know it as well as she) that he has a surprising memory; and a very lively imagination.

Whatever his other vices are, all the world, as well as Mrs. Fortescue, say, he is a sober man. And among all his bad qualities, gaming, that great waster of time, as well as fortune, is not his vice: So that he must have his head as cool, and his reason as clear, as the prime of youth, and his natural gaiety, will permit; and, by his early morning hours, a great portion of time upon his hands, to employ in writing, or worse.

Mrs. Fortescue says, he has one gentleman, who is more his intimate and correspondent than any of the rest. You remember what his dismiss’d bailiff said of him, and of his associates. I don’t find, but that man’s character of him was in general pretty just. Mrs. Fortescue confirms this part of it, that all his relations are afraid of him; and that his pride sets him above owing obligations to them. She believes he is clear of the world; and that he will continue so: No doubt from the same motive that makes him avoid being oblig’d to his relations.

A person willing to think favourably of him would hope, that a brave, a learned, and a diligent man, cannot be naturally a bad man. —But if he be better than his enemies say he is (and, if worse, he is bad indeed), he is guilty of an inexcusable fault, in being so careless as he is of his reputation. I think a man can he so but from one of these two reasons: Either that he is conscious he deserves the evil spoken of him; or, that he takes a pride in being thought worse than he is: —Both very bad and threatening indications: Since he first must shew him to be utterly abandon’d; and it is but natural to conclude from the other, that what a man is not asham’d to have imputed to him, he will

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not scruple to be guilty of, whenever he has opportunity.

Upon the whole, and upon all that I could gather from Mrs. Fortescue, Mr. Lovelace is a very faulty man: You and I have thought him too gay, too inconsiderate, too rash, too little an hypocrite, to be deep . You see he never would disguise his natural temper (haughty as it certainly is), with respect to your brother’s behaviour to him: Where he thinks a contempt due, he pays it to the uttermost: Nor has he complaisance enough to spare your uncles.

But were he deep, and ever so deep, you would soon penetrate him, if they would leave you to yourself. His vanity would be your clue. Never man had more: Yet, as Mrs. Fortescue observed, never did man carry it off so happily. There is a strange mixture in it of humourous vivacity: —For but one half of what he says of himself, when he is in the vein, any other man would be insufferable.

 

  

Talk of the devil, is an old saying. —The lively wretch has made me a visit, and is but just gone away. He is all impatience and resentment, at the treatment you meet with; and full of apprehensions too, that they will carry their point with you.

I told him my opinion, that you will never be brought to think of such a man as Solmes; but that is will probably end in a composition, never to have either.

No man, he said, whose fortunes and alliances are so considerable, ever had so little favour from a lady, for whose sake he had borne so much.

I told him my mind, as freely as I used to do. But who ever was in fault, Self being judge? He complain’d of spies set upon his conduct, and to pry into his life and morals; and this by your brother and uncles.

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I told him, that this was very hard upon him; and the more so, as neither the one nor the other, perhaps, would stand a fair inquiry.

He smiled, and called himself my servant . —The occasion was too fair, he said, for Miss Howe, who never spared him, to let it pass. —But, Lord help their shallow souls, would I believe it? they were for turning plotters upon him . They had best take care he did not pay them in their own coin. Their hearts were better turn’d for such works, than their heads .

I asked him, if he valued himself upon having a head better turn’d than theirs for such works, as he call’d them?

He drew off: And then ran into the highest professions of reverence and affection for you. The object so meritorious, who can doubt the reality of his professions?

Adieu, my dearest, my noble friend! —I love and admire you for the generous conclusion of your last more than I can express. Tho’ I began this letter with impertinent raillery, knowing that you always loved to indulge my mad vein, yet never was there a heart that more glowed with friendly love, than that of

Your own
Anna Howe .

 

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