Six Sat. morning, July 8.
Have I nothing new, nothing diverting, in my whimsical way, thou askest, in one of thy three letters before me, to entertain thee with? —And thou tellest me, that, when I have least to narrate, to speak in the Scotish phrase, I am most diverting. A pretty compliment, either to thyself, or to me. To both indeed! —A sign that thou hast as frothy a heart as I a head. But canst thou suppose, that this admirable woman is not All, is not Every-thing, with me? Yet I dread to think of her too; for detection of all my contrivances, I doubt, must come next.
The old Peer is also full of Miss Harlowe; and so are my cousins. He hopes I will not be such a dog [There’s a specimen of his peer-like dialect], as to think of doing dishonourably by a woman of so much merit, beauty, and fortune; and, he says, of so good a family. But I tell him, that this is a string he must not touch: That it is a very tender point: In short, is my sore place; and that I am afraid he would handle it too roughly, were I to put myself into the power of so ungentle an operator.
He shakes his crazy head. He thinks all is not as it should be between us; longs to have me present her to him, as my wife; and often tells me what great things he will do, additional to his former proposals; and what presents he will make on the birth of the first child.
But I hope the whole will be in my hands before such an event take place. No harm in hoping, Jack! My uncle says, Were it not for hope, the heart would break .
Eight o’clock at Mid-summer, and these lazy varletesses (in full health) not come down yet to breakfast! —What a confounded indecency in young ladies, to let a Rake know that they love their beds so dearly, and, at the same time, where to have them ! But I’ll punish them: They shall breakfast with their old uncle, and yawn at one another, as if for a wager: While I drive my Phaeton to Col. Ambrose’s, who yesterday gave me invitation both to breakfast and dine, on account of two Yorkshire nieces, celebrated toasts, who have been with him this fortnight past; and who, he says, want to see me . So, Jack, all women do not run away from me, thank Heaven! —I wish I could have leave of my heart, since the dear fugitive is so ingrateful, to drive her out of it with another Beauty. But who can supplant her? Who can be admitted to a place in it, after Miss Clarissa Harlowe?
At my return, if I can find a subject, I will scribble on, to oblige thee.
My Phaeton’s ready: My cousins send me word they are just coming down: So in spite I’ll be gone.—
I did stay to dine with the Colonel, and his Lady and Nieces: But I could not pass the afternoon with them, for the heart of me. There was enough in the persons and faces of the two young ladies to set me upon comparisons. Particular features held my attention for a few moments: But those served but to whet my impatience to find the charmer of my soul; who, for person, for air, for mind, had never any equal. My heart recoil’d and sicken’d upon comparing minds and conversation. Pert wit, a too studied-for desire to please; each in high good humour with herself; an open-mouth affectation in both, to shew white teeth, as if the principal excellence; and to invite amorous familiarity, by the promise of a sweet breath; at the same time reflecting tacitly upon breaths arrogantly implied to be less pure.
Once I could have borne them.
They seemed to be disappointed, that I was so soon able to leave them. Yet have I not at present so much vanity (My Clarissa has cured me of my vanity!), as to attribute their disappointment so much to particular liking of me, as to their own self-admiration. They looked upon me, as a connoisseur in beauty. They would have been proud of engaging my attention, as such: But so affected, so flimsy-witted, mere skin-deep beauties! —They had looked no further into themselves than what their glasses had enabled them to see: And their glasses were flattering-glasses too; for I thought them passive-faced, and spiritless; with eyes, however, upon the hunt for conquests, and bespeaking the attention of others, in order to countenance their own. —I believe I could, with a little pains, have given them life and soul, and to every feature of their faces sparkling information—But my Clarissa! —O Belford, my Clarissa has made me eyeless and senseless to every other Beauty! —Do thou find her for me, as a subject worthy of my pen, or This shall be the last from
Thy Lovelace .