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diff --git a/2049-h/2049-h.htm b/2049-h/2049-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..262d8f1 --- /dev/null +++ b/2049-h/2049-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4011 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Liber Amoris, by William Hazlitt</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em;} + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.poem {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + font-size: 90%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.letter {text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.noindent {text-indent: 0% } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +sup { vertical-align: top; font-size: 0.6em; } + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Liber Amoris, or, The New Pygmalion, by William Hazlitt</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Liber Amoris, or, The New Pygmalion</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: William Hazlitt</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: January, 2000 [eBook #2049]<br /> +[Most recently updated: December 10, 2022]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Christopher Hapka</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIBER AMORIS, OR, THE NEW PYGMALION ***</div> + +<h1>Liber Amoris,<br/> +or,<br/> +The New Pygmalion</h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">by William Hazlitt</h2> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>ADVERTISEMENT</h2> + +<p> +The circumstances, an outline of which is given in these pages, happened a very +short time ago to a native of North Britain, who left his own country early in +life, in consequence of political animosities and an ill-advised connection in +marriage. It was some years after that he formed the fatal attachment which is +the subject of the following narrative. The whole was transcribed very +carefully with his own hand, a little before he set out for the Continent in +hopes of benefiting by a change of scene, but he died soon after in the +Netherlands—it is supposed, of disappointment preying on a sickly frame +and morbid state of mind. It was his wish that what had been his strongest +feeling while living, should be preserved in this shape when he was no +more.—It has been suggested to the friend, into whose hands the +manuscript was entrusted, that many things (particularly in the Conversations +in the First Part) either childish or redundant, might have been omitted; but a +promise was given that not a word should be altered, and the pledge was held +sacred. The names and circumstances are so far disguised, it is presumed, as to +prevent any consequences resulting from the publication, farther than the +amusement or sympathy of the reader. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part01"><b>PART I</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap01">THE PICTURE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap02">THE INVITATION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap03">THE MESSAGE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap04">THE FLAGEOLET</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap05">THE CONFESSION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap06">THE QUARREL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap07">THE RECONCILIATION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap08">LETTERS TO THE SAME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap09">TO THE SAME</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap10">WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMION</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap11">A PROPOSAL OF LOVE</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part02"><b>PART II</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap12">LETTERS TO C. P., ESQ.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap13">LETTER II</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap14">LETTER III</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap15">LETTER IV</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap16">LETTER V</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap17">LETTER VI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap18">LETTER VII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap19">LETTER VIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap20">TO EDINBURGH</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap21">A THOUGHT</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap22">ANOTHER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap23">ANOTHER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap24">LETTER IX</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap25">LETTER X</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap26">LETTER XI</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap27">TO S. L.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap28">LETTER XII.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap29">UNALTERED LOVE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap30">PERFECT LOVE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap31">FROM C. P., ESQ.</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap32">LETTER XIII</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap33">LETTER THE LAST</a><br /><br /></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#part03"><b>PART III</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap34">ADDRESSED TO J. S. K.——</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap35">TO THE SAME (In continuation)</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#chap36">TO THE SAME (In conclusion)</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part01"></a>PART I</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap01"></a>THE PICTURE</h2> + +<p> +H. Oh! is it you? I had something to shew you—I have got a picture here. +Do you know any one it’s like? +</p> + +<p> +S. No, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. Don’t you think it like yourself? +</p> + +<p> +S. No: it’s much handsomer than I can pretend to be. +</p> + +<p> +H. That’s because you don’t see yourself with the same eyes that others do. +<i>I</i> don’t think it handsomer, and the expression is hardly so fine as +yours sometimes is. +</p> + +<p> +S. Now you flatter me. Besides, the complexion is fair, and mine is dark. +</p> + +<p> +H. Thine is pale and beautiful, my love, not dark! But if your colour were a +little heightened, and you wore the same dress, and your hair were let down +over your shoulders, as it is here, it might be taken for a picture of you. +Look here, only see how like it is. The forehead is like, with that little +obstinate protrusion in the middle; the eyebrows are like, and the eyes are +just like yours, when you look up and say—“No—never!” +</p> + +<p> +S. What then, do I always say—“No—never!” when I look up? +</p> + +<p> +H. I don’t know about that—I never heard you say so but once; but that +was once too often for my peace. It was when you told me, “you could never be +mine.” Ah! if you are never to be mine, I shall not long be myself. I cannot go +on as I am. My faculties leave me: I think of nothing, I have no feeling about +any thing but thee: thy sweet image has taken possession of me, haunts me, and +will drive me to distraction. Yet I could almost wish to go mad for thy sake: +for then I might fancy that I had thy love in return, which I cannot live +without! +</p> + +<p> +S. Do not, I beg, talk in that manner, but tell me what this is a picture of. +</p> + +<p> +H. I hardly know; but it is a very small and delicate copy (painted in oil on a +gold ground) of some fine old Italian picture, Guido’s or Raphael’s, but I +think Raphael’s. Some say it is a Madonna; others call it a Magdalen, and say +you may distinguish the tear upon the cheek, though no tear is there. But it +seems to me more like Raphael’s St. Cecilia, “with looks commercing with the +skies,” than anything else.—See, Sarah, how beautiful it is! Ah! dear +girl, these are the ideas I have cherished in my heart, and in my brain; and I +never found any thing to realise them on earth till I met with thee, my love! +While thou didst seem sensible of my kindness, I was but too happy: but now +thou hast cruelly cast me off. +</p> + +<p> +S. You have no reason to say so: you are the same to me as ever. +</p> + +<p> +H. That is, nothing. You are to me everything, and I am nothing to you. Is it +not too true? +</p> + +<p> +S. No. +</p> + +<p> +H. Then kiss me, my sweetest. Oh! could you see your face now—your mouth +full of suppressed sensibility, your downcast eyes, the soft blush upon that +cheek, you would not say the picture is not like because it is too handsome, or +because you want complexion. Thou art heavenly-fair, my love—like her +from whom the picture was taken—the idol of the painter’s heart, as thou +art of mine! Shall I make a drawing of it, altering the dress a little, to shew +you how like it is? +</p> + +<p> +S. As you please.— +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap02"></a> THE INVITATION</h2> + +<p> +H. But I am afraid I tire you with this prosing description of the French +character and abuse of the English? You know there is but one subject on which +I should ever wish to talk, if you would let me. +</p> + +<p> +S. I must say, you don’t seem to have a very high opinion of this country. +</p> + +<p> +H. Yes, it is the place that gave you birth. +</p> + +<p> +S. Do you like the French women better than the English? +</p> + +<p> +H. No: though they have finer eyes, talk better, and are better made. But they +none of them look like you. I like the Italian women I have seen, much better +than the French: they have darker eyes, darker hair, and the accents of their +native tongue are much richer and more melodious. But I will give you a better +account of them when I come back from Italy, if you would like to hear it. +</p> + +<p> +S. I should much. It is for that I have sometimes had a wish for travelling +abroad, to understand something of the manners and characters of different +people. +</p> + +<p> +H. My sweet girl! I will give you the best account I can—unless you would +rather go and judge for yourself. +</p> + +<p> +S. I cannot. +</p> + +<p> +H. Yes, you shall go with me, and you shall go WITH HONOUR—you know what +I mean. +</p> + +<p> +S. You know it is not in your power to take me so. +</p> + +<p> +H. But it soon may: and if you would consent to bear me company, I would swear +never to think of an Italian woman while I am abroad, nor of an English one +after I return home. Thou art to me more than thy whole sex. +</p> + +<p> +S. I require no such sacrifices. +</p> + +<p> +H. Is that what you thought I meant by SACRIFICES last night? But sacrifices +are no sacrifices when they are repaid a thousand fold. +</p> + +<p> +S. I have no way of doing it. +</p> + +<p> +H. You have not the will.— +</p> + +<p> +S. I must go now. +</p> + +<p> +H. Stay, and hear me a little. I shall soon be where I can no more hear thy +voice, far distant from her I love, to see what change of climate and bright +skies will do for a sad heart. I shall perhaps see thee no more, but I shall +still think of thee the same as ever—I shall say to myself, “Where is she +now?—what is she doing?” But I shall hardly wish you to think of me, +unless you could do so more favourably than I am afraid you will. Ah! dearest +creature, I shall be “far distant from you,” as you once said of another, but +you will not think of me as of him, “with the sincerest affection.” The +smallest share of thy tenderness would make me blest; but couldst thou ever +love me as thou didst him, I should feel like a God! My face would change to a +different expression: my whole form would undergo alteration. I was getting +well, I was growing young in the sweet proofs of your friendship: you see how I +droop and wither under your displeasure! Thou art divine, my love, and canst +make me either more or less than mortal. Indeed I am thy creature, thy +slave—I only wish to live for your sake—I would gladly die for +you— +</p> + +<p> +S. That would give me no pleasure. But indeed you greatly overrate my power. +</p> + +<p> +H. Your power over me is that of sovereign grace and beauty. When I am near +thee, nothing can harm me. Thou art an angel of light, shadowing me with thy +softness. But when I let go thy hand, I stagger on a precipice: out of thy +sight the world is dark to me and comfortless. There is no breathing out of +this house: the air of Italy will stifle me. Go with me and lighten it. I can +know no pleasure away from thee— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“But I will come again, my love,<br/> +An’ it were ten thousand mile!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap03"></a> THE MESSAGE</h2> + +<p> +S. Mrs. E—— has called for the book, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. Oh! it is there. Let her wait a minute or two. I see this is a busy-day with +you. How beautiful your arms look in those short sleeves! +</p> + +<p> +S. I do not like to wear them. +</p> + +<p> +H. Then that is because you are merciful, and would spare frail mortals who +might die with gazing. +</p> + +<p> +S. I have no power to kill. +</p> + +<p> +H. You have, you have—Your charms are irresistible as your will is +inexorable. I wish I could see you always thus. But I would have no one else +see you so. I am jealous of all eyes but my own. I should almost like you to +wear a veil, and to be muffled up from head to foot; but even if you were, and +not a glimpse of you could be seen, it would be to no purpose—you would +only have to move, and you would be admired as the most graceful creature in +the world. You smile—Well, if you were to be won by fine speeches— +</p> + +<p> +S. You could supply them! +</p> + +<p> +H. It is however no laughing matter with me; thy beauty kills me daily, and I +shall think of nothing but thy charms, till the last word trembles on my +tongue, and that will be thy name, my love—the name of my Infelice! You +will live by that name, you rogue, fifty years after you are dead. Don’t you +thank me for that? +</p> + +<p> +S. I have no such ambition, Sir. But Mrs. E—— is waiting. +</p> + +<p> +H. She is not in love, like me. You look so handsome to-day, I cannot let you +go. You have got a colour. +</p> + +<p> +S. But you say I look best when I am pale. +</p> + +<p> +H. When you are pale, I think so; but when you have a colour, I then think you +still more beautiful. It is you that I admire; and whatever you are, I like +best. I like you as Miss L——, I should like you still more as Mrs. +——. I once thought you were half inclined to be a prude, and I +admired you as a “pensive nun, devout and pure.” I now think you are more than +half a coquet, and I like you for your roguery. The truth is, I am in love with +you, my angel; and whatever you are, is to me the perfection of thy sex. I care +not what thou art, while thou art still thyself. Smile but so, and turn my +heart to what shape you please! +</p> + +<p> +S. I am afraid, Sir, Mrs. E—— will think you have forgotten her. +</p> + +<p> +H. I had, my charmer. But go, and make her a sweet apology, all graceful as +thou art. One kiss! Ah! ought I not to think myself the happiest of men? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap04"></a> THE FLAGEOLET</h2> + +<p> +H. Where have you been, my love? +</p> + +<p> +S. I have been down to see my aunt, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. And I hope she has been giving you good advice. +</p> + +<p> +S. I did not go to ask her opinion about any thing. +</p> + +<p> +H. And yet you seem anxious and agitated. You appear pale and dejected, as if +your refusal of me had touched your own breast with pity. Cruel girl! you look +at this moment heavenly-soft, saint-like, or resemble some graceful marble +statue, in the moon’s pale ray! Sadness only heightens the elegance of your +features. How can I escape from you, when every new occasion, even your cruelty +and scorn, brings out some new charm. Nay, your rejection of me, by the way in +which you do it, is only a new link added to my chain. Raise those downcast +eyes, bend as if an angel stooped, and kiss me. . . . Ah! enchanting little +trembler! if such is thy sweetness where thou dost not love, what must thy love +have been? I cannot think how any man, having the heart of one, could go and +leave it. +</p> + +<p> +S. No one did, that I know of. +</p> + +<p> +H. Yes, you told me yourself he left you (though he liked you, and though he +knew—Oh! gracious God! that you loved him) he left you because “the pride +of birth would not permit a union.”—For myself, I would leave a throne to +ascend to the heaven of thy charms. I live but for thee, here—I only wish +to live again to pass all eternity with thee. But even in another world, I +suppose you would turn from me to seek him out who scorned you here. +</p> + +<p> +S. If the proud scorn us here, in that place we shall all be equal. +</p> + +<p> +H. Do not look so—do not talk so—unless you would drive me mad. I +could worship you at this moment. Can I witness such perfection, and bear to +think I have lost you for ever? Oh! let me hope! You see you can mould me as +you like. You can lead me by the hand, like a little child; and with you my way +would be like a little child’s:—you could strew flowers in my path, and +pour new life and hope into me. I should then indeed hail the return of spring +with joy, could I indulge the faintest hope—would you but let me try to +please you! +</p> + +<p> +S. Nothing can alter my resolution, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. Will you go and leave me so? +</p> + +<p> +S. It is late, and my father will be getting impatient at my stopping so long. +</p> + +<p> +H. You know he has nothing to fear for you—it is poor I that am alone in +danger. But I wanted to ask about buying you a flageolet. Could I see that +which you have? If it is a pretty one, it would hardly be worth while; but if +it isn’t, I thought of bespeaking an ivory one for you. Can’t you bring up your +own to shew me? +</p> + +<p> +S. Not to-night, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. I wish you could. +</p> + +<p> +S. I cannot—but I will in the morning. +</p> + +<p> +H. Whatever you determine, I must submit to. Good night, and bless thee! +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +[The next morning, S. brought up the tea-kettle as usual; and looking towards +the tea-tray, she said, “Oh! I see my sister has forgot the tea-pot.” It was +not there, sure enough; and tripping down stairs, she came up in a minute, with +the tea-pot in one hand, and the flageolet in the other, balanced so sweetly +and gracefully. It would have been awkward to have brought up the flageolet in +the tea-tray and she could not have well gone down again on purpose to fetch +it. Something, therefore, was to be omitted as an excuse. Exquisite witch! But +do I love her the less dearly for it? I cannot.] +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap05"></a> THE CONFESSION</h2> + +<p> +H. You say you cannot love. Is there not a prior attachment in the case? Was +there any one else that you did like? +</p> + +<p> +S. Yes, there was another. +</p> + +<p> +H. Ah! I thought as much. Is it long ago then? +</p> + +<p> +S. It is two years, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. And has time made no alteration? Or do you still see him sometimes? +</p> + +<p> +S. No, Sir! But he is one to whom I feel the sincerest affection, and ever +shall, though he is far distant. +</p> + +<p> +H. And did he return your regard? +</p> + +<p> +S. I had every reason to think so. +</p> + +<p> +H. What then broke off your intimacy? +</p> + +<p> +S. It was the pride of birth, Sir, that would not permit him to think of a +union. +</p> + +<p> +H. Was he a young man of rank, then? +</p> + +<p> +S. His connections were high. +</p> + +<p> +H. And did he never attempt to persuade you to any other step? +</p> + +<p> +S. No—he had too great a regard for me. +</p> + +<p> +H. Tell me, my angel, how was it? Was he so very handsome? Or was it the +fineness of his manners? +</p> + +<p> +S. It was more his manner: but I can’t tell how it was. It was chiefly my own +fault. I was foolish to suppose he could ever think seriously of me. But he +used to make me read with him—and I used to be with him a good deal, +though not much neither—and I found my affections entangled before I was +aware of it. +</p> + +<p> +H. And did your mother and family know of it? +</p> + +<p> +S. No—I have never told any one but you; nor I should not have mentioned +it now, but I thought it might give you some satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +H. Why did he go at last? +</p> + +<p> +S. We thought it better to part. +</p> + +<p> +H. And do you correspond? +</p> + +<p> +S. No, Sir. But perhaps I may see him again some time or other, though it will +be only in the way of friendship. +</p> + +<p> +H. My God! what a heart is thine, to live for years upon that bare hope! +</p> + +<p> +S. I did not wish to live always, Sir—I wished to die for a long time +after, till I thought it not right; and since then I have endeavoured to be as +resigned as I can. +</p> + +<p> +H. And do you think the impression will never wear out? +</p> + +<p> +S. Not if I can judge from my feelings hitherto. It is now sometime +since,—and I find no difference. +</p> + +<p> +H. May God for ever bless you! How can I thank you for your condescension in +letting me know your sweet sentiments? You have changed my esteem into +adoration.—Never can I harbour a thought of ill in thee again. +</p> + +<p> +S. Indeed, Sir, I wish for your good opinion and your friendship. +</p> + +<p> +H. And can you return them? +</p> + +<p> +S. Yes. +</p> + +<p> +H. And nothing more? +</p> + +<p> +S. No, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. You are an angel, and I will spend my life, if you will let me, in paying +you the homage that my heart feels towards you. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap06"></a> THE QUARREL</h2> + +<p> +H. You are angry with me? +</p> + +<p> +S. Have I not reason? +</p> + +<p> +H. I hope you have; for I would give the world to believe my suspicions unjust. +But, oh! my God! after what I have thought of you and felt towards you, as +little less than an angel, to have but a doubt cross my mind for an instant +that you were what I dare not name—a common lodging-house decoy, a +kissing convenience, that your lips were as common as the stairs— +</p> + +<p> +S. Let me go, Sir! +</p> + +<p> +H. Nay—prove to me that you are not so, and I will fall down and worship +you. You were the only creature that ever seemed to love me; and to have my +hopes, and all my fondness for you, thus turned to a mockery—it is too +much! Tell me why you have deceived me, and singled me out as your victim? +</p> + +<p> +S. I never have, Sir. I always said I could not love. +</p> + +<p> +H. There is a difference between love and making me a laughing-stock. Yet what +else could be the meaning of your little sister’s running out to you, and +saying “He thought I did not see him!” when I had followed you into the other +room? Is it a joke upon me that I make free with you? Or is not the joke +against HER sister, unless you make my courtship of you a jest to the whole +house? Indeed I do not well see how you can come and stay with me as you do, by +the hour together, and day after day, as openly as you do, unless you give it +some such turn with your family. Or do you deceive them as well as me? +</p> + +<p> +S. I deceive no one, Sir. But my sister Betsey was always watching and +listening when Mr. M—— was courting my eldest sister, till he was +obliged to complain of it. +</p> + +<p> +H. That I can understand, but not the other. You may remember, when your +servant Maria looked in and found you sitting in my lap one day, and I was +afraid she might tell your mother, you said “You did not care, for you had no +secrets from your mother.” This seemed to me odd at the time, but I thought no +more of it, till other things brought it to my mind. Am I to suppose, then, +that you are acting a part, a vile part, all this time, and that you come up +here, and stay as long as I like, that you sit on my knee and put your arms +round my neck, and feed me with kisses, and let me take other liberties with +you, and that for a year together; and that you do all this not out of love, or +liking, or regard, but go through your regular task, like some young witch, +without one natural feeling, to shew your cleverness, and get a few presents +out of me, and go down into the kitchen to make a fine laugh of it? There is +something monstrous in it, that I cannot believe of you. +</p> + +<p> +S. Sir, you have no right to harass my feelings in the manner you do. I have +never made a jest of you to anyone, but always felt and expressed the greatest +esteem for you. You have no ground for complaint in my conduct; and I cannot +help what Betsey or others do. I have always been consistent from the first. I +told you my regard could amount to no more than friendship. +</p> + +<p> +H. Nay, Sarah, it was more than half a year before I knew that there was an +insurmountable obstacle in the way. You say your regard is merely friendship, +and that you are sorry I have ever felt anything more for you. Yet the first +time I ever asked you, you let me kiss you; the first time I ever saw you, as +you went out of the room, you turned full round at the door, with that +inimitable grace with which you do everything, and fixed your eyes full upon +me, as much as to say, “Is he caught?”—that very week you sat upon my +knee, twined your arms round me, caressed me with every mark of tenderness +consistent with modesty; and I have not got much farther since. Now if you did +all this with me, a perfect stranger to you, and without any particular liking +to me, must I not conclude you do so as a matter of course with +everyone?—Or, if you do not do so with others, it was because you took a +liking to me for some reason or other. +</p> + +<p> +S. It was gratitude, Sir, for different obligations. +</p> + +<p> +H. If you mean by obligations the presents I made you, I had given you none the +first day I came. You do not consider yourself OBLIGED to everyone who asks you +for a kiss? +</p> + +<p> +S. No, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. I should not have thought anything of it in anyone but you. But you seemed +so reserved and modest, so soft, so timid, you spoke so low, you looked so +innocent—I thought it impossible you could deceive me. Whatever favors +you granted must proceed from pure regard. No betrothed virgin ever gave the +object of her choice kisses, caresses more modest or more bewitching than those +you have given me a thousand and a thousand times. Could I have thought I +should ever live to believe them an inhuman mockery of one who had the +sincerest regard for you? Do you think they will not now turn to rank poison in +my veins, and kill me, soul and body? You say it is friendship—but if +this is friendship, I’ll forswear love. Ah! Sarah! it must be something more or +less than friendship. If your caresses are sincere, they shew fondness—if +they are not, I must be more than indifferent to you. Indeed you once let some +words drop, as if I were out of the question in such matters, and you could +trifle with me with impunity. Yet you complain at other times that no one ever +took such liberties with you as I have done. I remember once in particular your +saying, as you went out at the door in anger—“I had an attachment before, +but that person never attempted anything of the kind.” Good God! How did I +dwell on that word BEFORE, thinking it implied an attachment to me also; but +you have since disclaimed any such meaning. You say you have never professed +more than esteem. Yet once, when you were sitting in your old place, on my +knee, embracing and fondly embraced, and I asked you if you could not love, you +made answer, “I could easily say so, whether I did or not—YOU SHOULD +JUDGE BY MY ACTIONS!” And another time, when you were in the same posture, and +I reproached you with indifference, you replied in these words, “Do I SEEM +INDIFFERENT?” Was I to blame after this to indulge my passion for the loveliest +of her sex? Or what can I think? +</p> + +<p> +S. I am no prude, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. Yet you might be taken for one. So your mother said, “It was hard if you +might not indulge in a little levity.” She has strange notions of levity. But +levity, my dear, is quite out of character in you. Your ordinary walk is as if +you were performing some religious ceremony: you come up to my table of a +morning, when you merely bring in the tea-things, as if you were advancing to +the altar. You move in minuet-time: you measure every step, as if you were +afraid of offending in the smallest things. I never hear your approach on the +stairs, but by a sort of hushed silence. When you enter the room, the Graces +wait on you, and Love waves round your person in gentle undulations, breathing +balm into the soul! By Heaven, you are an angel! You look like one at this +instant! Do I not adore you—and have I merited this return? +</p> + +<p> +S. I have repeatedly answered that question. You sit and fancy things out of +your own head, and then lay them to my charge. There is not a word of truth in +your suspicions. +</p> + +<p> +H. Did I not overhear the conversation down-stairs last night, to which you +were a party? Shall I repeat it? +</p> + +<p> +S. I had rather not hear it! +</p> + +<p> +H. Or what am I to think of this story of the footman? +</p> + +<p> +S. It is false, Sir, I never did anything of the sort. +</p> + +<p> +H. Nay, when I told your mother I wished she wouldn’t * * * * * * * * * (as I +heard she did) she said “Oh, there’s nothing in that, for Sarah very often * * +* * * *,” and your doing so before company, is only a trifling addition to the +sport. +</p> + +<p> +S. I’ll call my mother, Sir, and she shall contradict you. +</p> + +<p> +H. Then she’ll contradict herself. But did not you boast you were “very +persevering in your resistance to gay young men,” and had been “several times +obliged to ring the bell?” Did you always ring it? Or did you get into these +dilemmas that made it necessary, merely by the demureness of your looks and +ways? Or had nothing else passed? Or have you two characters, one that you palm +off upon me, and another, your natural one, that you resume when you get out of +the room, like an actress who throws aside her artificial part behind the +scenes? Did you not, when I was courting you on the staircase the first night +Mr. C—— came, beg me to desist, for if the new lodger heard us, +he’d take you for a light character? Was that all? Were you only afraid of +being TAKEN for a light character? Oh! Sarah! +</p> + +<p> +S. I’ll stay and hear this no longer. +</p> + +<p> +H. Yes, one word more. Did you not love another? +</p> + +<p> +S. Yes, and ever shall most sincerely. +</p> + +<p> +H. Then, THAT is my only hope. If you could feel this sentiment for him, you +cannot be what you seem to me of late. But there is another thing I had to +say—be what you will, I love you to distraction! You are the only woman +that ever made me think she loved me, and that feeling was so new to me, and so +delicious, that it “will never from my heart.” Thou wert to me a little tender +flower, blooming in the wilderness of my life; and though thou should’st turn +out a weed, I’ll not fling thee from me, while I can help it. Wert thou all +that I dread to think—wert thou a wretched wanderer in the street, +covered with rags, disease, and infamy, I’d clasp thee to my bosom, and live +and die with thee, my love. Kiss me, thou little sorceress! +</p> + +<p> +S. NEVER. +</p> + +<p> +H. Then go: but remember I cannot live without you—nor I will not. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap07"></a> THE RECONCILIATION</h2> + +<p> +H. I have then lost your friendship? +</p> + +<p> +S. Nothing tends more to alienate friendship than insult. +</p> + +<p> +H. The words I uttered hurt me more than they did you. +</p> + +<p> +S. It was not words merely, but actions as well. +</p> + +<p> +H. Nothing I can say or do can ever alter my fondness for you—Ah, Sarah! +I am unworthy of your love: I hardly dare ask for your pity; but oh! save +me—save me from your scorn: I cannot bear it—it withers me like +lightning. +</p> + +<p> +S. I bear no malice, Sir; but my brother, who would scorn to tell a lie for his +sister, can bear witness for me that there was no truth in what you were told. +</p> + +<p> +H. I believe it; or there is no truth in woman. It is enough for me to know +that you do not return my regard; it would be too much for me to think that you +did not deserve it. But cannot you forgive the agony of the moment? +</p> + +<p> +S. I can forgive; but it is not easy to forget some things! +</p> + +<p> +H. Nay, my sweet Sarah (frown if you will, I can bear your resentment for my +ill behaviour, it is only your scorn and indifference that harrow up my +soul)—but I was going to ask, if you had been engaged to be married to +any one, and the day was fixed, and he had heard what I did, whether he could +have felt any true regard for the character of his bride, his wife, if he had +not been hurt and alarmed as I was? +</p> + +<p> +S. I believe, actual contracts of marriage have sometimes been broken off by +unjust suspicions. +</p> + +<p> +H. Or had it been your old friend, what do you think he would have said in my +case? +</p> + +<p> +S. He would never have listened to anything of the sort. +</p> + +<p> +H. He had greater reasons for confidence than I have. But it is your repeated +cruel rejection of me that drives me almost to madness. Tell me, love, is there +not, besides your attachment to him, a repugnance to me? +</p> + +<p> +S. No, none whatever. +</p> + +<p> +H. I fear there is an original dislike, which no efforts of mine can overcome. +</p> + +<p> +S. It is not you—it is my feelings with respect to another, which are +unalterable. +</p> + +<p> +H. And yet you have no hope of ever being his? And yet you accuse me of being +romantic in my sentiments. +</p> + +<p> +S. I have indeed long ceased to hope; but yet I sometimes hope against hope. +</p> + +<p> +H. My love! were it in my power, thy hopes should be fulfilled to-morrow. Next +to my own, there is nothing that could give me so much satisfaction as to see +thine realized! Do I not love thee, when I can feel such an interest in thy +love for another? It was that which first wedded my very soul to you. I would +give worlds for a share in a heart so rich in pure affection! +</p> + +<p> +S. And yet I did not tell you of the circumstance to raise myself in your +opinion. +</p> + +<p> +H. You are a sublime little thing! And yet, as you have no prospects there, I +cannot help thinking, the best thing would be to do as I have said. +</p> + +<p> +S. I would never marry a man I did not love beyond all the world. +</p> + +<p> +H. I should be satisfied with less than that—with the love, or regard, or +whatever you call it, you have shown me before marriage, if that has only been +sincere. You would hardly like me less afterwards. +</p> + +<p> +S. Endearments would, I should think, increase regard, where there was love +beforehand; but that is not exactly my case. +</p> + +<p> +H. But I think you would be happier than you are at present. You take pleasure +in my conversation, and you say you have an esteem for me; and it is upon this, +after the honeymoon, that marriage chiefly turns. +</p> + +<p> +S. Do you think there is no pleasure in a single life? +</p> + +<p> +H. Do you mean on account of its liberty? +</p> + +<p> +S. No, but I feel that forced duty is no duty. I have high ideas of the married +state! +</p> + +<p> +H. Higher than of the maiden state? +</p> + +<p> +S. I understand you, Sir. +</p> + +<p> +H. I meant nothing; but you have sometimes spoken of any serious attachment as +a tie upon you. It is not that you prefer flirting with “gay young men” to +becoming a mere dull domestic wife? +</p> + +<p> +S. You have no right to throw out such insinuations: for though I am but a +tradesman’s daughter, I have as nice a sense of honour as anyone can have. +</p> + +<p> +H. Talk of a tradesman’s daughter! you would ennoble any family, thou glorious +girl, by true nobility of mind. +</p> + +<p> +S. Oh! Sir, you flatter me. I know my own inferiority to most. +</p> + +<p> +H. To none; there is no one above thee, man nor woman either. You are above +your situation, which is not fit for you. +</p> + +<p> +S. I am contented with my lot, and do my duty as cheerfully as I can. +</p> + +<p> +H. Have you not told me your spirits grow worse every year? +</p> + +<p> +S. Not on that account: but some disappointments are hard to bear up against. +</p> + +<p> +H. If you talk about that, you’ll unman me. But tell me, my love,—I have +thought of it as something that might account for some circumstances; that is, +as a mere possibility. But tell me, there was not a likeness between me and +your old lover that struck you at first sight? Was there? +</p> + +<p> +S. No, Sir, none. +</p> + +<p> +H. Well, I didn’t think it likely there should. +</p> + +<p> +S. But there was a likeness. +</p> + +<p> +H. To whom? +</p> + +<p> +S. To that little image! (looking intently on a small bronze figure of +Buonaparte on the mantelpiece). +</p> + +<p> +H. What, do you mean to Buonaparte? +</p> + +<p> +S. Yes, all but the nose was just like. +</p> + +<p> +H. And was his figure the same? +</p> + +<p> +S. He was taller! +</p> + +<p> +[I got up and gave her the image, and told her it was hers by every right that +was sacred. She refused at first to take so valuable a curiosity, and said she +would keep it for me. But I pressed it eagerly, and she look it. She +immediately came and sat down, and put her arm round my neck, and kissed me, +and I said, “Is it not plain we are the best friends in the world, since we are +always so glad to make it up?” And then I added “How odd it was that the God of +my idolatry should turn out to be like her Idol, and said it was no wonder that +the same face which awed the world should conquer the sweetest creature in it!” +How I loved her at that moment! Is it possible that the wretch who writes this +could ever have been so blest! Heavenly delicious creature! Can I live without +her? Oh! no—never—never. +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“What is this world? What asken men to have,<br/> +Now with his love, now in the cold grave,<br/> +Alone, withouten any compagnie!” +</p> + +<p> +Let me but see her again! She cannot hate the man who loves her as I do.] +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap08"></a> LETTERS TO THE SAME</h2> + +<p> +Feb., 1822. +</p> + +<p> +—You will scold me for this, and ask me if this is keeping my promise to +mind my work. One half of it was to think of Sarah: and besides, I do not +neglect my work either, I assure you. I regularly do ten pages a day, which +mounts up to thirty guineas’ worth a week, so that you see I should grow rich +at this rate, if I could keep on so; AND I COULD KEEP ON SO, if I had you with +me to encourage me with your sweet smiles, and share my lot. The Berwick smacks +sail twice a week, and the wind sits fair. When I think of the thousand +endearing caresses that have passed between us, I do not wonder at the strong +attachment that draws me to you; but I am sorry for my own want of power to +please. I hear the wind sigh through the lattice, and keep repeating over and +over to myself two lines of Lord Byron’s Tragedy— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“So shalt thou find me ever at thy side<br/> +Here and hereafter, if the last may be.”— +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +applying them to thee, my love, and thinking whether I shall ever see thee +again. Perhaps not—for some years at least—till both thou and I are +old—and then, when all else have forsaken thee, I will creep to thee, and +die in thine arms. You once made me believe I was not hated by her I loved; and +for that sensation, so delicious was it, though but a mockery and a dream, I +owe you more than I can ever pay. I thought to have dried up my tears for ever, +the day I left you; but as I write this, they stream again. If they did not, I +think my heart would burst. I walk out here of an afternoon, and hear the notes +of the thrush, that come up from a sheltered valley below, welcome in the +spring; but they do not melt my heart as they used: it is grown cold and dead. +As you say, it will one day be colder.—Forgive what I have written above; +I did not intend it: but you were once my little all, and I cannot bear the +thought of having lost you for ever, I fear through my own fault. Has any one +called? Do not send any letters that come. I should like you and your mother +(if agreeable) to go and see Mr. Kean in Othello, and Miss Stephens in Love in +a Village. If you will, I will write to Mr. T——, to send you +tickets. Has Mr. P—— called? I think I must send to him for the +picture to kiss and talk to. Kiss me, my best beloved. Ah! if you can never be +mine, still let me be your proud and happy slave. +</p> + +<p> +H. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap09"></a> TO THE SAME</h2> + +<p> +March, 1822. +</p> + +<p> +—You will be glad to learn I have done my work—a volume in less +than a month. This is one reason why I am better than when I came, and another +is, I have had two letters from Sarah. I am pleased I have got through this +job, as I was afraid I might lose reputation by it (which I can little afford +to lose)—and besides, I am more anxious to do well now, as I wish you to +hear me well spoken of. I walk out of an afternoon, and hear the birds sing as +I told you, and think, if I had you hanging on my arm, and that for life, how +happy I should be—happier than I ever hoped to be, or had any conception +of till I knew you. “But that can never be”—I hear you answer in a soft, +low murmur. Well, let me dream of it sometimes—I am not happy too often, +except when that favourite note, the harbinger of spring, recalling the hopes +of my youth, whispers thy name and peace together in my ear. I was reading +something about Mr. Macready to-day, and this put me in mind of that delicious +night, when I went with your mother and you to see Romeo and Juliet. Can I +forget it for a moment—your sweet modest looks, your infinite propriety +of behaviour, all your sweet winning ways—your hesitating about taking my +arm as we came out till your mother did—your laughing about nearly losing +your cloak—your stepping into the coach without my being able to make the +slightest discovery—and oh! my sitting down beside you there, you whom I +had loved so long, so well, and your assuring me I had not lessened your +pleasure at the play by being with you, and giving me your dear hand to press +in mine! I thought I was in heaven—that slender exquisitely-turned form +contained my all of heaven upon earth; and as I folded you—yes, you, my +own best Sarah, to my bosom, there was, as you say, A TIE BETWEEN US—you +did seem to me, for those few short moments, to be mine in all truth and honour +and sacredness—Oh! that we could be always so—Do not mock me, for I +am a very child in love. I ought to beg pardon for behaving so ill afterwards, +but I hope THE LITTLE IMAGE made it up between us, &c. +</p> + +<p> +[To this letter I have received no answer, not a line. The rolling years of +eternity will never fill up that blank. Where shall I be? What am I? Or where +have I been?] +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap10"></a> WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF ENDYMION</h2> + +<p> +I want a hand to guide me, an eye to cheer me, a bosom to repose on; all which +I shall never have, but shall stagger into my grave, old before my time, +unloved and unlovely, unless S. L. keeps her faith with me. +</p> + +<hr /> + +<p> +—But by her dove’s eyes and serpent-shape, I think she does not hate me; +by her smooth forehead and her crested hair, I own I love her; by her soft +looks and queen-like grace (which men might fall down and worship) I swear to +live and die for her! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap11"></a> A PROPOSAL OF LOVE</h2> + +<p class="center"> +(Given to her in our early acquaintance) +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Oh! if I thought it could be in a woman<br/> +(As, if it can, I will presume in you) <br/> +To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love, <br/> +To keep her constancy in plight and youth, <br/> +Outliving beauties outward with a mind<br/> +That doth renew swifter than blood decays:<br/> +Or that persuasion could but thus convince me,<br/> +That my integrity and truth to you <br/> +Might be confronted with the match and weight <br/> +Of such a winnowed purity in love— <br/> +How were I then uplifted! But, alas, <br/> +I am as true as truth’s simplicity, <br/> +And simpler than the infancy of truth.”<br/> +<br/> +<br/> +TROILUS AND CRESSIDA. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part02"></a>PART II</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap12"></a>LETTERS TO C. P——, ESQ.</h2> + +<p> +Bees-Inn. +</p> + +<p> +My good friend, Here I am in Scotland (and shall have been here three weeks, +next Monday) as I may say, ON MY PROBATION. This is a lone inn, but on a great +scale, thirty miles from Edinburgh. It is situated on a rising ground (a mark +for all the winds, which blow here incessantly)—there is a woody hill +opposite, with a winding valley below, and the London road stretches out on +either side. You may guess which way I oftenest walk. I have written two +letters to S. L. and got one cold, prudish answer, beginning SIR, and ending +FROM YOURS TRULY, with BEST RESPECTS FROM HERSELF AND RELATIONS. I was going to +give in, but have returned an answer, which I think is a touch-stone. I send it +you on the other side to keep as a curiosity, in case she kills me by her +exquisite rejoinder. I am convinced from the profound contemplations I have had +on the subject here and coming along, that I am on a wrong scent. We had a +famous parting-scene, a complete quarrel and then a reconciliation, in which +she did beguile me of my tears, but the deuce a one did she shed. What do you +think? She cajoled me out of my little Buonaparte as cleverly as possible, in +manner and form following. She was shy the Saturday and Sunday (the day of my +departure) so I got in dudgeon, and began to rip up grievances. I asked her how +she came to admit me to such extreme familiarities, the first week I entered +the house. “If she had no particular regard for me, she must do so (or more) +with everyone: if she had a liking to me from the first, why refuse me with +scorn and wilfulness?” If you had seen how she flounced, and looked, and went +to the door, saying “She was obliged to me for letting her know the opinion I +had always entertained of her”—then I said, “Sarah!” and she came back +and took my hand, and fixed her eyes on the mantelpiece—(she must have +been invoking her idol then—if I thought so, I could devour her, the +darling—but I doubt her)—So I said “There is one thing that has +occurred to me sometimes as possible, to account for your conduct to me at +first—there wasn’t a likeness, was there, to your old friend?” She +answered “No, none—but there was a likeness!” I asked, to what? She said +“to that little image!” I said, “Do you mean Buonaparte?”—She said “Yes, +all but the nose.”—“And the figure?”—“He was taller.”—I could +not stand this. So I got up and took it, and gave it her, and after some +reluctance, she consented to “keep it for me.” What will you bet me that it +wasn’t all a trick? I’ll tell you why I suspect it, besides being fairly out of +my wits about her. I had told her mother half an hour before, that I should +take this image and leave it at Mrs. B.’s, for that I didn’t wish to leave +anything behind me that must bring me back again. Then up she comes and starts +a likeness to her lover: she knew I should give it her on the spot—“No, +she would keep it for me!” So I must come back for it. Whether art or nature, +it is sublime. I told her I should write and tell you so, and that I parted +from her, confiding, adoring!—She is beyond me, that’s certain. Do go and +see her, and desire her not to give my present address to a single soul, and +learn if the lodging is let, and to whom. My letter to her is as follows. If +she shews the least remorse at it, I’ll be hanged, though it might move a +stone, I modestly think. (See before, Part I. first letter.) +</p> + +<p> +N.B.—I have begun a book of our conversations (I mean mine and the +statue’s) which I call LIBER AMORIS. I was detained at Stamford and found +myself dull, and could hit upon no other way of employing my time so agreeably. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap13"></a> LETTER II</h2> + +<p> +Dear P——, Here, without loss of time, in order that I may have your +opinion upon it, is little Yes and No’s answer to my last. +</p> + +<p> +“Sir, I should not have disregarded your injunction not to send you any more +letters that might come to you, had I not promised the Gentleman who left the +enclosed to forward it the earliest opportunity, as he said it was of +consequence. Mr. P—— called the day after you left town. My mother +and myself are much obliged by your kind offer of tickets to the play, but must +decline accepting it. My family send their best respects, in which they are +joined by +</p> + +<p> +Yours, truly, <br/> +S. L. +</p> + +<p> +The deuce a bit more is there of it. If you can make anything out of it (or any +body else) I’ll be hanged. You are to understand, this comes in a frank, the +second I have received from her, with a name I can’t make out, and she won’t +tell me, though I asked her, where she got franks, as also whether the lodgings +were let, to neither of which a word of answer. * * * * is the name on the +frank: see if you can decypher it by a Red-book. I suspect her grievously of +being an arrant jilt, to say no more—yet I love her dearly. Do you know +I’m going to write to that sweet rogue presently, having a whole evening to +myself in advance of my work? Now mark, before you set about your exposition of +the new Apocalypse of the new Calypso, the only thing to be endured in the +above letter is the date. It was written the very day after she received mine. +By this she seems willing to lose no time in receiving these letters “of such +sweet breath composed.” If I thought so—but I wait for your reply. After +all, what is there in her but a pretty figure, and that you can’t get a word +out of her? Hers is the Fabian method of making love and conquests. What do you +suppose she said the night before I left her? +</p> + +<p> +“H. Could you not come and live with me as a friend? +</p> + +<p> +“S. I don’t know: and yet it would be of no use if I did, you would always be +hankering after what could never be!” +</p> + +<p> +I asked her if she would do so at once—the very next day? And what do you +guess was her answer—“Do you think it would be prudent?” As I didn’t +proceed to extremities on the spot, she began to look grave, and declare off. +“Would she live with me in her own house—to be with me all day as dear +friends, if nothing more, to sit and read and talk with me?”—“She would +make no promises, but I should find her the same.”—“Would she go to the +play with me sometimes, and let it be understood that I was paying my addresses +to her?”—“She could not, as a habit—her father was rather strict, +and would object.”—Now what am I to think of all this? Am I mad or a +fool? Answer me to that, Master Brook! You are a philosopher. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap14"></a> LETTER III</h2> + +<p> +Dear Friend, I ought to have written to you before; but since I received your +letter, I have been in a sort of purgatory, and what is worse, I see no +prospect of getting out of it. I would put an end to my torments at once; but I +am as great a coward as I have been a dupe. Do you know I have not had a word +of answer from her since! What can be the reason? Is she offended at my letting +you know she wrote to me, or is it some<br/> +new affair? I wrote to her in the tenderest, most respectful manner, poured my +soul at her feet, and this is the return she makes me! Can you account for it, +except on the admission of my worst doubts concerning her? Oh God! can I bear +after all to think of her so, or that I am scorned and made a sport of by the +creature to whom I had given my whole heart? Thus has it been with me all my +life; and so will it be to the end of it!—If you should learn anything, +good or bad, tell me, I conjure you: I can bear anything but this cruel +suspense. If I knew she was a mere abandoned creature, I should try to forget +her; but till I do know this, nothing can tear me from her, I have drank in +poison from her lips too long—alas! mine do not poison again. I sit and +indulge my grief by the hour together; my weakness grows upon me; and I have no +hope left, unless I could lose my senses quite. Do you know I think I should +like this? To forget, ah! to forget—there would be something in +that—to change to an idiot for some few years, and then to wake up a poor +wretched old man, to recollect my misery as past, and die! Yet, oh! with her, +only a little while ago, I had different hopes, forfeited for nothing that I +know of! * * * * * * If you can give me any consolation on the subject of my +tormentor, pray do. The pain I suffer wears me out daily. I write this on the +supposition that Mrs. —— may still come here, and that I may be +detained some weeks longer. Direct to me at the Post-office; and if I return to +town directly as I fear, I will leave word for them to forward the letter to me +in London—not at my old lodgings. I will not go back there: yet how can I +breathe away from her? Her hatred of me must be great, since my love of her +could not overcome it! I have finished the book of my conversations with her, +which I told you of: if I am not mistaken, you will think it very nice reading. +</p> + +<p> +Yours ever. +</p> + +<p> +Have you read Sardanapalus? How like the little Greek slave, Myrrha, is to HER! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap15"></a> LETTER IV</h2> + +<p> +(Written in the Winter) +</p> + +<p> +My good Friend, I received your letter this morning, and I kiss the rod not +only with submission, but gratitude. Your reproofs of me and your defences of +her are the only things that save my soul from perdition. She is my heart’s +idol; and believe me those words of yours applied to the dear saint—“To +lip a chaste one and suppose her wanton”—were balm and rapture to me. I +have LIPPED HER, God knows how often, and oh! is it even possible that she is +chaste, and that she has bestowed her loved “endearments” on me (her own sweet +word) out of true regard? That thought, out of the lowest depths of despair, +would at any time make me strike my forehead against the stars. Could I but +think the love “honest,” I am proof against all hazards. She by her silence +makes my dark hour; and you by your encouragements dissipate it for twenty-four +hours. Another thing has brought me to life. Mrs. —— is actually on +her way here about the divorce. Should this unpleasant business (which has been +so long talked of) succeed, and I should become free, do you think S. L. will +agree to change her name to ——? If she WILL, she SHALL; and to call +her so to you, or to hear her called so by others, would be music to my ears, +such as they never drank in. Do you think if she knew how I love her, my +depressions and my altitudes, my wanderings and my constancy, it would not move +her? She knows it all; and if she is not an INCORRIGIBLE, she loves me, or +regards me with a feeling next to love. I don’t believe that any woman was ever +courted more passionately than she has been by me. As Rousseau said of Madame +d’Houptot (forgive the allusion) my heart has found a tongue in speaking to +her, and I have talked to her the divine language of love. Yet she says, she is +insensible to it. Am I to believe her or you? You—for I wish it and wish +it to madness, now that I am like to be free, and to have it in my power to say +to her without a possibility of suspicion, “Sarah, will you be mine?” When I +sometimes think of the time I first saw the sweet apparition, August 16, 1820, +and that possibly she may be my bride before that day two years, it makes me +dizzy with incredible joy and love of her. Write soon. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap16"></a> LETTER V</h2> + +<p> +My dear Friend, I read your answer this morning with gratitude. I have felt +somewhat easier since. It shewed your interest in my vexations, and also that +you know nothing worse than I do. I cannot describe the weakness of mind to +which she has reduced me. This state of suspense is like hanging in the air by +a single thread that exhausts all your strength to keep hold of it; and yet if +that fails you, you have nothing in the world else left to trust to. I am come +back to Edinburgh about this cursed business, and Mrs. —— is coming +from Montrose next week. How it will end, I can’t say; and don’t care, except +as it regards the other affair. I should, I confess, like to have it in my +power to make her the offer direct and unequivocal, to see how she’d receive +it. It would be worth something at any rate to see her superfine airs upon the +occasion; and if she should take it into her head to turn round her sweet neck, +drop her eye-lids, and say—“Yes, I will be yours!”—why then, +“treason domestic, foreign levy, nothing could touch me further.” By Heaven! I +doat on her. The truth is, I never had any pleasure, like love, with any one +but her. Then how can I bear to part with her? Do you know I like to think of +her best in her morning-gown and mob-cap—it is so she has oftenest come +into my room and enchanted me! She was once ill, pale, and had lost all her +freshness. I only adored her the more for it, and fell in love with the decay +of her beauty. I could devour the little witch. If she had a plague-spot on +her, I could touch the infection: if she was in a burning fever, I could kiss +her, and drink death as I have drank life from her lips. When I press her hand, +I enjoy perfect happiness and contentment of soul. It is not what she says or +what she does—it is herself that I love. To be with her is to be at +peace. I have no other wish or desire. The air about her is serene, blissful; +and he who breathes it is like one of the Gods! So that I can but have her with +me always, I care for nothing more. I never could tire of her sweetness; I feel +that I could grow to her, body and soul? My heart, my heart is hers. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap17"></a> LETTER VI</h2> + +<p class="center"> +(Written in May) +</p> + +<p> +Dear P——, What have I suffered since I parted with you! A raging +fire is in my heart and in my brain, that never quits me. The steam-boat (which +I foolishly ventured on board) seems a prison-house, a sort of spectre-ship, +moving on through an infernal lake, without wind or tide, by some necromantic +power—the splashing of the waves, the noise of the engine gives me no +rest, night or day—no tree, no natural object varies the scene—but +the abyss is before me, and all my peace lies weltering in it! I feel the +eternity of punishment in this life; for I see no end of my woes. The people +about me are ill, uncomfortable, wretched enough, many of them—but +to-morrow or next day, they reach the place of their destination, and all will +be new and delightful. To me it will be the same. I can neither escape from +her, nor from myself. All is endurable where there is a limit: but I have +nothing but the blackness and the fiendishness of scorn around me—mocked +by her (the false one) in whom I placed my hope, and who hardens herself +against me!—I believe you thought me quite gay, vain, insolent, half mad, +the night I left the house—no tongue can tell the heaviness of heart I +felt at that moment. No footsteps ever fell more slow, more sad than mine; for +every step bore me farther from her, with whom my soul and every thought +lingered. I had parted with her in anger, and each had spoken words of high +disdain, not soon to be forgiven. Should I ever behold her again? Where go to +live and die far from her? In her sight there was Elysium; her smile was +heaven; her voice was enchantment; the air of love waved round her, breathing +balm into my heart: for a little while I had sat with the Gods at their golden +tables, I had tasted of all earth’s bliss, “both living and loving!” But now +Paradise barred its doors against me; I was driven from her presence, where +rosy blushes and delicious sighs and all soft wishes dwelt, the outcast of +nature and the scoff of love! I thought of the time when I was a little happy +careless child, of my father’s house, of my early lessons, of my brother’s +picture of me when a boy, of all that had since happened to me, and of the +waste of years to come—I stopped, faultered, and was going to turn back +once more to make a longer truce with wretchedness and patch up a hollow league +with love, when the recollection of her words—“I always told you I had no +affection for you”—steeled my resolution, and I determined to proceed. +You see by this she always hated me, and only played with my credulity till she +could find some one to supply the place of her unalterable attachment to THE +LITTLE IMAGE. * * * * * I am a little, a very little better to-day. Would it +were quietly over; and that this misshapen form (made to be mocked) were hid +out of the sight of cold, sullen eyes! The people about me even take notice of +my dumb despair, and pity me. What is to be done? I cannot forget HER; and I +can find no other like what SHE SEEMED. I should wish you to call, if you can +make an excuse, and see whether or no she is quite marble—whether I may +go back again at my return, and whether she will see me and talk to me +sometimes as an old friend. Suppose you were to call on M—— from +me, and ask him what his impression is that I ought to do. But do as you think +best. Pardon, pardon. +</p> + +<p> +P.S.—I send this from Scarborough, where the vessel stops for a few +minutes. I scarcely know what I should have done, but for this relief to my +feelings. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap18"></a> LETTER VII</h2> + +<p> +My dear Friend, The important step is taken, and I am virtually a free man. * * +* What had I better do in these circumstances? I dare not write to her, I dare +not write to her father, or else I would. She has shot me through with poisoned +arrows, and I think another “winged wound” would finish me. It is a pleasant +sort of balm (as you express it) she has left in my heart! One thing I agree +with you in, it will remain there for ever; but yet not very long. It festers, +and consumes me. If it were not for my little boy, whose face I see struck +blank at the news, looking through the world for pity and meeting with contempt +instead, I should soon, I fear, settle the question by my death. That +recollection is the only thought that brings my wandering reason to an anchor; +that stirs the smallest interest in me; or gives me fortitude to bear up +against what I am doomed to feel for the ungrateful. Otherwise, I am dead to +every thing but the sense of what I have lost. She was my life—it is gone +from me, and I am grown spectral! If I find myself in a place I am acquainted +with, it reminds me of her, of the way in which I thought of her, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +—“and carved on every tree<br/> +The soft, the fair, the inexpressive she!” +</p> + +<p> +If it is a place that is new to me, it is desolate, barren of all interest; for +nothing touches me but what has a reference to her. If the clock strikes, the +sound jars me; a million of hours will not bring back peace to my breast. The +light startles me; the darkness terrifies me. I seem falling into a pit, +without a hand to help me. She has deceived me, and the earth fails from under +my feet; no object in nature is substantial, real, but false and hollow, like +her faith on which I built my trust. She came (I knew not how) and sat by my +side and was folded in my arms, a vision of love and joy, as if she had dropped +from the Heavens to bless me by some especial dispensation of a favouring +Providence, and make me amends for all; and now without any fault of mine but +too much fondness, she has vanished from me, and I am left to perish. My heart +is torn out of me, with every feeling for which I wished to live. The whole is +like a dream, an effect of enchantment; it torments me, and it drives me mad. I +lie down with it; I rise up with it; and see no chance of repose. I grasp at a +shadow, I try to undo the past, and weep with rage and pity over my own +weakness and misery. I spared her again and again (fool that I was) thinking +what she allowed from me was love, friendship, sweetness, not wantonness. How +could I doubt it, looking in her face, and hearing her words, like sighs +breathed from the gentlest of all bosoms? I had hopes, I had prospects to come, +the flattery of something like fame, a pleasure in writing, health even would +have come back with her smile—she has blighted all, turned all to poison +and childish tears. Yet the barbed arrow is in my heart—I can neither +endure it, nor draw it out; for with it flows my life’s-blood. I had conversed +too long with abstracted truth to trust myself with the immortal thoughts of +love. THAT S. L. MIGHT HAVE BEEN MINE, AND NOW NEVER CAN—these are the +two sole propositions that for ever stare me in the face, and look ghastly in +at my poor brain. I am in some sense proud that I can feel this dreadful +passion—it gives me a kind of rank in the kingdom of love—but I +could have wished it had been for an object that at least could have understood +its value and pitied its excess. You say her not coming to the door when you +went is a proof—yes, that her complement is at present full! That is the +reason she doesn’t want me there, lest I should discover the new +affair—wretch that I am! Another has possession of her, oh Hell! I’m +satisfied of it from her manner, which had a wanton insolence in it. Well might +I run wild when I received no letters from her. I foresaw, I felt my fate. The +gates of Paradise were once open to me too, and I blushed to enter but with the +golden keys of love! I would die; but her lover—my love of +her—ought not to die. When I am dead, who will love her as I have done? +If she should be in misfortune, who will comfort her? when she is old, who will +look in her face, and bless her? Would there be any harm in calling upon +M——, to know confidentially if he thinks it worth my while to make +her an offer the instant it is in my power? Let me have an answer, and save me, +if possible, FOR her and FROM myself. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap19"></a> LETTER VIII</h2> + +<p> +My dear Friend, Your letter raised me for a moment from the depths of despair; +but not hearing from you yesterday or to-day (as I hoped) I have had a relapse. +You say I want to get rid of her. I hope you are more right in your conjectures +about her than in this about me. Oh no! believe it, I love her as I do my own +soul; my very heart is wedded to her (be she what she may) and I would not +hesitate a moment between her and “an angel from Heaven.” I grant all you say +about my self-tormenting folly: but has it been without cause? Has she not +refused me again and again with a mixture of scorn and resentment, after going +the utmost lengths with a man for whom she now disclaims all affection; and +what security can I have for her reserve with others, who will not be +restrained by feelings of delicacy towards her, and whom she has probably +preferred to me for their want of it. “SHE CAN MAKE NO MORE +CONFIDENCES”—these words ring for ever in my ears, and will be my +death-watch. They can have but one meaning, be sure of it—she always +expressed herself with the exactest propriety. That was one of the things for +which I loved her—shall I live to hate her for it? My poor fond heart, +that brooded over her and the remains of her affections as my only hope of +comfort upon earth, cannot brook this new degradation. Who is there so low as +me? Who is there besides (I ask) after the homage I have paid her and the +caresses she has lavished on me, so vile, so abhorrent to love, to whom such an +indignity could have happened? When I think of this (and I think of nothing +else) it stifles me. I am pent up in burning, fruitless desires, which can find +no vent or object. Am I not hated, repulsed, derided by her whom alone I love +or ever did<br/> +love? I cannot stay in any place, and seek in vain for relief from the sense of +her contempt and her ingratitude. I can settle to nothing: what is the use of +all I have done? Is it not that very circumstance (my thinking beyond my +strength, my feeling more than I need about so many things) that has withered +me up, and made me a thing for Love to shrink from and wonder at? Who could +ever feel that peace from the touch of her dear hand that I have done; and is +it not torn from me for ever? My state is this, that I shall never lie down +again at night nor rise up in the morning in peace, nor ever behold my little +boy’s face with pleasure while I live—unless I am restored to her favour. +Instead of that delicious feeling I had when she was heavenly-kind to me, and +my heart softened and melted in its own tenderness and her sweetness, I am now +inclosed in a dungeon of despair. The sky is marble to my thoughts; nature is +dead around me, as hope is within me; no object can give me one gleam of +satisfaction now, nor the prospect of it in time to come. I wander by the +sea-side; and the eternal ocean and lasting despair and her face are before me. +Slighted by her, on whom my heart by its last fibre hung, where shall I turn? I +wake with her by my side, not as my sweet bedfellow, but as the corpse of my +love, without a heart in her bosom, cold, insensible, or struggling from me; +and the worm gnaws me, and the sting of unrequited love, and the canker of a +hopeless, endless sorrow. I have lost the taste of my food by feverish anxiety; +and my favourite beverage, which used to refresh me when I got up, has no +moisture in it. Oh! cold, solitary, sepulchral breakfasts, compared with those +which I promised myself with her; or which I made when she had been standing an +hour by my side, my guardian-angel, my wife, my sister, my sweet friend, my +Eve, my all; and had blest me with her seraph kisses! Ah! what I suffer at +present only shews what I have enjoyed. But “the girl is a good girl, if there +is goodness in human nature.” I thank you for those words; and I will fall down +and worship you, if you can prove them true: and I would not do much less for +him that proves her a demon. She is one or the other, that’s certain; but I +fear the worst. Do let me know if anything has passed: suspense is my greatest +punishment. I am going into the country to see if I can work a little in the +three weeks I have yet to stay here. Write on the receipt of this, and believe +me ever your unspeakably obliged friend. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap20"></a> TO EDINBURGH</h2> + +<p> +—“Stony-hearted” Edinburgh! What art thou to me? The dust of thy streets +mingles with my tears and blinds me. City of palaces, or of tombs—a +quarry, rather than the habitation of men! Art thou like London, that populous +hive, with its sunburnt, well-baked, brick-built houses—its public +edifices, its theatres, its bridges, its squares, its ladies, and its pomp, its +throng of wealth, its outstretched magnitude, and its mighty heart that never +lies still? Thy cold grey walls reflect back the leaden melancholy of the soul. +The square, hard-edged, unyielding faces of thy inhabitants have no sympathy to +impart. What is it to me that I look along the level line of thy tenantless +streets, and meet perhaps a lawyer like a grasshopper chirping and skipping, or +the daughter of a Highland laird, haughty, fair, and freckled? Or why should I +look down your boasted Prince’s Street, with the beetle-browed Castle on one +side, and the Calton Hill with its proud monument at the further end, and the +ridgy steep of Salisbury Crag, cut off abruptly by Nature’s boldest hand, and +Arthur’s Seat overlooking all, like a lioness watching her cubs? Or shall I +turn to the far-off Pentland Hills, with Craig-Crook nestling beneath them, +where lives the prince of critics and the king of men? Or cast my eye unsated +over the Firth of Forth, that from my window of an evening (as I read of AMY +and her love) glitters like a broad golden mirror in the sun, and kisses the +winding shores of kingly Fife? Oh no! But to thee, to thee I turn, North +Berwick-Law, with thy blue cone rising out of summer seas; for thou art the +beacon of my banished thoughts, and dost point my way to her, who is my heart’s +true home. The air is too thin for me, that has not the breath of Love in it; +that is not embalmed by her sighs! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap21"></a> A THOUGHT</h2> + +<p> +I am not mad, but my heart is so; and raves within me, fierce and untameable, +like a panther in its den, and tries to get loose to its lost mate, and fawn on +her hand, and bend lowly at her feet. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap22"></a> ANOTHER</h2> + +<p> +Oh! thou dumb heart, lonely, sad, shut up in the prison-house of this rude +form, that hast never found a fellow but for an instant, and in very mockery of +thy misery, speak, find bleeding words to express thy thoughts, break thy +dungeon-gloom, or die pronouncing thy Infelice’s name! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap23"></a> ANOTHER</h2> + +<p> +Within my heart is lurking suspicion, and base fear, and shame and hate; but +above all, tyrannous love sits throned, crowned with her graces, silent and in +tears. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap24"></a> LETTER IX</h2> + +<p> +My dear P——, You have been very kind to me in this business; but I +fear even your indulgence for my infirmities is beginning to fail. To what a +state am I reduced, and for what? For fancying a little artful vixen to be an +angel and a saint, because she affected to look like one, to hide her rank +thoughts and deadly purposes. Has she not murdered me under the mask of the +tenderest friendship? And why? Because I have loved her with unutterable love, +and sought to make her my wife. You say it is my own “outrageous conduct” that +has estranged her: nay, I have been TOO GENTLE with her. I ask you first in +candour whether the ambiguity of her behaviour with respect to me, sitting and +fondling a man (circumstanced as I was) sometimes for half a day together, and +then declaring she had no love for him beyond common regard, and professing +never to marry, was not enough to excite my suspicions, which the different +exposures from the conversations below-stairs were not calculated to allay? I +ask you what you yourself would have felt or done, if loving her as I did, you +had heard what I did, time after time? Did not her mother own to one of the +grossest charges (which I shall not repeat)—and is such indelicacy to be +reconciled with her pretended character (that character with which I fell in +love, and to which I MADE LOVE) without supposing her to be the greatest +hypocrite in the world? My unpardonable offence has been that I took her at her +word, and was willing to believe her the precise little puritanical person she +set up for. After exciting her wayward desires by the fondest embraces and the +purest kisses, as if she had been “made my wedded wife yestreen,” or was to +become so to-morrow (for that was always my feeling with respect to +her)—I did not proceed to gratify them, or to follow up my advantage by +any action which should declare, “I think you a common adventurer, and will see +whether you are so or not!” Yet any one but a credulous fool like me would have +made the experiment, with whatever violence to himself, as a matter of life and +death; for I had every reason to distrust appearances. Her conduct has been of +a piece from the beginning. In the midst of her closest and falsest +endearments, she has always (with one or two exceptions) disclaimed the natural +inference to be drawn from them, and made a verbal reservation, by which she +might lead me on in a Fool’s Paradise, and make me the tool of her levity, her +avarice, and her love of intrigue as long as she liked, and dismiss me whenever +it suited her. This, you see, she has done, because my intentions grew serious, +and if complied with, would deprive her of THE PLEASURES OF A SINGLE LIFE! +Offer marriage to this “tradesman’s daughter, who has as nice a sense of honour +as any one can have;” and like Lady Bellaston in Tom Jones, she CUTS you +immediately in a fit of abhorrence and alarm. Yet she seemed to be of a +different mind formerly, when struggling from me in the height of our first +intimacy, she exclaimed—“However I might agree to my own ruin, I never +will consent to bring disgrace upon my family!” That I should have spared the +traitress after expressions like this, astonishes me when I look back upon it. +Yet if it were all to do over again, I know I should act just the same part. +Such is her power over me! I cannot run the least risk of offending her—I +love her so. When I look in her face, I cannot doubt her truth! Wretched being +that I am! I have thrown away my heart and soul upon an unfeeling girl; and my +life (that might have been so happy, had she been what I thought her) will soon +follow either voluntarily, or by the force of grief, remorse, and +disappointment. I cannot get rid of the reflection for an instant, nor even +seek relief from its galling pressure. Ah! what a heart she has lost! All the +love and affection of my whole life were centred in her, who alone, I thought, +of all women had found out my true character, and knew how to value my +tenderness. Alas! alas! that this, the only hope, joy, or comfort I ever had, +should turn to a mockery, and hang like an ugly film over the remainder of my +days!—I was at Roslin Castle yesterday. It lies low in a rude, but +sheltered valley, hid from the vulgar gaze, and powerfully reminds one of the +old song. The straggling fragments of the russet ruins, suspended smiling and +graceful in the air as if they would linger out another century to please the +curious beholder, the green larch-trees trembling between with the blue sky and +white silver clouds, the wild mountain plants starting out here and there, the +date of the year on an old low door-way, but still more, the beds of flowers in +orderly decay, that seem to have no hand to tend them, but keep up a sort of +traditional remembrance of civilization in former ages, present altogether a +delightful and amiable subject for contemplation. The exquisite beauty of the +scene, with the thought of what I should feel, should I ever be restored to +her, and have to lead her through such places as my adored, my angelwife, +almost drove me beside myself. For this picture, this ecstatic vision, what +have I of late instead as the image of the reality? Demoniacal possessions. I +see the young witch seated in another’s lap, twining her serpent arms round +him, her eye glancing and her cheeks on fire—why does not the hideous +thought choke me? Or why do I not go and find out the truth at once? The +moonlight streams over the silver waters: the bark is in the bay that might +waft me to her, almost with a wish. The mountain-breeze sighs out her name: old +ocean with a world of tears murmurs back my woes! Does not my heart yearn to be +with her; and shall I not follow its bidding? No, I must wait till I am free; +and then I will take my Freedom (a glad prize) and lay it at her feet and tell +her my proud love of her that would not brook a rival in her dishonour, and +that would have her all or none, and gain her or lose myself for ever!— +</p> + +<p> +You see by this letter the way I am in, and I hope you will excuse it as the +picture of a half-disordered mind. The least respite from my uneasiness (such +as I had yesterday) only brings the contrary reflection back upon me, like a +flood; and by letting me see the happiness I have lost, makes me feel, by +contrast, more acutely what I am doomed to bear. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap25"></a> LETTER X</h2> + +<p> +Dear Friend, Here I am at St. Bees once more, amid the scenes which I greeted +in their barrenness in winter; but which have now put on their full green +attire that shews luxuriant to the eye, but speaks a tale of sadness to this +heart widowed of its last, its dearest, its only hope! Oh! lovely Bees-Inn! +here I composed a volume of law-cases, here I wrote my enamoured follies to +her, thinking her human, and that “all below was not the fiend’s”—here I +got two cold, sullen answers from the little witch, and here I was +—— and I was damned. I thought the revisiting the old haunts would +have soothed me for a time, but it only brings back the sense of what I have +suffered for her and of her unkindness the more strongly, till I cannot endure +the recollection. I eye the Heavens in dumb despair, or vent my sorrows in the +desart air. “To the winds, to the waves, to the rocks I complain”—you may +suppose with what effect! I fear I shall be obliged to return. I am tossed +about (backwards and forwards) by my passion, so as to become ridiculous. I can +now understand how it is that mad people never remain in the same +place—they are moving on for ever, FROM THEMSELVES! +</p> + +<p> +Do you know, you would have been delighted with the effect of the Northern +twilight on this romantic country as I rode along last night? The hills and +groves and herds of cattle were seen reposing in the grey dawn of midnight, as +in a moonlight without shadow. The whole wide canopy of Heaven shed its reflex +light upon them, like a pure crystal mirror. No sharp points, no petty details, +no hard contrasts—every object was seen softened yet distinct, in its +simple outline and natural tones, transparent with an inward light, breathing +its own mild lustre. The landscape altogether was like an airy piece of +mosaic-work, or like one of Poussin’s broad massy landscapes or Titian’s lovely +pastoral scenes. Is it not so, that poets see nature, veiled to the sight, but +revealed to the soul in visionary grace and grandeur! I confess the sight +touched me; and might have removed all sadness except mine. So (I thought) the +light of her celestial face once shone into my soul, and wrapt me in a heavenly +trance. The sense I have of beauty raises me for a moment above myself, but +depresses me the more afterwards, when I recollect how it is thrown away in +vain admiration, and that it only makes me more susceptible of pain from the +mortifications I meet with. Would I had never seen her! I might then not indeed +have been happy, but at least I might have passed my life in peace, and have +sunk into forgetfulness without a pang.—The noble scenery in this country +mixes with my passion, and refines, but does not relieve it. I was at Stirling +Castle not long ago. It gave me no pleasure. The declivity seemed to me abrupt, +not sublime; for in truth I did not shrink back from it with terror. The +weather-beaten towers were stiff and formal: the air was damp and chill: the +river winded its dull, slimy way like a snake along the marshy grounds: and the +dim misty tops of Ben Leddi, and the lovely Highlands (woven fantastically of +thin air) mocked my embraces and tempted my longing eyes like her, the sole +queen and mistress of my thoughts! I never found my contemplations on this +subject so subtilised and at the same time so desponding as on that occasion. I +wept myself almost blind, and I gazed at the broad golden sunset through my +tears that fell in showers. As I trod the green mountain turf, oh! how I wished +to be laid beneath it—in one grave with her—that I might sleep with +her in that cold bed, my hand in hers, and my heart for ever still—while +worms should taste her sweet body, that I had never tasted! There was a time +when I could bear solitude; but it is too much for me at present. Now I am no +sooner left to myself than I am lost in infinite space, and look round me in +vain for suppose or comfort. She was my stay, my hope: without her hand to +cling to, I stagger like an infant on the edge of a precipice. The universe +without her is one wide, hollow abyss, in which my harassed thoughts can find +no resting-place. I must break off here; for the hysterica passio comes upon +me, and threatens to unhinge my reason. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap26"></a> LETTER XI</h2> + +<p> +My dear and good Friend, I am afraid I trouble you with my querulous epistles, +but this is probably the last. To-morrow or the next day decides my fate with +respect to the divorce, when I expect to be a free man. In vain! Was it not for +her and to lay my freedom at her feet, that I consented to this step which has +cost me infinite perplexity, and now to be discarded for the first pretender +that came in her way! If so, I hardly think I can survive it. You who have been +a favourite with women, do not know what it is to be deprived of one’s only +hope, and to have it turned to shame and disappointment. There is nothing in +the world left that can afford me one drop of comfort—THIS I feel more +and more. Everything is to me a mockery of pleasure, like her love. The breeze +does not cool me: the blue sky does not cheer me. I gaze only on her face +averted from me—alas! the only face that ever was turned fondly to me! +And why am I thus treated? Because I wanted her to be mine for ever in love or +friendship, and did not push my gross familiarities as far as I might. “Why can +you not go on as we have done, and say nothing about the word, FOREVER?” Was it +not plain from this that she even then meditated an escape from me to some less +sentimental lover? “Do you allow anyone else to do so?” I said to her once, as +I was toying with her. “No, not now!” was her answer; that is, because there +was nobody else in the house to take freedoms with her. I was very well as a +stopgap, but I was to be nothing more. While the coast was clear, I had it all +my own way: but the instant C—— came, she flung herself at his head +in the most barefaced way, ran breathless up stairs before him, blushed when +his foot was heard, watched for him in the passage, and was sure to be in close +conference with him when he went down again. It was then my mad proceedings +commenced. No wonder. Had I not reason to be jealous of every appearance of +familiarity with others, knowing how easy she had been with me at first, and +that she only grew shy when I did not take farther liberties? What has her +character to rest upon but her attachment to me, which she now denies, not +modestly, but impudently? Will you yourself say that if she had all along no +particular regard for me, she will not do as much or more with other more +likely men? “She has had,” she says, “enough of my conversation,” so it could +not be that! Ah! my friend, it was not to be supposed I should ever meet even +with the outward demonstrations of regard from any woman but a common trader in +the endearments of love! I have tasted the sweets of the well practiced +illusion, and now feel the bitterness of knowing what a bliss I am deprived of, +and must ever be deprived of. Intolerable conviction! Yet I might, I believe, +have won her by other methods; but some demon held my hand. How indeed could I +offer her the least insult when I worshipped her very footsteps; and even now +pay her divine honours from my inmost heart, whenever I think of her, abased +and brutalised as I have been by that Circean cup of kisses, of enchantments, +of which I have drunk! I am choked, withered, dried up with chagrin, remorse, +despair, from which I have not a moment’s respite, day or night. I have always +some horrid dream about her, and wake wondering what is the matter that “she is +no longer the same to me as ever?” I thought at least we should always remain +dear friends, if nothing more—did she not talk of coming to live with me +only the day before I left her in the winter? But “she’s gone, I am abused, and +my revenge must be to LOVE her!”—Yet she knows that one line, one word +would save me, the cruel, heartless destroyer! I see nothing for it but +madness, unless Friday brings a change, or unless she is willing to let me go +back. You must know I wrote to her to that purpose, but it was a very quiet, +sober letter, begging pardon, and professing reform for the future, and all +that. What effect it will have, I know not. I was forced to get out of the way +of her answer, till Friday came. +</p> + +<p> +Ever yours. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap27"></a> TO S. L.</h2> + +<p> +My dear Miss L——, EVIL TO THEM THAT EVIL THINK, is an old saying; +and I have found it a true one. I have ruined myself by my unjust suspicions of +you. Your sweet friendship was the balm of my life; and I have lost it, I fear +for ever, by one fault and folly after another. What would I give to be +restored to the place in your esteem, which, you assured me, I held only a few +months ago! Yet I was not contented, but did all I could to torment myself and +harass you by endless doubts and jealousy. Can you not forget and forgive the +past, and judge of me by my conduct in future? Can you not take all my follies +in the lump, and say like a good, generous girl, “Well, I’ll think no more of +them?” In a word, may I come back, and try to behave better? A line to say so +would be an additional favour to so many already received by +</p> + +<p> +Your obliged friend, +</p> + +<p> +And sincere well-wisher. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap28"></a> LETTER XII.</h2> + +<p> +TO C. P—— +</p> + +<p> +I have no answer from her. I’m mad. I wish you to call on M—— in +confidence, to say I intend to make her an offer of my hand, and that I will +write to her father to that effect the instant I am free, and ask him whether +he thinks it will be to any purpose, and what he would advise me to do. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap29"></a> UNALTERED LOVE</h2> + +<p class="poem"> +“Love is not love that alteration finds:<br/> +Oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark,<br/> +That looks on tempests and is never shaken.” +</p> + +<p> +Shall I not love her for herself alone, in spite of fickleness and folly? To +love her for her regard to me, is not to love her, but myself. She has robbed +me of herself: shall she also rob me of my love of her? Did I not live on her +smile? Is it less sweet because it is withdrawn from me? Did I not adore her +every grace? Does she bend less enchantingly, because she has turned from me to +another? Is my love then in the power of fortune, or of her caprice? No, I will +have it lasting as it is pure; and I will make a Goddess of her, and build a +temple to her in my heart, and worship her on indestructible altars, and raise +statues to her: and my homage shall be unblemished as her unrivalled symmetry +of form; and when that fails, the memory of it shall survive; and my bosom +shall be proof to scorn, as hers has been to pity; and I will pursue her with +an unrelenting love, and sue to be her slave, and tend her steps without notice +and without reward; and serve her living, and mourn for her when dead. And thus +my love will have shewn itself superior to her hate; and I shall triumph and +then die. This is my idea of the only true and heroic love! Such is mine for +her. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap30"></a> PERFECT LOVE</h2> + +<p> +Perfect love has this advantage in it, that it leaves the possessor of it +nothing farther to desire. There is one object (at least) in which the soul +finds absolute content, for which it seeks to live, or dares to die. The heart +has as it were filled up the moulds of the imagination. The truth of passion +keeps pace with and outvies the extravagance of mere language. There are no +words so fine, no flattery so soft, that there is not a sentiment beyond them, +that it is impossible to express, at the bottom of the heart where true love +is. What idle sounds the common phrases, adorable creature, angel, divinity, +are? What a proud reflection it is to have a feeling answering to all these, +rooted in the breast, unalterable, unutterable, to which all other feelings are +light and vain! Perfect love reposes on the object of its choice, like the +halcyon on the wave; and the air of heaven is around it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap31"></a> FROM C. P., ESQ.</h2> + +<p> +London, July 4th, 1822. +</p> + +<p> +I have seen M——! Now, my dear H——, let me entreat and +adjure you to take what I have to tell you, FOR WHAT IT IS WORTH—neither +for less, nor more. In the first place, I have learned nothing decisive from +him. This, as you will at once see, is, as far as it goes, good. I am<br/> +either to hear from him, or see him again in a day or two; but I thought you +would like to know what passed inconclusive as it was—so I write without +delay, and in great haste to save a post. I found him frank, and even friendly +in his manner to me, and in his views respecting you. I think that he is +sincerely sorry for your situation; and he feels that the person who has placed +you in that situation is not much less awkwardly situated herself; and he +professes that he would willingly do what he can for the good of both. But he +sees great difficulties attending the affair—which he frankly professes +to consider as an altogether unfortunate one. With respect to the marriage, he +seems to see the most formidable objections to it, on both sides; but yet he by +no means decidedly says that it cannot, or that it ought not to take place. +These, mind you, are his own feelings on the subject: but the most important +point I learn from him is this, that he is not prepared to use his influence +either way—that the rest of the family are of the same way of feeling; +and that, in fact, the thing must and does entirely rest with herself. To learn +this was, as you see, gaining a great point.—When I then endeavoured to +ascertain whether he knew anything decisive as to what are her views on the +subject, I found that he did not. He has an opinion on the subject, and he +didn’t scruple to tell me what it was; but he has no positive knowledge. In +short, he believes, from what he learns from herself (and he had purposely seen +her on the subject, in consequence of my application to him) that she is at +present indisposed to the marriage; but he is not prepared to say positively +that she will not consent to it. Now all this, coming from him in the most +frank and unaffected manner, and without any appearance of cant, caution, or +reserve, I take to be most important as it respects your views, whatever they +may be; and certainly much more favourable to them (I confess it) than I was +prepared to expect, supposing them to remain as they were. In fact as I said +before, the affair rests entirely with herself. They are none of them disposed +either to further the marriage, or throw any insurmountable obstacles in the +way of it; and what is more important than all, they are evidently by no means +CERTAIN that SHE may not, at some future period, consent to it; or they would, +for her sake as well as their own, let you know as much flatly, and put an end +to the affair at once. +</p> + +<p> +Seeing in how frank and straitforward a manner he received what I had to say to +him, and replied to it, I proceeded to ask him what were HIS views, and what +were likely to be HERS (in case she did not consent) as to whether you should +return to live in the house;—but I added, without waiting for his answer, +that if she intended to persist in treating you as she had done for some time +past, it would be worse than madness for you to think of returning. I added +that, in case you did return, all you would expect from her would be that she +would treat you with civility and kindness—that she would continue to +evince that friendly feeling towards you, that she had done for a great length +of time, &c. To this, he said, he could really give no decisive reply, but +that he should be most happy if, by any intervention of his, he could conduce +to your comfort; but he seemed to think that for you to return on any express +understanding that she should behave to you in any particular manner, would be +to place her in a most awkward situation. He went somewhat at length into this +point, and talked very reasonably about it; the result, however, was that he +would not throw any obstacles in the way of your return, or of her treating you +as a friend, &c., nor did it appear that he believed she would refuse to do +so. And, finally, we parted on the understanding that he would see them on the +subject, and ascertain what could be done for the comfort of all parties: +though he was of opinion that if you could make up your mind to break off the +acquaintance altogether, it would be the best plan of all. I am to hear from +him again in a day or two.—Well, what do you say to all this? Can you +turn it to any thing but good—comparative good? If you would know what +<i>I</i> say to it, it is this:—She is still to be won by wise and +prudent conduct on your part; she was always to have been won by +such;—and if she is lost, it has been not, as you sometimes suppose, +because you have not carried that unwise, may I not say UNWORTHY? conduct still +farther, but because you gave way to it at all. Of course I use the terms +“wise” and “prudent” with reference to your object. Whether the pursuit of that +object is wise, only yourself can judge. I say she has all along been to be +won, and she still is to be won; and all that stands in the way of your views +at this moment is your past conduct. They are all of them, every soul, +frightened at you; they have SEEN enough of you to make them so; and they have +doubtless heard ten times more than they have seen, or than anyone else has +seen. They are all of them including M—— (and particularly she +herself) frightened out of their wits, as to what might be your treatment of +her if she were yours; and they dare not trust you—they will not trust +you, at present. I do not say that they will trust you, or rather that SHE +will, for<br/> +it all depends on her, when you have gone through a probation, but I am sure +that she will not trust you till you have. You will, I hope, not be angry with +me when I say that she would be a fool if she did. If she were to accept you at +present, and without knowing more of you, even I should begin to suspect that +she had an unworthy motive for doing it. Let me not forget to mention what is +perhaps as important a point as any, as it regards the marriage. I of course +stated to M—— that when you are free, you are prepared to make her +a formal offer of your hand; but I begged him, if he was certain that such an +offer would be refused, to tell me so plainly at once, that I might endeavour, +in that case, to dissuade you from subjecting yourself to the pain of such a +refusal. HE WOULD NOT TELL ME THAT HE WAS CERTAIN. He said his opinion was that +she would not accept your offer, but still he seemed to think that there would +be no harm in making it!—-One word more, and a very important one. He +once, and without my referring in the slightest manner to that part of the +subject, spoke of her as a GOOD GIRL, and LIKELY TO MAKE ANY MAN AN EXCELLENT +WIFE! Do you think if she were a bad girl (and if she were, he must know her to +be so) he would have dared to do this, under these circumstances?—And +once, in speaking of HIS not being a fit person to set his face against +“marrying for love,” he added “I did so myself, and out of that house; and I +have had reason to rejoice at it ever since.” And mind (for I anticipate your +cursed suspicions) I’m certain, at least, if manner can entitle one to be +certain of any thing, that he said all this spontaneously, and without any +understood motive; and I’m certain, too, that he knows you to be a person that +it would not do to play any tricks of this kind with. I believe—(and all +this would never have entered my thoughts, but that I know it will enter yours) +I believe that even if they thought (as you have sometimes supposed they do) +that she needs whitewashing, or making an honest woman of, YOU would be the +last person they would think of using for such a purpose, for they know (as +well as I do) that you couldn’t fail to find out the trick in a month, and +would turn her into the street the next moment, though she were twenty times +your wife—and that, as to the consequences of doing so, you would laugh +at them, even if you couldn’t escape from them.—I shall lose the post if +I say more. +</p> + +<p> +Believe me, <br/> +Ever truly your friend, <br/> +C. P. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap32"></a> LETTER XIII</h2> + +<p> +My dear P——, You have saved my life. If I do not keep friends with +her now, I deserve to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. She is an angel from +Heaven, and you cannot pretend I ever said a word to the contrary! The little +rogue must have liked me from the first, or she never could have stood all +these hurricanes without slipping her cable. What could she find in me? “I have +mistook my person all this while,” &c. Do you know I saw a picture, the +very pattern of her, the other day, at Dalkeith Palace (Hope finding Fortune in +the Sea), just before this blessed news came, and the resemblance drove me +almost out of my senses. Such delicacy, such fulness, such perfect softness, +such buoyancy, such grace! If it is not the very image of her, I am no +judge.—You have the face to doubt my making the best husband in the +world; you might as well doubt it if I was married to one of the Houris of +Paradise. She is a saint, an angel, a love. If she deceives me again, she kills +me. But I will have such a kiss when I get back, as shall last me twenty years. +May God bless her for not utterly disowning and destroying me! What an +exquisite little creature it is, and how she holds out to the last in her +system of consistent contradictions! Since I wrote to you about making a formal +proposal, I have had her face constantly before me, looking so like some +faultless marble statue, as cold, as fixed and graceful as ever statue did; the +expression (nothing was ever like THAT!) seemed to say—“I wish I could +love you better than I do, but still I will be yours.” No, I’ll never believe +again that she will not be mine; for I think she was made on purpose for me. If +there’s anyone else that understands that turn of her head as I do, I’ll give +her up without scruple. I have made up my mind to this, never to dream of +another woman, while she even thinks it worth her while to REFUSE TO HAVE ME. +You see I am not hard to please, after all. Did M—— know of the +intimacy that had subsisted between us? Or did you hint at it? I think it would +be a CLENCHER, if he did. How ought I to behave when I go back? Advise a fool, +who had nearly lost a Goddess by his folly. The thing was, I could not think it +possible she would ever like ME. Her taste is singular, but not the worse for +that. I’d rather have her love, or liking (call it what you will) than empires. +I deserve to call her mine; for nothing else CAN atone for what I’ve gone +through for her. I hope your next letter will not reverse all, and then I shall +be happy till I see her,—one of the blest when I do see her, if she looks +like my own beautiful love. I may perhaps write a line when I come to my right +wits.—Farewel at present, and thank you a thousand times for what you +have done for your poor friend. +</p> + +<p> +P. S.—I like what M—— said about her sister, much. There are +good people in the world: I begin to see it, and believe it. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap33"></a> LETTER THE LAST</h2> + +<p> +Dear P——, To-morrow is the decisive day that makes me or mars me. I +will let you know the result by a line added to this. Yet what signifies it, +since either way I have little hope there, “whence alone my hope cometh!” You +must know I am strangely in the dumps at this present writing. My reception +with her is doubtful, and my fate is then certain. The hearing of your +happiness has, I own, made me thoughtful. It is just what I proposed to her to +do—to have crossed the Alps with me, to sail on sunny seas, to bask in +Italian skies, to have visited Vevai and the rocks of Meillerie, and to have +repeated to her on the spot the story of Julia and St. Preux, and to have shewn +her all that my heart had stored up for her—but on my forehead alone is +written—REJECTED! Yet I too could have adored as fervently, and loved as +tenderly as others, had I been permitted. You are going abroad, you say, happy +in making happy. Where shall I be? In the grave, I hope, or else in her arms. +To me, alas! there is no sweetness out of her sight, and that sweetness has +turned to bitterness, I fear; that gentleness to sullen scorn! Still I hope for +the best. If she will but HAVE me, I’ll make her LOVE me: and I think her not +giving a positive answer looks like it, and also shews that there is no one +else. Her holding out to the last also, I think, proves that she was never to +have been gained but with honour. She’s a strange, almost an inscrutable girl: +but if I once win her consent, I shall kill her with kindness.—Will you +let me have a sight of SOMEBODY before you go? I should be most proud. I was in +hopes to have got away by the Steam-boat to-morrow, but owing to the business +not coming on till then, I cannot; and may not be in town for another week, +unless I come by the Mail, which I am strongly tempted to do. In the latter +case I shall be there, and visible on Saturday evening. Will you look in and +see, about eight o’clock? I wish much to see you and her and J. H. and my +little boy once more; and then, if she is not what she once was to me, I care +not if I die that instant. I will conclude here till to-morrow, as I am getting +into my old melancholy.— +</p> + +<p> +It is all over, and I am my own man, and yours ever— +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="part03"></a>PART III</h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap34"></a> ADDRESSED TO J. S. K.——</h2> + +<p> +My dear K——, It is all over, and I know my fate. I told you I would +send you word, if anything decisive happened; but an impenetrable mystery hung +over the affair till lately. It is at last (by the merest accident in the +world) dissipated; and I keep my promise, both for your satisfaction, and for +the ease of my own mind. +</p> + +<p> +You remember the morning when I said “I will go and repose my sorrows at the +foot of Ben Lomond”—and when from Dumbarton Bridge its giant-shadow, clad +in air and sunshine, appeared in view. We had a pleasant day’s walk. We passed +Smollett’s monument on the road (somehow these poets touch one in reflection +more than most military heroes)—talked of old times; you repeated Logan’s +beautiful verses to the cuckoo,* which I wanted to compare with Wordsworth’s, +but my courage failed me; you then told me some passages of an early attachment +which was suddenly broken off; we considered together which was the most to be +pitied, a disappointment in love where the attachment was mutual or one where +there has been no return, and we both agreed, I think, that the former was best +to be endured, and that to have the consciousness of it a companion for life +was the least evil of the two, as there was a secret sweetness that took off +the bitterness and the sting of regret, and “the memory of what once had been” +atoned, in some measure, and at intervals, for what “never more could be.” In +the other case, there was nothing to look back to with tender satisfaction, no +redeeming trait, not even a possibility of turning it to good. It left behind +it not cherished sighs, but stifled pangs. The galling sense of it did not +bring moisture into the eyes, but dried up the heart ever after. One had been +my fate, the other had been yours! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +[* “Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green,<br/> +Thy sky is ever clear;<br/> +Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,<br/> +No winter in thy year.” +</p> + +<p class="footnote"> +So they begin. It was the month of May; the cuckoo sang shrouded in some woody +copse; the showers fell between whiles; my friend repeated the lines with +native enthusiasm in a clear manly voice, still resonant of youth and hope. Mr. +Wordsworth will excuse me, if in these circumstances I declined entering the +field with his profounder metaphysical strain, and kept my preference to +myself.] +</p> + +<p> +You startled me every now and then from my reverie by the robust voice, in +which you asked the country people (by no means prodigal of their +answers)—“If there was any trout fishing in those streams?”—and our +dinner at Luss set us up for the rest of our day’s march. The sky now became +overcast; but this, I think, added to the effect of the scene. The road to +Tarbet is superb. It is on the very verge of the lake—hard, level, rocky, +with low stone bridges constantly flung across it, and fringed with birch +trees, just then budding into spring, behind which, as through a slight veil, +you saw the huge shadowy form of Ben Lomond. It lifts its enormous but graceful +bulk direct from the edge of the water without any projecting lowlands, and has +in this respect much the advantage of Skiddaw. Loch Lomond comes upon you by +degrees as you advance, unfolding and then withdrawing its conscious beauties +like an accomplished coquet. You are struck with the point of a rock, the arch +of a bridge, the Highland huts (like the first rude habitations of men) dug out +of the soil, built of turf, and covered with brown heather, a sheep-cote, some +straggling cattle feeding half-way down a precipice; but as you advance farther +on, the view expands into the perfection of lake scenery. It is nothing (or +your eye is caught by nothing) but water, earth, and sky. Ben Lomond waves to +the right, in its simple majesty, cloud-capt or bare, and descending to a point +at the head of the lake, shews the Trossacs beyond, tumbling about their blue +ridges like woods waving; to the left is the Cobler, whose top is like a castle +shattered in pieces and nodding to its ruin; and at your side rise the shapes +of round pastoral hills, green, fleeced with herds, and retiring into +mountainous bays and upland valleys, where solitude and peace might make their +lasting home, if peace were to be found in solitude! That it was not always so, +I was a sufficient proof; for there was one image that alone haunted me in the +midst of all this sublimity and beauty, and turned it to a mockery and a dream! +</p> + +<p> +The snow on the mountain would not let us ascend; and being weary of waiting +and of being visited by the guide every two hours to let us know that the +weather would not do, we returned, you homewards, and I to London— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“Italiam, Italiam!” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +You know the anxious expectations with which I set out:—now hear the +result— +</p> + +<p> +As the vessel sailed up the Thames, the air thickened with the consciousness of +being near her, and I “heaved her name pantingly forth.” As I approached the +house, I could not help thinking of the lines— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +“How near am I to a happiness,<br/> +That earth exceeds not! Not another like it.<br/> +The treasures of the deep are not so precious<br/> +As are the conceal’d comforts of a man<br/> +Lock’d up in woman’s love. I scent the air<br/> +Of blessings when I come but near the house.<br/> +What a delicious breath true love sends forth!<br/> +The violet-beds not sweeter. Now for a welcome<br/> +Able to draw men’s envies upon man:<br/> +A kiss now that will hang upon my lip,<br/> +As sweet as morning dew upon a rose,<br/> +And full as long!” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +I saw her, but I saw at the first glance that there was something amiss. It was +with much difficulty and after several pressing intreaties that<br/> +she was prevailed on to come up into the room; and when she did, she stood at +the door, cold, distant, averse; and when at length she was persuaded by my +repeated remonstrances to come and take my hand, and I offered to touch her +lips, she turned her head and shrunk from my embraces, as if quite alienated or +mortally offended. I asked what it could mean? What had I done in her absence +to have incurred her displeasure? Why had she not written to me? I could get +only short, sullen, disconnected answers, as if there was something labouring +in her mind which she either could not or would not impart. I hardly knew how +to bear this first reception after so long an absence, and so different from +the one my sentiments towards her merited; but I thought it possible it might +be prudery (as I had returned without having actually accomplished what I went +about) or that she had taken offence at something in my letters. She saw how +much I was hurt. I asked her, “If she was altered since I went +away?”—“No.” “If there was any one else who had been so fortunate as to +gain her favourable opinion?”—“No, there was no one else.” “What was it +then? Was it any thing in my letters? Or had I displeased her by letting Mr. +P—— know she wrote to me?”—“No, not at all; but she did not +apprehend my last letter required any answer, or she would have replied to it.” +All this appeared to me very unsatisfactory and evasive; but I could get no +more from her, and was obliged to let her go with a heavy, foreboding heart. I +however found that C—— was gone, and no one else had been there, of +whom I had cause to be jealous.—“Should I see her on the +morrow?”—“She believed so, but she could not promise.” The next morning +she did not appear with the breakfast as usual. At this I grew somewhat uneasy. +The little Buonaparte, however, was placed in its old position on the +mantelpiece, which I considered as a sort of recognition of old times. I saw +her once or twice casually; nothing particular happened till the next day, +which was Sunday. I took occasion to go into the parlour for the newspaper, +which she gave me with a gracious smile, and seemed tolerably frank and +cordial. This of course acted as a spell upon me. I walked out with my little +boy, intending to go and dine out at one or two places, but I found that I +still contrived to bend my steps towards her, and I went back to take tea at +home. While we were out, I talked to William about Sarah, saying that she too +was unhappy, and asking him to make it up with her. He said, if she was +unhappy, he would not bear her malice any more. When she came up with the +tea-things, I said to her, “William has something to say to you—I believe +he wants to be friends.” On which he said in his abrupt, hearty manner, “Sarah, +I’m sorry if I’ve ever said anything to vex you”—so they shook hands, and +she said, smiling affably—“THEN I’ll think no more of it!” I +added—“I see you’ve brought me back my little Buonaparte”—She +answered with tremulous softness—“I told you I’d keep it safe for +you!”—as if her pride and pleasure in doing so had been equal, and she +had, as it were, thought of nothing during my absence but how to greet me with +this proof of her fidelity on my return. I cannot describe her manner. Her +words are few and simple; but you can have no idea of the exquisite, unstudied, +irresistible graces with which she accompanies them, unless you can suppose a +Greek statue to smile, move, and speak. Those lines in Tibullus seem to have +been written on purpose for her— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +Quicquid agit quoquo vestigià vertit,<br/> +Componit furtim, subsequiturque decor. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +Or what do you think of those in a modern play, which might actually have been +composed with an eye to this little trifler— +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +—“See with what a waving air she goes<br/> +Along the corridor. How like a fawn!<br/> +Yet statelier. No sound (however soft)<br/> +Nor gentlest echo telleth when she treads,<br/> +But every motion of her shape doth seem<br/> +Hallowed by silence. So did Hebe grow<br/> +Among the gods a paragon! Away, I’m grown<br/> +The very fool of Love!” +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +The truth is, I never saw anything like her, nor I never shall again. How then +do I console myself for the loss of her? Shall I tell you, but you will not +mention it again? I am foolish enough to believe that she and I, in spite of +every thing, shall be sitting together over a sea-coal fire, a comfortable good +old couple, twenty years hence! But to my narrative.— +</p> + +<p> +I was delighted with the alteration in her manner, and said, referring to the +bust—“You know it is not mine, but yours; I gave it you; nay, I have +given you all—my heart, and whatever I possess, is yours! She seemed +good-humouredly to decline this carte blanche offer, and waved, like a thing of +enchantment, out of the room. False calm!—Deceitful smiles!—Short +interval of peace, followed by lasting woe! I sought an interview with her that +same evening. I could not get her to come any farther than the door. “She was +busy—she could hear what I had to say there.” Why do you seem to avoid me +as you do? Not one five minutes’ conversation, for the sake of old +acquaintance? Well, then, for the sake of THE LITTLE IMAGE!” The appeal seemed +to have lost its efficacy; the charm was broken; she remained immoveable. +“Well, then I must come to you, if you will not run away.” I went and sat down +in a chair near the door, and took her hand, and talked to her for three +quarters of an hour; and she listened patiently, thoughtfully, and seemed a +good deal affected by what I said. I told her how much I had felt, how much I +had suffered for her in my absence, and how much I had been hurt by her sudden +silence, for which I knew not how to account. I could have done nothing to +offend her while I was away; and my letters were, I hoped, tender and +respectful. I had had but one thought ever present with me; her image never +quitted my side, alone or in company, to delight or distract me. Without her I +could have no peace, nor ever should again, unless she would behave to me as +she had done formerly. There was no abatement of my regard to her; why was she +so changed? I said to her, “Ah! Sarah, when I think that it is only a year ago +that you were everything to me I could wish, and that now you seem lost to me +for ever, the month of May (the name of which ought to be a signal for joy and +hope) strikes chill to my heart.—How different is this meeting from that +delicious parting, when you seemed never weary of repeating the proofs of your +regard and tenderness, and it was with difficulty we tore ourselves asunder at +last! I am ten thousand times fonder of you than I was then, and ten thousand +times more unhappy!” “You have no reason to be so; my feelings towards you are +the same as they ever were.” I told her “She was my all of hope or comfort: my +passion for her grew stronger every time I saw her.” She answered, “She was +sorry for it; for THAT she never could return.” I said something about looking +ill: she said in her pretty, mincing, emphatic way, “I despise looks!” So, +thought I, it is not that; and she says there’s no one else: it must be some +strange air she gives herself, in consequence of the approaching change in my +circumstances. She has been probably advised not to give up till all is fairly +over, and then she will be my own sweet girl again. All this time she was +standing just outside the door, my hand in hers (would that they could have +grown together!) she was dressed in a loose morning-gown, her hair curled +beautifully; she stood with her profile to me, and looked down the whole time. +No expression was ever more soft or perfect. Her whole attitude, her whole +form, was dignity and bewitching grace. I said to her, “You look like a queen, +my love, adorned with your own graces!” I grew idolatrous, and would have +kneeled to her. She made a movement, as if she was displeased. I tried to draw +her towards me. She wouldn’t. I then got up, and offered to kiss her at +parting. I found she obstinately refused. This stung me to the quick. It was +the first time in her life she had ever done so. There must be some new bar +between us to produce these continued denials; and she had not even esteem +enough left to tell me so. I followed her half-way down-stairs, but to no +purpose, and returned into my room, confirmed in my most dreadful surmises. I +could bear it no longer. I gave way to all the fury of disappointed hope and +jealous passion. I was made the dupe of trick and cunning, killed with cold, +sullen scorn; and, after all the agony I had suffered, could obtain no +explanation why I was subjected to it. I was still to be tantalized, tortured, +made the cruel sport of one, for whom I would have sacrificed all. I tore the +locket which contained her hair (and which I used to wear continually in my +bosom, as the precious token of her dear regard) from my neck, and trampled it +in pieces. I then dashed the little Buonaparte on the ground, and stamped upon +it, as one of her instruments of mockery. I could not stay in the room; I could +not leave it; my rage, my despair were uncontrollable. I shrieked curses on her +name, and on her false love; and the scream I uttered (so pitiful and so +piercing was it, that the sound of it terrified me) instantly brought the whole +house, father, mother, lodgers and all, into the room. They thought I was +destroying her and myself. I had gone into the bedroom, merely to hide away +from myself, and as I came out of it, raging-mad with the new sense of present +shame and lasting misery, Mrs. F—— said, “She’s in there! He has +got her in there!” thinking the cries had proceeded from her, and that I had +been offering her violence. “Oh! no,” I said, “She’s in no danger from me; I am +not the person;” and tried to burst from this scene of degradation. The mother +endeavoured to stop me, and said, “For God’s sake, don’t go out, Mr. +——! for God’s sake, don’t!” Her father, who was not, I believe, in +the secret, and was therefore justly scandalised at such outrageous conduct, +said angrily, “Let him go! Why should he stay?” I however sprang down stairs, +and as they called out to me, “What is it?—What has she done to you?” I +answered, “She has murdered me!—She has destroyed me for ever!—She +has doomed my soul to perdition!” I rushed out of the house, thinking to quit +it forever; but I was no sooner in the street, than the desolation and the +darkness became greater, more intolerable; and the eddying violence of my +passion drove me back to the source, from whence it sprung. This unexpected +explosion, with the conjectures to which it would give rise, could not be very +agreeable to the precieuse or her family; and when I went back, the father was +waiting at the door, as if anticipating this sudden turn of my feelings, with +no friendly aspect. I said, “I have to beg pardon, Sir; but my mad fit is over, +and I wish to say a few words to you in private.” He seemed to hesitate, but +some uneasy forebodings on his own account, probably, prevailed over his +resentment; or, perhaps (as philosophers have a desire to know the cause of +thunder) it was a natural curiosity to know what circumstances of provocation +had given rise to such an extraordinary scene of confusion. When we reached my +room, I requested him to be seated. I said, “It is true, Sir, I have lost my +peace of mind for ever, but at present I am quite calm and collected, and I +wish to explain to you why I have behaved in so extravagant a way, and to ask +for your advice and intercession.” He appeared satisfied, and I went on. I had +no chance either of exculpating myself, or of probing the question to the +bottom, but by stating the naked truth, and therefore I said at once, “Sarah +told me, Sir (and I never shall forget the way in which she told me, fixing her +dove’s eyes upon me, and looking a thousand tender reproaches for the loss of +that good opinion, which she held dearer than all the world) she told me, Sir, +that as you one day passed the door, which stood a-jar, you saw her in an +attitude which a good deal startled you; I mean sitting in my lap, with her +arms round my neck, and mine twined round her in the fondest manner. What I +wished to ask was, whether this was actually the case, or whether it was a mere +invention of her own, to enhance the sense of my obligations to her; for I +begin to doubt everything?”—“Indeed, it was so; and very much surprised +and hurt I was to see it.” “Well then, Sir, I can only say, that as you saw her +sitting then, so she had been sitting for the last year and a half, almost +every day of her life, by the hour together; and you may judge yourself, +knowing what a nice modest-looking girl she is, whether, after having been +admitted to such intimacy with so sweet a creature, and for so long a time, it +is not enough to make any one frantic to be received by her as I have been +since my return, without any provocation given or cause assigned for it.” The +old man answered very seriously, and, as I think, sincerely, “What you now tell +me, Sir, mortifies and shocks me as much as it can do yourself. I had no idea +such a thing was possible. I was much pained at what I saw; but I thought it an +accident, and that it would never happen again.”—“It was a constant +habit; it has happened a hundred times since, and a thousand before. I lived on +her caresses as my daily food, nor can I live without them.” So I told him the +whole story, “what conjurations, and what mighty magic I won his daughter +with,” to be anything but MINE FOR LIFE. Nothing could well exceed his +astonishment and apparent mortification. “What I had said,” he owned, “had left +a weight upon his mind that he should not easily get rid of.” I told him, “For +myself, I never could recover the blow I had received. I thought, however, for +her own sake, she ought to alter her present behaviour. Her marked neglect and +dislike, so far from justifying, left her former intimacies without excuse; for +nothing could reconcile them to propriety, or even a pretence to common +decency, but either love, or friendship so strong and pure that it could put on +the guise of love. She was certainly a singular girl. Did she think it right +and becoming to be free with strangers, and strange to old friends?” I frankly +declared, “I did not see how it was in human nature for any one who was not +rendered callous to such familiarities by bestowing them indiscriminately on +every one, to grant the extreme and continued indulgences she had done to me, +without either liking the man at first, or coming to like him in the end, in +spite of herself. When my addresses had nothing, and could have nothing +honourable in them, she gave them every encouragement; when I wished to make +them honourable, she treated them with the utmost contempt. The terms we had +been all along on were such as if she had been to be my bride next day. It was +only when I wished her actually to become so, to ensure her own character and +my happiness, that she shrunk back with precipitation and panic-fear. There +seemed to me something wrong in all this; a want both of common propriety, and +I might say, of natural feeling; yet, with all her faults, I loved her, and +ever should, beyond any other human being. I had drank in the poison of her +sweetness too long ever to be cured of it; and though I might find it to be +poison in the end, it was still in my veins. My only ambition was to be +permitted to live with her, and to die in her arms. Be she what she would, +treat me how she would, I felt that my soul was wedded to hers; and were she a +mere lost creature, I would try to snatch her from perdition, and marry her +to-morrow if she would have me. That was the question—“Would she have me, +or would she not?” He said he could not tell; but should not attempt to put any +constraint upon her inclinations, one way or other. I acquiesced, and added, +that “I had brought all this upon myself, by acting contrary to the suggestions +of my friend, Mr. ——, who had desired me to take no notice whether +she came near me or kept away, whether she smiled or frowned, was kind or +contemptuous—all you have to do, is to wait patiently for a month till +you are your own man, as you will be in all probability; then make her an offer +of your hand, and if she refuses, there’s an end of the matter.” Mr. L. said, +“Well, Sir, and I don’t think you can follow a better advice!” I took this as +at least a sort of negative encouragement, and so we parted. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap35"></a> TO THE SAME</h2> + +<p> +(In continuation) +</p> + +<p> +My dear Friend, The next day I felt almost as sailors must do after a violent +storm over-night, that has subsided towards daybreak. The morning was a dull +and stupid calm, and I found she was unwell, in consequence of what had +happened. In the evening I grew more uneasy, and determined on going into the +country for a week or two. I gathered up the fragments of the locket of her +hair, and the little bronze statue, which were strewed about the floor, kissed +them, folded them up in a sheet of paper, and sent them to her, with these +lines written in pencil on the outside—“Pieces of a broken heart, to be +kept in remembrance of the unhappy. Farewell.” No notice was taken; nor did I +expect any. The following morning I requested Betsey to pack up my box for me, +as I should go out of town the next day, and at the same time wrote a note to +her sister to say, I should take it as a favour if she would please to accept +of the enclosed copies of the Vicar of Wakefield, The Man of Feeling and Nature +and Art, in lieu of three volumes of my own writings, which I had given her on +different occasions, in the course of our acquaintance. I was piqued, in fact, +that she should have these to shew as proofs of my weakness, and as if I +thought the way to win her was by plaguing her with my own performances. +</p> + +<p> +She sent me word back that the books I had sent were of no use to her, and that +I should have those I wished for in the afternoon; but that she could not +before, as she had lent them to her sister, Mrs. M——. I said, “very +well;” but observed (laughing) to Betsey, “It’s a bad rule to give and take; +so, if Sarah won’t have these books, you must; they are very pretty ones, I +assure you.” She curtsied and took them, according to the family custom. In the +afternoon, when I came back to tea, I found the little girl on her knees, busy +in packing up my things, and a large paper parcel on the table, which I could +not at first tell what to make of. On opening it, however, I soon found what it +was. It contained a number of volumes which I had given her at different times +(among others, a little Prayer-Book, bound in crimson velvet, with green silk +linings; she kissed it twenty times when she received it, and said it was the +prettiest present in the world, and that she would shew it to her aunt, who +would be proud of it)—and all these she had returned together. Her name +in the title-page was cut out of them all. I doubted at the instant whether she +had done this before or after I had sent for them back, and I have doubted of +it since; but there is no occasion to suppose her UGLY ALL OVER WITH HYPOCRISY. +Poor little thing! She has enough to answer for, as it is. I asked Betsey if +she could carry a message for me, and she said “YES.” “Will you tell your +sister, then, that I did not want all these books; and give my love to her, and +say that I shall be obliged if she will still keep these that I have sent back, +and tell her that it is only those of my own writing that I think unworthy of +her.” What do you think the little imp made answer? She raised herself on the +other side of the table where she stood, as if inspired by the genius of the +place, and said—“AND THOSE ARE THE ONES THAT SHE PRIZES THE MOST!” If +there were ever words spoken that could revive the dead, those were the words. +Let me kiss them, and forget that my ears have heard aught else! I said, “Are +you sure of that?” and she said, “Yes, quite sure.” I told her, “If I could be, +I should be very different from what I was.” And I became so that instant, for +these casual words carried assurance to my heart of her esteem—that once +implied, I had proofs enough of her fondness. Oh! how I felt at that moment! +Restored to love, hope, and joy, by a breath which I had caught by the merest +accident, and which I might have pined in absence and mute despair for want of +hearing! I did not know how to contain myself; I was childish, wanton, drunk +with pleasure. I gave Betsey a twenty-shilling note which I happened to have in +my hand, and on her asking “What’s this for, Sir?” I said, “It’s for you. Don’t +you think it worth that to be made happy? You once made me very wretched by +some words I heard you drop, and now you have made me as happy; and all I wish +you is, when you grow up, that you may find some one to love you as well as I +do your sister, and that you may love better than she does me!” I continued in +this state of delirium or dotage all that day and the next, talked incessantly, +laughed at every thing, and was so extravagant, nobody could tell what was the +matter with me. I murmured her name; I blest her; I folded her to my heart in +delicious fondness; I called her by my own name; I worshipped her: I was mad +for her. I told P—— I should laugh in her face, if ever she +pretended not to like me again. Her mother came in and said, she hoped I should +excuse Sarah’s coming up. “Oh, Ma’am,” I said, “I have no wish to see her; I +feel her at my heart; she does not hate me after all, and I wish for nothing. +Let her come when she will, she is to me welcomer than light, than life; but +let it be in her own sweet time, and at her own dear pleasure.” Betsey also +told me she was “so glad to get the books back.” I, however, sobered and +wavered (by degrees) from seeing nothing of her, day after day; and in less +than a week I was devoted to the Infernal Gods. I could hold out no longer than +the Monday evening following. I sent a message to her; she returned an +ambiguous answer; but she came up. Pity me, my friend, for the shame of this +recital. Pity me for the pain of having ever had to make it! If the spirits of +mortal creatures, purified by faith and hope, can (according to the highest +assurances) ever, during thousands of years of smooth-rolling eternity and +balmy, sainted repose, forget the pain, the toil, the anguish, the +helplessness, and the despair they have suffered here, in this frail being, +then may I forget that withering hour, and her, that fair, pale form that +entered, my inhuman betrayer, and my only earthly love! She said, “Did you wish +to speak to me, Sir?” I said, “Yes, may I not speak to you? I wanted to see you +and be friends.” I rose up, offered her an arm-chair which stood facing, bowed +on it, and knelt to her adoring. She said (going) “If that’s all, I have +nothing to say.” I replied, “Why do you treat me thus? What have I done to +become thus hateful to you?” ANSWER, “I always told you I had no affection for +you.” You may suppose this was a blow, after the imaginary honey-moon in which +I had passed the preceding week. I was stunned by it; my heart sunk within me. +I contrived to say, “Nay, my dear girl, not always neither; for did you not +once (if I might presume to look back to those happy, happy times), when you +were sitting on my knee as usual, embracing and embraced, and I asked if you +could not love me at last, did you not make answer, in the softest tones that +ever man heard, ‘I COULD EASILY SAY SO, WHETHER I DID OR NOT; YOU SHOULD JUDGE +BY MY ACTIONS!’ Was I to blame in taking you at your word, when every hope I +had depended on your sincerity? And did you not say since I came back, ‘YOUR +FEELINGS TO ME WERE THE SAME AS EVER?’ Why then is your behaviour so +different?” S. “Is it nothing, your exposing me to the whole house in the way +you did the other evening?” H. “Nay, that was the consequence of your cruel +reception of me, not the cause of it. I had better have gone away last year, as +I proposed to do, unless you would give some pledge of your fidelity; but it +was your own offer that I should remain. ‘Why should I go?’ you said, ‘Why +could we not go on the same as we had done, and say nothing about the word +FOREVER?’” S. “And how did you behave when you returned?” H. “That was all +forgiven when we last parted, and your last words were, ‘I should find you the +same as ever’ when I came home? Did you not that very day enchant and madden me +over again by the purest kisses and embraces, and did I not go from you (as I +said) adoring, confiding, with every assurance of mutual esteem and +friendship?” S. “Yes, and in your absence I found that you had told my aunt +what had passed between us.” H. “It was to induce her to extort your real +sentiments from you, that you might no longer make a secret of your true regard +for me, which your actions (but not your words) confessed.” S. “I own I have +been guilty of improprieties, which you have gone and repeated, not only in the +house, but out of it; so that it has come to my ears from various quarters, as +if I was a light character. And I am determined in future to be guided by the +advice of my relations, and particularly of my aunt, whom I consider as my best +friend, and keep every lodger at a proper distance.” You will find hereafter +that her favourite lodger, whom she visits daily, had left the house; so that +she might easily make and keep this vow of extraordinary self-denial. Precious +little dissembler! Yet her aunt, her best friend, says, “No, Sir, no; Sarah’s +no hypocrite!” which I was fool enough to believe; and yet my great and +unpardonable offence is to have entertained passing doubts on this delicate +point. I said, Whatever errors I had committed, arose from my anxiety to have +everything explained to her honour: my conduct shewed that I had that at heart, +and that I built on the purity of her character as on a rock. My esteem for her +amounted to adoration. “She did not want adoration.” It was only when any thing +happened to imply that I had been mistaken, that I committed any extravagance, +because I could not bear to think her short of perfection. “She was far from +perfection,” she replied, with an air and manner (oh, my God!) as near it as +possible. “How could she accuse me of a want of regard to her? It was but the +other day, Sarah,” I said to her, “when that little circumstance of the books +happened, and I fancied the expressions your sister dropped proved the +sincerity of all your kindness to me—you don’t know how my heart melted +within me at the thought, that after all, I might be dear to you. New hopes +sprung up in my heart, and I felt as Adam must have done when his Eve was +created for him!” “She had heard enough of that sort of conversation,” (moving +towards the door). This, I own, was the unkindest cut of all. I had, in that +case, no hopes whatever. I felt that I had expended words in vain, and that the +conversation below stairs (which I told you of when I saw you) had spoiled her +taste for mine. If the allusion had been classical I should have been to blame; +but it was scriptural, it was a sort of religious courtship, and Miss L. is +religious! +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +At once he took his Muse and dipt her<br/> +Right in the middle of the Scripture. +</p> + +<p class="noindent"> +It would not do—the lady could make neither head nor tail of it. This is +a poor attempt at levity. Alas! I am sad enough. “Would she go and leave me so? +If it was only my own behaviour, I still did not doubt of success. I knew the +sincerity of my love, and she would be convinced of it in time. If that was +all, I did not care: but tell me true, is there not a new attachment that is +the real cause of your estrangement? Tell me, my sweet friend, and before you +tell me, give me your hand (nay, both hands) that I may have something to +support me under the dreadful conviction.” She let me take her hands in mine, +saying, “She supposed there could be no objection to that,”—as if she +acted on the suggestions of others, instead of following her own will—but +still avoided giving me any answer. I conjured her to tell me the worst, and +kill me on the spot. Any thing was better than my present state. I said, “Is it +Mr. C——?” She smiled, and said with gay indifference, “Mr. +C—— was here a very short time.” “Well, then, was it Mr. +——?” She hesitated, and then replied faintly, “No.” This was a mere +trick to mislead; one of the profoundnesses of Satan, in which she is an adept. +“But,” she added hastily, “she could make no more confidences.” “Then,” said I, +“you have something to communicate.” “No; but she had once mentioned a thing of +the sort, which I had hinted to her mother, though it signified little.” All +this while I was in tortures. Every word, every half-denial, stabbed me. “Had +she any tie?” “No, I have no tie!” “You are not going to be married soon?” “I +don’t intend ever to marry at all!” “Can’t you be friends with me as of old?” +“She could give no promises.” “Would she make her own terms?” “She would make +none.”—“I was sadly afraid the LITTLE IMAGE was dethroned from her heart, +as I had dashed it to the ground the other night.”—“She was neither +desperate nor violent.” I did not answer—“But deliberate and +deadly,”—though I might; and so she vanished in this running fight of +question and answer, in spite of my vain efforts to detain her. The cockatrice, +I said, mocks me: so she has always done. The thought was a dagger to me. My +head reeled, my heart recoiled within me. I was stung with scorpions; my flesh +crawled; I was choked with rage; her scorn scorched me like flames; her air +(her heavenly air) withdrawn from me, stifled me, and left me gasping for +breath and being. It was a fable. She started up in her own likeness, a serpent +in place of a woman. She had fascinated, she had stung me, and had returned to +her proper shape, gliding from me after inflicting the mortal wound, and +instilling deadly poison into every pore; but her form lost none of its +original brightness by the change of character, but was all glittering, +beauteous, voluptuous grace. Seed of the serpent or of the woman, she was +divine! I felt that she was a witch, and had bewitched me. Fate had enclosed me +round about. <i>I</i> was transformed too, no longer human (any more than she, +to whom I had knit myself) my feelings were marble; my blood was of molten +lead; my thoughts on fire. I was taken out of myself, wrapt into another +sphere, far from the light of day, of hope, of love. I had no natural affection +left; she had slain me, but no other thing had power over me. Her arms embraced +another; but her mock-embrace, the phantom of her love, still bound me, and I +had not a wish to escape. So I felt then, and so perhaps shall feel till I grow +old and die, nor have any desire that my years should last longer than they are +linked in the chain of those amorous folds, or than her enchantments steep my +soul in oblivion of all other things! I started to find myself alone—for +ever alone, without a creature to love me. I looked round the room for help; I +saw the tables, the chairs, the places where she stood or sat, empty, deserted, +dead. I could not stay where I was; I had no one to go to but to the +parent-mischief, the preternatural hag, that had “drugged this posset” of her +daughter’s charms and falsehood for me, and I went down and (such was my +weakness and helplessness) sat with her for an hour, and talked with her of her +daughter, and the sweet days we had passed together, and said I thought her a +good girl, and believed that if there was no rival, she still had a regard for +me at the bottom of her heart; and how I liked her all the better for her coy, +maiden airs: and I received the assurance over and over that there was no one +else; and that Sarah (they all knew) never staid five minutes with any other +lodger, while with me she would stay by the hour together, in spite of all her +father could say to her (what were her motives, was best known to herself!) and +while we were talking of her, she came bounding into the room, smiling with +smothered delight at the consummation of my folly and her own art; and I asked +her mother whether she thought she looked as if she hated me, and I took her +wrinkled, withered, cadaverous, clammy hand at parting, and kissed it. +Faugh!— +</p> + +<p> +I will make an end of this story; there is something in it discordant to honest +ears. I left the house the next day, and returned to Scotland in a state so +near to phrenzy, that I take it the shades sometimes ran into one another. +R—— met me the day after I arrived, and will tell you the way I was +in. I was like a person in a high fever; only mine was in the mind instead of +the body. It had the same irritating, uncomfortable effect on the bye-standers. +I was incapable of any application, and don’t know what I should have done, had +it not been for the kindness of ——. I came to see you, to “bestow +some of my tediousness upon you,” but you were gone from home. Everything went +on well as to the law business; and as it approached to a conclusion, I wrote +to my good friend P—— to go to M——, who had married her +sister, and ask him if it would be worth my while to make her a formal offer, +as soon as I was free, as, with the least encouragement, I was ready to throw +myself at her feet; and to know, in case of refusal, whether I might go back +there and be treated as an old friend. Not a word of answer could be got from +her on either point, notwithstanding every importunity and intreaty; but it was +the opinion of M—— that I might go and try my fortune. I did so +with joy, with something like confidence. I thought her giving no positive +answer implied a chance, at least, of the reversion of her favour, in case I +behaved well. All was false, hollow, insidious. The first night after I got +home, I slept on down. In Scotland, the flint had been my pillow. But now I +slept under the same roof with her. What softness, what balmy repose in the +very thought! I saw her that same day and shook hands with her, and told her +how glad I was to see her; and she was kind and comfortable, though still cold +and distant. Her manner was altered from what it was the last time. She still +absented herself from the room, but was mild and affable when she did come. She +was pale, dejected, evidently uneasy about something, and had been ill. I +thought it was perhaps her reluctance to yield to my wishes, her pity for what +I suffered; and that in the struggle between both, she did not know what to do. +How I worshipped her at these moments! We had a long interview the third day, +and I thought all was doing well. I found her sitting at work in the +window-seat of the front parlour; and on my asking if I might come in, she made +no objection. I sat down by her; she let me take her hand; I talked to her of +indifferent things, and of old times. I asked her if she would put some new +frills on my shirts?—“With the greatest pleasure.” If she could get THE +LITTLE IMAGE mended? “It was broken in three pieces, and the sword was gone, +but she would try.” I then asked her to make up a plaid silk which I had given +her in the winter, and which she said would make a pretty summer gown. I so +longed to see her in it!—“She had little time to spare, but perhaps +might!” Think what I felt, talking peaceably, kindly, tenderly with my +love,—not passionately, not violently. I tried to take pattern by her +patient meekness, as I thought it, and to subdue my desires to her will. I then +sued to her, but respectfully, to be admitted to her friendship—she must +know I was as true a friend as ever woman had—or if there was a bar to +our intimacy from a dearer attachment, to let me know it frankly, as I shewed +her all my heart. She drew out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes “of tears +which sacred pity had engendered there.” Was it so or not? I cannot tell. But +so she stood (while I pleaded my cause to her with all the earnestness, and +fondness in the world) with the tears trickling from her eye-lashes, her head +stooping, her attitude fixed, with the finest expression that ever was seen of +mixed regret, pity, and stubborn resolution; but without speaking a word, +without altering a feature. It was like a petrifaction of a human face in the +softest moment of passion. “Ah!” I said, “how you look! I have prayed again and +again while I was away from you, in the agony of my spirit, that I might but +live to see you look so again, and then breathe my last!” I intreated her to +give me some explanation. In vain! At length she said she must go, and +disappeared like a<br/> +spirit. That week she did all the little trifling favours I had asked of her. +The frills were put on, and she sent up to know if I wanted any more done. She +got the Buonaparte mended. This was like healing old wounds indeed! How? As +follows, for thereby hangs the conclusion of my tale. Listen. +</p> + +<p> +I had sent a message one evening to speak to her about some special affairs of +the house, and received no answer. I waited an hour expecting her, and then +went out in great vexation at my disappointment. I complained to her mother a +day or two after, saying I thought it so<br/> +unlike Sarah’s usual propriety of behaviour, that she must mean it as a mark of +disrespect. Mrs. L—— said, “La! Sir, you’re always fancying things. +Why, she was dressing to go out, and she was only going to get the little image +you’re both so fond of mended; and it’s to be done this evening. She has been +to two or three places to see about it, before she could get anyone to +undertake it.” My heart, my poor fond heart, almost melted within me at this +news. I answered, “Ah! Madam, that’s always the way with the dear creature. I +am finding fault with her and thinking the hardest things of her; and at that +very time she’s doing something to shew the most delicate attention, and that +she has no greater satisfaction than in gratifying my wishes!” On this we had +some farther talk, and I took nearly the whole of the lodgings at a hundred +guineas a year, that (as I said) she might have a little leisure to sit at her +needle of an evening, or to read if she chose, or to walk out when it was fine. +She was not in good health, and it would do her good to be less confined. I +would be the drudge and she should no longer be the slave. I asked nothing in +return. To see her happy, to make her so, was to be so myself.—This was +agreed to. I went over to Blackheath that evening, delighted as I could be +after all I had suffered, and lay the whole of the next morning on the heath +under the open sky, dreaming of my earthly Goddess. This was Sunday. That +evening I returned, for I could hardly bear to be for a moment out of the house +where she was, and the next morning she tapped at the door—it was +opened—it was she—she hesitated and then came forward: she had got +the little image in her hand, I took it, and blest her from my heart. She said +“They had been obliged to put some new pieces to it.” I said “I didn’t care how +it was done, so that I had it restored to me safe, and by her.” I thanked her +and begged to shake hands with her. She did so, and as I held the only hand in +the world that I never wished to let go, I looked up in her face, and said +“Have pity on me, have pity on me, and save me if you can!” Not a word of +answer, but she looked full in my eyes, as much as to say, “Well, I’ll think of +it; and if I can, I will save you!” We talked about the expense of repairing +the figure. “Was the man waiting?”—“No, she had fetched it on Saturday +evening.” I said I’d give her the money in the course of the day, and then +shook hands with her again in token of reconciliation; and she went waving out +of the room, but at the door turned round and looked full at me, as she did the +first time she beguiled me of my heart. This was the last.— +</p> + +<p> +All that day I longed to go down stairs to ask her and her mother to set out +with me for Scotland on Wednesday, and on Saturday I would make her my wife. +Something withheld me. In the evening, however, I could not rest without seeing +her, and I said to her younger sister, “Betsey, if Sarah will come up now, I’ll +pay her what she laid out for me the other day.”—“My sister’s gone out, +Sir,” was the answer. What again! thought I, That’s somewhat sudden. I told +P—— her sitting in the window-seat of the front parlour boded me no +good. It was not in her old character. She did not use to know there were doors +or windows in the house—and<br/> +now she goes out three times in a week. It is to meet some one, I’ll lay my +life on’t. “Where is she gone?”—“To my grandmother’s, Sir.” “Where does +your grandmother live now?”—“At Somers’ Town.” I immediately set out to +Somers’ Town. I passed one or two streets, and at last turned up King Street, +thinking it most likely she would return that way home. I passed a house in +King Street where I had once lived, and had not proceeded many paces, +ruminating on chance and change and old times, when I saw her coming towards +me. I felt a strange pang at the sight, but I thought her alone. Some people +before me moved on, and I saw another person with her. THE MURDER WAS OUT. It +was a tall, rather well-looking young man, but I did not at first recollect +him. We passed at the crossing of the street without speaking. Will you believe +it, after all that had past between us for two years, after what had passed in +the last half-year, after what had passed that very morning, she went by me +without even changing countenance, without expressing the slightest emotion, +without betraying either shame or pity or remorse or any other feeling that any +other human being but herself must have shewn in the same situation. She had no +time to prepare for acting a part, to suppress her feelings—the truth is, +she has not one natural feeling in her bosom to suppress. I turned and +looked—they also turned and looked and as if by mutual consent, we both +retrod our steps and passed again, in the same way. I went home. I was stifled. +I could not stay in the house, walked into the street and met them coming +towards home. As soon as he had left her at the door (I fancy she had prevailed +with him to accompany her, dreading some violence) I returned, went up stairs, +and requested an interview. Tell her, I said, I’m in excellent temper and good +spirits, but I must see her! She came smiling, and I said, “Come in, my dear +girl, and sit down, and tell me all about it, how it is and who it +is.”—“What,” she said, “do you mean Mr. C——?” “Oh,” said I, +“Then it is he! Ah! you rogue, I always suspected there was something between +you, but you know you denied it lustily: why did you not tell me all about it +at the time, instead of letting me suffer as I have done? But, however, no +reproaches. I only wish it may all end happily and honourably for you, and I am +satisfied. But,” I said, “you know you used to tell me, you despised +looks.”—“She didn’t think Mr. C—— was so particularly +handsome.” “No, but he’s very well to pass, and a well-grown youth into the +bargain.” Pshaw! let me put an end to the fulsome detail. I found he had lived +over the way, that he had been lured thence, no doubt, almost a year before, +that they had first spoken in the street, and that he had never once hinted at +marriage, and had gone away, because (as he said) they were too much together, +and that it was better for her to meet him occasionally out of doors. “There +could be no harm in them walking together.” “No, but you may go some where +afterwards.”—“One must trust to one’s principle for that.” Consummate +hypocrite! * * * * * * I told her Mr. M——, who had married her +sister, did not wish to leave the house. I, who would have married her, did not +wish to leave it. I told her I hoped I should not live to see her come to +shame, after all my love of her; but put her on her guard as well as I could, +and said, after the lengths she had permitted herself with me, I could not help +being alarmed at the influence of one over her, whom she could hardly herself +suppose to have a tenth part of my esteem for her!! She made no answer to this, +but thanked me coldly for my good advice, and rose to go. I begged her to sit a +few minutes, that I might try to recollect if there was anything else I wished +to say to her, perhaps for the last time; and then, not finding anything, I +bade her good night, and asked for a farewell kiss. Do you know she refused; so +little does she understand what is due to friendship, or love, or honour! We +parted friends, however, and I felt deep grief, but no enmity against her. I +thought C—— had pressed his suit after I went, and had prevailed. +There was no harm in that—a little fickleness or so, a little +over-pretension to unalterable attachment—but that was all. She liked him +better than me—it was my hard hap, but I must bear it. I went out to roam +the desert streets, when, turning a corner, whom should I meet but her very +lover? I went up to him and asked for a few minutes’ conversation on a subject +that was highly interesting to me and I believed not indifferent to him: and in +the course of four hours’ talk, it came out that for three months previous to +my quitting London for Scotland, she had been playing the same game with him as +with me—that he breakfasted first, and enjoyed an hour of her society, +and then I took my turn, so that we never jostled; and this explained why, when +he came back sometimes and passed my door, as she was sitting in my lap, she +coloured violently, thinking if her lover looked in, what a denouement there +would be. He could not help again and again expressing his astonishment at +finding that our intimacy had continued unimpaired up to so late a period after +he came, and when they were on the most intimate footing. She used to deny +positively to him that there was anything between us, just as she used to +assure me with impenetrable effrontery that “Mr. C—— was nothing to +her, but merely a lodger.” All this while she kept up the farce of her romantic +attachment to her old lover, vowed that she never could alter in that respect, +let me go to Scotland on the solemn and repeated assurance that there was no +new flame, that there was no bar between us but this shadowy love—I leave +her on this understanding, she becomes more fond or more intimate with her new +lover; he quitting the house (whether tired out or not, I can’t say)—in +revenge she ceases to write to me, keeps me in wretched suspense, treats me +like something loathsome to her when I return to enquire the cause, denies it +with scorn and impudence, destroys me and shews no pity, no desire to soothe or +shorten the pangs she has occasioned by her wantonness and hypocrisy, and +wishes to linger the affair on to the last moment, going out to keep an +appointment with another while she pretends to be obliging me in the tenderest +point (which C—— himself said was too much). . . .What do you think +of all this? Shall I tell you my opinion? But I must try to do it in another +letter. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h2><a name="chap36"></a> TO THE SAME</h2> + +<p> +(In conclusion) +</p> + +<p> +I did not sleep a wink all that night; nor did I know till the next day the +full meaning of what had happened to me. With the morning’s light, conviction +glared in upon me that I had not only lost her for ever—but every feeling +I had ever had towards her—respect, tenderness, pity—all but my +fatal passion, was gone. The whole was a mockery, a frightful illusion. I had +embraced the false Florimel instead of the true; or was like the man in the +Arabian Nights who had married a GOUL. How different was the idea I once had of +her? Was this she, +</p> + +<p class="poem"> +—“Who had been beguiled—she who was made<br/> +Within a gentle bosom to be laid—<br/> +To bless and to be blessed—to be heart-bare<br/> +To one who found his bettered likeness there—<br/> +To think for ever with him, like a bride—<br/> +To haunt his eye, like taste personified—<br/> +To double his delight, to share his sorrow,<br/> +And like a morning beam, wake to him every morrow? +</p> + +<p> +I saw her pale, cold form glide silent by me, dead to shame as to pity. Still I +seemed to clasp this piece of witchcraft to my bosom; this lifeless image, +which was all that was left of my love, was the only thing to which my sad +heart clung. Were she dead, should I not wish to gaze once more upon her pallid +features? She is dead to me; but what she once was to me, can never die! The +agony, the conflict of hope and fear, of adoration and jealousy is over; or it +would, ere long, have ended with my life. I am no more lifted now to Heaven, +and then plunged in the abyss; but I seem to have been thrown from the top of a +precipice, and to lie groveling, stunned, and stupefied. I am melancholy, +lonesome, and weaker than a child. The worst is, I have no prospect of any +alteration for the better: she has cut off all possibility of a reconcilement +at any future period. Were she even to return to her former pretended fondness +and endearments, I could have no pleasure, no confidence in them. I can scarce +make out the contradiction to myself. I strive to think she always was what I +now know she is; but I have great difficulty in it, and can hardly believe but +she still IS what she so long SEEMED. Poor thing! I am afraid she is little +better off herself; nor do I see what is to become of her, unless she throws +off the mask at once, and RUNS A-MUCK at infamy. She is exposed and laid bare +to all those whose opinion she set a value upon. Yet she held her head very +high, and must feel (if she feels any thing) proportionably mortified.—A +more complete experiment on character was never made. If I had not met her +lover immediately after I parted with her, it would have been nothing. I might +have supposed she had changed her mind in my absence, and had given him the +preference as soon as she felt it, and even shewn her delicacy in declining any +farther intimacy with me. But it comes out that she had gone on in the most +forward and familiar way with both at once—(she could not change her mind +in passing from one room to another)—told both the same barefaced and +unblushing falsehoods, like the commonest creature; received presents from me +to the very last, and wished to keep up the game still longer, either to +gratify her humour, her avarice, or her vanity in playing with my passion, or +to have me as a dernier resort, in case of accidents. Again, it would have been +nothing, if she had not come up with her demure, well-composed, wheedling looks +that morning, and then met me in the evening in a situation, which (she +believed) might kill me on the spot, with no more feeling than a common +courtesan shews, who BILKS a customer, and passes him, leering up at her bully, +the moment after. If there had been the frailty of passion, it would have been +excusable; but it is evident she is a practised, callous jilt, a regular +lodging-house decoy, played off by her mother upon the lodgers, one after +another, applying them to her different purposes, laughing at them in turns, +and herself the probable dupe and victim of some favourite gallant in the end. +I know all this; but what do I gain by it, unless I could find some one with +her shape and air, to supply the place of the lovely apparition? That a +professed wanton should come and sit on a man’s knee, and put her arms round +his neck, and caress him, and seem fond of him, means nothing, proves nothing, +no one concludes anything from it; but that a pretty, reserved, modest, +delicate-looking girl should do this, from the first hour to the last of your +being in the house, without intending anything by it, is new, and, I think, +worth explaining. It was, I confess, out of my calculation, and may be out of +that of others. Her unmoved indifference and self-possession all the while, +shew that it is her constant practice. Her look even, if closely examined, +bears this interpretation. It is that of studied hypocrisy or startled guilt, +rather than of refined sensibility or conscious innocence. “She defied anyone +to read her thoughts?” she once told me. “Do they then require concealing?” I +imprudently asked her. The command over herself is surprising. She never once +betrays herself by any momentary forgetfulness, by any appearance of triumph or +superiority to the person who is her dupe, by any levity of manner in the +plenitude of her success; it is one faultless, undeviating, consistent, +consummate piece of acting. Were she a saint on earth, she could not seem more +like one. Her hypocritical high-flown pretensions, indeed, make her the worse: +but still the ascendancy of her will, her determined perseverance in what she +undertakes to do, has something admirable in it, approaching to the heroic. She +is certainly an extraordinary girl! Her retired manner, and invariable +propriety of behaviour made me think it next to impossible she could grant the +same favours indiscriminately to every one that she did to me. Yet this now +appears to be the fact. She must have done the very same with C——, +invited him into the house to carry on a closer intrigue with her, and then +commenced the double game with both together. She always “despised looks.” This +was a favourite phrase with her, and one of the hooks which she baited for me. +Nothing could win her but a man’s behaviour and sentiments. Besides, she could +never like another—she was a martyr to disappointed affection—and +friendship was all she could even extend to any other man. All the time, she +was making signals, playing off her pretty person, and having occasional +interviews in the street with this very man, whom she could only have taken so +sudden and violent a liking to him from his looks, his personal appearance, and +what she probably conjectured of his circumstances. Her sister had married a +counsellor—the Miss F——’s, who kept the house before, had +done so too—and so would she. “There was a precedent for it.” Yet if she +was so desperately enamoured of this new acquaintance, if he had displaced THE +LITTLE IMAGE from her breast, if he was become her SECOND “unalterable +attachment” (which I would have given my life to have been) why continue the +same unwarrantable familiarities with me to the last, and promise that they +should be renewed on my return (if I had not unfortunately stumbled upon the +truth to her aunt) and yet keep up the same refined cant about her old +attachment all the time, as if it was that which stood in the way of my +pretensions, and not her faithlessness to it? “If one swerves from one, one +shall swerve from another”—was her excuse for not returning my regard. +Yet that which I thought a prophecy, was I suspect a history. She had swerved +twice from her avowed engagements, first to me, and then from me to another. If +she made a fool of me, what did she make of her lover? I fancy he has put that +question to himself. I said nothing to him about the amount of the presents; +which is another damning circumstance, that might have opened my eyes long +before; but they were shut by my fond affection, which “turned all to favour +and to prettiness.” She cannot be supposed to have kept up an appearance of old +regard to me, from a fear of hurting my feelings by her desertion; for she not +only shewed herself indifferent to, but evidently triumphed in my sufferings, +and heaped every kind of insult and indignity upon them. I must have incurred +her contempt and resentment by my mistaken delicacy at different times; and her +manner, when I have hinted at becoming a reformed man in this respect, +convinces me of it. “She hated it!” She always hated whatever she liked most. +She “hated Mr. C——’s red slippers,” when he first came! One more +count finishes the indictment. She not only discovered the most hardened +indifference to the feelings of others; she has not shewn the least regard to +her own character, or shame when she was detected. When found out, she seemed +to say, “Well, what if I am? I have played the game as long as I could; and if +I could keep it up no longer, it was not for want of good will!” Her colouring +once or twice is the only sign of grace she has exhibited. Such is the creature +on whom I had thrown away my heart and soul—one who was incapable of +feeling the commonest emotions of human nature, as they regarded herself or any +one else. “She had no feelings with respect to herself,” she often said. She in +fact knows what she is, and recoils from the good opinion or sympathy of +others, which she feels to be founded on a deception; so that my overweening +opinion of her must have appeared like irony, or direct insult. My seeing her +in the street has gone a good way to satisfy me. Her manner there explains her +manner in-doors to be conscious and overdone; and besides, she looks but +indifferently. She is diminutive in stature, and her measured step and timid +air do not suit these public airings. I am afraid she will soon grow common to +my imagination, as well as worthless in herself. Her image seems fast “going +into the wastes of time,” like a weed that the wave bears farther and farther +from me. Alas! thou poor hapless weed, when I entirely lose sight of thee, and +for ever, no flower will ever bloom on earth to glad my heart again! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIBER AMORIS, OR, THE NEW PYGMALION ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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