This is Wednesday; the day that I was to have lost my charmer for ever to the hideous Solmes! With what high satisfaction and heart’s-ease can I now sit down, and triumph over my men in straw at Harlowe-place! Yet ’tis perhaps best for them, that she got off as she did. Who knows what consequences might have followed upon my attending her in; or (if she had not met me) upon my projected visit, followed by my myrmidons?
But had I even gone in with her unaccompanied, I think I had but little reason for apprehension: for well thou knowest, that the tame spirits which value themselves upon reputation, and are held within the skirts of the law by political considerations only, may be compared to an infectious spider; which will run into his hole the moment one of his threads is touched by a finger that can crush him, leaving all his toils defenceless, and to be brushed down at the will of the potent invader. While a silly fly, that has neither courage nor strength to resist, no sooner gives notice, by its buz and its struggles, of its being entangled, but out steps the self-circumscribed tyrant, winds round and round the poor insect, till he covers it with his bowel-spun toils; and when so fully secured, that it can neither move leg nor wing, suspends it, as if for a spectacle to be exulted over: then stalking to the door of his cell, turns about, glotes over it at a distance; and, sometimes advancing, sometimes retiring, preys at leisure upon its vitals.
But now I think of it, will not this comparison do as well for the entangled girls, as for the tame spirits?—Better o’ my conscience!—’Tis but comparing the spider to us brave fellows, and it quadrates.
Whatever our hearts are in, our heads will follow. Begin with spiders, with flies, with what we will, girl is the centre of gravity, and we all naturally tend to it.
Nevertheless, to recur; I cannot but observe, that these tame spirits stand a poor chance in a fairly offensive war with such of us mad fellows as are above all law, and scorn to sculk behind the hypocritical screen of reputation.
Thou knowest that I never scruple to throw myself amongst numbers of adversaries; the more the safer: one or two, no fear, will take the part of a single adventurer, if not intentionally, in fact; holding him in, while others hold in the principal antagonist, to the augmentation of their mutual prowess, till both are prevailed upon to compromise, or one to be absent: so that, upon the whole, the law-breakers have the advantage of the law-keepers, all the world over; at least for a time, and till they have run to the end of their race. Add to this, in the question between me and the Harlowes, that the whole family of them must know that they have injured me—must therefore be afraid of me. Did they not, at their own church, cluster together like bees, when they saw me enter it? Nor knew they which should venture out first, when the service was over.
James, indeed, was not there. If he had, he would perhaps have endeavoured to look valiant. But there is a sort of valour in the face, which shews fear in the heart: just such a face would James Harlowe’s have been, had I made them a visit.
When I have had such a face and such a heart as I have described to deal with, I have been all calm and serene, and left it to the friends of the blusterer (as I have done to the Harlowes) to do my work for me.
I am about mustering up in my memory, all that I have ever done, that has been thought praise-worthy, or but barely tolerable. I am afraid thou canst not help me to many remembrances of this sort; because I never was so bad as since I have known thee.
Have I not had it in my heart to do some good that thou canst not remind me of? Study for me, Jack. I have recollected some instances which I think will tell in—but see if thou canst not help me to some which I may have forgot.
This I may venture to say, that the principal blot in my escutcheon is owing to these girls, these confounded girls. But for them, I could go to church with a good conscience: but when I do, there they are. Every where does Satan spread his snares for me! But, how I think of it, what if our governor should appoint churches for the women only, and others for the men?—Full as proper, I think, for the promoting of true piety in both, [much better than the synagogue-lattices,] as separate boarding-schools for their education.
There are already male and female dedications of churches.
St. Swithin’s, St. Stephen’s, St. Thomas’s, St. George’s, and so forth, might be appropriated to the men; and Santa Catharina’s, Santa Anna’s, Santa Maria’s, Santa Margaretta’s, for the women.
Yet were it so, and life to be the forfeiture of being found at the female churches, I believe that I, like a second Clodius, should change my dress, to come at my Portia or Pompeia, though one the daughter of a Cato, the other the wife of a Caesar.
But how I excurse!—Yet thou usedst to say, thou likedst my excursions. If thou dost, thou’lt have enow of them: for I never had a subject I so much adored; and with which I shall probably be compelled to have so much patience before I strike the blow; if the blow I do strike.
But let me call myself back to my recordation-subject—Thou needest not remind me of my Rosebud. I have her in my head; and moreover have contrived to give my fair-one an hint of that affair, by the agency of honest Joseph Leman;* although I have not reaped the hoped-for credit of her acknowledgement.
* See Vol. II. Letter XXVII.
That’s the devil; and it was always my hard fate—every thing I do that is good, is but as I ought!—Every thing of a contrary nature is brought into the most glaring light against me—Is this fair? Ought not a balance to be struck; and the credit carried to my account?—Yet I must own too, that I half grudge Johnny this blooming maiden? for, in truth, I think a fine woman too rich a jewel to hang about a poor man’s neck.
Surely, Jack, if I am guilty of a fault in my universal adorations of the sex, the women in general ought to love me the better for it.
And so they do; I thank them heartily; except here and there a covetous little rogue comes cross me, who, under the pretence of loving virtue for its own sake, wants to have me all to herself.
I have rambled enough.
Adieu, for the present.
Seriously?! Separate churches for men and women…to keep him from "going to church with a good conscience?" Lovelace, you are…something else.
Nice phrase for our villain–he surely is "something else." It's a great letter in so many ways. The long spider metaphor about "tame spirits" (aimed here at James) is developed vividly, confirming Lovelace's power as a writer. And how much he gives away about himself here–seeing "the girl" as always "the center of gravity"; blaming all "girls" for actions he clearly chooses; revealing himself as a modern sex addict; and providing a pretty damning picture of how he sees Clarissa: "a covetous little rogue" who "under the PRETENSE of loving virtue for its own sake, wants to have me all to herself."
"These confounded girls." And even if the government did make separate churches, Lovelace admits, he would probably forfeit his life, being "found at the female churches, I believe that I, like a second Clodius, should change my dress, to come at my Portia or Pompeia, though one the daughter of a Cato, the other the wife of a Caesar.'I agree Lovelace does reveal his addiction to women and sex. But I also think this letter is the kind of performance he loves to make to Belford, his best audience.
I like the idea that Lovelace is performing for Belford. We've already discussed how Lovelace is always very aware of his audience and knows how to play them just right in order to get what he wants. So what is it that he wants from Belford? Does Lovelace simply want someone to boast to or keep him believing that he is in the right? Or is it something else?
Also, I wanted to point to the following line:"Surely, Jack, if I am in a fault in my universal adorations of the sex, the women in general ought to love me the better for it"Is he really so deluded that he believes his actions to come from a deep adoration of women?
Well he already seems to think of himself as some tragic hero figure, so of course he's doing this because he just adores women, in his own twisted way. He's such a romantic and women are the ones who wrong him so he reasons that it is only right for him to leave women worse off than when he found them. I find that in each of his letters Lovelace is becoming more like a sociopath — he's narcissistic, intelligent, manipulative, and wants to see others crushed (for slights real and imagined). Belford and the other rakes feed his desire for recognition and he takes great pleasure when someone recognizes him as powerful. He even thinks Satan has it out specifically for him and that he is an object of desire for women.
I think he may partly believe it, but for the most part, this is a display of wit.
WIT—One of the most loaded words of the eighteenth century. It means something like “mentalfaculties” in general, but it also has a more restricted sense—imagination, fancy, quick-wittedness.It can also mean a person who has wit—someone with a fine sense of humor (especially one witha satirical edge), an intellectual, or any writer. Pope’s definition is famous and intriguing, thoughnot especially helpful: “True Wit is Nature to Advantage drest,/What oft was Thought, but ne’erso well Exprest.” Johnson’s definitions are more precise; with their examples, they stretch to severalpages, but here are the definitions from his Dictionary: “1. The powers of the mind; the mentalfaculties; the intellects. 2. Imagination; quickness of fancy. 3. Sentiments produced by quicknessof fancy. 4. A man of fancy. 5. A man of genius. 6. Sense; judgment. 7. In the plural. Sound mind;intellect not crazed. 8. Contrivance; stratagem; power of expedients.http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/C18Guide.pdf
Lovelace writes here, “Whatever our hearts are in, our heads will follow.”For Lovelace—or so he writes to Belford—the head will follow the heart. I think this might be interesting to examine as if he really means it, but more interesting to imagine why he might write this as part of his artifice to Belford, part of his wit, persona, character construction, etc.I do think that Lovelace has feelings (though complicated) for Clarissa, but I don’t know that he is sincere in writing that he is following his heart rather than his devious, plotting (plodding?) mind. I think, cognitively, he knows who he is and what he wants—and he wants Belford to think that he is in love with her.Along the same lines, Clarissa wrote earlier, “A wrong head may be convinced, may have a right turn given it: but who is able to give a heart, if a heart be wanting?” (toward the end of Letter 40).In this head vs. heart dichotomy, which does Clarissa privilege? Also heart? But more sincerely? She seems to write that the heart is more stubborn—which would agree with Lovelace’s claim, on the surface. But because Clarissa has made us a promise that she values sincerity (and Lovelace no such claim), I am more inclined to believe her: she values heart first, in alignment with her morality and sincerity.Whereas Lovelace values head first, in alignment with his manipulation and WIT (in so many definitions of the word, as Debra posted).
Your post made me think a bit. I guess I've been reading Lovelace's letters to Belford as revealing something about Lovelace's "true" nature. Sort of a behind-the-scenes peek at what's being plotted for poor Clarissa, and a way to know what Lovelace is really like that creates dramatic irony. But you're right, of course. A better way to read these letters is as another kind of performance, or a performance for a different audience, which leaves Lovelace a little more mysterious. I thought the letters to Belford were helping me figure out how he feels about Clarissa, and now I'm not so sure. Would he tell Belford his real feelings? Does he even know what they are?
Your post made me think a bit. I guess I've been reading Lovelace's letters to Belford as revealing something about Lovelace's "true" nature. Sort of a behind-the-scenes peek at what's being plotted for poor Clarissa, and a way to know what Lovelace is really like that creates dramatic irony. But you're right, of course. A better way to read these letters is as another kind of performance, or a performance for a different audience, which leaves Lovelace a little more mysterious. I thought the letters to Belford were helping me figure out how he feels about Clarissa, and now I'm not so sure. Would he tell Belford his real feelings? Does he even know what they are?