I will illustrate what I have said by the simile of a bird new caught. We begin, when boys, with birds; and when grown up, go on to women; and both perhaps, in turn, experience our sportive cruelty.
Hast thou not observed, the charming gradations by which the ensnared volatile has been brought to bear with its new condition? how, at first, refusing all sustenance, it beats and bruises itself against its wires, till it makes its gay plumage fly about, and over-spread its well-secured cage. Now it gets out its head; sticking only at its beautiful shoulders: then, with difficulty, drawing back its head, it gasps for breath, and erectly perched, with meditating eyes, first surveys, and then attempts, its wired canopy. As it gets its pretty head and sides, bites the wires, and pecks at the fingers of its delighted tamer. Till at last, finding its efforts ineffectual, quite tired and breathless, it lays itself down, and pants at the bottom of the cage, seeming to bemoan its cruel fate and forfeited liberty. And after a few days, its struggles to escape still diminishing as it finds it to no purpose to attempt it, its new habitation becomes familiar; and it hops about from perch to perch, resumes its wonted cheerfulness, and every day sings a song to amuse itself and reward its keeper.
Now let me tell thee, that I have known a bird actually starve itself, and die with grief, at its being caught and caged. But never did I meet with a woman who was so silly.—Yet have I heard the dear souls most vehemently threaten their own lives on such an occasion. But it is saying nothing in a woman’s favour, if we do not allow her to have more sense than a bird. And yet we must all own, that it is more difficult to catch a bird than a lady.
To pursue the comparison—If the disappointment of the captivated lady be very great, she will threaten, indeed, as I said: she will even refuse her sustenance for some time, especially if you entreat her much, and she thinks she gives you concern by her refusal. But then the stomach of the dear sullen one will soon return. ‘Tis pretty to see how she comes to by degrees: pressed by appetite, she will first steal, perhaps, a weeping morsel by herself; then be brought to piddle and sigh, and sigh and piddle before you; now-and-then, if her viands be unsavoury, swallowing with them a relishing tear or two: then she comes to eat and drink, to oblige you: then resolves to live for your sake: her exclamations will, in the next place, be turned into blandishments; her vehement upbraidings into gentle murmuring—how dare you, traitor!—into how could you, dearest! She will draw you to her, instead of pushing you from her: no longer, with unsheathed claws, will she resist you; but, like a pretty, playful, wanton kitten, with gentle paws, and concealed talons, tap your cheek, and with intermingled smiles, and tears, and caresses, implore your consideration for her, and your constancy: all the favour she then has to ask of you!—And this is the time, were it given to man to confine himself to one object, to be happier every day than another.
Now, Belford, were I to go no farther than I have gone with my beloved Miss Harlowe, how shall I know the difference between her and another bird? To let her fly now, what a pretty jest would that be!—How do I know, except I try, whether she may not be brought to sing me a fine song, and to be as well contented as I have brought other birds to be, and very shy ones too?
***
How usual a thing is it for women as well as men, without the least remorse, to ensnare, to cage, and torment, and even with burning knitting-needles to put out the eyes of the poor feather’d songster [thou seest I have not yet done with birds]; which however, in proportion to its bulk, has more life than themselves (for a bird is all soul;) and of consequence has as much feeling as the human creature! when at the same time, if an honest fellow, by the gentlest persuasion, and the softest arts, has the good luck to prevail upon a mew’d-up lady, to countenance her own escape, and she consents to break cage, and be set a flying into the all-cheering air of liberty, mercy on us! what an outcry is generally raised against him!
I have quoted this letter more at length because of the extended metaphor (or rather, simile) Lovelace uses here in his comparison of birds and girls/women. We have discussed Lovelace's references to birds and other animals in class before, but I think that this excerpt truly demonstrates Lovelace's violent nature. I have highlighted the moments with the most horrifyingly violent language here because I think it lends itself to a discussion of Lovelace's character becoming increasingly malevolent and Clarissa's helplessness becoming more intense. Furthermore, why the reference to birds specifically? Do we have any insight on why Lovelace chooses the bird for his comparisons so often? What other thoughts do we have on this excerpt regarding Clarissa's position in Lovelace's scheme? Do we see any hope for her at all?Finally, what do we think about Lovelace explicitly calling Clarissa a girl here, rather than a woman? Why this distinction?
Though it seems cliché to us as modern readers, the bird analogy seems revealing here because of its relatively realistic accuracy during this era—and its reflection of the power relationship between men and women, as Lovelace sees it.Lovelace seems to come back to it both for its accuracy and for the ways in which it (supposedly) fails to describe his relationship with Clarissa. He seems to use it to position himself as the captor, first, and then to make conclusions about her as the captured: like a bird, she will flail against her cage and will threaten her own life through starvation. We’ve seen her lack of concern for eating, which is continuously exacerbated by the anxiety of her circumstances, and I think we continue to see her ‘flail,’ too, in her own way. She is constantly trying to think—and write—her way out of her situation, and keep her physical distance from Lovelace as well. Though Clarissa doesn’t attempt to ‘fly,’ she does seem to throw herself against the bars—and, like a bird, all in vain.And yet Lovelace also writes that, acknowledging something in a woman’s favor, we should “allow her to have more sense than a bird.” He is caught up by this analogy just as he is caught up in other dichotomies: girl vs. woman (as you mentioned, Keri), good vs. evil, heart vs. head, power vs. powerlessness. He seems to want to acknowledge her power as a person/woman/rhetor—while simultaneously wanting to declare the limits of that power and to take it from her.“it is more difficult to catch a bird than a lady,” Lovelace declares in this letter—while just a few letters back, in no. 158, he writes, “The shyest birds may be caught napping.”I think birds work on all of these levels: to declare Clarissa “dainty” and fragile (as we have said she is described throughout the novel), unpredictable (she could try to fly at any time), and yet relatively powerless (especially if she is not aware of Lovelace’s intent to catch her ‘napping’). I think it works to establish their predator-prey relationship, complicated further (for Clarissa) by the prey’s relative delicacy and yet (for Lovelace) the unpredictable nature of events that ‘might’ unfold.
I think Rachel has provided the perfect answer to Keri's question–pretty much covering all the important implications of Lovelace's extended comparison. (His commonplace cruelty in developing and responding to the bird's behavior is all the more revealing.)
You know what they say about kids who torture small animals…
And although Rachel did pretty much cover everything here, I think it bears repeating, even if it seems a little cliche, that the bird brought low is like Clarissa in that she is an example of "soaring" virtue, and that the extremity of her virtue is what tempts Lovelace to "clip her wings."
I really like your analysis, Rachel. The bird metaphor does seem to work on several different levels, and I think that the characteristics you emphasized here are spot on — "dainty," "unpredictable," and "powerless."