I take up my pen; but not to apologize for my execration.—Once more I pray to God to avenge me of him!—Me, I say—for mine is the loss—her's the gain.
O Sir! you did not—you could not know her, as I knew her! Never was such an excellence!—So warm, yet so cool a friend!—So much what I wish to be, but never shall be!—For, alas! my stay, my adviser, my monitress, my directress, is gone!—for ever gone!—She honoured me with the title of The Sister of her Heart; but I was only so in the love I bore her, (a love beyond a sister's—infinitely beyond her sister's!) in the hatred I have to every mean and sordid action; and in my love of virtue; for, otherwise, I am of a high and haughty temper, as I have acknowledged heretofore, and very violent in my passions.
In short, she was the nearest perfection of any creature I ever knew. She never preached to me lessons which she practised not herself. She lived the life she taught. All humility, meekness, self-accusing, others acquitting, though the shadow of the fault was hardly hers, the substance their's, whose only honour was their relation to her.
To lose such a friend—such a guide.—If ever my violence was justifiable, it is upon this recollection! For she lived only to make me sensible of my failings, but not long enough to enable me to conquer them; as I was resolved to endeavour to do.
Once more then let me execrate—but now violence and passion again predominate!—And how can it be otherwise?
But I force myself from the subject, having lost the purpose for which I resumed my pen.
A. HOWE. [ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]
LETTER LVI
MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ. PARIS, OCT. 14.
—— —— Timor & minæ
Scandunt eodum quo dominus; neque
Decedit ærata triremi; &
Post equitem sedet atra cura.