large Boots, my Heels sinking into the wet Earth. E’en upon this melancholy Occasion, I could not fail to remark upon the Beauty of the Wiltshire Countryside, the sweet Smell of the Grass in the light Rain.
O Belinda, I have travell’d extensively abroad, have cross’d both North and South Atlantick and the Caribee, but no Place is as beautiful as this England. Nowhere but here are the Tree Trunks themselves kiss’d with Moss; nowhere but here are the Trees so verdant and heavy of Leaf, the Lawns so green, the Roses so pink, the Hedges so aromatick. Why, e’en the English Cows who graze ’neath the Rain-drench’d Trees are more beauteous than Cows of any other Nationality! Whene’er the Mutability of Sublunary Things makes me melancholick, I rest my Mind upon an English Landscape, and once again am peaceful and content. Others may sigh for long Sea-Voyages or the Sublimity of the Alps. O I have been besotted with the Charms of Seas and Sailing Ships in my Time, and I have climb’d many Mountains and admir’d the Clouds from above as well as below; but when all is said and done, an English Landscape is the very Perfection of Nature. ’Tis neither Rude Excrescence nor Gothick Error; ’tis neither too flat nor too high, but a Harmony entire of Serpentine Curves. Whene’er I am the least sadden’d by the Follies of Mankind, I feast upon its wet deep Green, and find myself most blest.
Yet running across the Lawn to the Stables, I experienced a Stab of Indecision. (Pray, why is Home ne’er more beauteous than when we leave it?) On the previous Night, which now seem’d an Eternity away, the Poet had offer’d all—House, Lands, Riches, his undying Devotion. Perhaps I ought then to swallow my Pride, forget my impetuous Decision to flee, and instead go away with him? I doubted not but he would make good his Promises. A Gentleman of his Figure had not perfect Freedom in his Choyce of Ladies, and I suppos’d I might easily manipulate his Good Humour, honey him into parting with his Fortune, and play the splendid Madam to his twisted Goat.
But O my Stomach rose at it! I knew enough now of the gentle Passion of Love to be obliged to reject the loathed Embraces of a Monster. Lord Bellars had treated me rascally and prov’d to be as arrant a Whoremaster as Lady Bellars had warn’d; still, I had felt ardent Affection for him —e’en if ’twas only to be dasht to Bits when I learnt of his Perfidy. In short, I had known Love, tho’ he had not, and Love, as the Poets say, is like a Flame. Anything which passes thro’ it must be changed. ’Tis entirely possible for Love to be true when one Lover feels it and the other doth not. We may know Humiliation and Pain later, but we cannot undo the Love that we felt at first, and sure we cannot undo the Changes wrought in us by the Pow’r of Love. Thus I could not now venture to Twickenham with Mr. Pope. Only a narrow, vulgar Soul could so dissemble. And my Soul, not narrow before, had been further stretch’d by Love.
Belinda, ’tis true that the World is not form’d for the Benefit of Women, and oft’ they must sacrifice their nice Principles in order to put Bread into their own Mouths and those of their Children; but I was ne’er so made as to be able to pretend Love of a loathsome Man for Hope of Gain, and it hath been my Experience that I have prosper’d nonetheless.
At Times, I readily confess, I have flasht false Lightning from my Eyes, fetch’d Sighs from my Bosom (which none could have heard unmov’d) altho’ I did not wholly mean ’em, and carelessly dropp’d the Handkerchief from my Bosom, in order to win some Point in Discourse, either philosophical or pecuniary. But I swear I have ne’er feign’d Love for one who did not merit it, and I have ne’er us’d the noble Pow’r of Love to obtain rich laced Clothes or Jewels. Had I done so, I might indeed be richer than I am Today. But truly I am rich enough for all my Wants. And what Use is Wealth if
O Belinda, I have travell’d extensively abroad, have cross’d both North and South Atlantick and the Caribee, but no Place is as beautiful as this England. Nowhere but here are the Tree Trunks themselves kiss’d with Moss; nowhere but here are the Trees so verdant and heavy of Leaf, the Lawns so green, the Roses so pink, the Hedges so aromatick. Why, e’en the English Cows who graze ’neath the Rain-drench’d Trees are more beauteous than Cows of any other Nationality! Whene’er the Mutability of Sublunary Things makes me melancholick, I rest my Mind upon an English Landscape, and once again am peaceful and content. Others may sigh for long Sea-Voyages or the Sublimity of the Alps. O I have been besotted with the Charms of Seas and Sailing Ships in my Time, and I have climb’d many Mountains and admir’d the Clouds from above as well as below; but when all is said and done, an English Landscape is the very Perfection of Nature. ’Tis neither Rude Excrescence nor Gothick Error; ’tis neither too flat nor too high, but a Harmony entire of Serpentine Curves. Whene’er I am the least sadden’d by the Follies of Mankind, I feast upon its wet deep Green, and find myself most blest.
Yet running across the Lawn to the Stables, I experienced a Stab of Indecision. (Pray, why is Home ne’er more beauteous than when we leave it?) On the previous Night, which now seem’d an Eternity away, the Poet had offer’d all—House, Lands, Riches, his undying Devotion. Perhaps I ought then to swallow my Pride, forget my impetuous Decision to flee, and instead go away with him? I doubted not but he would make good his Promises. A Gentleman of his Figure had not perfect Freedom in his Choyce of Ladies, and I suppos’d I might easily manipulate his Good Humour, honey him into parting with his Fortune, and play the splendid Madam to his twisted Goat.
But O my Stomach rose at it! I knew enough now of the gentle Passion of Love to be obliged to reject the loathed Embraces of a Monster. Lord Bellars had treated me rascally and prov’d to be as arrant a Whoremaster as Lady Bellars had warn’d; still, I had felt ardent Affection for him —e’en if ’twas only to be dasht to Bits when I learnt of his Perfidy. In short, I had known Love, tho’ he had not, and Love, as the Poets say, is like a Flame. Anything which passes thro’ it must be changed. ’Tis entirely possible for Love to be true when one Lover feels it and the other doth not. We may know Humiliation and Pain later, but we cannot undo the Love that we felt at first, and sure we cannot undo the Changes wrought in us by the Pow’r of Love. Thus I could not now venture to Twickenham with Mr. Pope. Only a narrow, vulgar Soul could so dissemble. And my Soul, not narrow before, had been further stretch’d by Love.
Belinda, ’tis true that the World is not form’d for the Benefit of Women, and oft’ they must sacrifice their nice Principles in order to put Bread into their own Mouths and those of their Children; but I was ne’er so made as to be able to pretend Love of a loathsome Man for Hope of Gain, and it hath been my Experience that I have prosper’d nonetheless.
At Times, I readily confess, I have flasht false Lightning from my Eyes, fetch’d Sighs from my Bosom (which none could have heard unmov’d) altho’ I did not wholly mean ’em, and carelessly dropp’d the Handkerchief from my Bosom, in order to win some Point in Discourse, either philosophical or pecuniary. But I swear I have ne’er feign’d Love for one who did not merit it, and I have ne’er us’d the noble Pow’r of Love to obtain rich laced Clothes or Jewels. Had I done so, I might indeed be richer than I am Today. But truly I am rich enough for all my Wants. And what Use is Wealth if
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