ld I dare, she asked me, to offer at a palliation of my baseness? The
two women, she was convinced, were impostors. She knew not but Captain
Tomlinson and Mr. Mennell were so too. But whether they were so or not,
I was. And she insisted upon being at her own disposal for the remainder
of her short life--for indeed she abhorred me in every light; and more
particularly in that in which I offered myself to her acceptance.

And, saying this, she flung from me; leaving me absolutely shocked and
confounded at her part of a conversation which she began with such
uncommon, however severe, composure, and concluded with so much sincere
and unaffected indignation.

And now, Jack, I must address one serious paragraph particularly to thee.

I have not yet touched upon cohabitation--her uncle's mediation she does
not absolutely discredit, as I had the pleasure to find by one hint in
this conversation--yet she suspects my future views, and has doubt about
Mennell and Tomlinson.

I do say, if she come fairly at her lights, at her clues, or what shall I
call them? her penetration is wonderful.

But if she do not come at them fairly, then is her incredulity, then is
her antipathy to me evidently accounted for.

I will speak out--thou couldst not, surely, play me booty, Jack?--Surely
thou couldst not let thy weak pity for her lead thee to an unpardonable
breach of trust to thy friend, who has been so unreserved in his
communications to thee?

I cannot believe thee capable of such a baseness. Satisfy me, however,
upon this head. I must make a cursed figure in her eye, vowing and
protesting, as I shall not scruple occasionally to vow and protest, if
all the time she has had unquestionable informations of my perfidy. I
know thou as little fearest me, as I do thee, if any point of manhood;
and wilt scorn to deny it, if thou hast done it, when thus home-pressed.

And here I have a good mind to stop, and write no farther, till I have
thy answer.

And so I will.

MONDAY MORN. PAST THREE.

LETTER XIX

MR. LOVELACE, TO JOHN BELFORD, ESQ.
MONDAY MORN. FIVE O'CLOCK (JUNE 19.)

I must write on. Nothing else can divert me: and I think thou canst not
have been a dog to me.

I would fain have closed my eyes: but sleep flies me. Well says Horace,
as translated by Cowley:

The halcyon sleep will never build his nest
In any stormy breast.
'Tis not enough that he does find
Clouds and