Who, upon a passionate repulse, would despair of having a reasonable request granted?—­Who would not, by gentleness and condescension, endeavour to leave favourable impressions upon an angry mind; which, when it comes cooly to reflect, may induce it to work itself into a condescending temper?  To request a favour, as I have often said, is one thing; to challenge it as our due, is another.  And what right has a petitioner to be angry at a repulse, if he has not a right to demand what he sues for as a debt?

[She describes Captain Tomlinson, on his breakfast-visit, to be, a grave, good sort of man.  And in another place, a genteel man of great gravity, and a good aspect; she believes upwards of fifty years of age.  ’I liked him, says she, as soon as I saw him.’

As her projects are now, she says, more favourable than heretofore, she wishes, that her hopes of Mr. Lovelace’s so-often-promised reformation were better grounded than she is afraid they can be.]

We have both been extremely puzzled, my dear, says she, to reconcile some parts of Mr. Lovelace’s character with other parts of it:  his good with his bad; such of the former, in particular, as his generosity to his tenants; his bounty to the innkeeper’s daughter; his readiness to put me upon doing kind things by my good Norton, and others.

A strange mixture in his mind, as I have told him! for he is certainly (as I have reason to say, looking back upon his past behaviour to me in twenty instances) a hard-hearted man.—­Indeed, my dear, I have thought more than once, that he had rather see me in tears than give me reason to be pleased with him.

My cousin Morden says, that free livers are remorseless.* And so they must be in the very nature of things.

* See Vol.  IV.  Letter XIX.  See also Mr. Lovelace’s own confession of the delight he takes in a woman’s tears, in different parts of his letters.

Mr. Lovelace is a proud man.  We have both long ago observed that he is.  And I am truly afraid, that his very generosity is more owing to his pride and his vanity, that that philanthropy (shall I call it?) which distinguishes a beneficent mind.

Money he values not, but as a mean to support his pride and his independence.  And it is easy, as I have often thought, for a person to part with a secondary appetite, when, by so doing, he can promote or gratify a first.

I am afraid, my dear, that there must have been some fault in his education.  His natural bias was not, perhaps (as his power was likely to be large) to do good and beneficent actions; but not, I doubt, from proper motives.

If he had, his generosity would not have stopt at pride, but would have struck into humanity; and then would he not have contented himself with doing praiseworthy things by fits and starts, or, as if relying on the doctrine of merits, he hoped by a good action to atone for a bad one;* but he would have been uniformly noble, and done the good for its own sake.