* Meaning his meditated second violence (See Vol.  VI.  Letter XXXVI.) and his succeeding letters to her, supplicating for her pardon.

Yet am I glad this violent spirit can thus creep; that, like a poisonous serpent, he can thus coil himself, and hide his head in his own narrow circlets; because this stooping, this abasement, gives me hope that no farther mischief will ensue.

All my apprehension is, what may happen when I am gone; lest then my cousin, or any other of my family, should endeavour to avenge me, and risk their own more precious lives on that account.

If that part of Cain’s curse were Mr. Lovelace’s, to be a fugitive and vagabond in the earth; that is to say, if it meant no more harm to him than that he should be obliged to travel, as it seems he intends, (though I wish him no ill in his travels;) and I could know it; then should I be easy in the hoped-for safety of my friends from his skilful violence—­Oh! that I could hear he was a thousand miles off!

When I began this letter, I did not think I could have run to such a length.  But ’tis to you, my dearest friend, and you have a title to the spirits you raise and support; for they are no longer mine, and will subside the moment I cease writing to you.

But what do you bid me hope for, when you tell me that, if your mother’s health will permit, you will see me in town?  I hope your mother’s health will be perfected as you wish; but I dare not promise myself so great a favour; so great a blessing, I will call it—­and indeed I know not if I should be able to bear it now!

Yet one comfort it is in your power to give me; and that is, let me know, and very speedily it must be, if you wish to oblige me, that all matters are made up between you and Mr. Hickman; to whom, I see, you are resolved, with all your bravery of spirit, to owe a multitude of obligations for his patience with your flightiness.  Think of this, my dear proud friend! and think, likewise, of what I have often told you, that pride, in man or woman, is an extreme that hardly ever fails, sooner or later, to bring forth its mortifying contrary.

May you, my dear Miss Howe, have no discomforts but what you make to yourself! as it will be in your own power to lessen such as these, they ought to be your punishment if you do not.  There is no such thing as perfect happiness here, since the busy mind will make to itself evils, were it to find none.  You will, therefore, pardon this limited wish, strange as it may appear, till you consider it:  for to wish you no infelicity, either within or without you, were to wish you what can never happen in this world; and what perhaps ought not to be wished for, if by a wish one could give one’s friend such an exemption; since we are not to live here always.

We must not, in short, expect that our roses will grow without thorns:  but then they are useful and instructive thorns:  which, by pricking the fingers of the too-hasty plucker, teach future caution.  And who knows not that difficulty gives poignancy to our enjoyments; which are apt to lose their relish with us when they are over easily obtained?