The Memoirs of Harriette Wilson, Volumes One and Two Written by Herself — Text and Context

(0 User reviews) 3353

In Category - Memoirs

Authors: Wilson, Harriette, 1786-1846 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2013 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Wilson, Harriette, 1786-1846; Courtesans -- Great Britain -- Biography Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

Edition facts

Words 226,794

Reading time 987 min

Text sections 23

Before opening The Memoirs of Harriette Wilson, Volumes One and Two Written by Herself — Text and Context, the edition data offers a quick orientation: 226,794 words, 16 hr 27 min estimated reading time, and 23 detected text sections.

The text analysis averages about 20.6 words per sentence, while the detected sections provide another way to judge how the source is divided.

Project Gutenberg metadata also associates the work with “Wilson, Harriette, 1786-1846,” connecting these edition facts with the source record’s subject description.

Source: Project Gutenberg record #43617

Harriette Wilson's memoirs offer a candid, conversational account of her life as a courtesan in Regency England, blending sharp social observation with vivid dialogue and a cast of aristocratic lovers.

Editorial Edition Score 4.9/5

★★★★★ ★★★★★

Calculated from edition completeness, EPUB availability, text structure and catalogue metadata. Not a user rating.

How this score is calculated

Description quality20 pts
Title & short description10 pts
Source metadata20 pts
Text length15 pts
Chapters / structure15 pts
EPUB file integrity20 pts

Total of 100 points, scaled to a 2.5-5.0 range. Editions with an empty description or a missing EPUB file are not scored.

Edition quality

File: pg43617

Read the Text

This was his answer,--

"If you are but half as lovely as you think yourself, you must be well worth knowing; but how is that to be managed? Not in the street! but come to No. 39 Portland-street and ask for me.

"No! our first meeting must be on the high road, in order that I may have room to run away, in case I don't like you.

The marquis rejoined,--

"Well then, fair lady, to-morrow at four, near the turnpike, look for me on horseback, and then you know I can gallop away.

We met. The duke--he has since succeeded to the title--did not gallop away; and for my part I had never seen a countenance I had thought half so beautifully expressive. I was afraid to look at it, lest a closer examination might destroy all the new and delightful sensations his first glance had inspired in my breast. His manner was most gracefully soft and polished. We walked together for about two hours.

"I never saw such a sunny, happy countenance as yours in my whole life," said Argyle to me.

"Oh, but I am happier than usual to-day," answered I, very naturally.

Before we parted, the duke knew as much of me and my adventures as I knew myself. He was very anxious to be allowed to call on me.

"And how will your particular friend Frederick Lamb like that?" inquired I.

"Well then," said his grace, "do me the honour, some day, to come and dine or sup with me at Argyle House."

"I shall not be able to run away, if I go there," I answered, laughingly, in allusion to my last note.

"Shall you want to run away from me?" said Argyle; and there was something unusually beautiful and eloquent in his countenance, which brought a deep blush into my cheek.

"When we know each other better?" added Argyle, beseechingly. "_En attendant_, will you walk again with me to-morrow?" I assented, and we parted.

I returned to my home in unusual spirits: they were a little damped, however, by the reflection that I had been doing wrong. "I cannot," I reasoned with myself, "I cannot, I fear, become what the world calls a steady, prudent, virtuous woman. That time is past, even if I was ever fit for it. Still I must distinguish myself from those in the like unfortunate situations, by strict probity and love of truth. I will never become vile. I will always adhere to good faith, as long as anything like kindness or honourable principle is shown towards me: and, when I am ill used, I will leave my lover rather than deceive him.

"Frederick Lamb relies, in perfect confidence, on my honour. True that confidence is the effect of vanity. He believes that a woman who could resist him, as I did at Brighton, is the safest woman on earth! He leaves me alone and without sufficient money for common necessaries.

"No matter; I must tell him to-night, as soon as he arrives from the country, that I have written to and walked with Lorne. My dear mother would never forgive me if I became artful." So mused, and thus reasoned I, till I was interrupted by Frederick Lamb's loud knock at my door.

"He will be in a fine passion," said I to myself, in excessive trepidation; and I was in such a hurry to have it over that I related all immediately. To my equal joy and astonishment Frederick Lamb was not a bit angry. From his manner I could not help guessing that his friend Lorne had often been found a very powerful rival.

I could see through the delight he experienced at the idea of possessing a woman whom, his vanity persuaded him, Argyle would sigh for in vain: and, attacking me on my weak point, he kissed me, and said, "I have the most perfect esteem for my dearest little wife, whom, I can, I know, as safely trust with Argyle as Craven trusted her with me."

"Are you quite sure?" asked I, merely to ease my conscience. "Were it not wiser to advise me not to walk about with him?"

"No, no," said Frederick Lamb; "it is such good fun! bring him up every day to Somers-town and the Jew's Harp house, there to swallow cider and sentiment. Make him walk up here as many times as you can, dear little Harry, for the honour of your sex, and to punish him for declaring, as he always does, that no woman who will not love him at once is worth his pursuit."

"I am sorry he is such a coxcomb," said I.

"What is that to you, you little fool?"

Continue Reading →

Harriette Wilson opens her memoirs with a direct, unapologetic voice, immediately establishing the tone of a woman who will not be silenced. The excerpts show her recounting negotiations with lovers—such as Lord Berwick's promise that Sophia “should sleep alone” for the first week—and her own amused detachment from the romantic dramas around her. Her narrative is punctuated by sharp, often comic dialogue, as when the persistent Sergeant Whitaker demands Lord Worcester's help with his “little private affair.” Wilson's eye for social nuance is evident: she notes how a young cornet is “universally cut” until his good nature wins the group over. These early passages position the reader as a confidant, invited into a world where money, rank, and desire intersect in drawing-room negotiations.

A Voice That Refuses to Be Edited

Wilson's prose is strikingly immediate, as if she is speaking directly to the reader. She does not adopt the polished, self-justifying tone common in many 19th-century memoirs. Instead, she reports conversations with a journalist's ear for idiomatic speech: the sergeant's “I wants to be married” and Lord Worcester's blunt “What the devil is that to me?” are rendered without condescension. Her own voice is wry and self-aware—she “began to laugh” while Sophia cried over a lover's age. This directness suggests a woman who values candor over reputation, and who expects her readers to appreciate the comedy as much as the scandal.

The Business of Intimacy

Throughout the excerpts, relationships are framed as transactions. Lord Berwick furnishes a house in Montagu Square in exchange for Sophia's companionship, with the condition that she “sleep alone” initially. Wilson herself rides with Lord Worcester, a man who negotiates with a sergeant about marriage as if it were a regimental matter. The language of commerce permeates these scenes: lovers “engage” residences, “furnish” houses, and “promise” terms. Wilson does not moralize about this arrangement; she presents it as the natural order of her world. A first-time reader should note how these economic undercurrents shape every interaction, from the drawing room to the bridle path.

Social Hierarchies in Miniature

Wilson's eye for rank is precise. She observes the cornet who is “universally cut” because “his birth was rather mechanical,” yet within a fortnight he is “on excellent terms with them all” thanks to his good nature. The Duc de Guiche and young Fitzgerald debate whether to approach him about his horse, revealing the rigid codes of acquaintance among the ton. Even Sergeant Whitaker's marriage requires Lord Worcester's intercession with Colonel Quintin, who responds in fractured English: “You moste inquire de caracter of de yong voman.” These vignettes show Wilson as a social anthropologist, mapping the subtle gradations of class and the rituals that maintain them.

Dialogue as Dramatic Engine

Wilson rarely narrates events in summary; she stages them through dialogue. The excerpts are dense with quoted speech, from Sophia's wavering “Come, what does it signify” to the sergeant's persistent “my lord, if you please.” This technique gives the memoirs a novelistic immediacy, as if the reader is eavesdropping on real conversations. Wilson's own lines are often the punchline: she laughs, she rides on, she observes. The effect is to make the reader feel present in the room, watching the negotiations and flirtations unfold. For a first-time reader, paying attention to who speaks and how can reveal Wilson's judgments without her stating them outright.

Because the excerpts cover only the early portions of the memoir, a reader should not expect a linear plot or a confessional arc. Wilson's method is episodic, moving from one lover or social scene to the next with little transition. The pleasure lies in the texture of each encounter—the precise dialogue, the sharp observation, the undercurrent of economic calculation. Approach these volumes as a series of sketches rather than a sustained narrative, and let Wilson's voice guide you through the drawing rooms and bedrooms of Regency London.

Some evenings I recall Harriette Wilson’s voice—sharp, funny, entirely unashamed—and it feels like a bright candle in a dim reading room. Across the years, Elijah Cobb holds a quieter flame, a different sort of survival, yet both whisper of lives lived candidly, on their own terms. Elijah Cobb — A Reader’s Guide sits beside her volumes on my shelf, an unlikely, affectionate pair.